Night Shift by Nora Roberts

pale. “I’m going upstairs,” he said. “I’ll take a rain check on that coffee.”
    “She’ll be upset. I want to talk to her.”
    He pushed aside the blanket and rose, wearing only his jeans. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me handle it this time.”
    She wanted to argue, but something in his eyes stopped her. She nodded. “All right, but do a good job of it. She isn’t as tough as she likes people to think.”
    “I know.”
    He climbed the stairs to the second floor, walked past an open door to a room where the bed was tidily made. Deborah’s, he decided, noting the rose-and-white decor and the feminine bits of lace. Pausing at the next door, he knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer.
    She was sitting in the middle of the bed, her knees drawn up close to her chest and her head resting on them. The sheets and blankets were tangled, a testimony to the few hours of restless sleep she’d had.
    There were no bits of feminine lace here, no soft, creamy colors. She preferred clean lines rather than curves, simplicity rather than flounces. In contrast, the color scheme was electric, and anything but restful. In the midst of the vibrant blues and greens, she seemed all the more vulnerable.
    She didn’t look up until he sat on the edge of the bed and touched her hair. Slowly she lifted her head. He saw that there were no tears. Rather than the fear he’d expected, there was an unbearable weariness that was even more disturbing.
    “He called,” she said.
    “I know. I was on the extension.”
    “Then you heard.” She looked away, toward the window, where she could see the sun struggling to burn away a low bank of clouds. “It was him outside last night. He said he’d seen me, seen us. He made it sound revolting.”
    “Cilla—”
    “He was watching!” She spit out the words. “Nothing I say, nothing I do, is going to make him stop. And if he gets to me, he’s going to do everything he said he’d do.”
    “He’s not going to get to you.”
    “How long?” she demanded. Her fingers clenched and unclenched on the sheets as her eyes burned into his. “How long can you watch me? He’ll just wait. He’ll wait and keep calling, keep watching.” Something snapped inside her, and she picked up the bedside phone and heaved it across the room. It bounced against the wall, jangling as it thudded to the floor. “You’re not going to stop him. You heard him. He said nothing would stop him.”
    “This is just what he wants.” Boyd took her by the arms and gave her one quick shake. “He wants you to fall apart. He wants to know he’s made you fall apart. If you do, you’re only helping him.”
    “I don’t know what to do,” she managed. “I just don’t know what to do.”
    “You’ve got to trust me. Look at me, Cilla.” Her breath was hitching, but she met his eyes. “I want you to trust me,” he said quietly, “and believe me when I say I won’t let anything happen to you.”
    “You can’t always be there.”
    His lips curved a little. He gentled his hold to rub his hands up and down her arms. “Sure I can.”
    “I want—” She squeezed her eyes shut. How she hated to ask. Hated to need.
    “What?”
    Her lips trembled as she fought for one last handhold on control. “I need to hold on to something.” She let out an unsteady breath. “Please.”
    He said nothing, but he gathered her close to cradle her head on his shoulder. Her hands, balled into fists, pressed against his back. She was trembling, fighting off a wild bout of tears.
    “Take five, O’Roarke,” he murmured. “Let loose.”
    “I can’t.” She kept her eyes closed and held on. He was solid, warm, strong. Dependable. “I’m afraid once I do I won’t be able to stop.”
    “Okay, let’s try this.” He tilted her head up and touched his lips gently to hers. “Think about me. Right here.” His mouth brushed hers again. “Right now.” Easy, patient, he stroked her rigid back. “Just me.”
    Here