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regain her bearings. Her skirt had ridden up a little. Although the tops of her stockings weren’t showing, his calloused fingertips made contact with the garter on the back of her thigh, and he went still.
    He knew what she was wearing.
    Removing his hand from her leg slowly, he retreated with his palms raised, as if he expected to be arrested for touching her. “Are you okay?”
    She nodded, moistening her lips.
    “Should I get someone?”
    “No.” She closed her eyes and listened to her pulse pounding, her blood rushing with life. She was almost too shaken up to worry about her lingerie. Some women wore garters every day, so he might not think anything of her sexy fashion choice. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to look at him. “I was just...startled.”
    “I scared you?”
    “Not you. Your vest.”
    “What about it?”
    Mia hadn’t planned to reveal the details of her past this early, but the words spilled out. “The men who killed my husband. They wore black leather.”
    “Like mine?”
    “Long sleeves,” she said, remembering how the leather had felt against her fingernails. “When I tried to fight and scratch his arms, I couldn’t.”
    His amber eyes glinted with something that made her never, ever want to cross him. “They hurt you? Who were they?”
    She stared at his vest with trepidation. He was wearing a basic white T-shirt and jeans with scuffed motorcycle boots. The only difference today was his gang regalia.
    Cole shrugged out of the leather garment and tossed it on a chair. His expression was a mixture of pride and contempt, as if the vest was a rowdy dog he loved that had nevertheless bitten a small child.
    “I can’t share specific details of my personal life,” she said. “For professional reasons, and because of your...unique situation.”
    “My unique situation,” he said, studying her face. “Is Mia your real name?”
    The question rattled her. Cole was a high school dropout with a long criminal record. He was smarter than she’d figured, and quick to read between the lines. Most convicts weren’t that bright. “Richards isn’t my last name.”
    “Of course not,” he said in a curt tone. “You wouldn’t give your personal information to a violent felon. I might hunt you down.”
    Mia swallowed hard, feeling uneasy. He seemed insulted by the basic safety precautions. He was resistant to therapy and distrustful of law enforcement. He scanned the room, a muscle in his jaw flexing. She could see him becoming more defensive, more guarded. “That’s not why I’m using an alias.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “It’s not the only reason.” She folded her arms over her chest. “The men who killed my husband are still at large. I take pains to protect my identity because I’m worried about them coming after me. Not you.”
    He fell silent for a moment. “Why would you tell me that?”
    Another good question. “I doubt you’ll repeat it. You don’t want your uncle or your club buddies to snoop around this office and find out what you really do here.”
    “Maybe they already know.”
    It was possible that he’d disclosed his informant status to his uncle and planned to give investigators false tips. Or play both sides. “You went to prison the first time for retaliating against your cousin’s rapist.”
    “So?”
    “So I know your club code about violence against women, and I know your personal history. I’m making a judgment call in assuming that you won’t go out of your way to help two killers find a female witness.”
    “Club code doesn’t stop my mouth from running. I could tell anyone.”
    “Will you?”
    After a short hesitation, he said, “No.”
    She believed him. He didn’t strike her as a loudmouth. He had a soft spot for women, which worked to her advantage. Even if he shared the information, no one was looking for Michelle Ruiz. She was dead.
    “You shouldn’t trust me,” he said.
    “Are you a liar?”
    “Isn’t everyone?”
    “Most liars