“Someone was there,” she insisted.
“If he was, he’s gone now. We need you to take a look through the house and see if anything’s missing.”
While the backup officer reclaimed his squad car and drove off, Molly led the way into her house. For the second time in as many nights, Sam found himself in her very spacious, very empty living room. He waited with the patrolman while she made a quick inventory of her possessions.
It didn’t take long.
“I don’t see anything missing,” she said slowly.
The officer hitched up his belt. “Well, there’s always the possibility that something or someone other than an intruder caused the noise you heard. The house settling, maybe. A rock thrown against the wall by a passing car. I drove over some lava rock in the road in front of your house.”
Nobly, Sam refrained from pointing out that a fresh scattering of rock ended up in the road every time his neighbor tore down her drive.
“What about the shadow I saw on the wall?” she demanded. “And the squeaking sound?”
“Lights from a passing car could have caused the shadow, too. I’m not saying that’s what it was, you understand, but....”
“Ms. Duncan made another 911 call last night,” Sam interjected.
“Yeah?”
His interest piqued, the police officer swung back to Molly. She stared at Sam, then the portion of her face not covered in brown went white.
“I heard a man shot. Or...or thought I did.”
Briefly, she ran through last night’s bizarre events. The officer made another annotation, then flipped his notebook closed once more.
“There’s probably no connection between what you heard last night and tonight, but I’ll let Rodriguez and the folks in Investigations know about your suspicion that someone entered your house....”
“Someone did.”
“Yes, well, either Rodriguez or one of the detectives will get back to you. In the meantime, you might want to keep your windows and doors locked and think about a security system.”
“I will.”
The waver in her reply had Sam cursing under his breath. He hadn’t intended to scare her by bringing up last night’s incident. At this point, he didn’t know if there was any link between the shooting she’d heard and her unknown intruder tonight. Hell, he didn’t even know if she’d really heard a shooting. He just thought they should consider all possibilities.
When Molly turned to him, her face pale under its crusty stripe, he saw that she’d considered the possibilities, too, and didn’t much like them. Her gaze darted nervously around the room before centering on Sam.
“Would you like a cup of coffee? Or some wine? I opened a bottle just before....” She managed a wobbly smile. “Just before I came charging through the oleanders.”
Sam knew he should leave. The pain at the back of his skull hadn’t reached the jaw-breaker stage yet. With luck and a few hours of hard, mind-numbing exercise, he could head it off at the pass. More to the point, he knew he should put some distance between himself and his neighbor. Even in his oversized T-shirt and cracked facial mask, she did serious damage to his self-control.
“Coffee would be good,” he heard himself reply.
Chapter 3
Since the basic amenities inside Molly’s home didn’t run to more than the one easy chair, scattered pillows and a single stool pulled up to the cobalt blue kitchen counter, she and Sam took their coffee to the back deck. There the builder had incorporated two long, curved-backed benches into the railing that defined the rectangular deck.
Molly slipped on the spots and settled on one bench, tucking a bare foot under her. Her neighbor’s oversized yellow T-shirt settled around her like a cloud, covering her from neck to knee.
Sam rested his hips against the rail beside her. In the bright wash of light coming from the spots mounted high on the wall, he looked solid and reassuring. He’d felt solid and reassuring, too, she remembered, when she’d flung herself into his arms and wrapped herself around him like a wet sponge.
Thinking about how she’d gone chest-to-chest with the Major, Molly squirmed on the cushionless bench. As Henderson had reminded her only a little while ago, they had yet to resolve their property differences. She’d surprised herself by offering him coffee. He’d surprised her even more by accepting it. She wasn’t exactly sure why she’d extended that rash invitation, except that her empty, echoing house didn’t seem quite as...welcoming...at this moment as it usually did.
“I’m sorry I barreled into you earlier,” she said, breaking the stillness of the star-studded night.
“No problem.” His mouth curved in a half smile. “I survived four older brothers and almost fifteen years in the military. I’ve taken worse hits over the years.”
She could believe it. Sam Henderson didn’t look like the kind of man who went out of his way to avoid trouble, with his brothers or anyone else. Under the bright patio lights, she couldn’t miss the blunt angle to his chin or the slight flattening at the bridge of his nose.
Even his clothes seemed to reflect his rugged individualism. He wore his jeans like someone who felt completely at home in them. His soft blue cotton shirt sported a little designer logo on the pocket, but he’d rolled the sleeves up to reveal strong, tanned forearms. Tonight, his dark brown hair had been tamed with a neat side part, unlike last night when the short layers had sheened with sweat and stood up in spikes.
Thinking about last night, and tonight, and the possibility of a connection between the two, Molly suddenly shivered. The abrupt movement slopped coffee over the mug and into her lap.
“Oh, no!”
Just in time, she yanked up the T-shirt hem and thrust her legs to one side. The hot liquid missed her skin, but spread a soppy brown stain across the cotton. She stared at the splotch in dismay. First the wine. Now coffee. What else could she spill all over herself tonight? What else could happen tonight?
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ll get the stain out, I promise.”
To her horror, her voice wobbled. Even worse, the hand holding her half-full mug still shook.
Sam reached down and relieved her of the mug. “Don’t worry about it.”
But she did. For some reason, the stain spreading across the shirtfront assumed the proportions of a near tragedy. Helplessly, Molly grabbed the shirt hem and twisted it into a tight screw, over and over, as if she could wring out both the coffee and the fear that had suddenly invaded her life.
Sam’s brows pushed down as he watched his neighbor’s jerky movements. He understood her sudden attack of nerves. He’d seen these kinds of delayed reactions often enough after a dangerous mission. Concern slid into sympathy, then into a need to soothe her.
Careful, he told himself. Go real, real careful here. He didn’t need to get tangled up with a woman wearing a pungent combination of beer, wine and chocolate hazelnut decaf, for God’s sake, any more than he needed the pain streaking up the back of his skull. The way her full mouth trembled shouldn’t hit him in the gut. The sheen of tears she furiously blinked back shouldn’t curl his hands into fists, either.
Oh, hell. He couldn’t take seeing her twist the shirt into knots like that, any more than he could take her sniffles. Hunkering down, he laid his hands over hers. She lifted her face with its cracked and peeling mask to his, and Sam knew he was in trouble.
Big trouble.
“It’s okay,” he said, gentling his voice. “It’s okay, Molly.”
She scowled, then glanced down at their joined hands. A small piece of brownish crust flaked off her left cheek and landed on Sam’s bent knee, which caused her to scowl even more.
His heart twisted. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he nudged her to one side of the bench and eased in beside her. His arm went around her shoulders, drawing her into his side.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.”
The endearment didn’t mean anything. Sam knew it. Molly obviously knew it, too. She resisted a bit, kee
ping herself stiff in his loose hold.
“I can’t believe I’m acting like such a twit,” she muttered. “I don’t usually come apart at the seams like this.”
“You’re not coming apart. You’ve had a traumatic night. Two traumatic nights. You’re just experiencing a delayed reaction. Relax, Molly.”
She sank slowly against his chest. To Sam’s consternation, she felt as though she’d been carved specifically to fit him. He kept his arms loose and his hands above the swell of her hips, but he experienced a delayed reaction of his own when she shifted to find a more comfortable position.
Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to stay loose. The determined effort sent pain shooting up the side of his skull. For a moment the stars splashed across the sky overhead blurred.
“...you do so late at night, Sam?”
Slowly, the stars regained their luster. The pain became bearable. He picked up the question in Molly’s voice, if not her actual words.
“What?”
“What do you do so late at night?”
“I work out. Sometimes I putter in the garage.”
“I’ve seen you out there early in the mornings, when I leave for work. Do you stay up all night?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why? Are you part vampire or allergic to sleep or something?”
“I don’t need much sleep.”
She wasn’t letting him get away with that. Tilting her head back, she frowned up at him. “Why not?”
Sam wasn’t ready to tell her about the pain. He hadn’t told anyone, not even his brothers, how bad it got at times. He’d been sure he would conquer it in time. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Nor were the docs.
Instead, he answered the question in her eyes with a small, careless shrug. “I guess I got used to irregular hours in the Air Force.”
She was quiet for a while. Sam could feel the tension in her limbs slowly easing. Contrarily, the more she relaxed against him, the more he had to fight the urge to tighten his arms around her.
“What did you do?” she murmured. “When you were in the Air Force?”
“I flew test aircraft,” he replied with considerable understatement.
Flying didn’t begin to describe what he’d done as a test pilot. Sometimes, he’d throttled to full power and flung his experimental aircraft right at the sun. Sometimes, he’d hurtled it straight down. He’d stressed the wings, stressed the weapons load, stressed himself with every twisting spiral.
“And now you’re retired?”
“Yes.”
Sam still had trouble with the word. Retired. At thirty-six. The Medical Evaluation Board had assured him that they’d consider removing him from the Temporary Disability Retired List when and if he conquered the headaches. The possibility seemed as remote tonight as it had six months ago.
“Were you stationed at Nellis?” she asked, her voice drowsy and indistinct.
“Yes, I was.”
He rested his chin on the top of her head. Her mix of scents tugged at his senses. Shampoos, coffee, that crazy, crackly stuff she wore on her face. The feel of her body slanted against his tugged at more than his senses.
“I was assigned to the Four-forty-second Test and Evaluation Squadron,” he told her, as much to distract himself as to keep the conversational ball rolling. “We conducted operational tests for Air Combat Command on new hardware and equipment upgrades in simulated combat environments.”
“Mmm?”
The mumble could have signaled interest or incipient unconsciousness. Sam suspected it was the latter. He hesitated, debating whether to continue.
He hadn’t talked about the life that had ended the night he went headfirst through that damned canopy in a long time. Too long. Somehow, it was easier here with Molly. The calm night air and black velvet sky seemed to wrap them in a private world. More to the point, the casual, one-sided conversation seemed just what she needed after her earlier fright.
“The four-forty-second is a mixed unit,” he said slowly. “We flew fighters and attack helicopters. Most of the equipment we tested is classified, but I can tell you that we did a lot of night flying, and that we developed new methods of employing the Low Altitude Navigation and Targeting Infrared for Night system.”
He knew his listener was falling asleep even before she gave one of those reflexive little jerks that come with relaxation of the muscles. He smiled at her mumbled apology, and deliberately kept his voice to a low, steady monotone. Not so deliberately, he tightened his hold and brought her onto his lap.
The low bench back cut into his back. The wooden seat numbed his butt. He shifted, angling his body into the wedge formed by the angle of the rails. When Molly shifted as well, draping herself across him from shoulder to hip, the singeing contact instantly upped Sam’s discomfort factor by a multiple of ten. Her breath warmed his neck. Her legs tangled with his. Sam refused to let himself dwell on the way her breasts flattened against his chest, or the long length of thigh that stretched beneath the hem of his squadron T-shirt. Despite his best efforts, his lower body went hard.
Great! The pounding at the base of his skull was bad enough. He didn’t need this tight, coiling ache in his belly to add to it. Briefly, he debated taking her inside before the still-warm desert night cooled.
From long, painful experience, Sam knew that cooling wouldn’t occur until just before dawn. He’d spent enough nights watching the moon sink and listening to the distant coyotes. If he concentrated on something other than the soft tush in his lap and the warm wash of breath against his neck, he could take another hour or two. By then, his prickly neighbor should have regrouped, regained her equilibrium, maybe even revived enough to resume her battle over the blasted bushes.
Sam eyed the tall, silvery bushes. He supposed he’d have to get the contractor to redesign the pool. Maybe angle it a bit to give him the length he needed for straight laps. His doctor had recommended swimming instead of pumping iron to refocus his mind when the headaches threatened to get out of control.
Like now.
Dammit! This one was going to be a real winner. After six weeks in the hospital and almost as many months in physical therapy, Sam knew the signs. Cursing to himself, he started counting the stars.
Molly woke slowly. Her cheek felt numb where it pressed against something hard and unyielding. Her neck ached from bending at an odd angle. Overriding those minor annoyances, though, was the delicious sensation of curling into warmth and the steady, reassuring drum of a strong heartbeat in her ear.
For a confused moment, she thought she was back in Boston, snuggled up in Brady’s arms. Mumbling, she slid a hand across the chest under her cheek. Her hips wiggled a deeper nest in his lap.
Strange. Brady’s chest had never felt this hard or this muscled before. Nor, Molly thought with sleepy surprise, had she ever heard him mutter such a colorful curse under his breath.
The realization that the hard, contoured chest under her palm didn’t belong to her former fiancé registered on Molly’s consciousness at about the same instant she identified the southwestern drawl in that curse.
She pushed upright, dismayed to find Sam’s tightclenched jaw just inches from her own. Oh, great! Not only had she draped herself across her neighbor like an afghan, she’d dropped off into total oblivion in the midst of his telling her about his Air Force days. Mortified, she tried to scramble off his lap. His arms flexed for a brief instant, holding her in place, then dropped. In an undignified scramble, Molly got to her feet and tugged the yellow T-shirt down over her hips.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled for what seemed like the umpteenth time that night.
Her embarrassment doubled when she saw Sam’s face. Distant and withdrawn, it held none of the understanding he’d shown when he’d taken her into his arms...when?...a few minutes ago? An hour ago?
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” she said in a strangled voice.
“No problem.”
The response came out short and too clip
ped. He got to his feet, unfolding his body with a stiffness at odds with his earlier easy grace. Once upright, he held himself rigidly erect, as though the mere act of moving was an effort.
Good grief. Had her dead weight stiffened him up like that? How long had she sprawled on top of him and pinned him to that bench, anyway? He answered her silent question before she asked it.
“I was going to wake you up in a few minutes. It can get chilly out here just before dawn.”
Dawn! Molly shot a disbelieving look at the eastern horizon. Sure enough, the sky showed a distant tint of golden red.
“I can’t believe we spent almost the whole night on that bench.”
“Believe it.”
Something that might have been a smile started at the corners of his mouth. It twisted suddenly, and ended in a near grimace. “I have to go,” he said abruptly. “Why don’t we take another walk through the house before I leave? Just so you feel comfortable about going inside.”
Molly had to admit that she felt decidedly uncomfortable at that moment, not to mention embarrassed and confused. Her tumbling emotions had nothing to do with a reluctance to reenter her house. They did, however, have a whole lot to do with Sam Henderson’s Jekyll-and-Hyde personality.
“Thanks, but you don’t need to go through the house. I’ve already, uh, imposed on you enough.”
Imposed hardly came close to describing the way she’d pinned the man to the bench, but she hoped her slight understatement might at least crack the rigid cast to his face. No such luck.
“I’ll do a quick sweep,” he bit out.
He disappeared into the house, leaving Molly now almost as irritated as she was confused. What was with this guy, anyway? Had she dreamed his friendliness earlier? Had he really drawn her onto his lap and cradled her? Maybe she’d just sort of landed there, and he’d been too polite to shove her away.
No, she decided, polite didn’t figure among Sam Henderson’s more significant character traits...as he demonstrated when he returned a few moments later.
“All clear. Good night.”
Her jaw sagging, Molly stared at his back as he marched stiff-legged across her yard. A moment later, the oleanders swallowed him up.
If A Man Answers Page 4