"What are you doing?"
"Making sure this is what it looks like."
"What did you expect? A bomb?"
"Nope. Bugs."
"Like James Bond?"
"Close enough." Jack glanced over his shoulder at her. "There's no tag. Did the guy give you anything to sign?"
She shook her head.
Jack poked through the plant's stems and leaves searching for anything that didn't belong. Still suspicious, he spread the roots out. The huge plant was just what it seemed to be.
"Great," she said. "I can blame you for killing it."
"You didn't want it, anyway." He brushed his hands together, then followed her into the house.
He went to the kitchen sink and washed his hands, as much to finish calming himself down as to wash away the potting soil. The adrenaline rush that had surged through him when he watched the panel van pull into her drive was still with him.
"You never got a good look at the man driving the car this morning, did you?" He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Describe the deliveryman."
She stared at him. "Why?"
"Because he's the same guy who shot at us."
Her head came sharply up, and she swallowed. "No way. And if he was, why didn't he just try to shoot me again?"
"A couple of reasons. First, I showed up. Second, gunfire tends to attract attention, especially when the neighbors are keeping an eye out like the old guy next door." He pulled a square of paper towel off the holder next to the sink and began drying his hands. "And third, he doesn't really want to shoot you. He wants to kidnap you." He looked around for a trash can, which he found under the kitchen sink.
"That's ridiculous. But if you know anything at all, then, why? Forget that." She marched to the kitchen table, picked up a scrap of paper and thrust it at him. "Where'd you get this?"
Jack glanced at his scribbled note with the three names—Linda, Diane, Rachel. "From Ian Stearne." A note he'd used as a bookmark. He spotted his pack on the counter, which was open, and the book he'd been reading was tossed on the top. Undoubtedly, she had also discovered his ammunition.
"I don't know anybody named Ian Stearne," Dahlia said, then shook her head. "No, that's not right. He's Lily's neighbor."
Jack pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. "Why don't you sit down. This is going to take a little explaining."
She folded her arms over her chest without answering.
"Mind if I do?" He met her gaze and settled into the chair. Keeping his attention firmly on her face was the only possible way to ignore the lush, sexy curves that her gesture accentuated. Mentally cursing the attraction that he didn't want and that couldn't have been more inappropriate under the circumstances, he marshaled his thoughts. "Your sister witnessed a murder."
"That's not possible. I talk to both of my sisters every week. I would have heard. And which one?"
Jack glanced at the sheet of paper. Linda was really… "Lily. The one who lives in California."
Dahlia shook her head. "No. She would have called me."
"I don't think anybody was supposed to know." Succinctly as he could, Jack related everything that Ian had told him, ending with, "I told Ian that you needed police protection."
"But you're here, anyway."
"He asked for my help, and I promised that I'd come."
"Big promise," she commented.
He shrugged. "I owed him one."
"Most people have jobs that keep them from dropping everything to rescue a damsel in distress."
Once again he forced his attention to stay on her face. "I wouldn't dare call you a damsel in distress—you did a good job of handling things today. And, as for jobs, I just started a month's leave when he called. I'm in the Army."
Her eyebrows rose and she looked him up and down. "Okay, that follows, because you sure don't look like a student. Assuming that I agree to this plan—and I'm not saying I will—how do I know you're up to the job?"
"You want a résumé?" It had never occurred to him that she would question his ability.
"Yeah, I do. Are you an MP?"
"No. I'm a Ranger." Still feeling vaguely insulted at her attitude, he listed his training as a member of the Army's Special Forces that began with surveillance and ended with his stint as an R.I., teaching hand-to-hand combat. He left out that he was also a sniper and had a modest gift with electronics. He didn't usually pull out the stops about what he did or how well he did it—especially not to impress a woman.
"And if I ask you to leave, what then?"
He stood up. "You didn't hire me. Ian did."
"A diplomatic way of telling me that you're not going anywhere."
He pointed toward the phone. "Call your sisters again. Call your folks." He headed toward the sliding glass door at the back of the house. "For what it's worth, I don't think I'd believe me, either, if I were in your shoes."
He stepped onto her porch. Boo followed him out. Dahlia's backyard was large. No flowers like her neighbor, but well-kept. The trees were mature, and they shaded the house. The leaves were the bright green of spring. Her patio was covered and pleasantly shady. Wicker furniture covered with colorful cushions invited a person to sit.
He didn't. Instead, he followed a walk that led toward the back fence, assessing the yard from a security perspective.
A chain-link fence separated her yard from the old guy next door—his backyard as full of flowers as his front—tulips and daffodils in bloom. Anyone in that yard could see anything going on in Dahlia's.
A six-foot privacy fence was on the other side. Peering between the slats, Jack could see the neighbors on that side had a yard similar to Dahlia's, except they'd added a deck and a hot tub. The fence along the back of the property was also a privacy fence, and beyond Jack could see there was a bike path and a creek.
At the back fence Boo had her nose to the ground, following some scent that began at the corner, then came across the yard to one of the large trees. Looking up, Jack noted the lower branches could be easily climbed. He swung himself up, then stood on the bottom branch. Within seconds he was high enough that he could step on the roof above the patio.
He crossed to the window and became even more alarmed when he discovered that her screen was not attached to the window frame. It was an old-fashioned one secured in a wooden frame. He didn't find the tabs that should have held it in place—just the holes where they had once been. The first strong wind, and the damn thing would blow away. He lifted the screen off the window frame and leaned it on the wall, pushed the window up and climbed inside. He found himself in Dahlia's bedroom.
Disturbed that he could so easily get into her house, he glanced around the room. The decor was completely without the usual satin and lace he associated with a woman's bedroom. Instead it was comfortable looking, overtly feminine only in that he could smell her perfume. A blue-and-beige comforter in an abstract print was thrown over the king-size bed. He wondered who, besides the dog, she shared it with.
The bathroom halfway down the hall was in much the same condition—clean though cluttered—and without a single item of a man's toiletry. Another bedroom looked over the front yard. A twin bed pushed against one wall was piled high with an assortment of boxes, bags and clothes. An ironing board stood in the middle of the room.
Something about the bathroom nagged at him, and he went back to it, glancing around once again. The scent he was fast associating with Dahlia was stronger here. He opened the medicine cabinet and looked under the sink. Then, the toilet caught his eye. The seat was up. That struck him as strange, given the total lack of anything male in the bathroom.
When he came back into the kitchen, she was on the phone, evidently talking to her mother, her expression softer than the hostile one she'd been directing at him all day.
"Dad's okay, isn't he?" She listened intently for a moment, absently scratching her fingernail against something on the countertop. "No, Mom, I'm fine. Just worried when I couldn't get hold of Lily or Rosie, that'
s all." A second later she managed a laugh, though no smile lit her face. "That's right. Storm season has just begun, and I'm working hard … yeah … I love you, too."
She replaced the receiver in its cradle, then glanced at him. "I thought you'd gone outside."
"Do you have any idea how easy it is to break into your bedroom?" he asked, snapping his fingers. "Climb a tree, cross over the porch roof, and there's your room."
"The screen is locked."
"No. It wasn't." He glowered at her. "Don't you pay any attention to the news, woman? Even if somebody wasn't after you, you make it damn easy for a burglar or rapist—"
"Stop it. If you're trying to scare me—"
"Just stating the facts." He nodded toward the phone. "What did you find out from your mother?"
Dahlia looked at him, her dark eyes troubled. "Lily really is testifying, and Rosie and my niece Annmarie really are in hiding with your friend." She shook her head, her voice full of hurt and disappointment. "I can't believe nobody called me."
"Maybe they didn't want to worry you."
"That's exactly what Mom said. Jeez. You'd think she would have figured out by now that I've grown up." She frowned. "You weren't lying."
"I usually don't."
"Well, that's a relief," she returned, irritation back in her voice. "I still don't need your help."
Jack took a step toward her. "You do need my help. You saw how much the cops are going to help you—"
"Like the policeman said when I went to the station. They'll put on extra patrols."
"Which means they'll be coming by your house two or three times a day instead of once."
She had the awful feeling he was right, and she hated it. The last time she had felt this out of control, Brandon had died—never mind they had been divorced for years—and she finally admitted Richard preferred his drug habit over her. At least she hadn't made the mistake of marrying him. Everything she believed about herself and her life had all fallen apart. This situation was different, but it still felt the same.
"What else did the cops say?" As much as Jack knew better than to hope they would take seriously the threat to Dahlia, he didn't hold out much hope.
After a moment's hesitation, she said, "They think I'm crazy." She frowned. "You're sure that was the same guy—the one who brought the plant?"
"I'm sure."
"I'm calling them." She surged out of her seat.
"You do have another piece of the puzzle to give them." At this point, he didn't think she had anything solid, but having the law on the lookout was better than nothing.
She dragged the phone toward her. "The cops might not like what you're doing here, either."
"I'll take my chances." He held her gaze, then asked, "Have any guys besides me been in your house since you last used the toilet?"
"What?"
"You heard me—or do you use the toilet with the seat up?"
"Of course not."
"The seat is up."
"You could have put it up to make me think somebody has been in the house. Just to scare me."
"Yeah, that would be me," he retorted. "Nothing better to do with my time than to scare you. How long has your screen been broken? Couldn't have been long, or it would have blown away."
She headed for the stairs. "What are you talking about?"
"That's how I got in the house. The screen wasn't even attached to the frame."
From the top of the stairs she stopped to look at him. "That's ridiculous. I sleep with the window open, and I'm pretty sure I would have noticed—"
"Like the toilet seat being up." He followed her up the stairs. "Just in case, maybe you should take a look around and see if anything is missing."
She disappeared inside the bathroom, and he heard the seat plop down. She came past him, her eyes snapping. "I don't like you very much. I don't care who hired you, I want you gone."
"So you've said." He didn't intend to leave, but there was no point in arguing with her.
His agreement seemed to surprise her, and she turned around to look at him. "You're pretty sure of yourself."
"Every now and then." He hadn't stayed alive through numerous skirmishes and operations that were still classified without being sure of himself. "Just check around, okay?"
Watching her in her own room was too intimate, he decided a moment later, unable to take his eyes off her. He'd grown up around women who flaunted their bodies, including his ex-wife. She had known exactly how to play him, to the point where he'd followed her like a junkie after a fix and suspended his judgment in the process. Being around Dahlia brought back all those same feelings. No other woman he'd ever known had Dahlia's presence. It went beyond being stacked or being tall, but something intrinsic within the woman herself.
Her shoulders slumped, accompanied by "Oh, damn." Next to the nightstand she bent over and picked something up from the floor. In her hands were pieces of blue ceramic. What it might have once been, Jack couldn't tell.
She turned on him, her mouth drawn in a straight line of anger despite the tears that shimmered in her eyes. "You swear you didn't do this."
He lifted his hands, palms toward her. "I didn't touch a thing." Her sudden vulnerability drew him toward her.
"Because if you did—"
"I didn't."
"—I'd never forgive you."
"I didn't touch anything." He took a step closer toward her. "Your dog could have accidentally—"
"No." She knelt and carefully picked up the pieces. "My grandma brought this angel from Norway when she came to this country. It's all I have left of her."
Her fingers caressed the fractured pieces of glass, her expression giving him some idea of how much this meant to her. In his mind's eye it was a short step from destroying her belongings to harming her.
Stuffing the tips of his fingers into his pockets, he moved to the window and looked out, liking what he saw from here even less than he had while climbing the tree. All an intruder had to do was make it across the yard without being seen. After he was in the tree, he wouldn't be seen—not even by the old man next door.
"If you've got some nails and a hammer, I'll fix your screen." What he really needed were hinges and a hook and eye, but he could at least do a temporary repair.
"I can fix my own damn screen," she returned.
"I didn't say you couldn't." He headed out of the room, pausing at the doorway, glancing back at her. Prickly he could handle, tears would just about do him in.
He knew the feeling that came after a break-in. Somebody else going through your things, taking what they wanted. As a kid, it had happened all too often.
Somebody would come in and steal anything with pawn value—often as not, only their TV—and leave a generally big mess behind. As soon as his mom had the money saved again, she'd buy another. Replaceable—which the broken ceramic clearly was not.
Dahlia went back to the kitchen, and Jack found himself once again following her. She picked up the telephone receiver, then swallowed as if giving herself courage, then dialed. Calmly she asked for the officer she had spoken with earlier, then waited when she was put on hold. She wrapped an arm around herself as though to ward off a chill.
While she was on the phone Jack prowled through her house, checking the windows and locks on the living room on one side of the hall and her office on the other. Security was nonexistent, and the locks wouldn't keep out a kid much less a professional. Boo followed him through the two rooms while Jack absently listened to Dahlia's one-sided conversation with the police.
The gist was that she didn't know the make or model number of the panel van that delivered the plant. Nothing was stolen, just broken. Nobody was hurt. She agreed a toilet seat being up wasn't exactly hard evidence, and no, dusting it for fingerprints wasn't warranted. She would let them know if anything else came up.
He came back into the kitchen when he heard her set the receiver down.
"You're still here," she accused.
"Yep."
"Since this isn't an emergency and nothing was stolen, they aren't sending an officer out."
She surged to her feet, and he recognized the nervous energy for what it was when she paced to the sliding glass door and returned.
"Lock my windows. Lock my doors. I might as well fix the screen." She pulled open a drawer and rummaged through it, then took out a screwdriver and three-inch long screws, way more than she needed to attach the screen to its frame.
"Are you sure you don't want help?"
"Positive." She disappeared through a door and clattered down the stairs. After hearing a couple of thumps accompanied by her muttering, she returned carrying a ladder.
Jack opened the sliding glass door for her.
She gave him an accusing glance as she went past him. "You don't have to stay."
"So you keep saying." He picked up the screwdriver and screws, closed the door and followed her across the patio.
After she leaned the ladder against the edge of the patio roof, she took the tools from him without saying a word and climbed the ladder. Not even a minute later she swore, which didn't surprise Jack a bit.
He followed her up the ladder, then stopped as soon as he could see her. The view was great. From here not only could he see her long tanned legs that gleamed in the sunlight, but the edge of her panties revealed by the wide leg of her shorts. Turquoise became his new favorite color.
As though she was aware he watched her, she turned around and frowned at him. "Are you going to stand there and ogle me all day? Or are you going to be a gentleman and offer me some help?" She pointed at him with the screwdriver. "One crude remark, and I'll push you off the roof."
He believed her. Stepping onto the roof, he grinned. "Sure, I'll help you." Coming to stand next to her, he held out his hand. She slapped the screwdriver into his palm along with the screws.
Very aware of her scent that teased his attraction into full alert, he set the first screw despite it being more than double the length to do the job and despite the screwdriver being the most awkward she could have chosen.
FRIEND, LOVER, PROTECTOR Page 4