Friend, Lover, Protector. Sharon Mignerey

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СКАЧАТЬ the whole thing as a misunderstanding—such things just didn’t happen, except in the movies.

      The ringing on the line ended when Rosie’s voice on her phone answering machine answered. “Hey, it’s me,” Dahlia said. She fingered one of the petals of a tulip. “You know I’m always telling you about my neighbor with the great flower garden. Mr. Masters gave me a bouquet of tulips, which made me think of you.” They talked every Tuesday evening, regular as clockwork. Calling off schedule would alert Rosie that something was up. Dahlia paused, not wanting to leave a message that would alarm her sister. “Give me a call back when you’re done fertilizing or whatever it is you do to those trees of yours. Love ya.”

      Dahlia stared at Jack’s pack a moment, torn between ignoring it and opening it. After all, she’d have to look to see if there was an address or anything.

      Unzipping Jack’s pack, she peered inside, hoping she’d see a wallet on top. She didn’t. Instead, there was a paperback book, a mystery, a slip of paper tucked between the pages. She set it on the table, then pulled out a charcoal windbreaker. Underneath were a couple of boxes of ammunition. She shuddered as she set those on the table. The final item was a woodworking magazine.

      She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find—the gun and ammunition, sure. What else would a professed bodyguard carry? The Official Handbook of Bodyguard Dos and Don’ts, maybe. Curious about the woodworking magazine she flipped it over, and it fell open to a page with a built-in hutch—one that would be perfect in her own dining room. With a mutter of disgust at the train of her thoughts she turned over the magazine, looking for a subscription label. There was none.

      She began stuffing the items back into the bag, when she accidentally knocked the paperback book onto the floor. When she bent to pick it up, the slip of paper fluttered out, and the handwriting on it caught her eye. Three words. Linda. Rachel. Diane.

      Dahlia began to shake.

      Only she and her two sisters knew those names—their secret code. Nobody else. Not their best friends, not their parents.

      They had hated their flower names, given to them by their flower-child mother. How they had wanted ordinary names and an ordinary mother instead of their unconventional one who was as likely to emerge from the house wearing a tie-died caftan as a bikini—not that they’d had much of the latter in the Alaskan village on the inside passage where they had grown up.

      Carefully, Dahlia picked up the slip of paper and touched the names. She went back to the phone and called Rosie again. As before, there was no answer.

      “Call me. No matter how late.”

      Then she dialed Lily’s number. The phone rang and rang without even the answering machine coming on. Reminding herself that didn’t necessarily mean anything—after all, Lily could have just forgotten to turn it on—Dahlia dialed her number at the research lab at the university where her sister worked. Lily’s cheerful voice came over the line.

      “Thank God you’re there,” Dahlia said, interrupting.

      The voice continued speaking, and Dahlia realized that she had reached yet another answering machine. She groaned in frustration and impatiently waited for the message to end.

      “Hey, you,” she said, inserting a note of cheerfulness in her voice, again unwilling to leave a message that would disturb her sister. “I know we talked only a couple of days ago, but I just wanted to hear your voice. How’s that niece of mine? Give her hugs.” Dahlia wound the cord around her finger and finally opted for at least part of the truth. “Give me a call, Lily. I need to touch base with you about something that happened. Love ya.”

      She hung up the receiver, feeling oddly bereft and giving herself a pep talk. They were all busy, after all. It was Rosie’s busiest time of year, and Lily was probably holed up in her lab, discovering some new microbe. Getting no answer from them was nothing unusual, after all. But one of them had to know why a man claiming to be her bodyguard had their secret code. The sooner she knew why and how, the better.

      She called her office to let the student assistant know that she’d be working from home, and she asked for Jack Trahern’s telephone number. She placed a call to him and discovered the number belonged to a hotel near the freeway. He wasn’t registered, which somehow didn’t surprise her.

      She’d give a lot to know what Jack was doing with their secret code, information she wouldn’t find out until she spoke with Rosie and Lily. She called her sisters twice more during the next hour without reaching either one.

      When the doorbell interrupted her increasingly anxious mood, it was a relief. Boo roused from a nap underneath Dahlia’s desk, barked and made her usual mad run to the front door. Halfway toward the door, Dahlia paused, remembering the sheer terror she’d felt this morning. Her imagination taunted her with unseen foes who intended her harm.

      Chapter 3

      Dahlia shook her head, muttering to herself, “Just look out the darned window and see who’s there.”

      She glanced out the living room window. A white paneled van was parked in her driveway, and on the porch a man stood holding a huge plant. Though she received deliveries nearly every week, a houseplant was the last thing she expected.

      She opened the door.

      “Dahlia Jensen?” the man asked.

      “Yes,” she responded, her attention snagged by another person coming up her walk at a brisk pace—Jack Trahern.

      “This is for you.”

      “Are you sure?” She glanced back at the man. Anyone who knew her was aware her green thumb was nonexistent. Her sister Rosie might be able to grow anything, but Dahlia had managed to kill every plant she’d ever had.

      The man shrugged. “If your name is Dahlia Jensen, this is for you. Would you like me to bring it inside for you?”

      “You might save us all time and put it directly in the garbage.” She opened the screen door to let the man and the monster plant in. “Out of the way, girl,” she said to her dog.

      Instead, Boo dashed out the front door and practically leaped into Jack’s arms. He scooped up the wriggling dog, who promptly rewarded him with a lick on his cheek. Dahlia would have preferred it if Boo had bitten him.

      Jack came up the steps, his attention focused on the other man, whose face was hidden behind the huge plant in his arms. He handed Dahlia the dog, then added, “Let me take that for you.”

      He took the plant from the man, and a chill crawled down his spine. A thin face and nose. Jack was positive this guy was the same man he had last seen driving a nondescript sedan and following them.

      “Who’s the plant from?” he asked Dahlia, not taking his eyes from the man and setting the plant on the floor in the hallway.

      “My worst enemy,” she responded.

      Jack gave her a sharp look.

      “Plants hate me,” she added.

      “That sounds a little personal.”

      The deliveryman glanced from Dahlia to Jack. He held the man’s gaze, committing the man’s face to memory. Jack had the feeling the man was doing the same with him.

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