Friend, Lover, Protector. Sharon Mignerey

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СКАЧАТЬ before he closed the van door, Jack saw that the inside of the van was completely empty. Not a single other plant or flower arrangement. The hair on the back of his neck rose as the van backed out of the driveway. This guy had the same chance of being a deliveryman as Jack had of being the Tooth Fairy.

      He closed the front door and locked it. The oval, etched glass in the middle of the door was beautiful—and completely useless at providing any security.

      Dahlia moved a couple of steps back into the house and set the dog down.

      “Your deliveryman didn’t have anything else in the van.”

      She glanced at him without seeming to understand.

      “Where do you want this?” He motioned toward the plant.

      “I don’t want it at all, but it can go in the kitchen.”

      He picked the plant up and followed her down a central hallway. Boo dashed back and forth between them. His gaze fell to Dahlia’s long, long legs revealed by a pair of loose-fitting shorts. Those legs were even better than he had imagined, her Achilles heel sharply defined, her skin smooth. The T-shirt loosely tucked into her shorts clearly emphasized a siren’s body. His own tightened in response.

      A woman with a Ph.D. after her name shouldn’t look good enough to be on a centerfold. He didn’t want to be this attracted and distracted. Women with great bodies were nothing new—he’d had his first introduction with the strippers who worked at the club where his mother did. He deliberately forced himself to pay attention to his surroundings.

      A living room and dining room were on one side, and a den was the other. Stairs with an old-fashioned banister occupied the rest of the hallway. He followed her through a doorway, and the kitchen, which looked as if it had been added on, ran the entire width of the house.

      Instead of setting the plant where she indicated, he opened the door and carried it outside. Chances were good that the plant had been a ruse to get in the house, but Jack figured it was better to err on the side of safety. On the lawn he laid it on its side and pulled the pot away from the plant.

      “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, gun-fire 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 СКАЧАТЬ