Whispers in the Night. Diane Pershing

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      He patted the dog once more, saying casually, “I’ll take you up on that coffee, if you don’t mind.”

      Only after she’d gone into the house did he stand.

      With Fitzgerald trailing her into the kitchen, Kayla felt as though every nerve ending in her body was exposed. Only now did she admit to herself that she’d been looking forward to his arrival all morning, and that when he’d appeared on the porch, she’d been way too glad to see him.

      What had happened to yesterday’s gut-level fear of him?

      Not a factor today. Or not so far. Slowly, he was becoming an individual to her, no longer a symbol of masculine domination and brute strength. In fact, seeing him with Bailey, he’d seemed nearly human. And the bunny slippers remark—she’d almost caught him in a smile there. How would a full-throttle grin look?

      She found herself wishing the fear response would come back; it had been a real barrier to that other response he aroused in her, the one that brought out all kinds of inappropriate female yearnings, the mental, emotional and physical kind.

      “Any disturbances last night?” he asked from behind her.

      “Not a one. Or else I slept through it.”

      “Good. I’m going to work on your plumbing this morning, okay?” They’d reached the kitchen, but she didn’t really want to face him yet, so she didn’t. “That’s a priority in these old houses,” he continued, “keeping them dry and free from the elements. Hank’ll be up in a couple of hours with some supplies—wood, hardware, new tank innards.”

      “That’s fine.”

      Wow. Her handyman was actually stringing sentences together. Yesterday’s communication had been all clipped phrases, and curt, need-to-know answers to her questions. Hank had done most of the talking. The selling, really.

      She wished the kitchen were larger; it was still way too small to hold him. He stood just behind her as she poured him coffee from the pot; again, she could feel the heat from his big body, could smell his lime after-shave, could hear the sound of his breathing.

      And was she totally insane or was his breath caressing the back of her neck? The sensitive skin there felt all tingly. Again, she couldn’t fail to notice that this much closeness, rather than feel threatening today, made her body shift and sing in odd places.

      That connection again. Oh, lord, she really did have a problem here.

      “Black, right?” she asked him.

      “Excuse me?”

      “Your coffee.”

      “Oh. Yes.”

      After handing him his cup, Kayla sidestepped him, turned and leaned against the counter, keeping her gaze chest-level. He wore a clean work shirt of tan denim, its sleeves rolled up to reveal a light dusting of dark hair on his muscular fore-arms…and on the left one, a fierce-looking tattoo of a hawk and a knife intertwined.

      Startled, she tried not to stare, but he caught her reaction.

      “I got it when I was inside,” he told her matter-of-factly. “It was purely defensive, trust me. If I hadn’t joined one or another of the gangs, well—” he shrugged “—let’s just say I didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted to stay alive.”

      “Oh.”

      She shuddered inwardly at what she could only imagine the conditions must have been like for him in prison.

      Don’t ask him about it, she begged herself silently. Keep your distance. Look at the tattoo, remember where he’s been. It was safer to keep an arm’s length and more between herself and potential violence, which included the men who worship it.

      Sipping her coffee, she darted a quick glance at his face. His hair was so very short, so close to his head, making the bones and contours of his face seem sharply defined. It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome, only that he was so very masculine. Had he always worn his hair like this? Or was it growing out from being shaved in jail?

      Another sip, eyes lowered, then another glance at him, at his face this time.

      To find him staring straight at her, a look of half-lidded intensity on his face that made her breath stop. His nostrils flared, his mouth was tight with some kind of tension.

      Oh, lord, Kayla thought weakly, save me.

      Unable to avert her gaze, she couldn’t help noticing that he was looking at her as though she were the highly coveted grand prize in some major contest, one he was hell-bent on winning.

      The heat rose to her cheeks, her insides quivered and became liquid. It was true, then. Not only was she sexually drawn to Paul Fitzgerald—despite her efforts not to be—but the feeling was definitely mutual. It was hard to miss it.

      The moment was short-lived, so fleeting it might have not even happened, because in the next instant, the animal intensity of his expression was gone, wiped off his face. His gaze hardened; his mouth once again became a thin, smileless line.

      He turned toward the door leading to the rest of the house. “I’ll take the coffee with me upstairs,” he said, his voice gruff as he added, “Thanks.”

      For several moments after he left the kitchen, Kayla stood where she was, waiting for her breathing to return to something approximating normal.

      She spent the rest of the morning doing chores and—as she had done the previous day—avoiding her new handyman. However, by lunchtime, when she was in the kitchen and he was working upstairs, she decided to stop being silly. To act like a grown-up for a change. Standing in the doorway, she called up the stairs, “Can I make you a sandwich?”

      “No, thanks,” he called down from the upstairs bath. “I brought my own today.”

      “Well, I’m going to sit out on the porch and have my lunch. It’s a beautiful day. Care to join me?”

      It seemed to take him quite a while before he answered. “In a few minutes, sure.”

      Humming to herself, Kayla brought out a tray with her sandwich and two tall glasses of freshly brewed iced tea. Seated, she was just sipping her drink when she heard the glass door slide open and close again behind her. She smiled at Paul as he lowered himself onto the matching Adirondack chair, the table between them. True enough, he had a brown paper sack with him, and when he set the contents out on the plate she’d provided, she laughed.

      “Peanut butter and jelly,” she noted, holding up her own pb and j sandwich. “Great minds…”

      Anyone else might have offered an answering smile, a wink, something. Not him. Instead, he grunted and took a large bite of his sandwich.

      The return of the cutoff noncommunicator, Kayla observed silently. Aloud, she said, “I appreciate the work you’re doing.”

      He chewed and swallowed before answering. “I’m getting paid, Mrs. Thorne.”

      “Kayla, please. And I’ll call you Paul, if that’s okay.”

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