Star Witness. Mallory Kane

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      “Dani! No!”

      The sharp words shattered the quiet. Dani jerked and spilled coffee down the front of her robe. She whirled toward the voice, her heart racing with shock.

      It was him! She’d been so concentrated on the damage to the porch that she’d completely forgotten about his promise to sleep in the driveway. “Stop!” he shouted.

      Fury burned the shock right out of her. “You!” she cried indignantly, flicking drops of sticky coffee off her fingers.

      “Don’t move!” He held up his hands in a stop gesture.

      But she had no intention of budging. He was approaching fast and she was four feet above him on the porch in nothing but a bathrobe that came to midthigh—maybe. No underwear. Oh, brother. Her face grew warm.

      “Don’t come any closer!” she cried out. When he didn’t stop, she screeched, “Don’t!”

      He stopped, looking bewildered. “What’s wrong?”

      “Go around back,” she said, gesturing with her head. She didn’t dare move anything else. Her left hand pressed the front hem of the robe against her thighs. “Go.”

      Harte cocked his head quizzically, then shrugged. “I will, but not until you back up carefully toward the door. The front of the porch is sagging.”

      “No! You first,” she insisted. Her ears burned, she was so embarrassed. “Please,” she begged.

      His brows raised and that damnable smile appeared on his lips. “Ah,” he said, his tone lightening. “Okay, I’ll go. But you meet me at the door in five seconds flat or I’ll come in and get you.” He gave her a brief nod. “Nice robe.”

      She glared at him, but she still didn’t dare to move a muscle.

      “Go to hell,” she said.

      He waved a hand and headed around back.

      Dani baby-stepped backward until she’d made it through the door. Then she sprinted into her bedroom to get dressed, marveling at the fact that he really had slept in his car in her driveway. The idea that he’d actually followed through with it, in some sort of quixotic effort to protect her, gave her a sense of security she hadn’t felt since the night her grandfather had died.

      As Harte waited at the back door for Dani to let him in, he chuckled. Once he’d been sure she wasn’t going any closer to the rickety front edge of the porch, he’d paused for a second to admire those amazing legs. As he enjoyed them, she’d squirmed and turned red. When she begged him to go around to the back door while nervously tugging at the bottom of the short robe, it dawned on him why she was so reluctant for him to leap to her rescue.

      She had nothing on under the robe. That thought had sent urgent, almost painful signals to his groin, signals that hadn’t faded yet. He clamped his jaw against the sharp, pleasurable thrumming and forced himself to think about something miserable, like hiking in a freezing rain—or sleeping in his car. It helped a little.

      He pushed his fingers through his hair and rubbed his stubbled jaw, as if that would help wipe away the sight of those forever legs. He busied himself with smoothing out the wrinkles in his T-shirt. Just as he tugged the tail down, Dani opened the door.

      She’d thrown on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, along with a don’t you dare mention my robe glare. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” she groused.

      “Morning,” he said cheerily, then pointed vaguely toward the front of the house. “Mind if I …?”

      She stepped back from the door. “Down the hall on the right.”

      By the time he got back to the kitchen, he felt a whole lot better. He’d found a glass and some mouthwash in the hall bathroom, as well as a comb.

      Dani was sitting at the kitchen table with a fresh mug of coffee in front of her. She nodded toward the coffeepot. “Mugs are in the cabinet above. Sugar’s in the white canister. Cream is—”

      “Let me guess,” he broke in. “In the refrigerator. That’s okay. I take it black.” He retrieved a mug and filled it with the dark, strong brew.

      “Of course you do,” she muttered. When he sat, she looked pointedly at his wrinkled T-shirt. “Don’t let me keep you. It’s obvious you need to go home and get ready for work. I do.”

      “No,” Harte replied, setting down his mug. “You’ve got to get ready to go to the bed-and-breakfast. Pack enough for at least two weeks.”

      Her mug stopped an inch from her lips. “I told you last night. I can’t be away from work that long. I’ve got my own cases, people depending on me.”

      He drew in a frustrated breath. “Listen, Dani. This is your grandfather’s murder trial. Your testimony is vital to link Ernest Yeoman directly to your granddad’s murder. Do you have any idea how long the D.A.’s office has been trying to get something concrete on him?”

      “You’ve got fingerprints from that night, right?”

      “Not Yeoman’s. He’s got more sense than to show up at a crime scene.” He looked at her quizzically. “Didn’t anyone tell you about the fingerprinting results? There was one good set. They belong to a small-time burglar and general no-count named Chester Kirkle. He’s got two convictions and he’s on parole now. He’s not going to make the most reliable witness. Our best bet is to talk him into giving up Yeoman. Then his testimony, boosted by yours about what they said, should put Yeoman away for conspiracy to commit assault with intent.”

      “Not murder?”

      “I’m going to try for conspiracy to commit murder, but you know how unlikely we are to get it. Yeoman has an excellent alibi for the time frame.”

      “I know,” she said, shaking her head. “I know. What are the chances this Kirkle will give Yeoman up?”

      “I think once the trial date is set and he’s looking at his third strike on top of parole violation, he’ll flip.”

      She looked thoughtful. “And when he testifies against Yeoman, then Yeoman goes down too?”

      “That’s the plan,” Harte agreed, “if Kirkle makes a credible witness and the jury believes that Yeoman sent him and the others to threaten your grandfather.”

      “Can you prove it’s Yeoman who’s trying to run me down?”

      “I think so. I think it will be fairly easy to show him as a thug who hires thugs,” Harte continued. “It matches his style.”

      She ducked her head and took a sip of coffee. “Beating an old man to death,” she muttered.

      When she looked up, Harte was surprised to see a shimmer of dampness in her eyes. The two times he’d talked to her over the past three months since he’d been appointed to the case, she’d been determined and angry about her grandfather’s murder. Not once had he seen even the hint of a tear.

      “Okay,” she said, straightening. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”

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