The Defender's Duty. Shirlee McCoy

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      The light went on, and Jude lifted the gun, aiming it at the head of a very young, very scrawny woman. Pale-blond hair, creamy skin, delicate features.

      A murderer?

      Maybe, but she looked like a fairy-tale princess come to life. The kind that danced around forests with singing animals, completely oblivious to danger. The fact that she was humming under her breath and tapping a beat against her thigh while he pointed a gun in her direction only added to the impression.

      Could she have cold-bloodedly run him down when he’d stopped to help a stranded motorist two months ago?

      Jude wasn’t sure, but he was about to find out. “Next time you decide to break into someone’s house, you might want to be quieter about it.”

      She screamed, her eyes going wide and dark with terror as she finally caught sight of Jude. She screamed again when she noticed the gun, jumping back and nearly tumbling out the front door.

      Jude raced after her, his left leg howling a protest, his right throbbing with pain. He grimaced, but kept running. Recovering from almost losing his legs stunk. Actually losing them would have been a whole lot worse, so he figured he couldn’t complain. He also figured he wasn’t going to let the blond-haired woman get away before he found out why she’d broken into his house.

      She was fast, but even with pins and rods in both legs, Jude was faster. He snagged the back of her coat as she pulled open the door of a beat-up Mustang convertible.

      “Let me go.” She rounded on him, slamming her open palm toward his nose.

      He just missed getting a face full of pain, and that irritated him. It used to be he could take down a three-hundred-pound man with ease. Now he was barely managing to restrain a hundred-pound woman.

      He grabbed the woman’s arm, tugging it behind her back but not exerting pressure. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted answers. “Sorry, lady. You can’t go anywhere until you tell me why you were in my house tonight.”

      “Your house? But…” Her voice trailed off, and she glanced over her shoulder, frowning. “You’re Jude Sinclair.”

      “Were you expecting someone else?” He kept his grip light as he urged the woman back to the house.

      “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I must have mixed up the house numbers somehow. I’m sure the key had my name on it.” She seemed to be talking to herself and used her free arm to reach into her coat pocket. To get keys? Or something a lot more deadly?

      Jude pressed his gun lightly into her back. “Don’t.”

      She froze. “I heard you were difficult, but nobody told me you were crazy.”

      “Not crazy. Cautious. Who are you?”

      “Lacey Carmichael.”

      “That’s your name. I want to know who you are.” He nudged her up the porch stairs, past a suitcase he hadn’t noticed when he’d run out the door.

      A suitcase?

      Was the woman planning to kill him and then move in?

      “I’m a home-care aide. Your brother hired me—”

      “My brother?” He stopped in the brightly lit foyer, lowering his gun and letting the woman turn to face him.

      Her features were delicate, her jaw sharply angled, but it was her eyes that held Jude’s attention. Deep-green and flecked with brown and gold, they begged a second look and a third.

      He scowled.

      The woman could be plotting his death, and he was gazing into her eyes?

      Smart. Really smart.

      “Grayson Sinclair. He contacted my employer. Helping Hands, Incorporated. They provide full-time caregivers to people who are recovering from trauma or illness. The company was founded twenty years ago by—”

      “No need to give me an oral report on the company’s history. Just tell me how you ended up in my house tonight.”

      “My company sent me keys to both sides of the duplex when I signed the contract. I’m sure they said I was going to be staying in two-fourteen. Let me just get the case file out of my suitcase and take a look.” She tried to scoot past Jude, but he shifted so that he was blocking her exit.

      “Have a seat in the living room. I’m going to call my brother and see if your story checks out.”

      “You mean he didn’t tell you I was coming?” She cocked her head to the side, studying him, her gaze touching the scar on his temple and dropping to his bare feet before moving up to his face again.

      “No. He didn’t. My brother knows how I feel about having another home-care aide.” But that wouldn’t have stopped Grayson from hiring one. When they were kids, Grayson had always thought he knew best. Time hadn’t changed things.

      “He told me you wouldn’t be happy. He just didn’t tell me you wouldn’t know.” She smiled, a dimple in her cheek there and gone so fast Jude almost missed it.

      He ground his teeth and raked a hand over his hair, acknowledging a truth that didn’t make him happy—Lacey Carmichael wasn’t the one who’d attacked him, which meant that he was right back where he’d been before she’d walked through his door. Empty-handed and waiting while his would-be murderer walked free. “Now that you know, you can grab your suitcase and head out. Thanks for coming. I’m sure my brother will compensate you for your time.”

      “I thought you wanted to call Grayson and check on my story?”

      “I’ll do it after you’re gone.”

      “Great.” She moved to the door. “It’s been a long drive. I guess I’ll head next door and be over first thing in the morning to work out the details of our business relationship.”

      He grabbed her arm before she could slide past. “I don’t think so, lady. You’re going to get your suitcase, get back in your car and go home.”

      “This is home for the next thirty days. I’m staying in the rental unit next door while I help you recuperate from your accident. It’s in the contract.” She flashed her dimple again.

      “And I guess that was Grayson’s idea, too.”

      “He wanted to sweeten the pot. Helping Hands wasn’t eager to send someone out here, seeing as how you’ve been through four home-care aides in the past six weeks.”

      “Five if I count you.”

      “You can’t. I’m still here.”

      “Not for long. Stay put for now. I’m going to see what my brother has to say for himself.” Jude limped into the kitchen, irritated with his brother, with the woman in his living room, but mostly with himself.

      He lifted the phone, punching in his brother’s number, his throbbing legs making him more aggravated by the minute. He’d been hoping and praying he would finally have a chance to confront his attacker face-to-face. СКАЧАТЬ