FRIEND, LOVER, PROTECTOR Page 3

  "You've got it."

  "Name your price."

  "Hell, man, don't insult me. You know I don't want your money," Jack said.

  "Okay, then. Call it expenses."

  They had talked awhile longer, and Jack had finally agreed to let Ian deposit the funds he wanted into Jack's account. Not that he planned on using a single penny of the thousands of dollars that had shown up in his account when he'd gone to the bank to withdraw travel money.

  Ian had the good fortune to have won a huge lotto. "Friends" had shown up by the truckload, all with some reason why Ian should part with his cash. He'd been generous to a fault, funding everything from the delivery of babies to ski vacations. Jack was determined to be the same kind of friend to Ian he'd been before—one who couldn't care less about his money.

  Jack had first become friends with the man when they were assigned as buddies in Ranger school. That sometimes seemed like a thousand years ago. It had been hate at first sight, and they had to immediately get past their differences. The training was set up to reinforce teamwork, and if they didn't work as a team, they both would fail. Ten years later, and he didn't have a closer friend than Ian.

  Jack would have preferred going to Alaska to protect Ian's flank, but if being here was what his best friend needed, Jack would do the job without a second thought. He had a month of accrued leave that he had just begun. With nothing but time and regret on his hands this was a way to fill his time. He had a year left on his hitch, and he'd been given several choices of how to spend that time. None of them appealed to him a bit.

  Ian had tried to convince Jack that he could pass himself off as a student, which would provide the cover to protect Dahlia until her sister testified. Jack had been a decade younger the last time he was in a college classroom, and one thing he knew for sure. He didn't look like a student.

  As for the professor—he had imagined an old-fashioned woman who would match the old-fashioned name of Dahlia Jensen, Ph.D. and figured that he'd be spending boring days at the back of a classroom. Until he had arrived last night and had gone to the university, he hadn't known she chased storms. He would rather jump out of airplanes with a faulty parachute than be anywhere near a thunderstorm. It was an aversion he'd acquired when a tornado flattened the trailer park where he and his mom had lived.

  The ride back up University Boulevard wasn't that long, but along the way Jack kept worrying about all the things that could go wrong. At the top of the list was someone catching up with her before he did. If Dahlia had gone to the cops, he would arrive back at her office on campus before her.

  When he got back to his car, he fished the keys out and slid behind the wheel, hoping that Dahlia would arrive soon and head for her office. He moved the car to where he could keep an eye on the faculty parking lot behind the building. By the time a half hour passed without her arrival the dull gnaw in his gut grew into full-fledged worry. He got out of the car and headed for Dahlia's office. According to the student assistant, she wasn't expected back.

  Jack hurried back to his SUV and headed for her house with the address that Ian had given him and the map he had picked up when he arrived last night.

  The trip to Dahlia's house was a scant fifteen minutes from the campus. He figured her for a condo kind of gal, so the Victorian-era bungalow that matched her address came as a surprise. He liked the lines of the house and the big shade trees that sheltered it. The front door, sitting at the back of the wide porch, was nearly invisible. At night, you could hide a platoon on that porch unless the porch light was on.

  Her yard was well kept but plain compared to the vivid flower beds of her neighbor's. As Jack drove by he looked for her van. It wasn't in the driveway or beneath the carport. The old guy working in the yard next to hers waved as he came by, and Jack waved back. His concern for Dahlia's safety came to the surface even as he cautioned himself that she might have gone to the grocery store or somewhere else.

  Jack went around the block, then parked beneath a huge shade tree about a half block from her house, where he had a clear view of her driveway.

  Dahlia arrived about ten minutes later. She didn't notice him. He would have preferred it if she had been a little more aware of strange cars in the neighborhood. Deciding the more he knew about her routine, the better, he sat in the car and watched. She parked her van under the carport, then came back to the mailbox at the street, waving to the old man next door. Her dog trotted along at her heels.

  Dahlia was taller—a lot taller than he'd thought. He'd noticed earlier that she was stacked. A man would have to be blind not to notice. She had layered a tailored shirt over a T-shirt. The khaki pants were on the baggy side, which made the curve of her hip and the length of her leg all the more tantalizing. The conservative outfit was a hell of a lot more sexy than a blatant display would have been, though he admitted he wouldn't have minded that, either.

  She wandered over to the fence separating her property from her neighbor's. They stood talking while the guy cut her a bouquet of tulips. When he handed them to Dahlia, she leaned across the short fence separating them and gave the man a lingering hug. She pressed a kiss against the old guy's cheek.

  A memory slammed through Jack, so vivid that instead of Dahlia he saw his ex-wife, Erin.

  They had been married maybe three months, and already her pregnancy was showing—but it would, since she was more than five months along. She had come home, waved to him and stopped to give his grandpa a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  Jack clenched his hands around the steering wheel and shook his head. Ten years and a hell of a lot of water had passed under that particular bridge. His grandpa had died before the baby was born. And as for the baby and Erin … neither of them had turned out to be his. Everything Jack had thought to be true about his marriage had been a lie.

  Since then he'd lived by a simple credo. He didn't do permanent. He didn't make babies. He didn't have sex with a woman he couldn't walk away from.

  He stared at Dahlia and the old man. Deliberately he reminded himself that just because his ex-wife had betrayed him didn't mean others would. In his head he knew that. In his gut, where he made the important decisions, he didn't believe it. Memories or not, he was here to do a job. That's all. No matter how hot she was, no matter how much she drew him.

  Okay, he thought. She's off-limits. Because I'm being paid to protect her, and I sure can't do that if I'm thinking … about stripping off those baggy clothes and discovering what she's hiding. Irritated, he hauled his thoughts back. I don't do permanent. And there she is, permanent right down to the picket fence in her yard. She's off-limits. End of story.

  She gave the old man another hug, and another knot twisted through Jack. Deliberately he catalogued the women that had marched through his life—not that there had been that many—the ones he made damn sure that he could walk away from. As for Dahlia, he liked her. Another reason she was off-limits.

  The bouquet in hand, Dahlia went back to her car and scooped up a number of items, including his pack. Jack slouched down in his vehicle, telling himself that the reason he was staying in the car rather than following her into the house was to acquaint himself with the sounds and activity of the neighborhood. Sooner or later he needed to go inside and talk to her. Since she had his pack, he had the opening he needed to get into her house.

  You're here to do a job. Focus, he told himself. Instead he kept thinking about how she'd look without her clothes. He shifted uncomfortably in the seat. Focus. Now that he knew the danger was real—he hadn't really believed that it was—he needed 100 percent of his concentration on the job at hand.

  Unbidden, the luscious expanse of her breasts behind the deep vee of her tailored shirt filled his mind—this time without being covered.

  No way was he ready to face her.

  * * *

  Dahlia climbed the steps to her porch, unlocked the door and went inside. The house was quiet except for the almost silent whir of the ceiling fan and the hum of the refrigera
tor motor. Boo followed her into the house, her nails clicking against the hardwood floor.

  Dahlia set everything down except the tulips, which she held as she pulled a vase out of the cupboard. After she had filled it with water and arranged the flowers, she carried the vase to the counter and set it next to the phone. On impulse she picked up the receiver and dialed her sister, Rosie.

  Of her two sisters, Rosie was no-nonsense and practical. Dahlia would tell her about today's adventure, and Rosie would have exactly the right advice to make her feel better.

  Every time Dahlia thought about the chase, an adrenaline rush made her shaky and clammy. She would walk over hot coals before admitting it to Jack, but he was right—she could have gotten them killed speeding across the tracks like that. Never once in her life had she taken such a stupid chance, acting like Xena, Warrior Princess, and playing chicken with a train.

  Lily, her oldest sister, wouldn't have believed anyone could be playing chase with guns on back country roads and would dismiss 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.

  "I take it personally when they die," Dahlia continued.

  Without
a word the deliveryman went down the porch steps. The instant 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.