FRIEND, LOVER, PROTECTOR Read online

  "It's irritating that you make that look so easy," she said.

  "I've had a lot of practice—"

  "Screwing?"

  He laughed. "Yeah." He set the next screw. "When I was a kid, I used to help my grandpa. He could build anything."

  "Like what?" she asked.

  "We made a coffee table out of a pallet once. One summer, we tore down his old barn. He recycled most of the lumber. Then we rebuilt it, putting the old wood over a new frame." He found himself thinking about the cradle they had built together. Erin had taken that with her, along with all the furniture except their bed, when she left. He finished setting the last screw and handed Dahlia back the screwdriver. "There you go."

  "Well," Dahlia said, patting the screen. "That should at least slow somebody down."

  Jack handed her his pocketknife. "Not by much."

  As if realizing the knife could be used to split the screen, she shot him another of her dark glances. He went back down the ladder, and a second later, she followed.

  "Would you like me to put the ladder away?" Before she could answer, he picked it up and waited for her. She stared at him a moment, then finally opened the door.

  He headed through the house, taking the ladder back to the door where he had seen her go before. Her basement was one large, open room. Along one wall stood the washer and dryer. A rolling clothes rack was positioned nearby and contained an assortment of pants and shirts that had the fresh aroma of laundry soap. Shelves and boxes filled the rest of the room. He found an open spot along one wall and leaned the ladder against it.

  Dahlia stared at the open doorway to the basement stairs, more annoyed and frustrated with the situation by the moment. She had felt in control of her life until the moment Jake Trahern had climbed into her car. Logic dictated that she couldn't blame him, but she kept feeling that if she could just get him out of her hair, things might be okay again.

  The fleeting image of some strange man in her house, touching her things and using her bathroom, which was somehow the creepiest of all, made her shudder. And now, to know that everything Jack told her was the truth. She hated that. She couldn't even begin to explain how much she detested the conversations with the cops. Looking back, she knew just how lame and stupid her complaints sounded. She, who valued tangible evidence more than most, suspected the officer had written "nut case—watch out for this one" in the file.

  Jack came up the stairs and closed the door to the basement.

  "Like I said before. You can go now." She brushed past Jack, intending to grab his pack and lead him toward the front door. The narrow galley kitchen forced her much closer to him than was comfortable. She couldn't have said when a man ever made her feel small, and right now that was the last thing she wanted.

  "And, like I told you, I'm not leaving." He didn't budge even an inch. He simply watched her with those brilliant blue eyes as though sorting through his options of how to handle her. That thought alone shortened her temper.

  "I want you out of my house." More annoyed by the second, her tenuous hold on her temper broke, and she pushed against his chest. "I can't stand guys like you—macho, handsome guys who think they're God's gift to the world—"

  "That makes us even, sugar." He grasped her hands and thrust her away from him, somehow failing to let go of her. His glance raked down her, lingering at her breasts. "You don't want me here and I don't want to be here."

  "Leave!"

  "I can't."

  "You won't."

  "Okay," he agreed. "Won't."

  His thumbs rubbed across the back of her hands, his hands huge and dark compared to her own. She looked up, surprised to find his gaze on her face, not on her breasts. The look in his eyes could have heated concrete. Oh, Lord, she thought. She wasn't the only one fighting the attraction.

  His brilliant eyes became impossibly brighter, and this close she could see that his lashes were as black as his hair. Somehow he seemed closer, and she decided that she must have moved because he was still as a stone.

  "Oh, hell," he muttered, then dipped his head toward her, and those brilliant eyes were shielded by his lashes. Then his mouth was on hers, the pressure teasing her senses and asking for more. For the briefest second she pushed against him, then stilled except for her pounding heart.

  He had let go of her, and she could have stepped away. Only she didn't. His lips were soft, coaxing, warm. She sighed, and he used that tiny movement to gain entrance to her mouth, his tongue tracing the sensitive inner edge of her lips before tangling with hers.

  Within the onslaught she somehow became aware of her own hands, her palms against his chest. His thumbs rubbed the backs of her hands, the gentle pressure moving to the same rhythm as his tongue brushing against hers. The caress of his fingers against her hands somehow felt more intimate than any other touch she had ever received.

  On a shuddering sigh she broke the kiss and looked up at him.

  This was the most dangerous man she had ever met.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Dahlia looked at her hands pressed against Jack's warm, broad chest, then snatched them away. "You need to go." Pleading, for pity's sake. Not the order she had intended.

  "Yeah. I do." He brushed his thumb across her cheek, a featherlight caress that lingered after he took his hand away.

  Without another word, he backed away from her, then disappeared down the hallway that led toward the front door. She closed her eyes, listening to his footfalls and a second later the sound of the screen door opening and closing.

  She had kissed him back. Of all the stupid things she could have done, that topped the list. She pressed her fingers against her lips, opened her eyes and looked around her kitchen, which showed no evidence of a cataclysm.

  Dismayed at the depth of longing that one consuming kiss had opened up, she began listing the reasons that it had happened. Danger. According to all the books she had read, that always heightened attraction. And, darn it, there was no point in lying to herself about that: the man was attractive. Gorgeous.

  She scowled, deliberately reminding herself of her ex-husband and ex-fiancé, attractive men had turned out to be total lowlifes. You have rotten taste in men, remember?

  With a mutter of disgust, Dahlia headed for her office. She'd do what always helped—lose herself in her work. That didn't keep her from glancing out the front door. A dark-green SUV was parked in front of her house, and he was talking to her neighbor, Emmet Masters. What interest could Jack possibly have in her neighbor?

  The loud vibration of booming speakers preceded a car as it came down the street. Dahlia paid more attention than she would have this morning. The car was black as night and polished to a high gleam. No melody could be heard, just the booming vibration of the subwoofers that made her wonder how the two guys slouched inside could hear anything. They both wore reflective sunglasses and had an I - dare - you - to - complain demeanor—probably friends of the kids who lived at the end of the block.

  The car moved on, and Dahlia's attention returned to Jack and Emmet. She folded her arms over her chest and watched. She heard Emmet laugh. She didn't want Jack making friends with her neighbor, hanging out as if he somehow belonged, and standing in her kitchen kissing her.

  More than an hour later she pressed the save button on the computer and headed for the kitchen. The mouthwatering aroma of someone in the neighborhood barbecuing had reminded her that she was hungry.

  In the kitchen her gaze lit on Jack's pack. Which meant he still was around somewhere … or that he'd be back. She was debating the wisdom of simply setting it on her front porch so she wouldn't have to deal with him when movement in the backyard caught her eye. Boo barked. Before Dahlia reached the sliding glass door, Jack opened it. Boo sped out and the enticing aroma of chicken wafted in.

  "You're cooking," she accused. "On my grill."

  "Yep." He just stood there in the open doorway, cool evening air spilling in. Boo danced around his le
gs, and Jack bent to scratch her ears.

  "Some bodyguard you turned out to be. Leaving to get chicken." Never mind that she had told him to leave, never mind that to have him here meant today's danger hadn't been some horrible figment of her imagination.

  He straightened and met her gaze head-on. She had the impression he was weighing what to say.

  "I went as far as the cooler in the back of my car," he said.

  Her glance slid past him to the porch where a large blue cooler sat. A utility box unlike any she had ever seen was on her picnic table, opened and sitting on its side like a cabinet. The cooking utensils and spices neatly strapped inside were more than she had in her own kitchen. An open bottle of beer made it look as though he'd completely made himself at home. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stepped out of the house. Her fingers trailed over the top of the box, its finish satiny.

  He opened the grill lid, which contained not only chicken but fresh vegetables that looked as good as the chicken smelled. After turning the chicken pieces over and brushing them with a marinade from yet another bowl, he closed the lid and took a long pull from the bottle of beer.

  Her idea of cooking was boiling water for spaghetti and heating the sauce in the microwave oven. She remembered joking with her sisters once that if she ever found a man who could cook, watch out.

  So, the man could cook. And use a screwdriver with an ease she might never master. And kiss better than anyone else. He also carried a gun, and if even half of what he told her about his training was true, he could give Rambo a run for his money.

  "You drink on the job?" she accused.

  He grinned. "Progress. The lady admits I'm on the job."

  Realizing she had backed herself into a corner, she frowned.

  "One beer won't slow me down, if that's what's worrying you. I have enough to share," he added, extending an unopened bottle toward her. "Ten more minutes, and the chicken will be ready."

  "And then what?" she asked.

  "And then we eat." He set the beer down on the table.

  She shook her head. "After that, what?"

  A glimmer of humor appeared in his eyes. "Since I cooked, you get to do the dishes?"

  "While you move in," she finished.

  "So we're back to that."

  "I never left it," she informed him. "I don't want your beer, and I don't want your chicken." Dahlia, you are such a liar. "Eat your dinner, pack up your stuff and go." The more she thought about that, the more clear she was. "Tell your friend, thanks but no thanks. I don't need a bodyguard."

  "We've already had this conversation. You didn't hire me. He did. I'm not going anywhere."

  "For all I know that guy this morning was after you."

  He raised an eyebrow, then challenged, "Why didn't you tell the cops that?"

  "How do you know I didn't?"

  "If you had, I'd be spending the night in the county jail instead of barbecuing on your back porch."

  Not about to admit to the man that he was right on all counts, she turned away from his penetrating gaze.

  "You know why you didn't tell the cops?"

  She refused to turn around but knew that he was messing with the chicken again because she heard the grill open and the sizzle of the marinade dropping on the hot coals, accompanied by an aroma that made her mouth water.

  "Because you know I'm right," he said. "Somebody was in your house. You talked with your mom, so you know I didn't lie about your sister."

  She turned around. "I don't know that." A blatant lie and they both knew it.

  "Then you'll just have to trust me."

  She shook her head. Of all the things possible, trust was dead last even though she knew he'd been completely straight up with her. Dahlia shivered, remembering her conversation with her mother earlier in the day. Some guy attacked her dad just as he was quitting work for the day. Her mom had assured Dahlia that he was fine and had added that his assailant had to be flown to the hospital in Juneau. It still annoyed Dahlia to no end that she hadn't known any of this was going on until Jack showed up. The whole thing felt too much like it had when she was a kid—Lily, Rosie and their mom with their secrets that little Dahlia wouldn't understand. She might be the youngest, but she wasn't the baby anymore.

  "It doesn't make any sense that I'm a target."

  "If I were this guy on trial for executing the assistant D.A.—" Jack took a step closer to her. "And if the D.A. had an ironclad case against me, and if I had unlimited money and no conscience and was determined to stay out of prison, I'd do just about anything to keep the state's star witness from testifying."

  His voice had dropped to a near whisper.

  "You're scaring me."

  "It's about damn time."

  "I can't live like that. Afraid to open my front door."

  "At least you'll be living." He turned the chicken again, the ordinary act of cooking so at odds with his statement she had the urge to laugh. She didn't, though, because she knew it would sound hysterical.

  "You have to be wrong." She went back to the open door and stepped into the kitchen. She picked up his pack and thrust it into his hands. "Come on, Boo," she said, motioning the dog into the house. Boo sat and looked at her with the quizzical expression that she'd had all afternoon. Dahlia stared at the dog a moment, then met Jack's glance. "Fine."

  She pulled the sliding glass door closed, then locked it. Jack met her gaze through the glass while her traitor dog sat at his feet. She turned away with the ridiculous urge to cry. Wishing that she'd bought drapes to go over the glass door, she got her food-in-a-box out of the freezer. Meat loaf with peas and carrots and a brownie, ready in six minutes.

  She sat down to eat about the same time that Jack did. His dinner looked wonderful, and he seemed to enjoy every bite. Her dog sat at his feet, begging. To Jack's credit he didn't feed the dog from his plate. Dahlia picked at her own food, then finally dumped it in the trash, reminding herself that she had refused Jack's offer.

  The evening dragged by, and Jack made no move toward leaving after he heated water in a pot on the grill and cleaned up. That he didn't need anything from her was vaguely irritating even as she acknowledged his resourcefulness. If the man had left a mess on her porch, she would have had something to complain about.

  She retreated to her office, but nothing there held any appeal. There were journals to read, research documents to update and protocols to review for her next set of observations. Instead she played game after game of FreeCell, the conversations with Jack and her mother rolling through her head. She called her sisters again and again, and got their respective phone answering machines.

  The minute the clock struck ten, she went to the back-door to get her dog. Boo was sitting on Jack's lap. In deference to the brisk evening air he'd donned a jacket. Even then, he looked just as at home as he had before.

  He looked up when he heard the door open.

  Boo jumped off his lap and, wagging her tail, came inside.

  "Mind if I use the bathroom before you lock up for the night?" Jack asked standing up.

  She stood to the side so he could come through. In his wake he left the crisp aroma of night air. She peeked outside and saw that he'd spread a sleeping bag on the chaise lounge.

  By now her sister Lily would have invited the man into the house and made him an honorary member of the family. That's what you did when you thought the best of others. Lily hadn't had Dahlia's experience of being completely wrong in her instincts.

  Jack came back down the stairs a moment later. When he reached the door, he stood looking down at her a moment. That in itself was a novelty. At six feet, she rarely looked up to any man. Aware as she was of his scrutiny, she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.

  Finally he tapped the door handle. "Lock up," he said, stepping outside. "Sleep well."

  To wish him the same when she refused to invite him in seemed completely stupid to her, but she responded, "You, too."

  On her way up the stairs she fli
pped off the lights, plunging the house into darkness. In her room Dahlia emptied the pockets of her shorts, discovering that she still had his pocketknife, which she had forgotten to give back to him. Her imagination took off at a gallop, with thugs breaking into her house, chasing her down the way they had this morning, following her in the supermarket, making her a prisoner of her own fear. Jack had to be wrong. She set the knife down with a thump and stalked to the closet to change into her pajamas.

  When she settled into bed, Boo was there to curl against her side. There in the dark she could almost believe this night was like all the others of the last two years. Just her and the dog, rebuilding a life where she focused on her work and came to grips with the fact that she no longer trusted her instincts about men.

  Everything about Jack proclaimed him as one of the good guys. Even if she had met him under more ordinary circumstances, she would have noticed him, been drawn to him. In her book that automatically made him off limits. The ultimate Catch 22. If she was attracted, he had to be bad for her. If she wasn't attracted, he'd probably be an okay guy—who she wouldn't give the time of day.

  On that disturbing thought she fell asleep.

  * * *

  Jack awoke instantly. He remained stock-still, listening for whatever it was that had brought him out of a fitful sleep. Then he heard it—the barely perceptible sound of someone walking across the grass. Without moving his head he looked toward the back fence that separated Dahlia's yard from a bike path that ran alongside a canal, remembering the invisible path of scent that Boo had followed from the far corner of the yard to the base of the tree. The dark form of a man emerged out of the night. He moved purposefully toward the tree that would give him access to the porch roof and to Dahlia's bedroom.

  Jack had worried about the front porch, which had been black as a cave when he'd checked it before coming back here. He had settled on the lounge, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood and attuned to Dahlia's movement inside. He had lain there a long time thinking about how he'd like to be sharing that big bed with her. A stupid fantasy to torture himself.