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  Now he thanked the instincts that had made him choose sleeping under Dahlia's window. The mere thought of this creep getting into Dahlia's room made Jack's blood boil. He would bet everything he owned this guy wasn't here to steal the TV.

  Jack rolled from his makeshift bed on the chaise lounge, throwing aside the sleeping bag that he'd used as a blanket. "Stop right there."

  The other man swore and broke into a run, turning back the way he'd come. Jack took off after him.

  The guy vaulted over the fence, and a second later Jack followed. He landed hard on his bad leg, and a sharp pain flashed from his knee to his groin. Despite the reminder this was why he hadn't been able to pass his last physical, he ran after the man. For every step they took, the guy gained ground.

  The path ended several hundred yards later at a street. Bushes grew on both sides of the path entrance, and Jack slowed, edging toward the thick brush that kept him from seeing the street. He came to a stop and stood motionless, deliberately keeping his breathing shallow so he could hear. In the distance he heard a siren, and somewhere a dog barked. He came around the edge of the brush and looked down the street.

  He caught movement off to his side and whirled around. The guy came at him with a baseball bat-size branch. Jack danced out of the way, then lunged toward him. The guy swung again, and the branch caught Jack square across the knees. He hit the ground, and the man ran.

  Jack slowly stood, his knee on fire. He looked up and down the street. The guy had disappeared.

  Completely irritated with himself, Jack headed back toward Dahlia's house at as brisk a clip as his reinjured knee would allow. Stupid, being ambushed. Whoever the guy was, he was younger, darker, stockier than the guy who had shot at them yesterday morning.

  On that thought, Jack broke into a run, clammy sweat streaming down his back. If these guys were working together and if they somehow knew where Jack was, he'd just played right into their game of divide and conquer.

  * * *

  The rhythmic vibrations of a car's speakers and the accompanying rattle of the windows woke Dahlia up. Wishing the teens at the end of the street would give up their late-night partying, she turned over and looked at the clock. She hadn't been in bed even three hours. The sound didn't move away, so she turned on the light and got out of bed. She went to the front bedroom where she looked out onto the dark street. She didn't see anything, though she still heard the car.

  She came out of the room and found Boo standing at the top of the stairs, her body quivering and her ears perked forward. An instant later glass shattered. Boo barked.

  "Boo, come!"

  A night-light in the downstairs hall illuminated the shards of glass and a large rock on the floor. Someone rattled the doorknob, and the front door swung open.

  Dahlia scooped up Boo and ran back to her bedroom. She closed and locked the door, then ran to the phone, half expecting the line to be dead. It wasn't.

  She dialed 911. "Someone is breaking into my house," she said, adding her address. "They're inside right now."

  Footfalls thundered up the stairs. Boo's barking escalated.

  Dahlia had only one thought. Get out. She threw the phone and receiver under the bed.

  She shoved the window open and pushed on the screen.

  It didn't budge.

  It won't slow anyone down by much. Except her. She reached for the pocketknife that she'd set on the nightstand. Fumbling, she struggled to open the blade, hearing the footsteps come closer and closer. At last the blade snapped into place, and she plunged it through the screen, ripping a huge hole in the middle.

  "Boo, come on!"

  Dahlia picked up the barking dog and climbed onto the roof over the porch.

  "Jack!" she called in a loud whisper.

  He didn't answer.

  But she did hear sirens approaching.

  She glanced back inside her bedroom. The door banged opened with a crash. A short man with the broad menacing build of a bulldozer came toward the window. He opened his arms wide and made a "come here" motion with his hands.

  Dahlia backed away, then started when she felt something against her back. The branches of the tree. Keeping a firm hold on Boo with one hand, she looped her leg over the largest branch and prayed that it would hold her weight, then shimmied back toward the trunk.

  "Come on, Tommy," a voice called from inside her house. "Cops are nearly here. We gotta go right now."

  The man stood in her bedroom window an instant longer, and she was sure that she could see a leering grin. She felt completely naked under his gaze. Given how she was shivering, she wished that she had donned heavy flannel pajamas instead of knit shorts and a top. Finally he turned away and disappeared the way he had come. She realized she had a death grip on Boo with one hand and the limb of the tree with the other.

  "Shh," she whispered against the dog's head. "It's going to be okay." Words she wasn't at all sure she believed.

  She heard the front door slam and a car rumble. They were going to get away before the police arrived! And she'd have another stupid explanation to make.

  Some bodyguard Jack Trahern had turned out to be. Where the hell was he?

  * * *

  Chapter 5

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  Deciding that she was crazy for scrambling onto the tree, Dahlia glanced back at the branches that she had just climbed across. They seemed much too flimsy to have supported her weight. Much as she wanted off the tree, she dismissed going back inside. For all she knew the man called Tommy would still be there … waiting. That was enough to keep her moving gingerly down the tree.

  Feeling her way, she scooted closer to the trunk, disliking its abrasive texture against the bare skin of her thigh. Too late to remember she didn't like heights, and that climbing onto the roof earlier in the day had been sheer bravado. Deliberately she looked away from the dark lawn that looked a hundred feet away. Boo's barking had dissolved into whimpers. Little by little Dahlia made her way toward the main trunk, cursing the situation in general and Jack in particular. Where was the man?

  She had finally reached one of the sturdier branches that she could stand on when she heard someone come over the back fence. She no longer heard the sirens, and the yard was suddenly quiet. Too quiet. She perched on the thick limb, peering through the branches that were covered with the small leaves of early spring. A moment later she recognized Jack's tall form come across the dark yard. He was breathing hard and limping.

  "Where the hell have you been?" she demanded. Relief that she was no longer alone shuddered through her.

  He came to a complete stop, then turned around and looked up.

  "Dahlia?" His voice was raspy as though he'd just run a long way.

  "Who else would it be?"

  "What are you doing in the tree?" he asked.

  "Escaping from my own house."

  He was instantly under the lowest branches reaching his arms toward her and the dog. "Somebody got in?"

  "I'm not sitting up here because I like the view." She wasn't about to tell him that she had never been more scared in her life. Given the day she had already had, that was saying something. She managed to climb down several more branches, the bark digging into the bare skin of her legs and feet. Finally she handed Boo down to him, then turned around and cautiously felt her way down one branch, then another. Suddenly his hands were around her waist.

  "Are you okay?" In the next instant he lifted her away from the tree.

  Her answer caught in her throat, and she stared at his face. Even through the dark, his eyes burned into hers. She wanted to tell him that she was fine, but her reply lodged in her throat.

  Suddenly a beam of bright light hit them, and Boo growled.

  "Police," a voice behind the light called. "Put your hands behind your head and come away from the tree."

  Jack set her feet on the ground and turned around.

  "I live here," Dahlia said. "I'm the one who called you."

  The beam of light came close
r until the form of a man was visible behind it—a man in a cop's uniform.

  The officer made a point of looking at Jack before subjecting her to the same thorough perusal. She glanced down at herself, her cotton knit shorts and spaghetti-strap shirt comfortable for sleeping but way too skimpy for anything else.

  "Are you two okay?" the officer asked.

  As it had when Jack asked, the benign question brought a lump to Dahlia's throat. Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

  The cop motioned for them to precede him around the house and through the gate. On the way Jack snagged his jacket off the picnic table and draped it over her shoulders. Grateful for both the warmth and being more covered, Dahlia slipped her arms into the sleeves.

  Another police car arrived just as they climbed the porch steps. The officer got out of the car and joined them. Dahlia heard the two men talking to each other, but her attention was focused on the front door.

  It hung crookedly on its hinges and the etched glass in the center window was shattered, a gaping hole where the glass had once been.

  "Oh … damn." She remembered the first day the real estate agent had brought her to see the house. The old-fashioned spray of flowers etched in the center of the window had reminded her of her grandmother's house, and Dahlia had loved the place on sight.

  Next to her, Jack swore under his breath, then reached for her hand. "I'm sorry I wasn't here for you."

  He felt so warm that she gave in to the temptation to lean into him. When Boo licked her cheek, she realized that he was carrying the dog.

  "Where were you?"

  "I saw a guy come across your back lawn like he knew exactly where he was going. He ran, and I followed him down to the end of the bike path."

  "You're limping."

  He rubbed his knee. "Yep."

  "And?"

  "And nothing."

  The cops rejoined them. "Let's go in and see what these guys took."

  "You think this was a burglary?" It didn't make a lot of sense to her that someone would come through both the back and the front just to steal from her.

  "After you tell us what's missing, we'll know for sure," the officer said. "And for what it's worth, ma'am, you might consider keeping your porch light on in the future."

  She glanced at the dark fixture ready to tell the officer that she did keep it on, that she had just replaced the light bulb a few days ago. It had been on when she went to bed, hadn't it? She couldn't remember with any certainty. Another tentacle of fear sank a hook into her, the reasons her porch being dark no longer the benign ones of defective light bulbs.

  The officer held the door open. Before she could even consider navigating barefoot through the glass, Jack picked her up and carried her inside as though she weighed nothing. Surprise held her speechless. She considered herself an Amazon, and the last person she recalled being picked up by had been her dad when she was seven or eight. Jack set her down in the living room.

  "Hang tight," he murmured. "I'll bring you back some shoes."

  As he took the stairs two at a time—still limping, she noted, which made his picking her up all the more surprising—she went back to the wide doorway that led to the hallway and turned on the light in the living room. Boo settled herself next to Dahlia's feet, her little body quivering.

  The cops came into the house, stepping around the glass and turning on lights. The spray of glass across the hardwood floor in the hallway looked even worse than it had in the dark.

  Jack was back a second later with a pair of canvas slip-ons.

  After putting on the shoes, she turned back into the living room. To her complete dismay, only dust remained on the shelf that her television had occupied in the entertainment unit. The smoky doors that hid the rest of her equipment were open, and everything there had been carelessly yanked out. Except for a cord, it was all gone.

  Afraid for the research that she hadn't yet backed up to the university's computer system, she rushed across the hall to her office. A laptop would be a cinch to steal.

  It also was gone.

  "No. Damn it, no!" When she turned around and met Jack's gaze, her eyes shimmered with tears that threatened to spill over. "It really was a burglary."

  Jack drew her close, encouraging her to lean on him. When she didn't pull away, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. He'd been through the same enough times to know how upset and violated she felt. He also had a fair hunch of how much worse she was going to feel when she realized they were supposed to believe that this was a simple burglary—a damn good cover to keep the police from knowing what they had really been after. Dahlia.

  He and Dahlia spent the next hour with the police, who were far more focused on the items that had been stolen—the television, stereo equipment and the laptop computer—than with the fact that Jack had chased another intruder from the back of the house or that a man named Tommy had come into Dahlia's bedroom.

  "You did the right thing calling 911 when you did," one of the cops told her. "These guys came to steal from you. Finding you at home should have scared them off."

  "Only it didn't. One of them came upstairs after me."

  "He was probably looking for jewelry or other valuables," the officer said in a way that sounded rehearsed. Undoubtedly he had said the same thing hundreds of times.

  "I don't think so."

  The cop handed her a card with a phone number on it for victim's assistance. "What you're feeling is pretty normal, ma'am. These folks can help."

  "What about fingerprints?"

  The officer shook his head. "Without a suspect, fingerprints aren't going to do you much good. The best evidence are the things they stole from you."

  "Will I get my stuff back?"

  "That's hard to say."

  Translation: not likely, she decided. She couldn't decide which was worse. The awful feeling that they were after her or the fact that they had stolen from her. Of all the items, the loss of the computer was the worst. She hated explaining that to the head of the department, especially after he'd grown so suspicious of her excuses when her ex-fiancé began stealing from her to support his habit.

  One of the cops helped Jack carry a sheet of plywood from the basement, and then they left. While Jack fastened the door to the frame and then barricaded it with the plywood, Dahlia swept up the glass.

  A thought lodged itself firmly in her head and began to replay, complete with sound effects and a man beckoning her. It couldn't be a coincidence one guy came through the back yard while two others broke into the front, especially since one of them came after her. If they had come to kidnap her, they wouldn't care about the noise or a broken window because they'd be long gone by the time the cops arrived. The noisy car would be annoying, but part of the noise that had been usual lately with the kids living down the street. Nobody would think anything more about it.

  She began to shake, and no amount of activity abated the fear that settled into her stomach. After she finished sweeping up the glass, she dusted the empty shelves where the stereo and television had been. Then she vacuumed.

  When there seemed nothing else to do, her throat tightened, and she knew she was a breath away from tears. Tears, as she well knew, didn't accomplish anything. The remedy for that was work. Except that her computer was gone.

  After he put away the tools he'd used to secure the front door, Jack found her standing in the middle of the hallway between the living room and her office. She had her arms wrapped around herself, and he had the feeling that she was holding on to her composure by a thread.

  "Ready to go back to bed?" he asked her.

  She shook her head, then turned more fully to face him. "The reason why those guys broke in … do you think it was just to steal from me? And if that's the case, why didn't they just come in the middle of the day when I'm not home?"

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  She sucked in a shuddering breath. "I … think it doesn't make sense. They were noisy. The guy came up the stairs the minute he go
t into the house. He kicked open the bedroom door." She had been on the roof over the patio by then, but remembering now somehow made her more scared than she had been before.

  She turned away from Jack and headed for the kitchen. Jack followed her, watched as she polished a nonexistent speck off the countertop.

  "How many classes are you teaching right now?" he asked.

  "Just one. Plus the field research." She glanced at him as though his question made no sense, then returned to wiping down the already spotless counter. At some point she had put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, clothes he assumed she retrieved from the clean ones in the basement, since she had shown no interest in going upstairs.

  "Then leaving for a few days—"

  "It's not that simple."

  "Sure it is. Get someone to fill in for your class and postpone—"

  "I can't."

  "Won't," he corrected.

  "Okay. Won't." She neatly folded the washcloth and draped it over the center rim of the double sink. "The students on my crew earn credit hours for their work."

  "Are you willing to put them in danger?"

  Her gaze jerked to his, her expression making it clear that the thought had not occurred to her.

  Jack held her stare. "It's one thing to risk your own skin, but you can't just continue like nothing has happened."

  She turned away from him, rubbing the heel of her hand against her temple. A long two minutes passed, and he finally stood and crossed the room. He didn't dare touch her, but she looked so forlorn. She still had on his jacket, which was way too big for her, but still didn't cover up enough of her for his own peace of mind.

  "Hey, are you still with me?"

  She blinked and looked up at him. "Maybe you're right. I can send the students off on their independent study first, and we can do field studies later. That keeps them safe. I still have a class to teach."

  "So you're saying that you won't leave for a week or two."

  "Oh, I can just hear my boss when I suggest that." She shook her head, opened her mouth as if to say something, then clamped her lips together. A moment later she met his gaze. "Isn't it safer if I know who is a stranger and who isn't? We go somewhere else and everyone is a stranger, someone to potentially be afraid of. Right?"