The Guardian. Linda Winstead Jones
escort took her arm and led her toward her house. “Did you keep the letters?”
“Yes. I file all correspondence.” He was moving a little bit too fast for her. With his quick step and long legs and the way he held her arm, she had to almost jog to keep pace.
“Tomorrow morning I’d like a look at those letters.”
“Why? They can’t possibly be related to the theft.”
“Can’t possibly?” he repeated. “Are you sure?”
She didn’t have an answer for that, so she remained silent as he steered her with purpose toward her own front door.
After driving around the block a couple of times and then grabbing a coffee and sandwich to go at the Tillman Café, Dante parked at the curb in front of the mayor’s house. He was probably being overly cautious, but in his world that was much preferable to not being cautious enough. He’d had the world yanked out from under him once before and wouldn’t allow that to happen again. It was easiest to expect and be prepared for the worst.
When he got a look at the letters in the morning, he’d have a better idea about whether or not he should be concerned. Working for Bennings, he was usually called in after the case had turned serious. He wasn’t sure how to handle something that might be threatening but was more likely to be nothing at all.
By nine-thirty, all the downstairs lights in Sara Vance’s house were out. There were outdoor lights that remained on for security purposes, but he could easily see the interior illumination through the windows, and one by one the lamps and overhead lights were extinguished. He could imagine Sara climbing the stairs, drawing a bath—or did she prefer a shower?—then climbing into bed with a book or maybe some work she’d brought home with her. What would she sleep in? he wondered. Flannel pajamas, maybe. A long, prim nightgown with a drawstring in the hem. Then again, perhaps she had a secret wild side and slept in red satin or, even better, nothing at all. The prim presentation could be a front, a facade that kept unwanted attention at a distance.
You must be Sergeant Mangino, my ass.
Her bedroom faced the street. At least, Dante assumed it was her bedroom, since that was where the last light of the night remained on. Yeah, that was her bedroom. He could see no more than lacy, feminine curtains, and still, he knew. She was there, sitting up in her bed with that book or papers from work in her lap. Maybe there was a television in that room and she was catching the news.
Sitting alone in his car, he smiled. Maybe he hadn’t recognized her right away, but he would never forget Sarabeth Caldwell and those few weeks they’d spent so much time together. They had run in such dissimilar circles that they never should’ve met, but in a small town it had been inevitable.
Her date at a summer party for the popular kids—a party Dante had crashed, thanks to cousin Jesse—had drunk too much beer and had ended up making out with one of Sarabeth’s friends. Moron. The other girl had been easy and, as he remembered, well developed, but she had not been nearly as pretty as Sarabeth.
He remembered stepping outside to smoke and finding her, shoulders shaking and face in hands. For a moment he’d considered sneaking back into the house before she saw him, but instead he’d offered to drive her home.
She’d quickly said yes because she hadn’t wanted to go back into the party and let the others see her cry. The fact that he had seen her crying hadn’t seemed to matter. He had been temporary. In a few weeks he’d be gone, and it wasn’t as though there had been anyone of importance that he could have told about her embarrassment. He’d known that and hadn’t cared. There was no way he could’ve left her there, alone and miserable, hiding and suffering.
He’d taken Jesse’s keys and promised to be back in a matter of minutes. The flat tire could not have come at a better time.
Dante had changed the tire, and Sarabeth had quit crying. She’d gotten angry and accused him of causing the flat tire. He’d laughed at her and she hadn’t liked that at all. These days he could easily arrange a convenient flat tire, with some planning and the right tools, but back then he hadn’t had a clue. He hadn’t had a clue about a lot of things, truth be told.
Somewhere along the way, he’d kissed Sarabeth. It hadn’t been his first kiss, or hers, but he could still remember kissing her and feeling as if he was falling into nothingness, like nothing else mattered. She’d been a spoiled rich kid who would never have looked his way if she hadn’t needed him, and he’d suspected that the kiss was a revenge of sorts for the cheating boyfriend. None of that had mattered, however, and that kiss had changed everything.
Only one other time in his life had he found himself attracted to a woman who was so totally and completely wrong for him. Whatever contentment he’d found in thinking of the old days with Sarabeth disappeared in a flash as he stared at the house before him and let go of old memories.
Things hadn’t worked out well for Serena. Not at all. Dante didn’t waste his time on women like her—or Sara—anymore. He wasn’t so foolish as to think that he could bring a woman into the world he lived in and then let her go unscathed. Or worse, never let her go at all.
The women who came into and out of his life on a regular basis knew who he was and what he wanted and that he wouldn’t be sticking around for long, and they didn’t care. They lived for the moment, for the night. Four years after her husband’s passing, Sara Vance remained faithful. She likely could not even imagine living for the night, giving herself to a man who wouldn’t stay, throwing herself into the moment strictly for the fun of it. For the pleasure.
Even eighteen years ago she’d been cautious. They’d kissed plenty, and he’d snaked his hand up her blouse more than once, but that had been it. He’d thought he’d die if he didn’t have her, if he didn’t get inside her, but she would have none of it. They’d come close, very close, but in the end Sarabeth Caldwell had been the one to get away, the one female he’d wanted to distraction and had not had. Maybe that was lucky for her.
Around ten-fifteen, the light in her bedroom was switched off. A moment later, the lace curtains at that window moved, very slightly. Was she watching him, now? Did she realize or care that he was keeping an eye on her?
The curtain fell, and he waited. Knowing Sara, she was likely to come storming out of the house in a thick, ugly bathrobe, still managing to look sexy as all get out. She’d order him off her street. She’d order him to go back to his lonely little duplex and get some sleep. When that didn’t happen, he waited for his cell to ring. She was the mayor, after all, and getting his cell number from Jesse wouldn’t take her more than a few minutes.
But no one came running out of the house, and his phone didn’t ring. Maybe she hadn’t seen him after all.
It was after midnight when Dante finally headed toward his rented duplex to grab a few hours of sleep. He was restless, unsettled. It had been a while since he’d thought about Serena. As he drove down the deserted Tillman streets, he wondered if he’d dream of colorful silk and creamy skin, or slit throats and unheard screams.
When the door to her office opened without warning, Sara’s head snapped up. After yesterday evening’s disturbing events, she was more than a little on edge. Jumpy. She was downright jumpy. She was relieved to see her friend Patty walk in, bearing two tall disposable cups of coffee. Dressed for work in a conservative blue suit, with her long dark hair pulled back into a sleek bun, Patty looked very much the professional. There was no hint of the wild child she had once been—not outwardly.
A couple times a week, Patty stopped by on her way to work at the bank. They had coffee and talked for a few minutes. Now that Patty was married, they didn’t get to spend as much time together as they had when Patty had been single and sworn off men, and Sara had been widowed less than a year and newly relocated to Tillman. Sara would never begrudge her friend happiness, but she did miss those days when they’d spent so much time together. Much of that time had been spent convincing themselves that they did not need or want male companionship of any sort. She’d actually believed that for a long time.
“The