Friend, Lover, Protector. Sharon Mignerey
“But you’re here, anyway.”
“He asked for my help, and I promised that I’d come.”
“Big promise,” she commented.
He shrugged. “I owed him one.”
“Most people have jobs that keep them from dropping everything to rescue a damsel in distress.”
Once again he forced his attention to stay on her face. “I wouldn’t dare call you a damsel in distress—you did a good job of handling things today. And, as for jobs, I just started a month’s leave when he called. I’m in the Army.”
Her eyebrows rose and she looked him up and down. “Okay, that follows, because you sure don’t look like a student. Assuming that I agree to this plan—and I’m not saying I will—how do I know you’re up to the job?”
“You want a résumé?” It had never occurred to him that she would question his ability.
“Yeah, I do. Are you an MP?”
“No. I’m a Ranger.” Still feeling vaguely insulted at her attitude, he listed his training as a member of the Army’s Special Forces that began with surveillance and ended with his stint as an R.I. teaching hand-to-hand combat. He left out that he was also a sniper and had a modest gift with electronics. He didn’t usually pull out the stops about what he did or how well he did it—especially not to impress a woman.
“And if I ask you to leave, what then?”
He stood up. “You didn’t hire me. Ian did.”
“A diplomatic way of telling me that you’re not going anywhere.”
He pointed toward the phone. “Call your sisters again. Call your folks.” He headed toward the sliding glass door at the back of the house. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think I’d believe me, either, if I were in your shoes.”
He stepped onto her porch. Boo followed him out. Dahlia’s backyard was large. No flowers like her neighbor, but well-kept. The trees were mature, and they shaded the house. The leaves were the bright green of spring. Her patio was covered and pleasantly shady. Wicker furniture covered with colorful cushions invited a person to sit.
He didn’t. Instead, he followed a walk that led toward the back fence, assessing the yard from a security perspective.
A chain-link fence separated her yard from the old guy next door—his backyard as full of flowers as his front—tulips and daffodils in bloom. Anyone in that yard could see anything going on in Dahlia’s.
A six-foot privacy fence was on the other side. Peering between the slats, Jack could see the neighbors on that side had a yard similar to Dahlia’s, except they’d added a deck and a hot tub. The fence along the back of the property was also a privacy fence, and beyond Jack could see there was a bike path and a creek.
At the back fence Boo had her nose to the ground, following some scent that began at the corner, then came across the yard to one of the large trees. Looking up, Jack noted the lower branches could be easily climbed. He swung himself up, then stood on the bottom branch. Within seconds he was high enough that he could step on the roof above the patio.
He crossed to the window and became even more alarmed when he discovered that her screen was not attached to the window frame. It was an old-fashioned one secured in a wooden frame. He didn’t find the tabs that should have held it in place—just the holes where they had once been. The first strong wind, and the damn thing would blow away. He lifted the screen off the window frame and leaned it on the wall, pushed the window up and climbed inside. He found himself in Dahlia’s bedroom.
Disturbed that he could so easily get into her house, he glanced around the room. The decor was completely without the usual satin and lace he associated with a woman’s bedroom. Instead it was comfortable looking, overtly feminine only in that he could smell her perfume. A blue-and-beige comforter in an abstract print was thrown over the king-size bed. He wondered who, besides the dog, she shared it with.
The bathroom halfway down the hall was in much the same condition—clean though cluttered—and without a single item of a man’s toiletry. Another bedroom looked over the front yard. A twin bed pushed against one wall was piled high with an assortment of boxes, bags and clothes. An ironing board stood in the middle of the room.
Something about the bathroom nagged at him, and he went back to it, glancing around once again. The scent he was fast associating with Dahlia was stronger here. He opened the medicine cabinet and looked under the sink. Then, the toilet caught his eye. The seat was up. That struck him as strange, given the total lack of anything male in the bathroom.
When he came back into the kitchen, she was on the phone, evidently talking to her mother, her expression softer than the hostile one she’d been directing at him all day.
“Dad’s okay, isn’t he?” She listened intently for a moment, absently scratching her fingernail against something on the countertop. “No, Mom, I’m fine. Just worried when I couldn’t get hold of Lily or Rosie, that’s all.” A second later she managed a laugh, though no smile lit her face. “That’s right. Storm season has just begun, and I’m working hard…yeah…I love you, too.”
She replaced the receiver in its cradle, then glanced at him. “I thought you’d gone outside.”
“Do you have any idea how easy it is to break into your bedroom?” he asked, snapping his fingers. “Climb a tree, cross over the porch roof, and there’s your room.”
“The screen is locked.”
“No. It wasn’t.” He glowered at her. “Don’t you pay any attention to the news, woman? Even if somebody wasn’t after you, you make it damn easy for a burglar or rapist—”
“Stop it. If you’re trying to scare me—”
“Just stating the facts.” He nodded toward the phone. “What did you find out from your mother?”
Dahlia looked at him, her dark eyes troubled. “Lily really is testifying, and Rosie and my niece Annmarie really are in hiding with your friend.” She shook her head, her voice full of hurt and disappointment. “I can’t believe nobody called me.”
“Maybe they didn’t want to worry you.”
“That’s exactly what Mom said. Jeez. You’d think she would have figured out by now that I’ve grown up.” She frowned. “You weren’t lying.”
“I usually don’t.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” she returned, irritation back in her voice. “I still don’t need your help.”
Jack took a step toward her. “You do need my help. You saw how much the cops are going to help you—”
“Like the policeman said when I went to the station. They’ll put on extra patrols.”
“Which means they’ll be coming by your house two or three times a day instead of once.”
She had the awful feeling he was right, and she hated it. The last time she had felt this out of control, Brandon had died—never mind they had been divorced for years—and she finally admitted Richard preferred his drug habit over her. At least she hadn’t made the mistake of marrying him. Everything she believed about herself and her life had all fallen apart. This situation was different, but it still felt the same.
“What else did the cops say?” As much as Jack knew better than to hope they would take seriously the threat to Dahlia, he didn’t hold out much hope.
After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “They think I’m crazy.” She frowned. “You’re sure that was the same guy—the one who brought the plant?”
“I’m sure.”
“I’m calling them.” She surged out of her seat.
“You do have another