Duty To Protect. Beth Cornelison
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reclaiming her chair behind her utilitarian, charity-issue desk, she phoned the women’s shelter, informing them of Annie’s imminent arrival. Next she called her court liaison to start the ball rolling on the restraining order against Annie’s husband. When she was put on hold, Ginny picked up a pen and began doodling on her notepad. Rather than a distraction, doodling helped her focus, think. Some of her toughest problems had been analyzed and worked through while she scratched out hearts, flowers and strange geometric shapes.
After several minutes on hold, Ginny stood up to pace, the cordless phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. She opened her office door and peeked into the room across the hall, where Annie sat on the floor with her young daughter, building a block tower. Dust motes danced in the November sunlight that streamed through the front window, bathing the woman and little girl in a golden glow. The warm hominess of the picture they made stood in stark contrast to the purple bruises shading Annie’s jaw. The evidence of Walt Compton’s cruelty stirred a deep ache in Ginny’s bones. Annie had a hard road ahead of her, but at least she was on the right path now.
A click preceded the buzz of a dial tone in her ear, and Ginny sighed. Her connection had been cut. Shifting the phone to her hand, she punched Redial and tried again to get through to the court liaison.
Dropping into her desk chair, she glanced at her notepad and smiled when she saw what she’d unconsciously doodled: 4A.
As in apartment 4A.
Which was where her new neighbor, Mr. Tall, Blond and Oh-So-Handsome, lived.
Since she’d moved into the complex three weeks ago, Ginny hadn’t met many of her neighbors. But Mr. 4A she’d noticed. Along with his sunny smile and bare ring finger. He seemed to arrive home about the same time she left for work most mornings, and she’d finally asked him about his odd schedule a few days ago as they checked their respective mailboxes in the lobby.
“Must’ve been some party if you’re only getting home now.” She gave him a teasing grin and keyed open the tiny metal door to retrieve her daily junk mail.
Mr. 4A flashed his white grin and shook his head. “I wish I had a party to thank. Naw, I’m just getting off work.”
“Graveyard shift, huh?” Ginny pulled her crumpled electric bill from the cramped mailbox and cast a sideways glance at her gorgeous neighbor.
“Wrong again. I’m a firefighter. We work twenty-four on, forty-eight off. Shifts begin and end at 7:00 a.m.”
“Ah. A fireman. Gotcha.” Ginny watched as he flipped through his stack of mail. Last week, when she’d started this flirtation, she’d been sure to scrutinize his mailbox for clues about her neighbor. She hadn’t put her name on her box for safety reasons but hoped his mailbox would tell her something about 4A. Like a name. Or a telltale “Mr. and Mrs.” that would effectively put an end to their morning flirting.
But all his mailbox said was 4A.
She’d had plenty of opportunities to ask him his name and introduce herself, but she hadn’t. For now, she like the mystery and fun of knowing each other only by their respective apartment numbers.
“See ya ’round then,” he said with a friendly nod and smile as he walked away.
But that morning, Ginny wasn’t ready to let him get away quite so quickly.
“So tell me, 4A…”
He stopped, turned and cocked his handsome-as-sin blond head after she spoke.
She met his light gray eyes, and their piercing color and clarity stirred a flutter in her stomach. “How does one get the maintenance supervisor for our building to handle repairs? I’ve read over all the paperwork they gave me when I moved in, and I can’t find any number to call to reach the super. I’ve got a list of repairs my place needs that is growing daily.”
“One…” Grinning, he paused long enough to draw attention to his reciprocal use of her formal and generic pronoun. “…usually doesn’t get the super to do much of anything. The guy’s a bum. But he’s also the owner’s brother-in-law or something, so he’s got job security. It can take weeks to get something fixed. I usually do my own repairs.”
“Oh.” Ginny scowled. “Great. So I get to keep hand washing my dishes and bailing out my bathtub for a few more weeks, huh?” She huffed pale blond bangs from her eyes.
“I’ll tell you what, 3C.”
Hearing him address her by her apartment number and knowing he’d taken an equal interest in where she lived sent a giddy thrill spiraling through her, spiking her pulse.
4A took a step closer and propped a muscled shoulder on the lobby wall. “I’d be happy to stop by sometime and see what I can do to help. Plumbing isn’t my specialty, but I’ll give it a shot, if you want.”
She nodded slowly, flashing him a no-holds-barred, seductive grin. “Oh, yeah. I want…” You went unspoken, but not missed.
She watched his pupils dilate as desire darkened his eyes to the color of smoke. His kiss-me lips curved in a tantalizing grin. Pushing away from the wall, he backed down the corridor slowly. “All right then.” His voice was deeper, huskier now. Sexy. “I’ll catch up with you later, 3C.”
“Bye. And thanks,” she called, lingering to admire his broad shoulders and drool-worthy, jeans-clad butt as he strolled toward apartment 4A.
Now, sitting at her desk, still on hold with the courthouse while canned music droned through the phone, Ginny smiled again as she traced the doodle on her pad with her fingertip.
4A. Even thinking about him made her pulse go a little haywire. The man was gorgeous from the light brown stubble on his square jaw to his long, muscled legs. And every taut and toned inch in between.
Mm-mm-mmm.
The slam of a car door and a shout from outside her window pulled Ginny from her erotic daydreams. Her attention shifted to the street in front of the women’s center. An old model sedan was parked at the front curb, and a red-haired man in a business suit stood by the driver’s door yelling obscenities toward the entrance of the center. His dress shirt was half untucked, and his tie had been tugged loose and was askew at his throat.
The mere presence of the hostile man at the women’s center was enough to raise concern for Ginny. A chill of apprehension pricked at her spine. Cradling the phone on her shoulder, she opened her window a crack in order to hear all that the man was shouting and to better assess the threat he posed. The typically mild November air already carried the nip of coolness as evening approached and the sun began to sink.
The man leaned into the sedan and pulled out a six-pack of beer bottles in a cardboard carrier.
Great, the guy’s drinking.
Inebriated people were all the more unpredictable and rash. Ginny had seen enough. Rather than let the situation escalate and get out of hand, she mashed the switch hook—she’d try to reach the court liaison later—and dialed 911. While she talked to the emergency operator, explaining the situation and her concerns, she watched the man shred a T-shirt and poke a strip of cloth into the end of one of the beer bottles.
Puzzled, Ginny squinted for a better look at his odd behavior, just as the man flicked a lighter and lit the cloth on fire. Alarm bells clanged in her mind. Something was very wrong with this picture.
“He’s burning the strips of shirt, like they were a…”
Fuse.
The word filtered through her mind as, numbly, she watched the man hurl the bottle at the front window of the women’s center. She heard the crash of shattering glass.
Screams.
Boom.
The concussion of the firebomb wasn’t loud or especially powerful, but the horror of what was happening was enough to render her legs useless for a moment.
Knees