Friend, Lover, Protector. Sharon Mignerey
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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 legs, 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