Texan's Baby. Barb Han
Читать онлайн книгу.
He suppressed a laugh. Knowing Melanie was across the street alone while one of Mason Ridge’s most notorious criminals was on the loose wasn’t exactly the cure for insomnia.
Making sure she was safe would go a long way toward giving him the peace of mind he needed to sleep, he told himself. And this had nothing to do with the fact that he needed to see her again.
Dawson ignored the little voice in the back of his mind calling him a liar and slipped across the street.
With every step toward Melanie’s place, the hair on Dawson’s neck pricked. What was that all about? He didn’t believe in the hype about black cats walking over graves or bad luck following walking under a ladder. He believed what was right in front of his nose. If he could see, touch or hear it, then it existed.
The front curtain moved as he positioned himself inside the Japanese boxwoods lining the perimeter to gain a better view over the porch. Whatever was on the other side of the wall five feet away had his senses screeching on full alert. The sirens in his head were so loud he’d have one helluva headache if he didn’t silence them soon.
Climbing onto the wraparound porch, he listened carefully. The inside of the house was pitch-black, and there was no sound of breaking lamps or noises associated with stumbling into chairs or side tables. Whoever was in there most likely knew the layout. This was knowledge Melanie would have, but why would she creep around in her childhood house in the dark? Didn’t make any sense, which was another reason the warning bells inside his head were ringing so loud his ears hurt.
If he covered all the possible scenarios, then he had to consider the notion that she had a boyfriend. There could be a guy in there trying not to wake her.
Dawson glanced over at the carport. All he saw was Melanie’s vehicle, which revealed nothing. She could’ve picked the guy up in order to keep their relationship under wraps.
Thinking about Melanie with another man didn’t do good things to Dawson’s blood pressure. And yet he had no right to be angry.
There were other possibilities. Melanie had a sister, Abby. Dawson was sure he’d seen her around town yesterday, but he’d assumed that she’d gone back to Austin when her car disappeared last night.
The RV was gone, so there was no chance her parents had returned.
An ugly thought struck. Was Dawson making an excuse to spy on her? Had he really seen what he thought or was his mind playing tricks on him? He quickly dismissed the notion. Even though she’d been more frigid than crab fishermen’s waters since their breakup—if he could call it that—he needed to make sure she was safe, especially while Sprigs was still free. Their mutual friend Lisa was still recovering from being attacked in connection with this case.
Dawson peeked through the front window. He couldn’t see a thing.
How many hours had he spent inside that house as a kid?
How many since? He and Melanie had started things up between them when she took a job as a paralegal a couple years after she’d graduated from college. Things were going well until she’d abruptly told him it was over and then pulled a Houdini, moving to Houston and cutting off all contact. Said she’d moved on and had meant it literally and figuratively. Her stuff had disappeared from her parents’ place where she’d been staying, and she hadn’t taken his calls since. Didn’t he lick a few wounds over that?
The time or two he’d been drunk enough to torture himself by looking at a picture of her online hadn’t given him any more of a clue as to what he’d done wrong. Her privacy settings on her social media pages were set tighter than perimeter patrol at Leavenworth, so he couldn’t see much beyond her profile picture.
Dawson slipped around back of the house and onto the screened porch. He’d remind her to keep that locked the next time he saw her. Yeah, he’d be the first one she’d want to talk to. She’d been home four days already and had managed to avoid talking to him so far. Since they shared the same friends, that took effort.
A shadow moved in the hallway toward the kitchen. Based on the size of this one, Dawson assumed it belonged to a male. Shadows could be deceiving.
The figure retreated. Dawson crouched low to make himself as small as possible—which was difficult given his six-foot-three frame—in case the dark figure returned. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and there was just enough light coming off the appliances to see the kitchen fairly well.
Years ago, the Dixons used to hide a key in a fake rock near the porch. He dropped down to the bottom of the stairs now and felt around. Bingo.
Dawson slipped the key in the lock and then froze. If memory served, the Dixons had had an alarm installed for when they went on long road trips. He had an auxiliary code for emergencies, so he was good there. His grip tightened around the door knob.
Hold on a second.
If the door chime was on, he’d be given up the second he opened that door. He muttered a curse.
The telltale double click of a shotgun engaging a shell in the chamber sounded from behind.
Dawson spun around and stared at Melanie.
“Put that thing away before you hurt me.” He waved her off.
“What are you doing here, Dawson Hill?” She studied him intently. Her legs were apart, positioned in an athletic stance, and the determination on her face said she’d shoot if she had to. She had the feral disposition of a mama bear protecting her cubs.
“Hold on there.” Dawson’s hands came up in surrender. “Why don’t you lower that thing before you accidentally pull the trigger?”
She dropped the barrel, allowing it to rest on her forearm. It was the easiest spot to pull up and shoot from, Dawson noted.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, a look of sheer panic in her eyes. And there was another emotion present that Dawson couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it was intense.
“Trying to make sure no one’s breaking into your parents’ house.” His hands still in the air, he stared at her. Damn, she looked good. It was too dark to see all the flecks in her honey-brown eyes, but she still had that dancer’s body she’d earned at Nina’s Dance Studio in town. Her hips had filled out in the sexiest curves. The silhouette of her long, wavy blond hair said she’d let it grow out since he’d last seen her. He flexed his fingers to distract himself from wanting to reach out to touch her smooth glowing skin and he wondered if she would still quiver if he ran his hand along the lines of her flat stomach.
Given the fact that a shotgun barrel was pointed right at his groin, his thoughts couldn’t be more inappropriate. Dawson sidestepped the line of the barrel.
“What makes you think someone’s trying to get in here?” The edge to her voice was another slap of reality.
It was clear that she’d rather face down a robber than see Dawson again. Now, wasn’t that interesting? Apparently she regretted the time they’d spent together, especially given the way she’d bolted without a word not long after. Personally, he thought the sex had ranked right up there with the best he’d ever had.
Since Dawson didn’t want to admit he’d been staring out the window half the night just to catch a glimpse of her, he decided to say, “Woke to a noise across the street and followed it here.”
She gave him a quick once-over, her disbelief written all over her expression.
Yeah, he was still fully dressed. She would know that he slept in boxers and nothing else.
Her gaze narrowed as she took him in. “Looks like you just woke up all right. And I’m the tooth fairy.”
“That’s good to know, because I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that nickel you left me in second grade.” Normally a statement like that would make her smile and then she’d fire a snappy comeback at him. He’d always loved her sense of humor. She wasn’t buying in this time. Her glare could crack ice.
“No