His Touch. Mary Baxter Lynn
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of entry. Apparently they’d jimmied the door, which had been easy due to stupidity on her part. She’d left without setting her alarm, something she’d often done in the past with no consequences. This time it had been costly.
“The pervert could be any guy off the street,” Veronica said. “Or it could be a direct result of you cleaning house at the precinct. Someone with a grudge.”
Jessica reached for her coffee and took a sip, only to make a face. The coffee was now tepid. “Possibly, though I have my doubts,” she pointed out. “I think it’s just some crazy off the streets.”
“I wish I could be that sure. What about that land deal that’s been making headlines lately?”
“There’s nothing there to incite an attack.”
“Something has and you…we have to get to the bottom of it ASAP. Thurmon will know what to do.”
Thurmon was Veronica’s husband, a retired Secret Service agent, now in business for himself as the owner of a highly successful security firm.
“You’re thinking of a bodyguard, right?”
“Absolutely, and I know who Thurmon will suggest.”
“Just who might that be?” Jessica asked in a tone tainted with sarcasm. Having someone underfoot all the time didn’t bear thinking about. This entire scenario seemed too preposterous for words.
“Brant Harding, an old friend, who worked with Thurmon in the Secret Service. However, convincing Brant to take the job will be difficult.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because he’s the best, even better than Thurmon. But he’s become a recluse for reasons we won’t go into now. Still, there’s hope, because he owes Thurmon big time—his life actually. We also have another thing in our favor. His teenage son, from whom he’s estranged, lives in this area. Since Brant wants to mend fences, I’m thinking that will be our ace in the hole.”
Jessica crossed her arms over her breasts. “I don’t know, Veronica. That —he— doesn’t sound like a good idea to me.”
“You let Thurmon be the judge of that. You just sit tight while I call my better half.”
Jessica kept silent while her insides continued to churn and her thoughts reverted to that lifeless rose on the pillow. She shuddered and crossed her arms tighter.
Two
Too bad the fishing was lousy.
Today of all days. When he needed to unwind.
Brant Harding reeled in his line, then peered at the lake, noticing again how perfect the water was. Blue and spring clear, so clear he could see the colors in the polished rocks underneath. Still, he couldn’t get a bite no matter what kind of bait, live or artificial, he used.
Letting out a sigh, Brant shoved his battered Stetson back and squinted up at the sun. Maybe it was too hot. Even though it was just the beginning of May, the sun had already sprouted a mean stinger.
A hot spring and summer were predicted for Arkansas and the rest of the South. So what if that messed up the fishing? He would get over it in due time, he told himself, shaping his mouth into a sarcastic twist. If only that were all he had to worry about, he’d be one lucky bastard. Only it wasn’t, not by any stretch of the imagination.
Wary of where his thoughts were heading, Brant gathered his gear and made tracks for the cabin at the top of the hill that overlooked the hundred acres he’d inherited when his parents had died several years ago, killed instantly in a head-on car collision.
He’d built this place himself and knew he’d made the right decision. He’d chosen the best site on the choice land, opting for an umbrella of tall pines and oaks. He called it a cabin, but it was hardly that, though it was rustic and uncluttered. Still, it had all the amenities he or anyone else could want.
Except a woman.
Not interested.
Brant’s gut tightened, and his lean, well-chiseled features hardened. Definitely not in the market. Those days were over. He’d been down the marriage road once, and that was enough to last him a lifetime. What he needed was another dog, he told himself as he walked into the cool, airy great room and tossed his hat on the back of a chair.
The interior reflected a relaxed atmosphere. Deep, rich colors, natural wood finishes and comfortable furnishings created a warm feeling.
However, something was missing. Butch, the old hound that had been with him for years, had died. Until then, he hadn’t felt lonely in his isolated domain. Now he did, which didn’t sit too well with him. He was here by choice not by chance. Hounds were a dime a dozen at the local pound in the nearest town, Mountain Home. Next time he went in for groceries and other supplies, he would see what he could do.
Meanwhile, he had a much more pressing and important issue to resolve—what to do about his son, Elliot. Feeling the urge for a cold beer, Brant made his way into the kitchen, an offshoot of the great room, and opened the fridge.
After downing several swigs, he peered at the clock. Five. No problem. Since his isolation, he’d made it a point not to indulge himself before late in the afternoon and then only sparingly. It would be so easy to drown his troubles in booze, but he wasn’t about to fall into that trap. He’d seen too many of the guys he’d worked with do that to no good end.
Yet it felt damn good to feel the edge dull somewhat after having gone another round earlier with his ex-wife, leaving him furious and frustrated. She seemed determined to throw monkey wrenches into his plans to see his seventeen-year-old son.
Once he’d plopped down on the sofa and crossed his legs on the coffee table, Brant finished the beer, then set the bottle down. He needed a shower, but he wasn’t in the mood, not when his thoughts were cluttered with his ex.
Marsha Harding Bishop knew just which strings to jerk to get him riled, especially when it came to money and their kid. Since she’d finally married the man with whom she’d had an affair and who had become more of a father to Elliot than he himself had ever been, the money issue had resolved itself. Preston Bishop owned an accounting firm and made big bucks.
More power to him.
Brant couldn’t give a rip about the money. He had plenty of his own, mostly inherited from his parents, but what the hell—money was money. He didn’t need much of the green stuff, anyway, not to live the way he lived. Most of it was in trust for his son, and Marsha knew that. Yet it hadn’t made one whit of difference in her attitude toward him.
When he’d called and asked to speak to Elliot, she hadn’t had to say a word for him to sense her hostile attitude. He’d envisioned her otherwise attractive features tightening and her slender shoulders stiffening.
“He’s not here.”
“Are you sure?”
That comment had turned the hostility in her voice to ice. “I don’t lie, contrary to what you think.”
“Come on, Marsha, who do you think you’re talking to? You’ve lied, all right, but that’s water under the bridge. I’m through arguing with you. Right now, all I care about is talking to my son.”
“I told you, he’s not here.”
Brant controlled his rising temper with an effort. “Will you give him a message?”
Silence.
“Dammit, Marsha, when are you going to stop using Elliot as a weapon to get back at me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, the ice in her voice thickening.
Again, Brant controlled his temper and words. He was treading in a current he couldn’t master, at least not over the phone. He hated the damn things, anyway.