Читать книгу Mountain Shelter - Cassie Miles - Страница 11
ОглавлениеJayne would have reacted to “the guy” with more hostility, but she’d used up her quota of snarkiness for the day. Besides, Cocoa seemed to trust this person. With much tail wagging, the chocolate Lab bounced toward the stranger, who reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.
She cleared her throat and pushed her messy hair off her face. “What guy?”
“The one who can repair your security system.”
She vaguely recalled a two-minute conversation with Brian. When she told him that her home alarm system had been compromised and her cell phone wouldn’t turn on, Brian might have said something like I know a guy who can fix that. And she might have said that she wanted an appointment with that guy.
“I didn’t expect you tonight,” she said.
“Fine with me. I like being unexpected.”
“How so?”
“Since I’m buds with Brian who’s an IT specialist and I know how to repair your system, you might think I’m all about computers. You’d be surprised to learn that I’m also the part owner of a security firm with a license to carry a concealed Glock 17.”
To prove his claim, he pivoted and flipped up the tail of his plaid flannel shirt to show a holster attached to his belt. He turned to face her, pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose, grinned and said, “Ta-da!”
In spite of her fear, she had to grin back at him. “Did they send you in here to bring me out?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have much luck at rock-paper-scissors.”
Her initial impression was NERD in capital letters. He certainly wore the uniform: glasses, baggy plaid flannel, jeans rolled up at the cuff and a purple baseball cap on backward.
Then she took a second look—a lingering assessment from head to toe. She tilted her head, and her hair rippled all the way down her back. Though she was seated and not able to judge his height accurately, she estimated that he was well over six feet tall. The wide shoulders under that flannel shirt were impressive but he wasn’t bulky. His body was long and lean. His wrists were muscular, and he wore an expensive dive watch. Behind those dorky horn-rims, his eyes were a smoldering shade of gray.
Unexpectedly, very unexpectedly, she was attracted to him. Tickity-tick-tick-tick. Maybe he was her early Christmas present. “Do you have a name?”
“Dylan Timmons.” He held his hand toward her and then curled the fingers inward for a fist bump.
She tapped her knuckles against his. “Jayne Shackleford.”
“I thought you might prefer a bump. Being a neurosurgeon, you have to take good care of those hands.”
“I’m not that much of a prima donna.” She frowned, thinking of the way she’d behaved with the police. “At least, I try not to be.”
He placed her cell phone in her hand. “They said I could give this to you.”
The screen flashed on, and she felt a glimmer of hope. “You fixed it.”
“The phone fixed itself. Somebody used a signal-jamming device to disrupt your signal.”
“That’s just wrong,” she said.
“But not illegal. I’ve heard that pastors are using jammers during their sermons.”
Now that she had the cell phone, her mind jumped to practical concerns. “I might need to cancel my surgery for tomorrow morning. I should get a good night’s sleep before I operate.”
“Why so much?”
“The surgery takes five or six hours. I’m not intensely involved the whole time, but I need to be alert.”
Still, she hated to cancel. Rescheduling the staff was a hassle. A guest neurosurgeon from Barcelona would be observing. Jayne had prepared and reviewed the most recent tests, neuroimaging, PET scans and MRIs. Starting over at another time was an inconvenience for the medical personnel involved. But postponement was much worse for the patient, who had already checked into the hospital, and for his family and friends.
He asked, “What kind of surgery is it?”
“It’s not life threatening. Using implanted electrodes, I hope to stimulate the brain so the patient can regain the memory functions he lost after a stroke. The patient is actually awake through much of the procedure.”
“Cool.”
And she should be able to handle it. “I’ll wait until tomorrow to make the decision whether to postpone or not.”
“But you need more sleep,” he said. “I can start repairs on your alarm system tonight if you’re ready to go back into your house.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not ready. Not tonight.”
After she’d seen the police charge through the front door with guns drawn to search for intruders, she’d never again be able to think of her home as a sanctuary. She felt attacked, violated. Might as well close it up, burn it, sell it. Jayne was ready to call the real estate agent and hand over the keys.
Dylan brought her back to reality. “Where do you plan to sleep?”
With you. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she kept from saying them out loud. She’d done enough inappropriate blurting for one evening. “I don’t know.”
“Is there anybody you can call?”
Her cell-phone directory was filled with colleagues and acquaintances from all around the world, ranging from the president of the American Association of Neurological Surgeons to the teenager who shoveled her sidewalks in winter. But there was no one she could call to come over and take care of her. No one she could stay with at a moment’s notice.
She pushed the hair off her face and looked up at the surprisingly handsome man who stood before her. “You said you owned a security firm. Do you ever work as a bodyguard?”
“I do, TST Security.”
She rose from the swivel chair and straightened the sash on the Brian’s dark green bathrobe. “I’d like to hire you.”
“You’re on,” Dylan said without the slightest hesitation. It was almost as though he’d been waiting for her to ask.
“I’ve never had a bodyguard before.”
“Then I’m the one with experience. I’ve got only one rule—don’t go anywhere without me. For tonight, I’ll put together your suitcase and book a hotel room. Do you have a preference?”
She was so delighted to have somebody else taking care of the details that she wouldn’t dream of complaining. “Anything is fine with me.”
“Write down the clothes, including shoes and toiletries, that you want me to pack for you.”
Her excitement dimmed when she thought of him pawing through her things, but the alternative—going back to the house and doing it herself—was too awful to contemplate. “I’ll make that list right now. And there’s one more thing.”
“Name it.”
She held out a flat palm. “Whatever you use to fasten your ponytail, I want it. My messy hair is driving me crazy.”
He whipped off his baseball cap, untwined the covered-elastic band and dropped it in her hand. “For the record, I like your hair hanging long and free and shiny.”
His fingers stroked through his own mane, and she realized that his hair was lighter than she’d thought. Thick, full and naturally sun-bleached, the loose strands curled around his face and down to his shoulders. Jayne wasn’t usually a fan of men with long hair, but “the guy” pulled it off. She couldn’t imagine him any other way.
* * *
DYLAN HADN’T COME here looking for work. His intention had been a simple response to Brian’s call, helping out a friend with a crazy lady for a neighbor. But he was happy with the way things had turned out; spending time with this particular lady promised to be a challenge and a pleasure.
With that extra-large bathrobe swaddled around her, he couldn’t tell much about Jayne’s body. But he liked the bits he saw: her slender throat, her delicate hands and her neat ankles. Drooling over her ankles probably qualified him for the Pervert Hall of Fame, so he transferred his gaze to her long, thick, rich brown hair. A few strands escaped the ponytail and fell gracefully across her cheek. Never before had the word “tendril” seemed appropriate.
He didn’t even pretend to look away. It was his duty to watch her body. He murmured, “I love my job.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll enjoy getting to know you.”
Her full lips curled in a wise smile as she accepted the compliment. He’d always believed that smart women were sexier, maybe because of their intensity or creativity or strength.
Then she licked her lips.
He swallowed hard.
“Also,” he said, “your break-in is the tip of the iceberg for a very cool puzzle. Your security alarm system is one of the best on the market. Disarming it took technical finesse that’s above the talents of the average burglar. Not that I think the intent of your intruders was robbery. After they entered the house, they went directly to your bedroom.”
“How do you know that?”
“While you were writing out the list of things you need, I read your account.” He gestured to the two single-spaced sheets of paper that lay behind her on the desk.
“How could you read it? The paper is upside-down to you.”
“It’s a skill.” He shrugged. “Do you think they wanted to rob you? Do you have some hidden treasure in your house?”
“I don’t keep anything of value at the house.”
Why did they break in? Since there were two of them, it didn’t seem likely that they were stalkers or that the break-in was for sex. Not his problem. As a bodyguard, he wasn’t expected to solve the crime. “Are you ready to talk to the police?”
She held her hand level in front of her eyes. “There’s only a slight residual tremor.”
“Not enough to register on the Richter scale. Let’s move.”
Keeping a hold on Cocoa’s collar, Dylan guided her from Brian’s home office to the kitchen, where a plainclothes cop sat at the table with Brian. Dylan handed over the dog to his owner and introduced Detective Ray Cisneros, a weary-looking man with heavy-lidded eyes and a neat mustache.
After Jayne shook his hand and gave him her typed statement, she approached the uniformed lady cop. Her name, as it said on her brass nameplate, was E. Smith. Dylan had met her when he first came in.
“I need to apologize,” Jayne said. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved earlier. I was rude.”
E. Smith darted a suspicious glance to the left and the right as though looking for somebody or something to jump out at her and yell boo. “Um, that’s okay.”
“Thanks for accepting my apology.” As Jayne turned away from the cop, her moccasins tangled in the overlong hem of the robe and she stumbled. Quickly recovering, she went toward Brian. “I want to thank you for being a great neighbor. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”
Dylan didn’t know what she’d done to make everybody mad, but he respected her for facing up to her mistakes. And she wasn’t just offering phony pleas for forgiveness. Her pretty blue eyes shone with sincerity.
When she returned to the kitchen table with a glass of water, DPD Detective Cisneros looked up from the typed statement and smoothed the edges of his mustache. “You work at Roosevelt Hospital, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re a neurosurgeon. A resident?”
“I completed my residency last year.”
“Is that so?”
Dylan heard the disbelieving tone in the detective’s voice and didn’t blame him for being skeptical. She looked too young for such an important occupation. In the droopy bathrobe with her hair in a ponytail, she’d have a hard time passing for eighteen.
“It is, in fact, so.” She took a deep breath and recited her accomplishments by rote. “I completed college at age sixteen, med school at nineteen, internship at twenty and fulfilled the requirements of an eight-year residence in neurosurgery last year. Twice, I’ve won the Top Gun Award from the YNC, Young Neurosurgeons Committee.”
If his theory that smart women were sexier was correct, Dylan had hit the jackpot with Jayne. She was a genuine, kick-ass genius.
Cisneros took a minirecorder from the inner pocket of his brown leather jacket, verified with Jayne that it was okay to record her and launched into the standard questions.
“Do you have any enemies? Anyone who would wish you harm?”
“There’s professional jealousy. Some of my colleagues wouldn’t mind if I vanished off the face of the earth, but none of them are likely to hire thugs with stun guns and stage a break-in. Likewise with patients and the families of patients.”
“What about in your personal life? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Not at the moment,” she said.
Dylan stifled a cheer.
“Any bad breakups?” Cisneros asked. “Is there anyone who won’t take no for an answer? Or women who think you stole their boyfriends?”
“My personal life is super dull.”
“In your statement,” he said, referring to her typewritten account, “you quote the intruder as saying he doesn’t want to hurt you. Did you believe him?”
“He had a stun gun,” she pointed out.
“But he didn’t use it.”
Cisneros asked half-a-dozen more questions that circled the main issue, trying to get a handle on why the intruders had staged this break-in. They had to be after something.
Jayne’s responses weren’t real helpful. Not that she was being difficult. She just didn’t know why men wearing ski masks had attacked her.
Cisneros glanced down at the account she’d written with such care. Very deliberately, he set those pages aside. His unspoken message was clear. “Maybe they don’t want to hurt you, Jayne.”
“No?”
“Tell me about your father.”
“Please don’t call him,” she said quickly. “He doesn’t need to know about this.”
Dylan heard fear in her voice.
Cisneros picked up on it, too. “Are you afraid to tell him?”
“It’s not that.” Frown lines bracketed her mouth. “It’s just... I haven’t spoken to him on the phone for a couple of months, haven’t seen him since the Christmas before last.”
“Is he local?”
“Dallas, he lives in Dallas.”
Dylan watched as the cool, sexy, smart woman transformed into a little girl with messy hair. She gazed down at her hands, pretending great interest as her slender fingers twisted into a knot on her lap. Her feet in their scuffed moccasins turned pigeon-toed.
Her father, Peter Shackleford, was rich enough to have an airport named after him. His fortune was tied to the oil-and-mining business, and he had a rep for being smart. Not as smart as his neurosurgeon daughter but savvy enough to surf the waves of business and avoid a wipeout.
Cisneros smoothed his mustache and said, “Could this have been a kidnapping attempt.”
“I just told you that I’m not close to my dad.” Without looking up, Jayne shook her head. “I can’t imagine he’d pay a ransom for my release.”
“Does your father have any enemies?”
“Yes.”
“Any enemies who might want to hurt you.”
She lifted her chin and looked directly at Dylan. “My father isn’t a bad man.”
He didn’t believe her.
