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The ringing on the line ended when Rosie’s voice on her phone answering machine answered. “Hey, it’s me,” Dahlia said. She fingered one of the petals of a tulip. “You know I’m always telling you about my neighbor with the great flower garden. Mr. Masters gave me a bouquet of tulips, which made me think of you.” They talked every Tuesday evening, regular as clockwork. Calling off schedule would alert Rosie that something was up. Dahlia paused, not wanting to leave a message that would alarm her sister. “Give me a call back when you’re done fertilizing or whatever it is you do to those trees of yours. Love ya.”
Dahlia stared at Jack’s pack a moment, torn between ignoring it and opening it. After all, she’d have to look to see if there was an address or anything.
Unzipping Jack’s pack, she peered inside, hoping she’d see a wallet on top. She didn’t. Instead, there was a paperback book, a mystery, a slip of paper tucked between the pages. She set it on the table, then pulled out a charcoal windbreaker. Underneath were a couple of boxes of ammunition. She shuddered as she set those on the table. The final item was a woodworking magazine.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find—the gun and ammunition, sure. What else would a professed bodyguard carry? The Official Handbook of Bodyguard Dos and Don’ts, maybe. Curious about the woodworking magazine she flipped it over, and it fell open to a page with a built-in hutch—one that would be perfect in her own dining room. With a mutter of disgust at the train of her thoughts she turned over the magazine, looking for a subscription label. There was none.
She began stuffing the items back into the bag, when she accidentally knocked the paperback book onto the floor. When she bent to pick it up, the slip of paper fluttered out, and the handwriting on it caught her eye. Three words. Linda. Rachel. Diane.
Dahlia began to shake.
Only she and her two sisters knew those names—their secret code. Nobody else. Not their best friends, not their parents.
They had hated their flower names, given to them by their flower-child mother. How they had wanted ordinary names and an ordinary mother instead of their unconventional one who was as likely to emerge from the house wearing a tie-died caftan as a bikini—not that they’d had much of the latter in the Alaskan village on the inside passage where they had grown up.
Carefully, Dahlia picked up the slip of paper and touched the names. She went back to the phone and called Rosie again. As before, there was no answer.
“Call me. No matter how late.”
Then she dialed Lily’s number. The phone rang and rang without even the answering machine coming on. Reminding herself that didn’t necessarily mean anything—after all, Lily could have just forgotten to turn it on—Dahlia dialed her number at the research lab at the university where her sister worked. Lily’s cheerful voice came over the line.
“Thank God you’re there,” Dahlia said, interrupting.
The voice continued speaking, and Dahlia realized that she had reached yet another answering machine. She groaned in frustration and impatiently waited for the message to end.
“Hey, you,” she said, inserting a note of cheerfulness in her voice, again unwilling to leave a message that would disturb her sister. “I know we talked only a couple of days ago, but I just wanted to hear your voice. How’s that niece of mine? Give her hugs.” Dahlia wound the cord around her finger and finally opted for at least part of the truth. “Give me a call, Lily. I need to touch base with you about something that happened. Love ya.”
She hung up the receiver, feeling oddly bereft and giving herself a pep talk. They were all busy, after all. It was Rosie’s busiest time of year, and Lily was probably holed up in her lab, discovering some new microbe. Getting no answer from them was nothing unusual, after all. But one of them had to know why a man claiming to be her bodyguard had their secret code. The sooner she knew why and how, the better.
She called her office to let the student assistant know that she’d be working from home, and she asked for Jack Trahern’s telephone number. She placed a call to him and discovered the number belonged to a hotel near the freeway. He wasn’t registered, which somehow didn’t surprise her.
She’d give a lot to know what Jack was doing with their secret code, information she wouldn’t find out until she spoke with Rosie and Lily. She called her sisters twice more during the next hour without reaching either one.
When the doorbell interrupted her increasingly anxious mood, it was a relief. Boo roused from a nap underneath Dahlia’s desk, barked and made her usual mad run to the front door. Halfway toward the door, Dahlia paused, remembering the sheer terror she’d felt this morning. Her imagination taunted her with unseen foes who intended her harm.
Chapter 3
Dahlia shook her head, muttering to herself, “Just look out the darned window and see who’s there.”
She glanced out the living room window. A white paneled van was parked in her driveway, and on the porch a man stood holding a huge plant. Though she received deliveries nearly every week, a houseplant was the last thing she expected.
She opened the door.
“Dahlia Jensen?” the man asked.
“Yes,” she responded, her attention snagged by another person coming up her walk at a brisk pace—Jack Trahern.
“This is for you.”
“Are you sure?” She glanced back at the man. Anyone who knew her was aware her green thumb was nonexistent. Her sister Rosie might be able to grow anything, but Dahlia had managed to kill every plant she’d ever had.
The man shrugged. “If your name is Dahlia Jensen, this is for you. Would you like me to bring it inside for you?”
“You might save us all time and put it directly in the garbage.” She opened the screen door to let the man and the monster plant in. “Out of the way, girl,” she said to her dog.
Instead, Boo dashed out the front door and practically leaped into Jack’s arms. He scooped up the wriggling dog, who promptly rewarded him with a lick on his cheek. Dahlia would have preferred it if Boo had bitten him.
Jack came up the steps, his attention focused on the other man, whose face was hidden behind the huge plant in his arms. He handed Dahlia the dog, then added, “Let me take that for you.”
He took the plant from the man, and a chill crawled down his spine. A thin face and nose. Jack was positive this guy was the same man he had last seen driving a nondescript sedan and following them.
“Who’s the plant from?” he asked Dahlia, not taking his eyes from the man and setting the plant on the floor in the hallway.
“My worst enemy,” she responded.
Jack gave her a sharp look.
“Plants hate me,” she added.
“That sounds a little personal.”
The deliveryman glanced from Dahlia to Jack. He held the man’s gaze, committing the man’s face to memory. Jack had the feeling the man was doing the same with him.
“I take it personally when they die,” Dahlia continued.
Without a word the deliveryman went down the porch steps. The instant before he closed the van door, Jack saw that the inside of the van was completely empty. Not a single other plant or flower arrangement. The hair on the back of his neck rose as the van backed out of the driveway. This guy had the same chance of being a deliveryman as Jack had of being the Tooth Fairy.
He closed the front door and locked it. The oval, etched glass in the middle of the door was beautiful—and completely useless at providing any security.
Dahlia moved a couple of steps back into the house and set the dog down.
“Your deliveryman didn’t have anything else in the van.”
She glanced at him without seeming to understand.
“Where do you want this?” He motioned toward the plant.
“I don’t want it at all, but it can go in the kitchen.”
He picked the plant up and followed her down a central hallway. Boo dashed back and forth between them. His gaze fell to Dahlia’s long, long legs revealed by a pair of loose-fitting shorts. Those legs were even better than he had imagined, her Achilles heel sharply defined, her skin smooth. The T-shirt loosely tucked into her shorts clearly emphasized a siren’s body. His own tightened in response.
A woman with a Ph.D. after her name shouldn’t look good enough to be on a centerfold. He didn’t want to be this attracted and distracted. Women with great bodies were nothing new—he’d had his first introduction with the strippers who worked at the club where his mother did. He deliberately forced himself to pay attention to his surroundings.
A living room and dining room were on one side, and a den was the other. Stairs with an old-fashioned banister occupied the rest of the hallway. He followed her through a doorway, and the kitchen, which looked as if it had been added on, ran the entire width of the house.
Instead of setting the plant where she indicated, he opened the door and carried it outside. Chances were good that the plant had been a ruse to get in the house, but Jack figured it was better to err on the side of safety. On the lawn he laid it on its side and pulled the pot away from the plant.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure this is what it looks like.”
“What did you expect? A bomb?”
“Nope. Bugs.”
“Like James Bond?”
“Close enough.” Jack glanced over his shoulder at her. “There’s no tag. Did the guy give you anything to sign?”
She shook her head.
Jack poked through the plant’s stems and leaves searching for anything that didn’t belong. Still suspicious, he spread the roots out. The huge plant was just what it seemed to be.
“Great,” she said. “I can blame you for killing it.”
“You didn’t want it, anyway.” He brushed his hands together, then followed her into the house.
He went to the kitchen sink and washed his hands, as much to finish calming himself down as to wash away the potting soil. The adrenaline rush that had surged through him when he watched the panel van pull into her drive was still with him.
“You never got a good look at the man driving the car this morning, did you?” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Describe the deliveryman.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
“Because he’s the same guy who shot at us.”
Her head came sharply up, and she swallowed. “No way. And if he was, why didn’t he just try to shoot me again?”
“A couple of reasons. First, I showed up. Second, gun-fire tends to attract attention, especially when the neighbors are keeping an eye out like the old guy next door.” He pulled a square of paper towel off the holder next to the sink and began drying his hands. “And third, he doesn’t really want to shoot you. He wants to kidnap you.” He looked around for a trash can, which he found under the kitchen sink.
“That’s ridiculous. But if you know anything at all, then, why? Forget that.” She marched to the kitchen table, picked up a scrap of paper and thrust it at him. “Where’d you get this?”
Jack glanced at his scribbled note with the three names— Linda, Diane, Rachel. “From Ian Stearne.” A note he’d used as a bookmark. He spotted his pack on the counter, which was open, and the book he’d been reading was tossed on the top. Undoubtedly, she had also discovered his ammunition.
“I don’t know anybody named Ian Stearne,” Dahlia said, then shook her head. “No, that’s not right. He’s Lily’s neighbor.”
Jack pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “Why don’t you sit down. This is going to take a little explaining.”
She folded her arms over her chest without answering.
“Mind if I do?” He met her gaze and settled into the chair. Keeping his attention firmly on her face was the only possible way to ignore the lush, sexy curves that her gesture accentuated. Mentally cursing the attraction that he didn’t want and that couldn’t have been more inappropriate under the circumstances, he marshaled his thoughts. “Your sister witnessed a murder.”
“That’s not possible. I talk to both of my sisters every week. I would have heard. And which one?”
Jack glanced at the sheet of paper. Linda was really… “Lily. The one who lives in California.”
Dahlia shook her head. “No. She would have called me.”
“I don’t think anybody was supposed to know.” Succinctly as he could, Jack related everything that Ian had told him, ending with, “I told Ian that you needed police protection.”
“But you’re here, anyway.”
“He asked for my help, and I promised that I’d come.”
“Big promise,” she commented.
He shrugged. “I owed him one.”
“Most people have jobs that keep them from dropping everything to rescue a damsel in distress.”
Once again he forced his attention to stay on her face. “I wouldn’t dare call you a damsel in distress—you did a good job of handling things today. And, as for jobs, I just started a month’s leave when he called. I’m in the Army.”
Her eyebrows rose and she looked him up and down. “Okay, that follows, because you sure don’t look like a student. Assuming that I agree to this plan—and I’m not saying I will—how do I know you’re up to the job?”
“You want a résumé?” It had never occurred to him that she would question his ability.
“Yeah, I do. Are you an MP?”
“No. I’m a Ranger.” Still feeling vaguely insulted at her attitude, he listed his training as a member of the Army’s Special Forces that began with surveillance and ended with his stint as an R.I. teaching hand-to-hand combat. He left out that he was also a sniper and had a modest gift with electronics. He didn’t usually pull out the stops about what he did or how well he did it—especially not to impress a woman.
“And if I ask you to leave, what then?”
He stood up. “You didn’t hire me. Ian did.”
“A diplomatic way of telling me that you’re not going anywhere.”
He pointed toward the phone. “Call your sisters again. Call your folks.” He headed toward the sliding glass door at the back of the house. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think I’d believe me, either, if I were in your shoes.”
He stepped onto her porch. Boo followed him out. Dahlia’s backyard was large. No flowers like her neighbor, but well-kept. The trees were mature, and they shaded the house. The leaves were the bright green of spring. Her patio was covered and pleasantly shady. Wicker furniture covered with colorful cushions invited a person to sit.
He didn’t. Instead, he followed a walk that led toward the back fence, assessing the yard from a security perspective.
A chain-link fence separated her yard from the old guy next door—his backyard as full of flowers as his front—tulips and daffodils in bloom. Anyone in that yard could see anything going on in Dahlia’s.
A six-foot privacy fence was on the other side. Peering between the slats, Jack could see the neighbors on that side had a yard similar to Dahlia’s, except they’d added a deck and a hot tub. The fence along the back of the property was also a privacy fence, and beyond Jack could see there was a bike path and a creek.
At the back fence Boo had her nose to the ground, following some scent that began at the corner, then came across the yard to one of the large trees. Looking up, Jack noted the lower branches could be easily climbed. He swung himself up, then stood on the bottom branch. Within seconds he was high enough that he could step on the roof above the patio.
He crossed to the window and became even more alarmed when he discovered that her screen was not attached to the window frame. It was an old-fashioned one secured in a wooden frame. He didn’t find the tabs that should have held it in place—just the holes where they had once been. The first strong wind, and the damn thing would blow away. He lifted the screen off the window frame and leaned it on the wall, pushed the window up and climbed inside. He found himself in Dahlia’s bedroom.
Disturbed that he could so easily get into her house, he glanced around the room. The decor was completely without the usual satin and lace he associated with a woman’s bedroom. Instead it was comfortable looking, overtly feminine only in that he could smell her perfume. A blue-and-beige comforter in an abstract print was thrown over the king-size bed. He wondered who, besides the dog, she shared it with.
The bathroom halfway down the hall was in much the same condition—clean though cluttered—and without a single item of a man’s toiletry. Another bedroom looked over the front yard. A twin bed pushed against one wall was piled high with an assortment of boxes, bags and clothes. An ironing board stood in the middle of the room.
Something about the bathroom nagged at him, and he went back to it, glancing around once again. The scent he was fast associating with Dahlia was stronger here. He opened the medicine cabinet and looked under the sink. Then, the toilet caught his eye. The seat was up. That struck him as strange, given the total lack of anything male in the bathroom.
When he came back into the kitchen, she was on the phone, evidently talking to her mother, her expression softer than the hostile one she’d been directing at him all day.
“Dad’s okay, isn’t he?” She listened intently for a moment, absently scratching her fingernail against something on the countertop. “No, Mom, I’m fine. Just worried when I couldn’t get hold of Lily or Rosie, that’s all.” A second later she managed a laugh, though no smile lit her face. “That’s right. Storm season has just begun, and I’m working hard…yeah…I love you, too.”
