A Message for Abby. Janice Johnson Kay

she wore like a bulletproof vest—it would keep you alive only if no one noticed you were wearing it. Because if they did, they might shoot you in the head.

      Letting someone—this man—see that tough outer shield might put her in danger.

      So she batted her eyes, smiled slow and mysterious, and said, light and flirty, “Oh, I don’t know if tough’s the first word I associate with myself. What do you think, Detective Shea?”

      Eyes narrowed, he let her go. “What I think is, finding out might be fun. And that’s important, right? Having fun?”

      She had to work at making her smile saucy. “Oh, number one. Absolutely.” She could sound blithe, unconcerned. “Why don’t we go dancing after this?” Somewhere, she thought, with really loud music. Somewhere they couldn’t talk.

      “Why don’t we,” he said. “Something tells me you’ll know just the place.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      ABBY HAD KNOWN A PLACE, all right. Ben’s ears were still ringing the next day when he drove toward the outskirts of Elk Springs to begin knocking on doors in hopes of hitting on someone who’d seen either the green pickup or a lone motorcyclist pass down Barton Road at the right time.

      After leaving her brother-in-law’s last night, Abby had taken Ben to Paganucci’s, a club aimed at the twenty-something crowd. With a population of twenty thousand and climbing, Elk Springs had gone from hick town to resort town in a few short years, although the process had been well advanced by the time Ben had taken the job here. But even since he came, the downtown hardware store had moved off Main Street to make way for an art gallery and café combo. Downtown was no longer for locals. Now antique stores, boutiques and espresso joints jostled trendy restaurants and nightclubs that appealed to skiers.

      Paganucci’s was one of them. Sleek decor, dim lighting jolted by flashes of brilliant white strobes, music that vibrated through the floor and penetrated the very air the way an electric shock did. The drinks had names he didn’t recognize. The other men looked as self-consciously stylish as Don Johnson had on “Miami Vice.”

      In this crowd, Ben might as well have been a cow horse among the parade at Churchill Downs.

      But he’d tried real hard to have fun. Or at least to look like he was having fun, which was what counted. He felt like a goddamn idiot out on the dance floor. But every time Abby leaped to her feet with that manic glitter in her eyes and said, “Let’s dance,” he said, “Sure.”

      She was in restless motion the whole evening. Dancing, tapping her fingers, swaying to the music. Never really looking at him, her gaze always elsewhere, watching other couples dance, laugh, flirt. When she talked, it was with stagey animation. Oh, yeah, she was playing for the crowd.

      Or for him, Ben wasn’t sure which.

      He’d be ready to write off Abby Patton and any possibility of a future with her, except for one thing: he’d have sworn that she wasn’t having fun, either. She was making a point, hammering it home.

      I’m not your type, she was saying. This is fun. This is me.

      Ben didn’t buy it. She fidgeted too much; her gaiety was too forced. The only real moment they’d had all evening was during the one slow dance she’d allowed him. They’d gone toe to toe; he’d eased her up against him, felt the tension and the resistance shimmering through her. Picturing a coil of wire that kept springing free of his fingers, he had nonetheless played with the fantasy of what making love with her would be like. Abby Patton would be the farthest thing from passive. He pictured her determined to be on top, willing to wrestle him for the privilege.

      Now that would be fun.

      The music whispered of love and the soft light of the moon, of night breezes and the tangle of sheets. Even for him, the lilting notes were suddenly evocative, sensual. He bent his head, breathed in the tangy scent of her hair, gently rubbed the taut muscles of her lower back.

      And, wonder of wonders, she began to relax. She let out a sigh, laid her cheek against his neck, matched the sway of her hips to his easy movements. For one brief shining moment, they meshed.

      But the music died, to throb forth a frenzied beat. The strobelight blinded Ben. Abby shot away as if he were trying to cuff her. He’d swear she didn’t meet his eyes again all night.

      And out in the parking lot, she had made a breezy escape. A good-night kiss was not on the books.

      Caught up in remembering—regretting the lack of a kiss—Ben took a minute to snap back to the present.

      “Damn,” he muttered.

      He’d already driven past the last ranch before Barton Road stretched into empty country. He’d have to go a mile back. Hell, and that ranch house had been a hundred and fifty yards off the road. What were the chances anyone had noticed the traffic two days ago?

      He didn’t think about not trying. He’d have gone through the motions no matter what, but under different circumstances that’s what he’d have been doing. Every question he asked would have been perfunctory.

      Today his questions would be deadly serious. The Patton sisters were all cops. A threat against them was a threat against him and every other cop.

      The shoulder of the road briefly widened and he made a U-turn.

      He’d wanted to kiss one of the Patton sisters last night.

      Abby Patton reminded Ben of the stray cat he’d been feeding for a couple of years now. Cinderella, he called her, Cindy for short. A dainty calico with the soft hues and electric-blue eyes of a Siamese mix, Cindy had been so wild at first, he had caught only glimpses of her. She’d gobbled the food he put out, always poised for flight, her head lifting constantly. She’d gotten wilder yet when he trapped her and had her spayed and vaccinated.

      It had taken six months before she would come to his call, hovering a safe distance away while he opened a can. More months before she would allow him within an arm’s reach. This spring, he had touched her. She’d erupted into the air and fled, but come warily back. Now she let him stroke her back. Someday, he was going to cuddle that cat. Take her in the house, feel her curl trustingly at his feet during the night.

      Cindy had never known loving care from a human being until Ben set out that first bowl of food. She’d probably had rocks thrown at her. Loud voices had run her off.

      Ben wanted to know what Abby’s excuse was.

      He had a feeling he might never find out, though. She hadn’t wanted to date him from the beginning, and her minor enthusiasm had clearly waned. He was betting that if he called her today and suggested they do it again, she’d have an excuse.

      No, he thought, putting on his turn signal, excuses weren’t her style. She’d be blunt. I could tell you weren’t having fun, she’d say. Or, I didn’t have fun with you. Or, You’re not my type.

      He wasn’t her type. She wasn’t his.

      He wanted her anyway.

      The tires crunched onto the long gravel driveway that led to a rundown ranch house. He took note of the dogs racing to meet him. the sagging barbed-wire fence, the gaping hole in the old barn roof, but he kept thinking about Abby Patton.

      Maybe the challenge was what appealed to him. Maybe it was more complicated; could be he had some deep-seated need to erase fear where he found it, to coax trust from the smallest seed.

      But Ben didn’t know why that would be. He was usually attracted to confident, smart women. He liked honesty, serenity, a witty tongue. Timid women in need of protection weren’t his thing.

      He snorted at the idea of Abby Patton, arson investigator, needing a protector. At five foot ten inches or so, she wasn’t small.

      But honest, serene... He didn’t think so. She might find serenity in her old age, but that was fifty years away, give or take a few. And blunt didn’t equate to honest.