Starting with June. Emilie Rose

too many times to count. He was not afraid of five and a half feet of angry female, for pity’s sake.

      So why was he stalling?

      He didn’t have an answer for that.

      He grabbed the basket and exited his quarters, heading next door. Except for paint color, externally, the structures appeared identical, but hers, unlike his, looked lived-in. Pots overflowing with flowers cluttered the outside edges of the steps leading to her porch. More flowers spilled from baskets hanging on the railings or from hooks in the eaves, and another bucket of blooms sat on the coffee table between her twin white rocking chairs—chairs bearing thick ruffled posy-print cushions. A water fountain—made from a series of brightly colored tilted ceramic pots—babbled on the far end.

      There was so much color it looked as if someone had bombed a paint factory. With all the girly stuff littering the porch, the utilitarian boot scraper at the bottom of the stairs looked out of place. Then he spotted a toy box with a cartoon train painted on it tucked into the back corner, and every cell in his body screeched a warning.

      Kids? She had kids? He’d seen and heard no sign of them. Maybe she was divorced and the rug rats were away for the holiday with their father. He’d seen plenty of that in the corps. But where would she put them in the one-bedroom house? More than likely she wasn’t the primary caregiver. But what kind of mom lost custody of her children?

      Her front door stood open. A wood-framed screen was the only thing between her and anyone who might enter uninvited into her home. Absolutely no security. Through the mesh he registered that her floor plan was identical to his.

      He could see June bustling about the kitchen concocting something with a series of bowls scattered across the countertop. She wore cutoff jeans that showed off her legs and a white T-shirt that molded every curve. Her feet were bare, her hair held behind her ears with a wide black band.

      He rapped on the door. June startled, turning. “C’mon i-n.”

      The last word fractured into two syllables when she saw him, and her smile melted. “What do you want?”

      “I’m returning your stuff.” He swung the picnic basket into view.

      Wiping her hands on a towel, she made her way across the room. “You could have left it with the lease.”

      He ignored the jab. Not one of his finest moves to drop the paper and take cover. “I would have, but you said not to leave your dishes outside.”

      She unlatched a hook inside, making her smarter than he’d thought, and pushed the screen open just enough to take the basket. “That’s hardly any security, June. Anybody who wanted access could cut through the screen and be inside in seconds.”

      Her tight smile and the glint in her eyes took him aback. “That would be a mistake.”

      “What would you do about it?”

      “I can take care of myself.”

      “Overconfidence can get you hurt. If you’re not worried about yourself, at least think of your children.”

      Confusion clouded her eyes. “Children? I don’t have children.”

      He nodded toward the toy box. “Whose are those?”

      Her face softened with what could only be love and...was that yearning? “My nieces and nephews. I babysit as often as I can. Don’t worry—I’ll keep them away from you.”

      She reached for the basket and pulled the handle. He held on. He didn’t know why he was so determined to make her see sense. Probably because he’d worry about his sisters if they were in a remote place like this. “The owner of the farmhouse is away. You’re a half mile from your nearest neighbor. Who would hear you if you screamed for help?”

      Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Who says I’d scream or that I’d need help?”

      Not the answer he’d expected. “You weigh what? One twenty-five? No match for a man.”

      “My weight is none of your business. Was there anything else you wanted—besides to pester me, Mr. Rivers?”

      This was not going as planned. “I apologize if I misunderstood earlier.”

      “If?” She looked angry enough to spit. Red flagged her cheeks and chest, and fury burned in her eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t give you the opportunity to misinterpret my Southern hospitality again.”

      His teeth clicked together. He was trying to be nice. She wasn’t making it easy.

      June snatched the basket quickly and with enough force to remove it from his relaxed grip. He hadn’t seen that coming. Then she stepped back, letting the screen slap shut, and closed the solid interior door in his face. The lock clicked.

      “Guess you got tired of being neighborly,” he called out. “Thanks for the food.”

      No answer. But then, he wasn’t expecting one—at least not a polite one. She was probably shooting him the bird through the door. He headed back to his temporary quarters. Antipathy between him and Blondie was a good thing. She wouldn’t ask questions about why he was here, and he wouldn’t have to lie. His mission was to help Roth, then get the hell out of Quincey. In. Out. Over.

      June would have been a complication.

      So why was he disappointed?

      * * *

      SAM ZEROED IN on his target—a ten-point buck—exhaled, slow and steady, then squeezed his trigger finger. His camera reeled off three rapid-fire shots. The deer stiffened, his ears pricking forward and the hairs along his back going erect. He searched for the adversary he hadn’t yet spotted and pawed the ground. Sam pressed the shutter button again. The buck’s head snapped up, his big dark eyes locating Sam in the tree above him. The deer snorted a warning, lifted his white tail, then bounded off through the woods. Beautiful.

      Sam relaxed into his borrowed hide—a hunter’s tree stand that he’d come upon during his morning hike. In his line of work—former line of work—he’d seen a lot of nature as he’d crept up on his insurgent targets, and he’d learned to appreciate it, but during a mission, he’d never been able to take pictures. He’d been too worried about getting in undetected and out alive.

      He checked his watch. He’d been perched in the tree for almost five hours. Time to call it a day. If he didn’t leave soon, it would be dark before he made it back. Not that darkness was an issue, but hunger was. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

      He rose. Old injuries protested. They’d stiffened up while he’d sat practically immobile.

      He turned and eased down the ladder, and only then did he notice the rain tapping on his jacket—he’d endured and tuned out far worse conditions. The rainy weather had worked to his advantage today. The people who should have been hiking the trails by the river on the Labor Day holiday had stayed inside. That meant he’d been able to explore Quincey’s surroundings without interference—and without his neighbor as a tour guide.

      Using his compass, he hiked back toward his temporary quarters. Eight klicks. He circled the perimeter of the farm. From the edge of the woods he noted June’s diesel crew-cab truck still parked in the driveway. Diesel engines and sparkly sandals didn’t go together. He filed away the incongruity.

      It didn’t look as though she’d moved her vehicle since he’d left just before dawn this morning. There were no tracks in or out of the gravel driveway and the rocks beneath her vehicle were dry. He returned the same way he’d left—on the blind side of his house where his nearest neighbor couldn’t see him coming or going unless she was looking out her window at his porch. He climbed the stairs, eyeing no-man’s-land—the strip of wet grass between his quarters and his neighbor’s.

      June’s blinds were open and her lights on as dusk approached. He could see her clearly through the window. Her sports bra and low-waisted knit pants clung to her curves, revealing the narrowing of her waist and