The Last Man She'd Marry. Helen R. Myers

him her most chilling look, she enunciated, “Let me make this as clear as possible—I. Am. Not. Interested.”

      He shed her remark like water off a duck’s back. Beaming back at her, he asked, “Why not? You look like a nice person. I know I’m a nice person.”

      “Who told you that, your mother? My hunch is she lied to get you to leave the nest.”

      Denny laughed, but something in his gaze sharpened. “You’re tough.”

      “You don’t want to find out how right you are.”

      Giving him what Alyx hoped was her best courtroom ice-queen look, she snatched a bundle of vine-ripe tomatoes in a net bag. “Lettuce and milk,” she muttered to herself. Then she could put this nonsense behind her.

      “Aw, now, tell me you aren’t a vegetarian?”

      Was there a hidden TV camera catching all of this for some silly reality show? Alyx doubted she was that lucky. Either this character was honing some creepy method-acting muscles, or she had a stalker candidate on her hands. “Sir,” she intoned, “can you not take a hint?”

      “It’s nothing to be ashamed about.” He shrugged as though she hadn’t spoken. “I’m a true-blue beef lover myself, but I can risk turf-and-surf as a change of pace if it means spending the evening with you.”

      As her scalp started prickling, Alyx knew that if she didn’t get out of there, she would be facing a full-fledged panic attack. In desperation she looked for a market employee—naturally, they’d all vanished, either they had gone to different aisles or back into the warehouse for more supplies.

      “Okay, Hard Time,” she said, turning on the man with grim determination. “Either go away or I call for the manager.”

      “Shoot, he’s my uncle.”

      It was all she could do not to gape. Why hadn’t Parke warned her about this great mental and physical lug? It sounded like this self-anointed Casanova was a regular fixture in the store.

      Her cousin was the eye candy: coal-black hair inherited from Welsh ancestors, and piercing black eyes that could hint at a great soul, but didn’t apologize for temper when necessary. Truth be known, Alyx had coveted her dramatic coloring when they were kids—her own coloring had been teasingly called Welsh-light—and had emulated Parke more than once during tough cases when the situation warranted the Lone Ranger style of help-or-get-out-of-my-way approach. It had usually worked. She could use a dose of her cousin’s verbal strength now.

      “Your uncle? What’s his name?” When Denny failed to answer, Alyx drew a deep breath and called, “Uncle of Denny! You’re needed in Produce!”

      Denny’s smile flattened. “That wasn’t funny…or polite.”

      “Neither is bothering women who don’t want your brand of special attention.”

      She dropped the tomatoes into her basket with less care than they deserved, and strode out of the section; spotting the aisle sign for bread, she veered left. A third of the way down it, she had to sidestep a deliveryman pushing a tiered cart to restock shelves, then she grabbed the first loaf of oat-nut bread she came upon. In the next instant she was gasping with pain as a vise closed around her wounded upper arm and she was swung around.

      “No!”

      Training as much as instinct had Alyx shoving Denny away from her. Unfortunately, that sent him into the wheel-based tower of fresh bread. She watched in a mixture of fascination and dread as the surprised man triggered an avalanche of plastic trays full of baked goods. Denny ducked and dodged; then, growling with anger, he charged again.

      Still swallowing against the pain in her upper arm, Alyx wrapped her good arm around the damaged one and dropped into a tight ball on the linoleum in the hope of escaping further injury. She heard a crash and looked up to see that this time Denny was being fully buried under trays and bread. Had she done that?

      “Are you nuts? Hey, mister! Help get him out from under there!”

      Blinking, Alyx saw Denny being hoisted by the collar out of the pile of bread and plastic like a scrappy pup, an impressive feat, considering the size of the guy. More amazing was that while her rescuer was taller than Denny, he was leaner—but what a great butt for jeans.

      Wait a minute, she thought. I’ve had that response before.

      “Get lost,” her hero snarled. “Pull that stunt again and so help me, I will drag your sorry backside through every cactus between here and Agave Ground Zero.”

      Jonas?

      Alyx stared in growing horror as the man with the silvering blond hair shoved a dazed Denny the rest of the way out of the aisle. By the time he turned to face her, she didn’t need to see his face for confirmation; every angle of him was imprinted in her mind—although her brain was feeling as if she’d just suffered the second concussion of her life.

      Passing the slack-jawed deliveryman, Agent Jonas Hunter of the FBI squatted before her. “Are you okay?” he asked, frowning as his gaze swept over her face.

      “What are you doing here?” It was a rude response, considering that he’d just rescued her from a guy who had been a serious handful. She should be hugging him with gratitude, but as the pain spasms eased, the one emotion she was aware of was dread, snowballing dread that felt as though it was about to crush her.

      “Yeah. Small world.” He nodded at where only he knew she hurt and kept his next words low. “Can we get you to your feet and finish this conversation elsewhere? You look like you need fresh air—or a barf bag.”

      Over his shoulder, Alyx saw that the bread guy was unsure as to whether to offer his assistance to her or run. For his sake more than anything, Alyx allowed Jonas to assist her to her feet.

      “I appreciate what you did,” she said loud enough for the route salesman to hear.

      For his part, Jonas’s gaze stayed on her. “Did he reinjure your shoulder? Do you think you need to go to the hospital?”

      That rallied her spirit somewhat. “It would take a battalion of marines to get me to another of those,” she said with a pointed look. “I can live with a little soreness.”

      Jonas snorted. “You’d carry your own limb into Emergency and chide the fainting internist for being a weenie.”

      “Now who’s being overly dramatic?”

      “Then let me point out there isn’t a drop of blood left in your face.”

      She took a stabilizing breath. “I was startled. Now I’m fine. Speaking of which, where did my basket go?”

      “I’ve got it.” He quickly scooped it up from between the trolley and shelves, then switched it to his other hand to keep it out of her reach. “Is there anything else you need? Why don’t you go sit in your car? I can finish for you. On second thought, let me escort you outside to make sure that guy isn’t waiting around the corner or something.”

      He was being as considerate and kind as though they’d had breakfast together this morning and parted with a kiss, when, in fact, they hadn’t seen each other in months—seven to be exact. They also hadn’t parted well. The fault had been hers, but Alyx didn’t want to think about those days again, let alone deal with this. Then she reminded herself that Jonas was being the consummate professional; he wasn’t treating her with any special attention, he would do this for anyone.

      She gestured for him to give her the basket. “Really, I can take it from here, but thank you for your kindness.” When he failed to comply, she stepped closer to take hold of one side and tugged gently. Had she been wrong about him? Well, she couldn’t let him prolong this; people were starting to collect at the end of the aisle and stare. “Please, Jonas.”

      His frown remained quizzical. “Sorry. I’m still trying to get it—what are you doing here?”

      He was surprised? So much for