The Keeper. Rhonda Nelson

true. But—his gaze drifted over her petite curvy frame, lingering on her especially ripe heart-shaped ass—this woman wouldn’t have been it.

      In the first place, Mariette sounded like an old-fashioned name, so he’d imagined a more mature woman. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? He’d thought she’d be old. Which was ridiculous, really. Not all bakeries were owned by plump grandmas in floral aprons, though for reasons that escaped him that was the image that had leapt immediately to mind.

      He estimated this particular baker to be in her mid- to late-twenties. In the second place … Well, there wasn’t really a second place, though logic told him there should have been. And a third and a fourth and a fifth, for that matter. Furthermore, he felt as though he should have been warned, but couldn’t come up with a logical reason for that, either.

      What would they have said? Oh, by the way, Mariette’s young and hot with the most unusual gray eyes you’ll ever see? That long mink-colored hair will incite the urge to wrap it around your fist and drag her up against you? And her mouth … Jack swallowed thickly. A much fuller lower lip, a distinct bow in the upper and a perpetual tilt at the corner that suggested she was always enjoying a private joke. It was sinfully sensual nestled between her pert little nose and small pointy chin.

      She wasn’t merely pretty or beautiful—though those adjectives would apply, as well—but there was something more there. Something much more substantial and compelling, and the bizarre tightening in his chest that had occurred when her gaze had met his had been nothing short of terrifying.

      Jack wasn’t accustomed to being afraid of anything other than failure, so discovering that a woman could incite the feeling was a bit unsettling.

      Honestly, when she’d risen up from behind that counter he couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four. He’d damned-near staggered.

      From a single look.

      Like a tsunami running headlong into a hurricane.

      If he had any brains at all he’d turn around and leave, Jack thought. He’d walk right back up the block to Ranger Security and tell them that they needed to put someone else on this particular case, to give him another one. But short of a natural disaster metaphor, how in the hell could he explain his reasoning?

      How could he tell them that she made his gut clench and his dick hard? That intuition told him he was headed into uncharted emotional and sexual territory and, weak as it might sound, he wasn’t altogether certain he’d be able to control himself? That something about her scared the hell out of him? A girl?

       How galling.

      He couldn’t tell them that, dammit. He needed this job, had to make it work. He couldn’t bail on the first damned assignment.

      And as much as he was compelled to flee, there was an opposite force equally as strong that was drawing him toward her, intriguing him, transfixing him, and between the two he was stuck, immobile and powerless.

      Another punch of fear landed in his gut.

      Mariette gestured toward a small table, indicating a seat and she took the one opposite. A couple of women worked at a large stainless-steel table drizzling icing over pastries and the scent of yeast and sugar hung in the air, reminding him of Christmastime at home, when his mother made her famous cinnamon rolls. Every surface gleamed beneath the large, overhead lights. An old wooden ladder outfitted with metal hooks was suspended from the ceiling and held a variety of pots and tongs of varying degrees and sizes.

      A peg board had been anchored to one long wall and held dozens of bowls, measuring cups, couplings and icing tips. Fresh flowers sat in old, blue Mason jars on the back windowsill and yet another board—this one a dry erase with what he could only assume were orders—took up another wall. The space was small—narrow like the building—but had been maximized with state-of-the-art appliances and sheer ingenuity.

      He was impressed and said as much. “This is a great setup,” he told her.

      Seemingly pleased, she smiled and tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. “It was a lot of trial and error in the beginning, but I think I’ve finally got everything organized in the most efficient manner.”

      He took a bite of his cupcake and savored the spices against his tongue. It was moist and flavorful, and the icing was perfect—not too sweet, with just the right cream cheese to sugar ratio. Not everyone got that part right, but she’d mastered it.

      “And you live upstairs?”

      She nodded, swept an imaginary crumb from the table. “I do. I keep long hours and economically, it just made more sense.” A wry grin curled her lips. “I’ve got one mortgage as opposed to two.”

      Definitely savvy. Sexy, smart and she could cook, too. He hoped to hell he discovered a flaw soon. A hairy mole or a snorting laugh. Anything to derail this horribly inconvenient attraction.

      “And when did you notice that someone was stealing your butter? When did the Butter Bandit first strike?”

      Looking adorably mortified, she blushed prettily, a wash of bright pink beneath creamy skin. “Three days ago,” she said. “At first I just thought one of the girls—possibly Livvie—had moved it from one part of the walk-in to the other. It’s a big space and I keep it well stocked. I only use organic products and everything has to be fresh, otherwise the quality isn’t up to par.”

      He could certainly taste the difference. “But it hadn’t been moved?”

      She shook her head. “No. And more than half of it had been taken.”

      “And how much is half?”

      She chewed the inside of her cheek, speculating. “Roughly thirty pounds.”

      Jack felt his eyes widen. “Thirty pounds?”

      She laughed, the sound husky and melodic. Definitely not a snorter, then. Damn.

      “I typically use between sixty and seventy pounds of butter a week.” She gestured to five-gallon lidded buckets beneath the main work station. “That’s flour and sugar. And that smaller fridge against the wall? That one holds nothing but eggs.”

      Good Lord. He’d had no idea. Of course, since he’d never made any sort of dessert in his life that didn’t come out of a box and require that he add only water, why would he?

      But thirty pounds of butter? Who in the hell would steal thirty pounds of butter? To what purpose? For what possible use?

      And they’d come back for more and attacked her for it.

      “Who supplies your butter?” Jack wanted to know. It seemed like the best place to start. Perhaps there was something special about Mariette’s butter. Maybe it was made from goat’s milk or only harvested during the full moon. Maybe it was intentional butter, much like that Intentional Chocolate he’d gotten in a care package from his mother last year. Supposedly, it had been infused with good intentions by experienced meditators. Enchanted butter, he thought, tamping down the absurdity of the situation. He’d be damned if he knew.

      But it was his job to find out, he reminded himself.

      “Jefferson’s Dairy just north of Marietta,” she told him. “They furnish my eggs and milk, as well.”

      Jack nodded and pushed up from his chair, determined to get started. The sooner he figured this out the better. Besides, one of the ladies had fired up a mixer and the whine was wreaking hell with his hearing aid. For the most part, the little miracle piece could almost make him forget that he needed it at all, but then a certain sound would set it off and he’d be reminded all over again. For the most part, he’d learned to cope with the “disability”—and knew that he’d gotten off easy in comparison to most other war-sustained injuries—but it was still jarring, nonetheless. An instant reminder of what he’d lost, an automatic, haunting flashback to Johnson’s desperate face. He gave himself a mental shake, forcing himself