Unsanctioned Memories. Julie Miller

was beginning to get an idea of why his bare torso bothered her. She wasn’t at fault. Her attacker had probably been shirtless, and just as close—even closer—to her than he’d been a moment ago. And he was a big man, strong enough to overpower her if he was that kind of male. But Sam wasn’t supposed to know about the rape. He couldn’t respond with sympathy or understanding of a victim’s fears. He couldn’t apologize for scaring her without giving himself away. So he shrugged his shoulders and opted for a humourous out instead.

      “I just figured you didn’t like the looks of me.”

      “No. It’s a nice chest.”

      Sam grinned at her vehement argument. “Thanks.”

      Her cheeks flooded with color, flustering herself and flattering him all at the same time. “I mean, of course, it’s a nice chest. You probably work out. And…” There had been nothing shy about her firm touch. But suddenly she snatched her hand away in a rapid release and retreat. She retreated all the way to the end of the porch. “This is silly. You’d think I was a gawky teenager again.”

      “Miss Taylor—”

      “No.” She spun around and faced him. Her fingers opened and closed in angry bursts of anger and self-recrimination. The dog danced around her feet. “It’s almost eighty degrees out here, and the humidity’s higher than that. Every one of my brothers would have had their shirts off if they’d been working the way you have. I apologize for the double standard.”

      “Don’t.” He followed her, pulling on his shirt despite her protests. “Something made you uncomfortable.”

      Was it him? Did he look like her rapist? A tall Caucasian with dark hair? Great. Getting close to her would be damn near impossible if he reminded her of her attacker. On the other hand, it gave him a physical description he hadn’t had before. Maybe if he could pinpoint exactly what it was about him that frightened her so he’d have a definite clue.

      Now, to keep her talking. Sam picked up his glass, then leaned his hips against the edge of the wooden porch. It was a relaxed, nonthreatening pose, cutting a few inches off his height and keeping his distance. He took another drink of the sweet-tart lemonade and switched to a safer topic. “Compliments to your mom. You say she taught you how to make this?”

      Jess had shoved her fingers beneath the dog’s collar, petting him and holding him close at the same time. “Yes. Things weren’t always easy for us growing up—I come from a big family. But always on our birthdays she’d fix us whatever we wanted. For me it was always a big fresh pitcher of lemonade.”

      It wasn’t so irresistible that she wouldn’t come over to pick up her glass where it sat on the porch beside him. But he didn’t point out the obvious. The goal was to keep her talking, after all. “You have a summer birthday, then?”

      Her wide, unadorned mouth blossomed into a smile. She shook her head, almost laughing. “December, actually.”

      Her amusement triggered his own urge to smile. “Where’d she get the fresh lemons that time of year?”

      “My mother’s pretty resourceful.”

      Must run in the family. It couldn’t be just dumb luck that enabled Jess to survive her attack.

      “Here.” He picked up her glass and held it out. She kept one hand on the dog but accepted the offer, not even flinching the way he almost did when their fingertips accidentally brushed against each other. Sam cooled his jets with another sip of the cold liquid and silently cursed the untimely awakening of his hormones. “I don’t suppose you or your mom would share the recipe?” he asked, putting the conversation back on track.

      “The secret is to add a few squirts of lime juice. And to cook the sugar down into a syrup before adding it. I keep some on hand.” She took a long drink and savored it. “It tastes more like a fountain drink this way.”

      Sam drained the last of his. “That’s it. It does taste like it was made in an old-fashioned soda fountain.” Which brought them full circle back to his initial impression that she’d brought him the lemonade as a peace offering. “So what did I do to deserve the special treatment?”

      His question hung in the muggy air, and after a moment Sam assumed Jess wasn’t going to answer him. But he needed to learn to stop underestimating this woman’s backbone. She hugged her glass to her chest, unmindful of the beads of condensation soaking into her baggy shirt. She looked him straight in the eye when she decided to speak. “I wanted to tell you a couple of things about me. Why I got weirded out by the sheriff and the cat. And, I guess, explain why your…bare chest…set me off.”

      Sam held himself perfectly still, masking the sudden flood of anticipation that tensed his entire body. This was it. He counted off each breath, tamping down the need to shake the answers he needed out of her even faster. He drew on the blarney of his Irish ancestors to keep his tone mildly curious. “I’m listening.”

      She looked down and stroked the dog, as if that constant contact gave her strength.

      “I was…mugged…a few months back.” It was only half a truth. Not even that. He’d learned that much just reading the sketchy report she’d given the Chicago police. “Sometimes…” She determinedly raised her gaze to his. “Things remind me of that night. I think the sheriff, holding the cat out—reaching for me like that—is what set me off.”

      Sam squeezed his fingers around his glass. He had the forethought to set it down before his frustration shattered it. A damn lie was less help than knowing nothing. Yet he couldn’t call her on it. He couldn’t demand the truth. But he did ask, “Your mugger wasn’t wearing a shirt?”

      “I…he…” Her expression clouded over. She closed up and turned away. She was done sharing info.

      But he wasn’t done needing answers.

      “He didn’t look like me, did he? Tall? Black hair?” Gray eyes? Midthirties? Irish? Dressed in a sweat-stained black T-shirt and blue jeans?

      But Sam couldn’t ask those questions. He couldn’t follow up, he couldn’t push, the way he’d been trained to run an investigation. But he needed something. He slowly rose to his feet. “I’d hate to think I remind you of him. That I scare you.”

      “You don’t.”

      Liar. She’d backed off a step the instant he stood. What wasn’t she telling him? “Did the police catch him?”

      “No.” At least that much was true. “I guess I’m afraid he might…”

      “Might what? Come here looking for you?” Not likely for a mugger. A serial rapist, on the other hand…He had no doubt her fear was genuine. “I suppose he took your wallet and can find your address. Why don’t you tell me what he looks like, so I can help keep an eye out for him. The dog’s great protection, but—”

      “I just wanted to tell you that so you wouldn’t think I was crazy.” Now she was mad, as if she resented him pushing for even that much information. Her voice caught on a husky croak of temper and fear. “I don’t want to share the details.” She picked up his glass, slipping beside him with a visible effort to avoid touching him. “And I definitely don’t want to share them with someone like you.”

      “Someone like me?” A sharp bark from the dog glued his hand to his side when he reached for her. Sam glared at the guard beast but wisely stood still while Jess stalked away. “So I do remind you of your attacker.”

      “Attacker?” She spun around. “I never said he…”

      Jess’s temper and posture sagged as if the switch that kept her running had been suddenly turned off. Sam heard the crunch of gravel the same time her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Harry barked. He, too, had noticed the teal-green van cresting the hill and slowing as it neared the entrance to Log Cabin Acres.

      “Expecting someone?” Sam angled himself toward the approaching vehicle and made some quick mental