Safe In His Sight. Regan Black

as he chuckled again. “You rebuild cars when you’re not bartending at Escape?”

      “Sometimes.” He blew into his cupped hands to warm them. “Where to?”

      She gave him her address, relieved her voice didn’t catch. When she’d walked to work this morning, her world had been normal and safe. Since the stalker had stormed into her life, any thought of going home—going anywhere she typically went—set off that clawing panic.

      “City girl all the way, huh?” he asked.

      “It’s close to the office.” She wasn’t inclined to share more about her life than necessary to resolve her problem. In her experience, sharing didn’t change how people saw her.

      “Some people like to get away and enjoy a change of scenery at the end of the day.”

      She bristled at the not-so-subtle judgment in his statement. Some people didn’t work new-associate hours at the best and largest law firm in the city. “The proximity of my home and office should make keeping track of me easier,” she said, hoping her irritation wasn’t too obvious.

      “Proximity? Fair point,” he allowed.

      “So, you rebuild cars when you’re not tending bar?” She wanted to know what kind of skills he had and how he planned to use them to help her. Details she should have hammered out with Grant rather than simply rolling along because she was scared and well out of her element.

      “Among other things. Normally I restore cars when I’m not fighting fires.”

      “Galway,” she said as the name clicked into place. “I read about your case.” It had been a big headline a few weeks ago. “The fire department suspended you for punching a victim at a fire scene.” She had a sudden vision of Mitch planting a fist into her stalker’s face. It was surprisingly satisfying.

      Mitch snorted. “Not the best fifteen minutes of fame for the PFD or me.” He drummed his fingers on the gearshift while they waited for a red light to change. “Perp is a better word for that sorry excuse of a man.”

      “What happened?”

      “What do you really want to know?”

      She hesitated. “I’d like to hear your side of it.” Her natural curiosity had occasionally proved helpful at work, but on a personal level it usually got her in trouble. “Only if you want to share.” Would a man with a quick temper be an asset or a hindrance in her situation? “The news offered up teasers at first, but nothing real ever came out when the PFD went silent and applied the ‘ongoing investigation’ comment.”

      “Thank God for small favors.”

      If he’d been her client, she would agree with him. As her buffer, she wanted to know who he was behind the sculpted biceps and handsome bravado. She cleared her throat. “Well? Do you want to tell me?”

      He drove another few blocks in silence. “Look, I’ve been part of the PFD all my life,” he said at last. “First as a fireman’s kid and later as a volunteer before I graduated the academy and earned a spot on my own merit.” He worked through the gears and then squeezed through a narrow gap in traffic to make the last left turn onto her street.

      “Are you trying to scare me?” she demanded, bracing herself against the door.

      “No,” he said, startled by her outburst. “Sorry. Sorry,” he repeated with more sincerity. “The whole mess annoys me.”

      “Maybe you shouldn’t drive when you’re annoyed.” She reached into her purse for the key to her apartment. “Take the alley behind the building,” she said, pointing out the turn.

      “Where can I park?”

      She swallowed another surge of nerves. “Guest spaces are at the end of the back row. We’ll have to give your name and plate number to the doorman.” And how many days he planned to stay.

      “No problem.” He parked in the designated spot and cut the engine.

      It felt like a problem to her. She could already hear the teasing remarks from Mr. Capello when he heard the boyfriend excuse. Her doorman was warm and helpful, and forever encouraging her to live a little.

      It’s temporary. She repeated the words in her mind as she reached for the car door handle.

      “Hang on a second,” Mitch said, laying a hand gently on her arm. “The guy came at me, all right? At best, the man’s negligence nearly killed his little girl. Kitchen fire got out of control. He, the dad...um.” He took a deep breath. “We heard her. Still not sure how. Managed to get her out. Saved that whole row of houses, by the way,” he added. “Not that he gave a damn about that.” Mitch closed his eyes a moment. “She was so thin. No weight to her at all. The paramedics took her out of my arms and started working on her.” Opening his eyes, he stared at his hands as if reliving it. “When I asked the father why his kid had been locked in a closet, he came at me, fists flying. Trying to shut me up, I guess.”

      She was almost sorry she’d asked. “The father threw the first punch?”

      Mitch lifted his gaze to hers, his jaw tight with the recollection. “Does it matter?”

      “Yes.” Character made all the difference. With her lousy track record with first impressions and reading people, she preferred to have things spelled out clearly. She preferred the evidence of actions over all the right words.

      “He threw the first punch,” Mitch confirmed. “My union rep says witness videos support my account that I defended myself until they hauled him off me. He was older—it wouldn’t have been right to flatten him. It was a shock to me and everyone on my shift when he filed the complaint.”

      “Thanks,” she said, satisfied. In the awkward silence, she patted his hand. Grabbing her purse, she climbed out of the low-slung car before he could come around and open her door.

      She picked up her mail and somehow survived the wink and waggling eyebrows of the doorman while they filled out the information for Mitch’s car.

      In the elevator, Mitch laughed over the encounter and Julia tried to join him, though she wasn’t feeling it. Another shiver of fear or awareness or some troubling combination of the two swept over her as she opened her apartment door and invited Mitch inside. Without a word, he closed the door and secured both dead bolt locks, while she punched in her code on the security system panel.

      In this neighborhood, she couldn’t afford a big place, and living alone, working long hours, anything more than this tidy efficiency would’ve been a waste of money. Unfortunately, just as she’d thought, Mitch’s presence filled the small space to bursting and he’d barely stepped inside. He couldn’t possibly stay here with her—they’d run out of oxygen by morning.

      “Go ahead and look around.” She forced out the words. No one was here, waiting to spring an attack. “We’d only trip over each other if I gave you a guided tour.”

      The kitchen to the right and the living area in front of them were self-explanatory anyway. In three strides, he peered around the canvas privacy screen she used to designate her bedroom. Printed with Monet’s water lily pond, she suddenly felt overexposed, as if he could see straight through to those last secret soft spots she kept hidden from the rest of the world.

      Ignoring what would be a swift orientation, out of habit she dropped her purse and keys on the chair, along with the mail. When she realized that the only space left for them to sit together was the love seat, she changed her mind and moved things to the table snugged under the kitchen pass-through. She’d have to clear that by morning to make room for him to eat breakfast.

      The last time she’d had a roommate was during her undergrad years. She’d skimped and scraped through law school without having to share her space. Did he expect her to cook for them? Should she come up with a schedule so they weren’t tripping over each other?

      A small, square note card envelope dropped to the floor, distracting her. White, no postmark,