Agent-in-Charge. Leigh Riker

said.

      “A guard dog?”

      For an instant she preferred that to Graham’s scent, his touch, his masculine aura. The too-vivid memory of his dark hair and eyes, that hot gaze that would send desire racing through her body. Even without her sight, she had perfect recall of his high-chiseled cheekbones, his broad shoulders, his muscled chest, his washboard belly, strong tanned hands and powerful thighs. She didn’t have to see, Casey realized, to get the same effect. The flesh on her bare arm still buzzed from their brief contact.

      “A guide dog,” Graham corrected.

      But she didn’t want his help. Somehow she had to pick up the pieces of her own life and go on. Only yesterday she’d learned that her blindness might be permanent. In the doctor’s office she’d considered the possibility of getting a dog, maybe even the eventuality, but her comment then had been facetious, a quip to keep her from falling apart. For weeks she’d held the hope of a complete recovery. She wasn’t ready to consider the full impact of her situation.

      Leaving Graham and the dog to follow, Casey inched, one hand braced on the wall, into the living room. Twelve paces to the sofa, she remembered, not letting her skin graze Graham’s again. But she couldn’t avoid inhaling the clean-soap smell of him. Which only hardened Casey’s resolve.

      She would try to retain some of the independence she’d lost with her sight. Take care of herself.

      As if to disagree, Sweet William padded right behind her. With that name alone, how could she feel afraid?

      Graham steered her to a chair, and Casey struggled not to feel that same jangling awareness when his soap-scented skin met hers. She felt the heat of his hand against her back and the slow burn flared deeper in her abdomen.

      “Last night,” Graham began, “I made some telephone calls. Finally one of my contacts led me to the Guide Dog Institute. This morning the director told me they have a waiting list a mile long, that there was no hope of getting a dog any time soon. But then he remembered Willy. He’s a golden retriever and highly trained,” Graham went on. “But he’s getting along in years. Because of his age, the institute decided to retire him. He’s out of the program now and he’s been up for adoption, more as a pet or companion, but so far no one has taken him.”

      “I can’t, either,” Casey murmured.

      She heard the irritation in his tone. “No? From what I told him, the director seems to think you and Willy might make a good match. He let me pick him up today for a trial. Listen,” Graham said, “just keep him for a few days and see how it goes. I’ll buy some dog food, a bed, whatever else he needs. You can get to know each other. And, oh,” he added, as if he’d just thought of it, “the institute will throw in some training lessons. Normally their program is pretty rigorous and intense, but he thinks you can learn the basics in a week or two. I took the liberty of signing you up for a first session.”

      “You did?” Casey sighed in frustration. “Does the word divorce hold any meaning for you?”

      “Oh, yeah.” He didn’t sound happy. “Just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean I have to quit worrying about you.”

      “I don’t need your concern.”

      “After yesterday? Great.” She heard him drop onto another chair, clearly intending to stay. At the same time Willy apparently decided to lie down next to Casey. He circled a few times, raising the air around her with the musky scent of dog, grunted once, then settled down. She heard him breathing.

      Graham tried again. “Casey, take the gift. I know damn well you’re scared—not just about this vision loss, but about what caused it. The question remains, why did these ‘accidents’ happen?”

      Casey had no idea, but with Graham’s mention of the attacks, she felt another emotion. The anger felt welcome, fresh and cleansing. “I may be afraid, but I’ll never see the people I love again. I’ll never run through a field. I can’t even play Frisbee with this dog. And one day ago my home was invaded, Graham. Do you know how that felt?” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Like a violation. Well, I’ve had enough. I’m going to find out who’s responsible.”

      “Not by yourself, you’re not.”

      “I suppose that’s true,” she admitted. “Did the police find any prints here last night?”

      Graham had called some law enforcement contact of his, which in itself came as a surprise to Casey. He was full of them. The woman who showed up had been efficient, collecting samples, vacuuming the carpet for trace evidence, and slipping her other rare finds into little bags while Casey wondered how Graham knew such people.

      “They’re still working on the fingerprints. She lifted a partial but it could be another of your prints, mine, Anton’s…” He hesitated. “And what about Rafe Valera?”

      Casey frowned. “I doubt it. He’s only been in my apartment once or twice.”

      “That’s enough.” She could sense the same scowl on Graham’s face. “He raises the hairs on the back of my neck. With very little provocation he showed up here yesterday waving a gun. A big gun. He looked like he knew how to use it.”

      “He only wanted to protect me.”

      “Did he?” Obviously, Graham wasn’t that sure. “I know you and the old guy have become close. Anton makes a great father surrogate, but his son is another matter. Casey, be careful. I think he’s dangerous. Until I ask around about Rafe Valera, it may be wiser to avoid him.”

      “You can’t think Rafe had anything to do with the break-in here, or my experience in the revolving door?” She wouldn’t even think about the hit-and-run.

      “How well do you really know either of the Valeras?”

      “Not that well but—”

      “Then just be careful,” he repeated. “Some extra caution wouldn’t hurt, Casey. I want you protected. I don’t want you living alone. Until we figure this out, Willy can help minimize the danger.” Probably to distract her, he returned to their earlier discussion. “He can help you adjust to your condition in lots of ways.” Graham paused. “And—quid pro quo—you’ll be helping him.”

      As if to confirm that, Willy wiggled closer, and Casey’s hand bumped against warm, silky fur. In spite of her earlier concerns, she stroked him—and felt a strange feeling wash through her. She wasn’t alone. Casey almost welcomed the subject of the dog’s welfare.

      “Me? Help him? How?” she asked. “He’s the one who can see where he’s going. You just said—”

      “He had the same owner for six years until the guy passed away a month ago. William is now eight years old. If he doesn’t find a new home soon, he’s going to be in serious trouble.”

      That struck a chord with Casey, as Graham knew it would. After her parents died when Casey was five, she’d been juggled from one relative to another, never quite belonging anywhere. For a while, in Graham’s arms, she had hoped…but that hope had died. Casey petted Willy’s fur but felt she was stroking Graham’s skin instead. She pulled her hand back.

      Her heart lurched. You poor thing. They were two of a kind. Again, she reached out a comforting hand. A wet nose met her palm and Willy licked her, twice. “Not fair, Graham. You know I’m a sucker for animals.”

      “He’s grinning,” Graham said in a coaxing tone that went straight through her like a caress. “He likes you.”

      “This is fighting dirty. You know that, don’t you?”

      “He has great eyes,” Graham murmured. “Dark, liquid—” Like Graham’s, she thought. “Full of trust,” he added, which shattered the illusion. Trust didn’t come easily to Casey, especially where Graham was concerned. “He’s got a hundred-yard stare. Just the thing you need for protection.”

      Willy seemed to know that, too. With another