Friend, Lover, Protector. Sharon Mignerey

glanced out the living room window. A white paneled van was parked in her driveway, and on the porch a man stood holding a huge plant. Though she received deliveries nearly every week, a houseplant was the last thing she expected.

      She opened the door.

      “Dahlia Jensen?” the man asked.

      “Yes,” she responded, her attention snagged by another person coming up her walk at a brisk pace—Jack Trahern.

      “This is for you.”

      “Are you sure?” She glanced back at the man. Anyone who knew her was aware her green thumb was nonexistent. Her sister Rosie might be able to grow anything, but Dahlia had managed to kill every plant she’d ever had.

      The man shrugged. “If your name is Dahlia Jensen, this is for you. Would you like me to bring it inside for you?”

      “You might save us all time and put it directly in the garbage.” She opened the screen door to let the man and the monster plant in. “Out of the way, girl,” she said to her dog.

      Instead, Boo dashed out the front door and practically leaped into Jack’s arms. He scooped up the wriggling dog, who promptly rewarded him with a lick on his cheek. Dahlia would have preferred it if Boo had bitten him.

      Jack came up the steps, his attention focused on the other man, whose face was hidden behind the huge plant in his arms. He handed Dahlia the dog, then added, “Let me take that for you.”

      He took the plant from the man, and a chill crawled down his spine. A thin face and nose. Jack was positive this guy was the same man he had last seen driving a nondescript sedan and following them.

      “Who’s the plant from?” he asked Dahlia, not taking his eyes from the man and setting the plant on the floor in the hallway.

      “My worst enemy,” she responded.

      Jack gave her a sharp look.

      “Plants hate me,” she added.

      “That sounds a little personal.”

      The deliveryman glanced from Dahlia to Jack. He held the man’s gaze, committing the man’s face to memory. Jack had the feeling the man was doing the same with him.

      “I take it personally when they die,” Dahlia continued.

      Without a word the deliveryman went down the porch steps. The instant before he closed the van door, Jack saw that the inside of the van was completely empty. Not a single other plant or flower arrangement. The hair on the back of his neck rose as the van backed out of the driveway. This guy had the same chance of being a deliveryman as Jack had of being the Tooth Fairy.

      He closed the front door and locked it. The oval, etched glass in the middle of the door was beautiful—and completely useless at providing any security.

      Dahlia moved a couple of steps back into the house and set the dog down.

      “Your deliveryman didn’t have anything else in the van.”

      She glanced at him without seeming to understand.

      “Where do you want this?” He motioned toward the plant.

      “I don’t want it at all, but it can go in the kitchen.”

      He picked the plant up and followed her down a central hallway. Boo dashed back and forth between them. His gaze fell to Dahlia’s long, long legs revealed by a pair of loose-fitting shorts. Those legs were even better than he had imagined, her Achilles heel sharply defined, her skin smooth. The T-shirt loosely tucked into her shorts clearly emphasized a siren’s body. His own tightened in response.

      A woman with a Ph.D. after her name shouldn’t look good enough to be on a centerfold. He didn’t want to be this attracted and distracted. Women with great bodies were nothing new—he’d had his first introduction with the strippers who worked at the club where his mother did. He deliberately forced himself to pay attention to his surroundings.

      A living room and dining room were on one side, and a den was the other. Stairs with an old-fashioned banister occupied the rest of the hallway. He followed her through a doorway, and the kitchen, which looked as if it had been added on, ran the entire width of the house.

      Instead of setting the plant where she indicated, he opened the door and carried it outside. Chances were good that the plant had been a ruse to get in the house, but Jack figured it was better to err on the side of safety. On the lawn he laid it on its side and pulled the pot away from the plant.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Making sure this is what it looks like.”

      “What did you expect? A bomb?”

      “Nope. Bugs.”

      “Like James Bond?”

      “Close enough.” Jack glanced over his shoulder at her. “There’s no tag. Did the guy give you anything to sign?”

      She shook her head.

      Jack poked through the plant’s stems and leaves searching for anything that didn’t belong. Still suspicious, he spread the roots out. The huge plant was just what it seemed to be.

      “Great,” she said. “I can blame you for killing it.”

      “You didn’t want it, anyway.” He brushed his hands together, then followed her into the house.

      He went to the kitchen sink and washed his hands, as much to finish calming himself down as to wash away the potting soil. The adrenaline rush that had surged through him when he watched the panel van pull into her drive was still with him.

      “You never got a good look at the man driving the car this morning, did you?” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Describe the deliveryman.”

      She stared at him. “Why?”

      “Because he’s the same guy who shot at us.”

      Her head came sharply up, and she swallowed. “No way. And if he was, why didn’t he just try to shoot me again?”

      “A couple of reasons. First, I showed up. Second, gun-fire tends to attract attention, especially when the neighbors are keeping an eye out like the old guy next door.” He pulled a square of paper towel off the holder next to the sink and began drying his hands. “And third, he doesn’t really want to shoot you. He wants to kidnap you.” He looked around for a trash can, which he found under the kitchen sink.

      “That’s ridiculous. But if you know anything at all, then, why? Forget that.” She marched to the kitchen table, picked up a scrap of paper and thrust it at him. “Where’d you get this?”

      Jack glanced at his scribbled note with the three names— Linda, Diane, Rachel. “From Ian Stearne.” A note he’d used as a bookmark. He spotted his pack on the counter, which was open, and the book he’d been reading was tossed on the top. Undoubtedly, she had also discovered his ammunition.

      “I don’t know anybody named Ian Stearne,” Dahlia said, then shook her head. “No, that’s not right. He’s Lily’s neighbor.”

      Jack pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “Why don’t you sit down. This is going to take a little explaining.”

      She folded her arms over her chest without answering.

      “Mind if I do?” He met her gaze and settled into the chair. Keeping his attention firmly on her face was the only possible way to ignore the lush, sexy curves that her gesture accentuated. Mentally cursing the attraction that he didn’t want and that couldn’t have been more inappropriate under the circumstances, he marshaled his thoughts. “Your sister witnessed a murder.”

      “That’s not possible. I talk to both of my sisters every week. I would have heard. And which one?”

      Jack glanced at the sheet of paper. Linda was really… “Lily. The one who lives in California.”