The Last Landry. Kelsey Roberts

it out to him as if she was handing him a giant cootie. “I am perfect. You are bad off.”

      “Really?” Using his coat like protective gloves, he grabbed her by the shoulders, spun her around and marched her into the hallway.

      Taylor almost shrieked when she caught sight of her reflection in the beveled mirror above the highboy. Her hair was nothing but limp, brown clumps. The only part of her face not covered in mud were her eyes, making her look like some nocturnal creature.

      “Not so perfect now, eh?”

      “You’re an evil man,” she cried, twisting free and racing off to her room. She’d worry about the mud tracks on the polished wood floors after she showered and threw her clothes in the trash. Only now there was very little hope of making her class on time. That great, structured life of hers had gone to hell in a handcart rather quickly.

      Ten minutes later, a freshly showered Taylor was racing around, putting on her shoes while making an attempt at maneuvering the hair dryer one-handed. It wasn’t the best system, so she gave up, grabbing a large clip off the vanity and twisting her clean but soaking hair into a messy bundle at the back of her head.

      At least she wouldn’t be stuck in a class for three hours wearing a damp sweater, smelling like wet wool. Glancing over at the clock, she grabbed her keys and dashed toward the front door. If she ignored the posted speed limit and parked illegally, she’d only be ten or fifteen minutes late.

      “I’m leaving!” she called out, skating on her towel to clean the mud off the floor as she went.

      “For good, I hope?” Shane asked as he came out of the living room and leaned against the jamb.

      She smiled. “Soon enough, but for now, you’d be lost without me, Shane.”

      His eyes met hers. “Very true.”

      Man, she hated it when he did that! Banter worked. Moments of genuine kindness, like sacrificing his coat and cleaning the kitchen after her pie baking marathon, did not. The man didn’t play fair.

      It was easier to spar with Shane than to acknowledge his good side. Well, technically, it was a great side. But she was in too much of a hurry to deal with all that right now. “N-night,” she stammered awkwardly, moving in a wide arc to avoid even the possibility of making physical contact.

      “Do you have pencils and paper?” he asked, moving into her path.

      “It’s graduate school, Shane, not kindergarten.”

      His dark head tilted to one side; his warm, minty breath fell across her upturned face. Taylor’s pulse quickened as his fingers reached out, hovering just shy of her throat. Anticipation rushed through her system. Contradictory thoughts—Please touch me! No, don’t touch me!—ping-ponged in her mind. She struggled to keep from betraying herself completely.

      Not an easy task when she was standing in the shadow of more than six feet of absolute male perfection. His soft, cotton shirt hugged every inch of corded muscle, outlining his broad shoulders and solid torso. She tried not to notice that unlike her, his chest rose and fell rhythmically, evenly. She had to stand her ground. She knew Shane well. Suspected he would pounce at even the smallest slip in her facade.

      That was her fault. She was the one who’d put that tightrope between them. The cute-banter idea had seemed safe when she’d first arrived at the ranch and felt the tingle when he’d shaken her hand. Now it was a flimsy cover barely protecting her from the intensity of his gaze. The longing churning in her belly. The need building day by day, hour by hour, second by second.

      He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, making her shiver. “You could stay here. I’ll draw some inkblots and you can analyze me.”

      She slapped his hand away. “Pass, thanks. I don’t have time to play games with boys in men’s clothing.” She checked her watch, using that as an excuse to divert her eyes from the tractor beam of his gaze.

      “Chicken?” His tone was low and far too sexy for her comfort level.

      “No, thanks, I’ve eaten.” She inched past him. “Good night, Shane.”

      “Have a good time.” His voice was now laced with something that managed to be seductive and taunting all at the same, confusing time. She was glad to be making an escape and even happier to have an excuse to do it quickly.

      The man was annoying. He was impossible. “He does have a great butt,” she murmured as she opened her car door. That small confession brought a smile to her lips.

      A smile that vanished the instant she saw the threatening note attached to her seat by the glistening blade of a knife.

      Chapter Three

      Knife in one hand, Taylor read the note. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach. The block printing made it impossible for her to identify the writer, but the contents and the knife made the message frighteningly clear: “SHANE DID IT. THE PROOF IS IN THE ATTIC.”

      OhGodohGodohGod! This wasn’t possible. Shane was a lot of things, but not a killer. Sure, they had their tense moments, but she knew with absolute certainty that he was incapable of hurting anyone. Especially not the mother he worshiped and the father he revered.

      Why accuse him?

      Oh, God. Who could have delivered this?

      Maybe it was a joke. A sick, perverted and cruel one, but some fool’s idea of humor. She couldn’t show Shane. Not now.

      Observing him these last few weeks, she knew where he was on the bereavement scale. The initial denial stage had passed the second he’d identified his mother’s wedding ring. The anger stage had passed as well, probably because he’d transferred those emotions to the fantasies of what he’d do when the killer was caught. The funeral ritual had been an outlet for the bargaining and depression stages.

      Shane had now reached the final phase—acceptance. Yes, she knew it had been a sudden, unwelcome and painful journey, but she wasn’t about to let some weasel with a warped sense of humor set him back to square one. Crumpling the note, she decided when and if she ever found the prankster, she’d kick him, then charge him for repairing the puncture left by the knife. “Jackass,” she muttered.

      Taylor heard the sound of an approaching car and hurriedly put the knife and crumpled note inside her purse. Tossing her bag on the passenger seat, she slipped behind the wheel.

      Seth’s marked SUV pulled alongside her sedan just as Taylor turned the key, starting the engine. With a wave of her hand, she rushed off before he noticed anything was amiss. Amiss? She almost choked. That wasn’t the word for it. Amiss didn’t come close to describing the protective surge of anger churning her insides.

      SHANE WAS IN THE PROCESS of grabbing another beer when he heard the front door open and close. For a split second, he let himself hope that it might be Taylor coming back inside. Maybe she’d decided to abandon her class in favor of spending the evening with him. Yeah, sure. That was about as likely as fish learning to dance. Acknowledging that reality made him scowl.

      Seth strolled into the kitchen. “Hey,” he said by way of greeting. “What’s with Taylor?”

      Shane shrugged. “Don’t know. I never know, which probably explains why we’ve lived under the same roof for five years and I still don’t know her middle name.”

      “Sophia,” Seth replied with a brotherly sneer as he weaved toward the kitchen. “Put us all out of our misery and make your move. Get proactive, will you?”

      “Proactive? Is that from your word-of-the-day calendar? You weren’t here a few minutes ago. If you were, you’d rethink your belief that she’s hot for me. She thinks I’m a moron.”

      “You can be a moron, but that’s beside the point,” Seth teased. “Trust me on this, Shane. Time’s a-wastin’.”

      “Why do you think she’s interested in me?”