Jackson's Woman. Maggie Price

      Claire remained motionless until her vision cleared. Her breath shuddered out. Then in. Slowly, she eased into a sitting position, wincing against the pain in her ribs.

      Whatever she’d tripped over hadn’t been there when she’d locked up her shop the previous evening. Shoving her hair out of her face, she looked over her shoulder.

      Her eyes went wide when she saw the leg that jutted into the aisle. It was khaki-clad and wore a heavy, paint-spattered work boot that she recognized.

      “Mr. Smith?” Claire asked, scooting toward her handyman.

      He was sprawled on one side, his back to her. The thick gray hair that always gleamed like silver looked dull in the shadowy light.

      “Mr. Smith?” Claire repeated, her voice thready.

      He had a bad heart, had suffered a heart attack the previous year. Fingers unsteady, she leaned across his body and touched his hand. His flesh was ice-cold.

      “Oh, no.” She closed her eyes. He hadn’t turned on the alarm because he’d never left the shop. Had the poor man lain here for hours, suffering, needing help before he died?

      Heartsick, Claire pushed to her feet, flinching at the catch in her side. She needed to call the police. Her cell phone was in her purse, which had gone airborne when she fell.

      She flicked on a nearby lamp. When she leaned to retrieve her purse, a weak sweep of light illuminated the handyman’s pale face…and the gaping, bloody slit across his throat. Her brain frozen with shock, Claire stared at the dark crimson that had pooled from the wound.

      Then reality hit with a hard jolt and she pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back a scream. All at once the air around her felt too cold. Too quiet. And then she heard a faint creak, the way a floorboard protested weight, that seemed to come from above. From her apartment.

       Oh, God! Oh, God!

      Hair rising on the back of her neck, the sensation of another presence clamped like fingers around her throat. No way was she staying here to find out if Silas Smith’s killer was upstairs, waiting for her with his bloody knife.

      She spun, raced toward the front door. Her heartbeat battled her aching ribs, her temples pounded while her trembling hands fought the dead bolt. Jerking the door open, she darted out into the night that now seemed thick with shadows.

      Five feet from the door a dark form stepped into her path so suddenly Claire didn’t have a chance to evade, much less stop. Sandals skidding, she rammed into a solid, unyielding frame.

      The collision dragged a shriek from her. The hands that locked onto her shoulders were all that kept her on her feet.

      “What the hell?”

      The deep voice barely registered past the roar of blood in Claire’s ears. She recoiled against the man’s grip, but she was no match for the iron strength she felt in his hands. All she could see was a face awash in shadows; all she could think was the hands now controlling her were the same ones that had sliced her handyman’s throat.

      “Let go!”

      Blinding terror and the honed instincts of a child who’d grown up warding off advances from her mother’s numerous boyfriends blasted through Claire. Teeth bared, she bunched her right hand into a fist and swung. Her knuckles connected with his jaw, snapping his head back.

      He grunted. In the next instant, he spun her around, jerked her back and trapped her against his hard, rock-solid body.

      With her arms locked against her sides, she kicked, her heel ramming into his shin. “Let go!”

      “Dammit, Claire, it’s me.”

      She went rigid. No, it can’t be. She was so scared, she was hallucinating because there was no way she could be struggling in the thick shadows with the man from whom she’d walked away two years ago.

      But the familiar scent of musky aftershave and potent male told her different.

      “Let…go.” It was no longer solely fear that had her fighting his hold, but also shock and a desperate need to see if it was really him.

      He kept her captured against the hard press of his body a second longer, then released her. She whirled, and in the weak wash from a carriage lamp she stared up into Jackson Castle’s hard blue gaze.

      Her lungs heaved. Her throat was locked so tight she couldn’t speak. How could this be real?

      “Jackson…” she finally managed.

      His eyes swept up and down the street. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked in an almost inaudible whisper. “Who are you running from?”

      “I…” She took a step backward, then another. He was dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, making him difficult to see; only his bare arms, hands and face made him visible. She strained to get a better look at his face, but the shadows were too heavy. “What are you doing here?”

      “Tell me who you’re running from,” he demanded.

      “I…don’t know.” She fought to think past her shocked disbelief from finding her handyman murdered and plowing into Jackson Castle on her doorstep. Then her thoughts careened in on what he did for a living and she took a stumbling step backward.

      “Did…you…have anything to do with that?”

      “With what?”

      “With…. With…. Oh, God!”

      He closed the space between them, his hands locking on her shoulders again, tight, giving her a shake. “Claire, tell me what happened.”

      “He’s dead!” she blurted in a voice that even to her own ears sounded far away. “Inside. Someone slit his throat.”

      Jackson’s right hand shifted from her shoulder. “Who’s dead?”

      “Silas!”

      She didn’t see Jackson reach for it, but now he held a pistol pressed against his thigh. Her heart pounded even harder. His job required that he always carry a gun, but she’d never gotten used to that. Had been unable to get used to a lot of things about Jackson Castle’s lifestyle. “Jackson, what the hell are you doing here?”

      His fingers tightened on her shoulder. “Who is Silas?”

      “Silas Smith. My handyman.”

      “Did you see who killed him?”

      “No. I…just got home…and found him. I might have heard someone upstairs in my apartment.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure, it could have been the building settling.”

      His mouth tightened. “Is the key to the inside staircase in the same place?”

      Claire blinked. Of course Jackson remembered the key. He’d been trained to recall every detail of everything he experienced. Things like that came in handy for a man who, in addition to other duties, slipped like smoke in and out of foreign countries to deal with rebels, terrorists and fanatics.

      “The key’s still where it was, but there’s no reason for you to go into the building.” Her voice shook. “If you have your cell phone, we can call the police. I have a friend who works homicide. We can call Liz, wait for her to get here.”

      “After I check the building,” he said flatly.

      No way was Jackson going to let a possible suspect escape. And he had a good idea who that suspect might be. He had no proof Frank Ryker had managed to get into the country, much less make it to Oklahoma City. Nor would someone with his training have to resort to throat-slicing to take out a handyman. But these days his mentor and former partner was operating on icy adrenaline and hot lust for revenge so Jackson wasn’t taking chances. Not when Ryker’s ultimate goal was to kill Claire. In case he was here, Jackson had no intention of giving him a chance to melt