“You shouldn’t stay home tonight. Those men could come back. You can stay with me.”

The words came out on their own. Even as he said them, it seemed as if someone else was doing so. Sara looked just as surprised to hear them.

“Just for tonight. Until you figure out something else.” Part of him wondered who he was saying it for, her or himself.

“Okay, thank you. Let me get a few things.” Jake knew letting her stay with him was the right thing to do. She shouldn’t be alone, not in her condition. That didn’t stop him from wanting to call her back and revoke the offer. The uneasiness had returned with a vengeance, clawing at his insides with greater ferocity, for entirely different reasons than before.

Because he’d seen something else, too, shimmering faintly in her big brown eyes.

Gratitude.

And he knew more than ever that he’d finally made a mistake he’d been avoiding from the first time he’d seen the pregnant woman next door.

He’d invited her into his life. And now there was no turning back.

Kerry Connor
A Stranger’s Baby

This book was particularly challenging to write,

and is dedicated with my deepest thanks to the editors

without whom it wouldn’t exist: Sean Mackiewicz,

for making my dream of writing for Intrigue a reality and

for guiding me through the process with my first

two books; Denise Zaza, for the opportunity and

for believing in my work; and Allison Lyons, for

her kindness and patience, and for the words of

encouragement when I needed them the most. Thank you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A lifelong mystery reader, Kerry Connor first discovered romantic suspense by reading Harlequin Intrigue books and is thrilled to be writing for the line. Kerry lives and writes in Southern California.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Sara Carson—One reckless night left her pregnant with a stranger’s baby.

Jake Armstrong—A man who believes he knows nothing about family is the only one who can help the pregnant woman next door.

Mark—The mystery man who fathered Sara’s child.

Roger Halloran—He was searching for answers and more than willing to use Sara to get them.

Kendra Rogan—She said that helping young people was her top priority, but did her noble claims mask darker intentions?

Noah Brooks—The friendly young man proved a ready source of information, but did he know more than he revealed?

Adam Quinn—A man who knew when it was time to move on, but whose true motives remained in question.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Chapter One

Someone was in the house.

Sara stared into the bedroom’s darkness, wide awake when she’d been asleep seconds earlier. She wasn’t sure what had woken her from the first good sleep she’d had in weeks, any more than she knew why she was suddenly certain she was no longer alone in her home.

She simply knew.

One hand instantly moved to her belly. The other reached into the bedside table. Her fingers closed around the gun she’d put there for this very reason. Protection. A single woman living alone needed some way to defend herself.

Careful not to make a sound, Sara pulled the weapon to her and strained to hear any signs of an intruder. The pounding of her heart in her ears drowned out everything else. Even so, she didn’t think she detected anything. There was only the steady drone of the air conditioner, cranked up high because she was always hot these days. Eyes wide, she tried to spot what didn’t belong there in the darkness. Nothing moved, nothing seemed out of place.

Still, the certainty remained.

She slowly uncurled herself from the body pillow that was the only thing that had let her get any sleep the past several months and rolled onto her back. The lamp switch was just out of arm’s reach. She’d have to push herself up to get to it. Or should she even turn it on? Would the light scare off whoever might be out there or simply alert them to her presence and wakefulness, especially if she made too much noise shifting on the bed?

She should have gotten a dog, a big, scary one trained to ward off intruders. A dog would know if someone was in the house, confirming or dismissing her fears instead of leaving her searching for something that might not even be there. But she hadn’t known what she’d do with the dog when she went to the hospital. There was no one she could ask, and if she went into labor suddenly, the dog would be left behind alone in the house for days—

Her frenzied thoughts must have distracted her from her silent vigil. One moment the doorway yawned with emptiness. The next, so suddenly it seemed to have appeared in the time it took her to blink, a dark figure stood there.

He made no sound as he moved into the room, seeming to float through the passageway. Two others followed close behind.

She took no joy in the knowledge she wasn’t imagining things. Terror gripped her so suddenly she couldn’t restrain a gasp.

The sharply indrawn breath didn’t go unnoticed. The figures came to an abrupt stop, hovering there in the darkness.

“You’re awake,” she heard a low voice murmur in surprise.

“That’s right,” she said calmly, somehow managing to keep the fear out of her voice when every instinct wanted to scream. “And you’re trespassing.”

They began to drift closer again, undeterred by her words or her awareness. Suddenly she realized the one in the lead was raising his hand. The pale threads of moonlight peeking through the slats of her window blinds glinted off something he was holding.

Her heart jumped as recognition slammed into her.

A needle.

She instinctively spread her fingers wider on her abdomen, as though the small gesture could provide greater cover, more protection, to the child inside her.

“Don’t worry, Sara.” The voice came again, closer now, softened in a parody of a soothing tone. “This won’t hurt at all.”

Her response was to cock the weapon in her hand, the sound loud in the silence.

The figures froze.

She aimed right at the head of the one with the needle. “This will.”

And fired.

JAKE ARMSTRONG EASED HIMSELF out of the truck, first his good left leg, then the right that seemed to have failed him yet again. He tried to keep the weight off his right foot, gingerly setting it on the pavement and leaning on the left.

It didn’t help. A sharp pain shot down the limb starting at the knee. Gripping the door, he sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. He’d taken two pills as soon as he’d exited the all-night drugstore, downing them without water, needing them too much, hating that he did. For all the good they’d done him. The pills must not have kicked in yet.

Or maybe he’d waited too long and now would have to wait that much longer for them to start working. He hadn’t bothered refilling the prescription after he’d run out weeks ago, thinking he didn’t need the medicine anymore.

So much for that.

Damn. He’d thought he was doing well, too, enough so that he’d felt confident ignoring the initial twinges that had probably indicated something was wrong. He was used to fighting through pain. He was running farther and harder every day. He felt stronger. His old doctors would say he was pushing himself too hard, and for no reason. That he was lucky to be walking at all after they’d put his knee back together.

“Damn doctors,” he grumbled under his breath. “Don’t know what they’re talking about.” Which was exactly why they were no longer his doctors.

At least there was nobody else out on the street at two o’clock in the morning to see him hobbling around. Not for the first time, he was glad he’d gotten a place in this town outside of Boston, rather than staying in the city. The neighborhood remained still and quiet, every house darkened for the night.

He was about to slam the door shut when an explosion cut through the air, catching him off guard, causing him to stumble. Leaning into the door, he whipped his head toward the noise. He knew the sound of gunfire. It came in rapid succession, one shot after another after another.

He didn’t have to look far to determine the origin. The shots were coming from inside the house next door.

The house where the pregnant woman lived.

The bottle of pills fell from his hand, forgotten, as he reached for his cell and stabbed in the numbers. The sounds of the gunshots continued to hang in the air, uninterrupted by fresh ones.

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

“There’s gunfire coming from my neighbor’s house. She’s a pregnant woman. Lives alone.”

“What’s the address?” the dispatcher asked with admirable calm.

He quickly gave it to her, answering her follow-up questions on autopilot as he surveyed the house. No lights were on in the building; there was no way to see inside. No further sounds came from within. The closest streetlamp was on the other side of the road, its steady beam barely reaching the lawn. The driveway was empty, her vehicle likely parked inside the garage. The house itself remained shrouded in shadows. He stared into them, but detected no signs of movement.

The echo of the gunfire faded from his ears, leaving nothing but a silence so absolute that he wondered, for a heartbeat, if he’d imagined what he’d thought he’d heard. He dismissed the thought a second later. He knew what he’d heard. It had been gunfire.

Which only made the endless silence that followed and lack of movement inside the house more disturbing.

As if from a great distance, he heard the dispatcher assuring him the police were on their way and asking him to stay on the line. The final words barely reached him. He was already hanging up, moving forward as fast as his gimpy leg would let him.

It would take the police a while to get there, and even longer for an ambulance if one wasn’t called until after they arrived and determined it was necessary. She could be hurt. She could be dying, her and the baby. He couldn’t just stand there. He had to do something.

He stalked around the edge of the lawn, not wanting to cross directly and get too close too soon. Every second he braced himself, ready for another shot to come from the house, prepared to duck.

It never came. Reaching the front path, he followed it to the door. Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, he pounded on it with his fist.

“Hey—” he started to call out, only to stop abruptly, suddenly realizing he didn’t know her name. She hadn’t introduced herself after he’d moved in last month, apparently no more interested in getting to know him than he was her. They’d exchanged nothing more than brief glances across their lawns whenever they both happened to be in front of their respective homes. She’d give him a polite nod, a short, shy smile as her gaze skittered away. She was pretty, from what he could tell, but evidently not social. Not that he could judge. He wasn’t, either.

“Everything okay in there?” he asked instead.

He waited for a light to flicker on inside or for her to answer the door.

A full minute passed. Nothing happened.

He repeated the knock and the call, to no effect.

The lack of a response only stoked his tension. He tried the knob and wasn’t surprised to find it locked.

Something was going on. He had to find another way inside the house.

From what he remembered, there was another door in the back of the building. He gave a quick check in the front window. Seeing nothing, he made his way around the side of the house. The other windows were no more illuminating, in more ways than one.

He knocked on the back door, then tried the knob. It turned in his hand. The door swung open silently at his touch. He stayed by the wall, out of view of anyone inside, waiting to see what happened.

Nothing did. Silence resounded.

“Hello?” he called into the darkness.

No response.

He slowly moved through the doorway, watching for any sign of trouble. Spotting none, he reached over and flipped the light switch, revealing his neighbor’s kitchen. It was empty.

“Hello?” he called again.

Still no response. He ventured farther, keeping his eyes moving in every direction, senses on high alert. The kitchen opened onto a darkened hallway, the gloom pierced by a faint light glowing from one of the rooms. A quick glance in either direction told him the hallway was empty. Reassured, he turned and headed toward the light.

“Lady, are you okay?”

Even as he said it, the floor creaked beneath his foot, betraying his location.

“Stay back!” a voice ordered, drawing him to a halt. “I still have a couple bullets left and I’m more than ready to use them. I’m calling 9-1-1.”

The voice was strong, firm and undeniably female. He half wondered if he should ask who he was talking to, because there was no way that hardened tone could be coming from the mouth of the woman with the shy smile and retreating gaze. But who else would be calling 9-1-1? Did she have someone staying with her? He hadn’t noticed anyone, but then, he hadn’t been paying attention.

“I already did. The cops are on their way.”

She didn’t say anything to that. He stood stock-still, listening to the ragged sounds of her breathing inside the room.

“Look, I’m just going to poke my head around the corner so you can see me. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t blow it off.”

Another long silence, then a reluctant “Okay.”

Her tone wasn’t reassuring. He wondered for a few seconds if he really wanted to risk it. It seemed like he’d gone past the point of no return now. Taking a breath, he leaned over with painstaking slowness and pushed his head into the doorway.

As promised and suspected, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Even as he entered the doorway, his eyes focused on her, she made a nearly imperceptible correction, keeping them right in her sights. He had the feeling she had every intention of putting a bullet straight between them if he looked at her funny.

He did his best to ignore the gun, no easy feat, and met the steady gaze behind it. This was his neighbor, all right. His first impression was that he’d been right. She was pretty, even more than he’d expected. She had soft features, her face full and round, probably more than usual due to her condition. Not a classic beauty, but definitely attractive.

There was nothing soft about her expression. Dark brown eyes met his, unblinking.

The hands that held the gun were steady, as unwavering as her stare. She might be on edge, but there was no doubt she knew exactly what she was doing, and was ready to do whatever else she thought she had to.

“Hi,” he said lamely. “We haven’t officially been introduced. I’m Jake Armstrong. I moved into the house next door last month. I just came over to make sure you’re okay.”

Her gaze raked over his face, as though scrutinizing every inch for any sign he wasn’t who he said he was or who he appeared to be. He waited, hoping to high hell he passed her inspection.

Finally, just when he was about to coax her to do just that, she lowered the gun. Not entirely. No more than a few inches really. Her finger didn’t release the trigger, leaving the impression she was prepared to jerk the weapon back up and fire at the slightest provocation.

Still, it was a start.

Her expression didn’t relax, either. Her gaze narrowed, slowly traveling down the length of him and back again. She gave a small nod, as though satisfied. “You’re not one of them.”

“Who?”

“The people who broke in to my house. You’re too big.”

Not the first time he’d heard that one. “Who was it? What did they want?”

“I don’t know.”

A troubled note entered her voice, and the hard lines of her expression softened slightly, betraying the first hint of the fear she must have been feeling. She eased her left hand off her weapon and moved it onto the swell of her belly, as though reassuring herself it was still there, still safe.

His eyes tracked the gesture, a feeling of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. The obvious answer would have been robbery. That she hadn’t said so must mean she believed it was something else. Something related to her baby, judging from the way her hand clutched her stomach.

Why would someone break in to her house because of her baby?

A few answers came to mind, none of them good.

And he had to wonder just what would have happened here if she hadn’t had that gun.

Chapter Two

“I’m telling you, I was not dreaming.”

Sara did her best to fight her rising impatience, but was still unable to keep the aggravation completely out of her tone.

The police officer who’d finally responded to her neighbor’s 9-1-1 call gave her that condescending look that was the cause of most of her irritation. Then he opened his mouth and delivered the source of the rest of it.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Carson, but like I said, we checked the whole house and weren’t able to find any signs that anyone else was here. There’s no indication the door was tampered with, no footprints inside or outside the house. No blood or any other reason to believe you shot anybody.”

“They ducked and ran,” she said for what seemed like the millionth time.

The officer—Dawson, she recalled him introducing himself—didn’t even acknowledge the interruption. “None of your neighbors saw anything, and you say nothing was taken.”

“That’s because I scared them off before they had the chance,” she returned. “Not that I think they were here to steal anything.”

“Right,” he said on a sigh. “The needle. Are you sure that’s what you saw? If the lights were off, in the dark…”

“It was shiny, and they said ‘This won’t hurt.’ It was a needle.”

“Do you know of any reason why someone might break in and try to harm you or your baby?”

“No.”

“Who else has a key?”

“No one.”

“And you’re sure you locked the back door before you went to bed?”

“Yes.”

The officer sighed again. “Ms. Carson, you said you haven’t been sleeping well. A woman living alone, in your condition, it’s understandable you might have a bad dream, or think you see something that isn’t there—”

“I’m pregnant, not deranged.”

His eyebrows went up and his gaze slid away, an expression that clearly said “Is there a difference?” She hadn’t missed the wedding ring on his finger and wondered briefly if he had kids. If so, she hoped he’d been more empathetic to his wife than he was being with her. Or maybe that experience was the cause of his current attitude.

Sara shot a glance at the other officer standing in the living-room doorway. He had a small smirk on his face, with slightly more impatience. She wouldn’t be getting any help from him.

She returned her attention to Dawson. “I know what happened,” she said stubbornly.

“I know you believe that. We just have to go by the evidence.”

“So you’re not going to do anything?”

Dawson held out his hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m not sure what I can do. Even if there was somebody here, we don’t have any way of tracking them down unless there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

Even if there was, what was the point? It wasn’t as if what she had told him had done her any good. “There’s not.”

“Look at it this way. If somebody did break in, they probably won’t be coming back. I’d say you did a darn good job scaring them off. They won’t want to mess with you again.”

“I guess,” she muttered, unconvinced for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, but which scared her all the same.

“Tell you what. I’ll have somebody drive by a couple times the rest of the night, just to make sure everything looks okay.”

There was a definite note of finality in his tone. Even as he said it, he was rising from his seat. Clearly they’d wasted enough time on the delusional pregnant woman.

“Fine,” she said begrudgingly. She didn’t bother to rise with him. They’d be able to make it to the next county by the time she hoisted herself from the chair.

Touching the brim of his hat, he offered one last “Ma’am” and headed to the door, following the other officer out.

As soon as they were gone, Sara wiped a hand over her face and released the frustrated breath she’d been holding. She knew she hadn’t imagined what had happened. Someone had broken in to her home, someone who’d intended to harm her. There just didn’t seem to be any way to prove it.

Which meant she was on her own to figure out what to do now. Not that that was anything new.

A soft tap against the door frame startled her. Her eyes flew to the entryway, her heart in her throat. Her neighbor stood there, the sight instantly reassuring. Jake, he’d said his name was. Just like the first time she’d seen him, she was struck by his sheer size, which was only emphasized in the smaller confines of her house. The man was massive, well over six feet tall and brawny, his shoulders filling the frame, his head barely clearing the ceiling. His size was such a defining characteristic that she’d had no trouble knowing he wasn’t involved in the break-in. She would have recognized this mountain coming at her in the dark.

From the few glimpses she’d had of him when they’d nodded to each other in passing, he’d struck her as deeply intimidating. Up close, he was slightly less so, if only because she could see his face more clearly. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but there was definitely something appealing in the blunt masculinity of his features. He’d always had this fierce expression on his face. She’d never seen him smile. He wasn’t now, either.

“I guess I’ll take off, too,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” she said, because it was easier than trying to convince someone else otherwise. Just hallucinating,evidently. “I never thanked you for calling 9-1-1 and coming over to check things out.”

He nodded shortly, lowering his eyes, as though embarrassed by her gratitude. “Don’t mention it. What are neighbors for, right?”

“Right,” she echoed with a pang of guilt, all too aware she hadn’t really lived up to that unspoken rule. She’d done what she always did, kept to herself. Because it was easier. Because she was a coward. But then, until tonight, so had he.

“The back door is locked. I can get the front on my way out.”

His way out. He was leaving. And she’d be alone. “Great,” she said, her tension tangling in knots in her stomach.

Her nervousness must have come across loud and clear. “If you don’t feel safe, maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Call a friend.”

Sara shook her head, embarrassed to admit the truth. “I don’t know anyone around here.”

If he wondered why she didn’t when she’d lived here longer than he had, he didn’t comment on it. His expression didn’t change. “Get a hotel room for the night.”

“Maybe I will,” she said halfheartedly, already thinking of all the things she’d have to do. It would take her a while to get some things together—another reason she should have put her overnight bag for the hospital together by now—and she’d have to call a cab to take her, since she didn’t trust herself to drive in her current state. Given how fast she moved these days, it would probably be dawn by the time she made it to a hotel. Hardly worth the trouble, since she didn’t think they would try anything in broad daylight.

It was the hours until then that worried her.

“Well, if you stay, I wouldn’t worry about it,” her neighbor said. “You’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she replied, because there didn’t seem to be anything else she could say.

For a long moment he didn’t say anything either or make a move for the door. She felt a brief hope that he might linger. Desperation fueled the feeling from a flicker to a full-blown inferno that swept through her.

Please stay.

It was such a ridiculous impulse she didn’t even start to open her mouth to form the words. She didn’t know this man. He didn’t owe her anything, had already done more for her than most people would have bothered with, risking himself to come over and investigate. Asking for anything more would be too much.

But if he offered to do it himself…

He cleared his throat, not looking at her. “Okay, then. Good night.”

Disappointment washed over her, the feeling too familiar to have much of an impact.

“Good night,” she murmured.

He turned and walked out of the doorway. She listened to his heavy tread retreating, the sound of the front door closing, then to the empty silence echoing around her.

Apprehension clawed up her spine, prickling at the nape of her neck. She scanned the familiar space of her living room. The bookshelves filled from top to bottom on one wall. The comfortable, mismatched furniture, each piece personally chosen. She tried to tell herself that she was just as safe here as she’d been before she’d gone to bed. Maybe the officers were right. Maybe it had just been a bad dream.

Maybe…

But try as she might, she couldn’t make herself believe any of it. The truth remained too vivid in her memory.

She unconsciously rubbed a hand over her belly. “Just you and me, little guy,” she whispered, getting a kick against her palm in response. She couldn’t be disappointed. It was how she’d expected it to be from the beginning. Just her and the baby.

She’d just never felt more alone than she did in that moment.

Or more afraid.

JAKE TRIED NOT TO FEEL guilty as he left his neighbor’s house. She’d be fine. He’d talked to the cops himself, heard how they hadn’t found anything. They’d seemed convinced she’d just had a bad dream, fueled by pregnancy hormones and a lack of sleep, and suffered an extreme reaction, firing at phantoms that weren’t there. It made more sense than people breaking in to her house to attack her and leaving no trace of their presence behind.

Besides, he couldn’t let himself get involved. A pregnant woman, with no sign of a father in the picture, was exactly the kind of woman he couldn’t be around. She could grow attached too easily, come to depend on him. And he didn’t have anything to offer her, or her kid.

His reasons made sense. They just didn’t help erase the uneasy feeling that dogged him as he made his way back to his house.

She’d seemed so sure.

The look in her eyes tugged at him. When she’d stared at him over the gun. When they’d said their goodbyes moments ago. There’d been dark shadows beneath her eyes, a sign that she wasn’t sleeping much, as she’d said. But her eyes had been clear and focused. Afraid.

And sure.

His gut clenched. Was it possible? The cops hadn’t ventured much beyond the house, finding enough, or not enough, there to satisfy their belief that she’d imagined the whole thing. But then, there’d only been two of them, not really enough to do a thorough search. If they thought something had really happened, they might have called for more officers.

He stopped midway between his house and hers, considering. If someone had broken in to her house, they’d probably used the back door, the one he’d found unlocked. And they likely wouldn’t have approached the house from the front and made their way to the back from there, in plain view of the street. They would have approached from behind.

He slowly turned in that direction. Several rows of trees lined the backs of their houses, forming a thick natural border with the homes on the other side. If someone had broken in to her house, the best way to approach—and to disappear—was through the trees, maybe even parking in the driveway of the house on the other side. He didn’t know for sure, but he thought he remembered something about that house being empty. There would be no one to notice a vehicle arriving in the middle of the night and making use of its driveway.

Before he could question the impulse, he quickly moved back to his truck and retrieved a flashlight, then headed toward her backyard. It was a cloudy night, the moon only briefly and occasionally showing itself. The trees lay covered in darkness.

Switching on the light, he reached the edge of the woods behind her house and floated the beam across the ground. It didn’t take him long to spot where the dirt had been disturbed. He crossed to the location and leaned closer, having no trouble identifying the marks.

Fresh footprints.

There was no reason they should be there. He couldn’t picture his neighbor wandering around back here, leaving a cluster of footprints in shoes that looked too big to be hers. He didn’t know why someone from the other side would be over here, even if the house was occupied. She might have had somebody working in her backyard, although he couldn’t think of a reason they’d have been back this far. Not to mention the lawn didn’t look like it had been mowed that week.

The prints were messy and indistinct, as though whoever had made them had been moving too quickly to leave much of an impression. Quickly, as if they were running from a pregnant woman with a gun?

Jake stared at the marks for a long moment, trying to convince himself he wasn’t putting more stock in them than he should be. He had no reason to believe the impressions were connected to what had happened in her house tonight, and every reason to believe nothing had occurred.

Unless the intruders had been so careful to leave no trace of their presence that in their haste they overlooked this one, maybe counting on someone to discount it.

Unless he’d just missed them disappearing into the darkness as he came around the side of the house.

Unless he was already inside when they started their vehicle and drove away, if the sound had even been audible from the house.

Troubled by where his thoughts were leading him, he headed back to his house. He couldn’t call the cops with something so inconclusive. They hadn’t been inclined to believe her. He didn’t think they’d be happy to be called back for this, if they did come back. He wondered if he should tell his neighbor. She might feel better knowing there could be reason to think she was right. Or she might be better off believing she wasn’t instead of scaring her more.

Remembering the pills he’d dropped in the driveway, he started to the front of the house. He was almost there when he saw it. A car parked on the other side of the street, facing him. It sat just out of reach of the nearest streetlamps on either side, the faintest edges of their glow falling mere feet short of illuminating it. Instead, it was nearly invisible, a dark-colored sedan blending into the shadows. Still, he could see the single figure sitting in the front seat. And though he couldn’t see the person’s face, he suddenly knew without a doubt the driver was watching his neighbor’s house.

He’d kept an eye on the street while they had waited for the police. The car hadn’t been sitting there then.

Before he even thought about it, he started toward the vehicle.

He’d barely gone three steps when the driver suddenly jerked forward in his seat. The engine roared to life. Jake started to pick up speed, muscles tensing in readiness to break out into a run. That damn pain shot down his leg, causing him to miss a step.

The sedan burst forward, leaping away from the curb and onto the street with a screech of its tires. He could do nothing but watch the car tear down the street, moving so fast he couldn’t even get the license plate number.

Biting back a curse, he drew in a ragged breath. His shoulders slumped, seeming to weigh a thousand pounds each. He should be used to his body failing him by now. That didn’t make it any easier to take.

He’d started to turn back toward his house when his gaze fell on his neighbor’s. The curtain in the front window shifted slightly. She must have looked out to see what the noise was.

Grimacing, he changed direction, heading for her front door. The curtain shifted again. He knew she was watching.

By the time he made it to the door, she was already opening it a crack, peering out over the chain she kept fastened. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t think you were imagining anything.”

Her eyes went wide. She slammed the door shut. He heard the sound of the chain being withdrawn before she pulled the door open farther, the other hand braced protectively on her belly.

“What are you talking about?”

“There are fresh footprints by the trees behind your house. And that car was sitting across the street. I think the driver was watching your house.”

She swallowed hard, looking as if she was going to be sick. “I knew it was real.”

“They could come back. You shouldn’t stay here.”

“I have my gun.”

“Next time they might, too.”

He saw the words hit home. She gave her head a shaky nod. “You’re right. I’ll go to a hotel or something….”

Her voice wobbled just the slightest bit, enough that he felt it like a low blow in his gut. She looked scared and vulnerable, as if she wanted to look over her shoulder and make sure there was nobody there, waiting to jump out at her from inside her own home. Which suddenly seemed all too possible. Hell, how did either of them know somebody hadn’t managed to break back in again? They had already managed to do it one time without leaving any trace.

As if she was thinking the same thing, her other hand went to her stomach, her arms stretching low. She looked as if she wanted to wrap her arms around herself.

No, not herself. Her baby.

Something painful hit him in the chest. Hard.

“You can stay with me.”

The words came out on their own. Even as he said them, it seemed as if someone else was doing so. She looked just as surprised to hear them as he was, blinking up at him, her mouth falling open in a soft O.

“Just for tonight,” he said roughly. “Until you figure out something else.” Part of him wondered who he was saying it for, her or himself.

For a long moment she didn’t say anything, staring at him, her eyes round and dazed. Then she nodded unsteadily. “Okay. Just for tonight. Let me get a few things.”

She retreated back into the house. He watched her waddle away. He knew letting her stay with him was the right thing to do. She shouldn’t be alone, not in her condition, not the way she was feeling. That didn’t stop him from wanting to call her back and revoke the offer. The uneasiness had returned with a vengeance, clawing at his insides with greater ferocity, for entirely different reasons than before.

Because he’d seen something else, too, shimmering faintly in her big brown eyes.

Gratitude.

And he knew more than ever that he’d finally made the mistake he’d been avoiding from the first time he’d seen the pregnant woman next door.

Chapter Three

Jake held open the front door of his house for her. Sara stepped over the threshold, feeling almost as though she was stepping into a brand-new world.

A few hours ago, she’d never spoken to this man. Now she was spending what was left of the night in his home.

Of course, several things had happened to her in the past few hours that had never happened before. At least this one might be relatively positive.

It was only when she heard him close and lock the door behind them that she felt a moment’s trepidation. She looked back at him, so big he nearly rendered the door superfluous, blocking the entire entryway himself. What if he was involved with the people who’d invaded her home and this was all part of some ploy to get her to his house where she’d be completely at his mercy? Or even if it wasn’t, how did she know she was safe with this man? She didn’t know anything about him. No one knew where she was. He could make her disappear and no one would ever know.

Then he turned around, allowing her to see the frown on his face. It hadn’t shifted since he’d made the invitation. He’d made it clear the offer had been grudging at best, hardly the attitude to project if he’d wanted to give her a false sense of security.

Sara grimaced at her own foolish paranoia, forcing herself to relax slightly. She was letting the night’s events go to her head.

Not to mention the fact that he’d barely looked at her since offering the invitation. Even now, he didn’t, moving past her toward a hallway. “You can take my bed,” he said gruffly.

“Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got. There’s a spare bedroom, but I never bothered to put a bed in there.” Whether or not he’d intended it, she didn’t miss the unspoken message in his words. He hadn’t expected, or wanted, guests. “I’m sure you need it more than I do.”

“Honestly, I doubt I’ll get any sleep the rest of the night. And I sleep better sitting up these days anyway.” At least without her body pillow, which she’d forgotten, not even thinking about sleeping. She had so much adrenaline pumping through her system it felt as if she’d never sleep again. “Just point me in the direction of a comfortable chair and I’ll be set.”

Looking unconvinced, he finally waved an arm toward the living room. Following the motion, she made her way to a chair a few feet away. The room was barely furnished. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he’d just moved in that day. A flatscreen TV was installed on one wall directly in front of the chair. Some weights, an exercise mat and a workout bench were clustered in one corner. A card table set up beside the chair bore a few magazines. All sports-related, she noted, as she lowered herself into the seat.

Folding his arms over his chest, he leaned a shoulder against the wall. She realized with a start that the chair she’d gravitated toward was the only seat in the living room other than the bench. Boy, this place really wasn’t intended to accommodate guests in any way.

“Do you want to call the police?” he asked.

“And tell them what? There was a car sitting outside my house? I’m sure they’ll want to rush right over for that, especially since they didn’t believe me before.” She wiped a hand across her forehead. “I’ll go to the police station in the morning. Hopefully I’ll find somebody who might be more willing to believe me.”

“I’ll go with you.” She must have seemed surprised, because he shrugged his free shoulder. “I’m the one who saw the car, right?”

“Of course.” This time they couldn’t claim she’d imagined it. At the very least, it would have to be a shared delusion. “It’s weird, though.”

“What?”

“If whoever was in the car was one of the same people who broke in to my house, why would he park right across the street, for everyone to see after going to all the trouble of coming through the backyard the first time?”

“Could be they were just checking to make sure the coast was clear. As soon as they were sure the police were gone, they’d go around back and try again.”

“Maybe,” she said, unable to keep the doubt from her voice. It still felt as if something wasn’t adding up. “How many people were in the car?”

“It was dark. I could only see the driver.”

“There were three people in my house. I’m sure of it.”

“The big question is how they got inside in the first place.”

“I don’t know. The police said the locks hadn’t been tampered with, and I know I locked the back door.”

“I noticed you don’t have a security system.”

“It never seemed necessary. This is supposed to be a safe community. It’s one reason I moved here. I’m sure you don’t have one, either.” He signaled his agreement with a terse jerk of his head. “Logically, the only way they could have gotten in was with a key. But I’ve never given one to anybody.”

“Do you have one hidden somewhere around the house in case you get locked out?”

“No.”

“Maybe they stole yours somehow and made a copy without your knowledge.”

Sara suppressed a shudder. He’d reached the same conclusion she had. “That would mean they put some forethought into this, actually planned it for some time before going through with it. But who would do that? And why?”

“You really don’t know why anyone would attack you?”

She gave her head a vigorous shake. “No.”

He nodded at her belly. “What about the father?”

“He’s not in the picture.”

Something in her tone must have grabbed his suspicions, because his gaze sharpened. “How ‘not in the picture’ is he?”

“Completely. He doesn’t even know about the baby.”

“Because you didn’t tell him?” She nodded. “What if he found out on his own? He might not have been too happy to find out you kept it a secret.”

“No, it’s not like that—” Sara swallowed a sigh. She’d known it would likely come to this, but had still held out some small hope that she could avoid the question. And the answer. She’d almost been relieved when the police hadn’t bothered asking. Their lack of belief in her intruders had had that benefit at least.

For eight and a half months she hadn’t told a single person. She’d deftly avoided her doctor’s questions, and there hadn’t been anyone else to tell. That was one good thing about her solitary existence. It made it easier to avoid embarrassing questions.

That seemed less likely to be the case if she managed to convince the police to believe her. Like Jake, they would probably want to know more about the circumstances that led to her present state. If she did have to tell, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a practice run at it with someone who didn’t really care either way.

She took a breath. “I don’t know who he is.”

To his credit, Jake didn’t even blink. He simply gave a solemn nod in response. “Well, if you give the cops the names of the potential fathers, they can probably track them down and see where they might have been tonight.”

Another, deeper, breath. “That’s not what I meant. I know when and with whom I got pregnant. I just don’t know his name. It was a one-time thing.”

“And you didn’t get his name.”

It was probably her imagination, but she thought she heard the first trace of judgment in his tone. She stared him straight in the eye and tried to fight the heat she felt rising in her cheeks. “He said his name was Mark.”

“No last name?”

“I assume he has one. He just didn’t share it with me.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“No.”

“Did you tell him your full name?”

“No, just my first.”

“Does he know where you live?”

“I didn’t tell him, no.”

“Still, it’s not a big town. If he saw you on the street or something…”

“It happened in the city.”

“So there’s no reason to believe he has any idea where to find you, or that you’re pregnant.”

“That’s right. Like I said, he’s not involved.”

“And there’s nobody else you can think of who might have reason to break into your house and attack you?”

“No.”

Clearly stumped, he shook his head. “Then I don’t know. Hopefully the police can figure it out.” He pushed away from the door frame. “I should let you rest.”

“And I’m sure I’ve kept you up longer than you intended.”

He nodded shortly, which she took to be a sign of agreement. “Feel free to use the TV. Yell if you need anything. I’ll leave the door open in case you do.”

“Okay.”

With another tight nod, he turned away and stalked toward the hallway. Not for the first time, she noticed the slight hitch in his step, the way he slightly favored his left leg over the right. She’d wondered about its cause, but wasn’t about to ask. It really wasn’t any of her business.

She watched his broad back receding. He was almost out of sight when she felt the outburst pressing against her throat. She couldn’t hold it back.

“Jake?”

It was the first time she’d said his name, and she immediately realized they hadn’t established if they were on a first-name basis. For his part, he hadn’t called her anything besides the “lady” he’d used when he’d entered her house. Another way of maintaining some semblance of distance between them, she supposed. She wondered if he’d take offense at her familiarity.

He stopped, his shoulders tensing. He didn’t look back.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick, “for—”

“Don’t mention it.”

The words were tossed over his shoulder without a glance back. As soon as they were out, he started moving again, not waiting for a response. Seconds later he disappeared into the bedroom. As he’d said, he left the door open. She waited for a light to come on. It didn’t. He must have decided not to bother.

She settled back in the chair, trying not to take his reaction for the rejection it was. He was simply reminding her of a truth she’d be better off remembering. He wasn’t her friend. He was barely an acquaintance. Her neighbor, nothing more.

For tonight, though, it was enough. And she had more important things to worry about in the morning.

The reminder brought back everything that had happened that night. He’d left all the lights in the living room on for her. She should have felt safe. But the room opened onto the kitchen, and when she glanced to her right, she had a clear view of both the windows over the sink and in the back door. And once she saw them, she couldn’t look away.

The windows gaped with darkness. There was no light on outside the back door. The backyard was out there, and beyond it, the trees. Where he’d found footprints.

Anyone could be out there.

Anyone might be.

Eyes wide, Sara swallowed the hard lump that formed in her throat. Rubbing a hand over her belly, she stared at the windows, into the darkness, and desperately wished for morning to come.

Chapter Four

Sara didn’t know how she managed to get any sleep during the endless night. She only knew that she had, when she found herself prodded awake by a familiar urge.

Sunlight filtered in through the windows she’d stared at for so long. It was morning. Slowly hoisting herself from the chair, she moved toward the hallway, already having located the bathroom during an earlier trip in the middle of the night.

She’d just reached the corridor when her neighbor stepped through the still open doorway of his bedroom.

Her drowsiness vanished in an instant, her eyes going wide. Like her, he’d obviously just gotten up. He was tousle-haired and bare-chested, dressed only in a pair of skimpy shorts that didn’t even stretch halfway to his knees and hardly managed to contain his thighs. She tried to avoid looking at the impressive bulge between them. God knew there was plenty else to look at.

She’d known he was muscular; that was apparent even when he was dressed. It was something else entirely to see him without clothes, to see just how hard and toned his body was. There wasn’t a stray ounce of fat anywhere, only firm skin stretched over taut muscle. His arms were massive, as big around as his thighs.

A tremor of awareness, so unexpected, so unfamiliar, quaked through her, rumbling upward from the pit of her stomach.

He detected her presence a moment after she spotted him, coming to a stop just outside his bedroom. He dragged a hand over his face, the eyes narrowed with sleepiness only widening the slightest bit. “’Morning,” he said, his voice a hoarse rumble.

“Good morning,” she murmured. “I was just…” She waved a hand toward the bathroom.

He nodded. “Go ahead.” Before she could respond, he ducked back into his bedroom.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, she shuffled back into the living room. He was standing at the front window, pulling a curtain back slightly with one finger and peering out. He’d pulled a T-shirt on, an impossibly large swath of cloth covering the wide expanse of his back, but hadn’t bothered with pants. He was still wearing those impossibly short shorts.

An ache started low in her belly as her gaze tracked down the curve of his back to the outline of his buttocks and those substantial thighs, firm as barrels and lightly dusted with dark hair—

She jerked her eyes up, heat filling her cheeks, even though his back was turned and there was no way he could see her. There wasn’t nearly enough of the window exposed for him to see her reflected in it. That didn’t prevent her embarrassment. What was she doing?

Hormones, she thought. She was pregnant and horny. There was certainly no denying it as she couldn’t quite prevent her gaze from slipping lower again, a rush of adrenaline surging through her.

“The car’s back.”

Her thoughts were so distracted that it took a moment for the words to sink in. “Hmm?”

“I can’t tell if it’s the same one, but I’d bet anything it is. It’s sitting in damn near the same spot it was last night.”

What he was saying finally managed to break through the heady rush of hormones, killing the delicious thrill.

The car. Last night.

All her tension, all the fear that she’d only managed to shake came rushing back. She frowned, her stomach clenching.

The reason he was only pulling back the curtain a little bit finally hit her. He didn’t want whoever was out there to know he was watching.

The same way that person was watching them.

Or was he? Did he know she was at Jake’s, or was he still watching her house?

Moving as quickly as she could, Sara crossed the room to his side. “Can you see the license plate?”

“No. It’s too bright. The sun’s hitting it just right and making it too hard to see.”

He looked down, then started, as if surprised to see her there. A flicker of…something slid along her nerve endings. She hadn’t realized just how close she’d come to him, focused solely on what he was looking at. She was standing right next to him, as close as they could possibly be without touching. Much closer than common courtesy dictated. She should step back.

Instead, she could only stare up into his eyes, feeling his closeness, unable to move.

Gray, she thought distantly. His eyes were gray. The color of storm clouds on a rainy day.

Abruptly the connection was broken. It was he who stepped back, away from her, letting the curtain fall. A flash of some unreadable emotion passed over those eyes she now knew were gray. He frowned, dropping his gaze. “Take a look.”

Strangely, inexplicably shaken, she slid over partly into the space he’d vacated and pushed the curtain ever so slightly to the side.

The bright morning sunlight blinded her for a moment. It took a few seconds for her vision to clear. Gradually the vehicle came into focus. It was as he’d said. There was a black sedan parked on the other side of the street, slightly down from her house, no doubt offering a good view of it without being right out front. The light bounced off the body and windows, making it impossible to see who was inside.

“I don’t suppose it would do any good to try and confront him,” she said.

“I’d bet anything he’d drive away as soon as he saw me coming.”

She shot him a glance. “You? I think I’d like to have a word with him to find out why the hell he’s watching my house.”

Jake stared down at her. So gradually she didn’t realize it was happening at first, a hint of wry humor entered his gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his mouth twitching. “You really think you could move fast enough to catch him?”

“Maybe not,” she conceded. “But I wouldn’t mind trying.”

He continued looking at her, that unfamiliar glint in his eyes, that barely discernible smile on his lips.

A strange flutter in her belly, she turned back to the window. Almost as soon as she did, she heard the sound of an engine starting. Moments later the car pulled away from the curb.

“He’s leaving.”

Beside her, she felt Jake moving away. She tried to read the license plate, only to be distracted when the driver’s door came into view. He must have had the window down, because it was sliding upward as he moved past, the raised glass reflecting the sunlight, cutting him off from view. She’d seen only enough to confirm her suspicion that it was probably a man.

In the back of her mind she registered the sound of the front door opening. When the car was gone, she turned to see Jake stepping back inside the house. He quickly moved to the table, grabbed a pen and jotted something down.

“I got the make and license plate number. Did you see him?” Jake asked.

Sara shook her head, letting the curtain drop. “No. He rolled up his window.”

“I guess it’s time to try the police again. Let me get dressed and we can go.”

He moved away without waiting for her response, heading down the hall. Her eyes helplessly, hungrily tracked every motion, every shift of his shoulders, every flex of his buttocks and thighs, until he disappeared into the bedroom.

Once he was out of view she gave herself a shake. Hormones, she thought again on a sigh. She hadn’t been this aware of a man since…Well, since the night that landed her in her current condition.

And if she needed a reminder of exactly why she needed to get a grip, that certainly did it.

“AND THEN IT DROVE AWAY,” Sara said, even as she wondered why she was bothering. Detective Baxter wasn’t taking her seriously.

Worse, he was barely paying attention to her. Other than a cursory glance in her direction while she was speaking to signal he was supposedly listening, his gaze kept drifting back to Jake, seated beside her in front of the detective’s desk.

Having reached the end of her patience, she was about to say something about it when Baxter shot upright in his chair. He snapped his fingers and grinned broadly at Jake.

“Football. Linebacker, right?”

He might as well have started speaking gibberish. Bewildered, Sara glanced at Jake to see if he knew what the man was talking about.

From the tightness that gripped his features, he did. His lips thinned. “Right.”

“I knew you looked familiar. You got hurt last year.”

“Yeah.”

“I saw that game. Man, that injury looked brutal.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “It was.”

“You know, the local high school team’s going to start practice up again pretty soon. I’m sure they’d love it if you could talk to them.”

“Sorry. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be around, with the season starting up and all.”

The detective’s eyebrows shot sky-high. “You looking to get back in the game?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“I heard your career was over.”

“We’ll see.”

Based on his curt, mostly monosyllabic answers, Sara thought it was obvious Jake didn’t want to talk about it. The detective still leaned forward expectantly, as though he expected Jake to elaborate.

Jake stared back. He didn’t say a word.

When the silence went on too long, Sara cleared her throat.

Baxter glanced at her, annoyance flickering across his face before his expression regained its condescending coolness.

“Ms. Carson, I’ll take down your report, but I’m not sure what else I can do. There’s still no sign anybody was in your house. All you’ve given me is some footprints that could have been left there anytime and a car that could have been there for any reason.”

Sara tried to swallow her rising anger in the face of the man’s condescension. Evidently that particular trait was a common one in the local police department. “A car that took off as soon as its driver realized it was spotted.”

“No offense, but a lot of people might be intimidated seeing this guy coming at them in the dark, even if they’re not doing anything wrong.” He grinned at Jake.

Jake stared back, unimpressed.

Baxter’s grin quickly died. He straightened in his seat. “We also had a car drive by a couple of times as promised and they didn’t see anything suspicious.”

“Because whoever was out there had already been scared off. Maybe for a second time, if it was the same people who broke in to my house in the first place.”

The detective sighed. “Look, I’ll run the plate and see if anything suspicious comes up. If something else happens, let us know. Other than that, there’s not much I can do.”

Recognizing the finality in both his words and his tone, and figuring she’d wasted enough of her time with this man, Sara forced herself to offer a cordial “Thank you for your time.” She would have loved to say something more cutting, but there was still the chance she might need this man’s help, if she ever managed to convince him there was something he could help her with.

More than ready to get out of there, she started the arduous process of getting to her feet. She’d barely moved before Jake was standing before her, offering his hand. With a grateful smile, she accepted the hand and let him help her up, doing her best to ignore the jolt that shot up her arm when his large, warm fingers closed around hers and threatened to swallow them whole.

When they finally stepped outside the police station, she heaved a sigh, pleased to be out of there, if not about anything else. “Well, that was a waste of time. I’m sorry you came all the way down here for nothing.”

“We had to try, at any rate.”

“Too bad all we accomplished was giving Baxter a thrill for the day.” She glanced up at him, her eyebrows raised. “I didn’t know you were a celebrity.”

His expression hardened. “I’m not.”

Moving slowly, they started toward his truck, which was parked at the curb just down the block. “People know who you are. I’m pretty sure that makes you a celebrity.”

“Depends who the people are. You didn’t know who I was.”

She grimaced apologetically. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow sports.”

“A lot of people don’t. Even a lot of people who do wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a lineup. Not much of a celebrity. I’m fine with that.”

And he was, she thought, remembering how uncomfortable he’d been when the detective recognized him. That would teach her to stereotype. She would have assumed a professional athlete would be flashier, more of a glory hound. Or maybe he’d simply grown beyond that since it appeared his glory days were behind him.

“Is it true what he said?” she asked carefully. “You were injured?”

“Yeah.”

“How bad was it?”

“Blew out my knee. Had surgery to put it together again, but I’m still trying to get back to where I was.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is,” he said, clear dismissal in his tone. They’d reached the truck. Jake pulled the passenger door open for her.

After helping her get in, he closed the door and moved around to his side. “What do you want to do now?” he asked.

“Do you remember that license plate number?”

“Sure.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll run it myself. Give it to me.”

Jake was so surprised that he could only obey, watching as she quickly typed a text message and hit Send.

She shoved the phone back into her purse. “She’ll get back to me ASAP.”

“You have somebody who can run license plates for you?”

She grinned. “Yep. Who needs the cops, anyway?”

For a moment he was struck dumb and could only stare into that big, beautiful smile, so different from anything he’d ever seen or expected to see on her face. He’d thought she was pretty before. The smile only confirmed it. Her whole face seemed to light up with it.

And then the smile was fading, her eyes flickering uncertainly, her self-consciousness clear. “What?”

He cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone dry, and pushed his key into the ignition. “Nothing. Why didn’t you contact her earlier?”

“It didn’t seem worth the trouble if we were coming to see the police, anyway. I guess I was hoping they would do their jobs and I wouldn’t have to bother.”

Starting the engine, he smoothly pulled away from the curb. “So who is this person? Somebody with the state?”

“No, someone who does research for me with resources she says I’m probably better off not knowing about. I have a feeling she’s right about that. All that matters is she can find out just about anything I need.”

“Research?” he echoed. “Maybe I should be asking what you do.”

She hesitated and lowered her eyes, her sudden tension clear. “I’m a writer.”

“What do you write?”

Another hesitation. “Books.”

“Anything I’d have heard of?”

“It’s kind of private.”

“More private than what you told me last night?”

She sighed and said nothing. For a moment he wasn’t sure she was going to respond. “You heard of Brock Marshall?”

It took him a few seconds to make the connection. Brock Marshall was the main character in a series of action thrillers, a globe-trotting mercenary whose sex-filled, überviolent escapades had slowly developed a loyal audience. The fourth one had come out a couple months ago and quickly become the biggest one yet, making a bunch of bestseller lists. There was even talk of a movie being developed, except none of the current stock of Hollywood pretty boys could live up to the embodiment of raw masculinity that Marshall represented. Jake had read a couple of the books himself and knew plenty of guys who loved them, even among men who didn’t do much reading beyond the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. The books were written by—

His train of thought came to a screeching halt. He whipped his head toward her in disbelief. “You’re S.J. Carson?”

Her eyes were downcast and there was a tightness in her expression, as if she was bracing herself for his reaction. “I see you have heard of him.”

He quickly returned his attention to the road. “Sure.” S.J. Carson was the credited author of the Brock Marshall books. The book jacket didn’t say much about the author, just that he was a world traveler working on his next book or something.

Except now that Jake thought about it, the short one-line bio didn’t exactly say Carson was a he. That just seemed to be the natural assumption. Given the sense of authenticity surrounding the militaristic and espionage elements, the author seemed likely to be someone with military experience, obviously well-traveled, perhaps presenting a highly exaggerated, idealized version of himself.

Certainly not a young woman with a shy smile and retreating gaze.

A burst of surprised laughter rose in his throat.

Until he glanced over and saw the expression on her face.

She grimaced at him, her gaze almost apologetic. “Not what you were expecting, am I?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I can’t say that you are.”

“I figured. Somehow I doubt when people imagine S.J. Carson, I’m what they would picture.”

“That’s what you were going for, right? By using your initials instead of your real name?”

“My publisher thought it would sell better if we were a little circumspect about my identity. It didn’t seem likely anyone would want to read an action novel about a soldier of fortune if they knew it was written by a chubby twenty-three-year-old girl who’d never been out of the country.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I expected it. I mean, J.K. Rowling was asked to use her initials so boys wouldn’t be turned off reading the Harry Potter books.”

“But eventually it came out that she was a woman, and it wasn’t a problem.”

“So it turned out little boys are more accepting than big ones. Research shows a lot of men won’t read books written by women, especially with male protagonists, as though they’ll be too girly and full of people talking about their feelings.”

“That sure doesn’t sound like any of your books.”

A faint hint of her earlier grin returned. “I’ve found sudden explosions and unexpected shootings are good ways to break up an overly emotional moment.”

“So prove them wrong. Everybody knows your books now.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know that it’s worth the risk. If a bunch of readers decide they don’t want to read the books because I’m the one writing them, what then? You can’t unring a bell. Besides, I’m about as interested in being a celebrity as you are. I’d rather my readers like my stories without worrying about whether they like me.” A sad, almost defeated note climbed into her voice as she said the final words, as though she’d already decided that they wouldn’t.

He glanced at her and frowned.

“Twenty-three, huh?”

“I wrote the first book in college. While all the other English majors were working on their depressing tomes about how terrible life is, I wanted to write something where the good guys win and everything ends well.”

“You’re an optimist,” he said, unable to keep it from sounding like an insult.

A dry laugh burst from her throat. “Hardly. I think the reason we need happy endings in fiction is because they’re so hard to find in real life.”

“Why Brock Marshall? Why not write about a woman?”

“Why? Because women are only supposed to write about women?”

From the sudden sharpness in her tone, he’d hit a nerve. “No. Just wondering.”

As if realizing her overreaction, she sent him an apologetic glance. “Because the books are as much an escape for me as they are for the reader. That wouldn’t be the case if I was writing about someone like me. I wanted to write about someone as far from me as possible.”

“I don’t know if that’s true. You didn’t have any trouble with that gun last night. Seems like something Brock Marshall would do.”

“Chalk it up to research,” she said with a soft smile, the sight of it sending another twinge through his chest. “I needed to know how to shoot a gun to write about it, so I took a few lessons at the firing range. Then it seemed like a good thing to have on hand for protection.”

“Guess you proved that one true.”

“Trust me, I would have rather not had the opportunity.”

Her cell phone must have given some indication she had a new message, because she suddenly reached into her bag and pulled it out. “That was fast.” She hit a few buttons and read the screen. “The car is registered to a Roger Halloran of Boston.”

“Someone you know?”

“I’ve never heard of him,” she murmured, typing a return message. “I’ll ask Raven to see what she can dig up for me, and I’ll do a search online when I get home.”

She was just putting the phone away again when he pulled onto their street. As their houses—or maybe just hers—came into view, he felt her tense beside him. He understood the instinct. She might have a lead on whoever had attacked her, but hadn’t accomplished much in terms of preventing it from happening again. The prospect of going home couldn’t hold much appeal for her.

“You should change your locks,” he told her. “Do you know a locksmith around here?”

“No, but I’m sure I can look one up.”

“I can change them for you. Let’s go back into town and stop by the hardware store.” Frankly, he should have thought of it before.

“You don’t have to do that. Besides, I’m not entirely sure I want to stay at the house right now.” She shook her head, rubbing a hand over her belly anxiously. “I keep thinking that maybe I should get a room somewhere, but for how long? I can’t hide forever, and without knowing why someone broke in or why they’re watching me, I have no idea how long I’d have to stay away before they give up. If they do.”

He had to agree with her assessment. Somebody who’d gone to all this trouble wasn’t going to give up until they had what they wanted. A hotel room in the city might be safer, but they could track her down there.

He stopped the truck in front of his house, but didn’t pull into the driveway. “And there’s nobody you can stay with? A friend?”

“No.”

“Family?”

Her lips thinned. “I don’t have any.”

“What about somebody who helps you with the baby? Aren’t you supposed to have a person to help you breathe or something when the time comes?”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Ideally, but I don’t. I bought an instructional video and watched a few others online to learn what I’m supposed to do. I figure it won’t be too hard to do by myself. I’ve been breathing on my own for twenty-nine years now.” She tried for a weak smile that fell short.

“How long have you lived around here anyway?”

The redness in her face deepened. “Five years,” she practically whispered.

“And you don’t know anybody?”

“I tend to keep to myself,” she mumbled.

It wasn’t as if he could argue with that. He knew that much from personal experience.

“Look,” she said quickly, as though figuring the statement demanded an explanation. “The thing is, I’ve never been very good at meeting people and making friends. I get nervous and I don’t know what to say, and it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. I’m just not good at talking to people and making conversation.”

“You can’t be that bad. Brock Marshall always has a clever line.”

“I’m not Brock Marshall,” she pointed out, a trace of embarrassment or maybe apology in her tone. “Besides, there’s a difference between making conversation and making up conversation. Dialogue’s a lot easier when you get to do both sides of the discussion.”

“You’re doing okay now.”

She frowned and appeared to consider the comment. “I guess so,” she said, sounding surprised to realize he was right.

He frowned, too, as it occurred to him that he could say the same for himself. She wasn’t the only one who considered herself not much of a talker. He’d said more to this woman in less than twenty-four hours than he had in months to anyone who wasn’t a medical professional. Then again, they’d had a lot to talk about. Coming up with conversation the past few hours hadn’t exactly been tough.

He stared at her house through the windshield. Leaving her there by herself seemed even more wrong that it had last night. At the same time, the idea of her alone, far from home, made his stomach clench.

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