Jessica wasn’t even aware that she was screaming

“Jess?”

Sam’s voice broke through the demons. Jessica threw herself against his chest. “I was so scared,” she breathed. Strong arms folded behind her back and pulled her close as she clamped her fists around the waistband of his jeans. She could feel him moving, retreating, pulling her along with him. Away from the unknown danger.

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked softly.

She was surrounded by strength and heat. Her cheek pressed against the warm skin beneath. Bare skin. She breathed in the clean, masculine smell of soap and the earthier scent of the man himself. She was hugging, grasping, clinging…. She waited for the shock of being clutched against a man’s hard chest to undermine the comfort seeping into her. But she was okay. She was okay with this. She was okay with him. She nuzzled her cheek closer.

She needed him.

Unsanctioned Memories
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Jessica Taylor—Only one person knows what happened to her the night she wound up in an emergency room, brutally assaulted and half dead—and it isn’t her. She needs a bodyguard and she needs the truth. Because her attacker wants to finish the job. And what she can’t remember could get her killed.

Sam O’Rourke—FBI agent on an unsanctioned mission. He’ll do anything—or use anyone—to find out who killed his sister and bring the man to justice. Will his quest for vengeance cost him the chance to redeem his frozen heart?

Alex Templeton—Jess’s former lover in Chicago. Meeting the wife ended the affair. For Jess.

Derek Phillips—Jess’s part-time help. He has a serious crush on his boss.

Boyce, Riegert and Winston—Jess’s best customers. But are these mystery men who they claim to be?

Trudy Kent—She might come from old money, but there’s nothing old-fashioned about the way this woman does business.

Charles Kent—The gentleman farmer is buying up parcels of land to keep out the undesirables.

Sheriff Curtis Hancock—Was he Jess’s best line of defense? Or her worst nightmare?

Kerry O’Rourke—Inspiration or excuse?

Harry—The dog knew the truth. He just couldn’t get his mistress to listen.

In memory of Lyn’da Simon Van Slyke.

A gentle soul with a brave heart.

A supportive fan and wonderful influence

on the youth of Nebraska.

I miss our long talks and shared hugs.

She loved her family best—

and I was lucky to have her as my friend.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

“Hell, O’Rourke. Don’t you ever miss?”

With machinelike efficiency, FBI Special Agent Sam O’Rourke reloaded the spent magazine of his Bureau issue Sig Sauer pistol. He adjusted the protective goggles and insulated earphones to tune out the awed skepticism of his partner, Virgil Logan.

Lightly caressing the grip of the pistol between his hands, he took a bead on the image of John Dillinger at the end of the firing range and pictured a faceless man between the sights. Head? Or heart? Did it really matter? He emptied all fifteen rounds into the paper target before acknowledging his partner.

“It’s just a matter of steady hands…” he dumped the spent magazine “…twenty-twenty vision…” he punched the button to pull the target forward “…and nerves like ice.”

Virgil tried to laugh, but the worry lines in his coffee-dark skin had deepened with concern. “Usually a Feeb with sharpshooter status asks for a transfer to a TAC team. But you insisted on staying with drug enforcement.”

“That’s so I could be close to you, pal.”

“Right.” Virg was too smart to buy Sam’s witty repartee, which lacked the heart that used to back it up. He ripped the target off its mounts and counted the holes inside each of the two circles that would constitute a fatal shot. “Fifteen for fifteen.”

Sam released a slowly measured sigh. His grim expertise was about the only thing that gave him comfort and satisfaction anymore.

Each and every one of those bullets had been for Kerry.

His opportunity would come—one day—when he could put away his sister’s murderer. One way or another. And he’d be ready.

“I have to practice to stay efficient with my weapon.”

“Yeah, well, it’s all that practice that has me worried.” Virgil stood by as Sam stripped, cleaned and holstered his weapon. “Chief Dixon thinks the strain of your sister’s rape and murder is proving too much for you.”

A flare of Sam’s Irish temper tried to show itself. “He’s already stuck me on desk duty.”

Virgil put up his hands in surrender, reminding Sam that he was just the messenger. And a concerned, loyal friend. “He wants you to take that bereavement leave. Get your head on straight before you shoot at something you shouldn’t. Before you crack.”

“Is that what you think, too? That I’m about to crack?”

Virgil shook his head. “I know you need the work to get your mind off things.” His partner’s mouth thinned into a grim line. When Virgil Logan got serious, Sam paid attention. “I just don’t want to see you make a mistake that’ll come back and kick you in the chops. I don’t want to see you in a second career as a security guard somewhere because you lost your head.”

Sam inhaled and exhaled deeply. He leaned forward and rested both fists atop the shooting deck. “I’m not trying to screw up anything, Virg. I only want justice done.”

“You know I want that, too. But you gotta give yourself some time to heal. You haven’t taken any time off since the funeral.”

Sam pushed himself up straight and backed out of the booth. “Seeing that bastard lined up in the crosshairs of my gun is the only thing that’ll help me heal.”

Virgil followed him out. “That’s the kind of talk that worries me. You’re a damn good investigator when your head’s on straight.”

They turned and headed for the locker room. “You think the fact that I’m spending extra time on the shooting range means I can’t run an investigation anymore?”

“No. I just don’t want to have to break in a new partner. I had a hell of a time training you.”

“Training me?” Sam twisted up a towel and flicked Virg in the backside before tossing it around his neck, catching the support beneath the gibe. “I love you, too, pal. I promise I won’t be stupid. If I give you my word, will that do?”

They shook hands like men. Then they shook hands in a goofy secret code that only two people who had been friends through the best and worst times of their lives could share.

“That’s all I needed to hear.” Virgil stopped at his locker and opened it. He pulled out a folded slip of paper, rolling it back and forth between his fingers and frowning as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “Because I got some information you’ll be interested in.”

Sam ran his tongue around the rim of his lips and tried not to betray the instant anticipation racing through his veins. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be pushing the regs, not you.”

“I know you’ve been accessing files you don’t have clearance for. Reading hospital records and police reports on rapes that match the MO in Kerry’s case.”

Sam’s jaw shook with the restraint it required to keep from snatching that paper from Virgil’s hands. “So far I’ve matched up four rape-murders with the same binding and strangulation marks, and the souvenir lock of hair cut from the scalp. Kerry here in Boston. One each in Dallas, New York and Miami.” He knew his sister’s case backward and forward. “The Bureau profiler and my gut tells me they were all victims of the same man. In each case the victim was dark-haired. She was single and successful, but she ended up in a bad part of town. She was kidnapped, tortured and ultimately raped. And then, as if that wasn’t enough…”

Sam closed his eyes in a futile effort to block the image of Kerry’s sweet round face bruised and frozen in death. He’d seen dead bodies before. But hers had unnerved him. She was his responsibility. Even as a full-grown woman she’d still been his baby sister. The sassy sweetheart he’d promised his father on his deathbed that he’d protect.

He’d failed.

Oh, God. Sam shook with the force of his emotions. Bile twisted in his gut and tried to poison the good memories he had left of his family. He’d failed. He tilted his head and swallowed hard, forcing down the gag reflex that convulsed throughout his body.

When he was in control of himself once more, he opened his eyes and looked deep into Virgil’s cryptic expression. “Did you locate another vic?” he asked.

“It’s not much. A rape in Chicago. Dark hair with a chunk of it cut off. That was enough to flag it for me. Listed as a Jane Doe.” Virgil handed the paper to Sam. “But there’s one key difference between this case and Kerry’s.”

“What’s that?” Sam unfolded the paper with impatient fingers and read the answer for himself. No. His heart thumped hard against the wall of his chest, trying to hope, trying to believe what his eyes were seeing. “Jane Doe survived the attack.”

In a flurry of movement, Sam removed his holster, peeled off his shirt and hurried toward the showers. A biting sense of urgency nipped at his heels, making every moment too long, too precious to waste. This was the best lead—the only lead—he’d had since Kerry’s murder nearly eight months ago.

An eyewitness.

If it was the same murderous son of a bitch who’d killed Kerry, this vic could ID him. Give him a name, a visual, a voice—anything that he could put in the profile and hunt down.

Virgil followed at a slower pace. “Should I tell the chief that you’ll be taking that bereavement leave now?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t want his partner to get caught in a lie, so he played along. They both knew what he had to do. “Tell Dixon I’m leaving tomorrow. Tonight, if I can get a flight.”

One way or another—sooner rather than later—he was going to track down this Miss Jane Doe.

Chapter One

One Month Later

Jessica first saw him from her porch, walking along the gravel country road, putting a determined distance between each step and the urban sprawl of Kansas City, Missouri. She watched him as he approached the crossroad that divided her property and the Kent estate.

The shaggy black German shepherd mix that lay at her feet shifted his big, rangy body to a sitting position beside her, eyeing the stranger. The dog’s alert curiosity matched her own, and a ripple of uneasiness cascaded down her spine. Trouble was headed their way.

“What do you think, Harry?” she asked, trusting the dog’s judgment and companionship more than she trusted most people’s.

The front porch ran the full length of her one-and-a-half-story log cabin house, situated on the top of a hill. The high-school boy she’d hired for odd jobs around the shop and acreage had just driven home to his parents’ farm for dinner, and the dust kicked up by his speeding truck never even slowed the man’s stride. Rendered ghostlike until the curtain of dust settled, he just kept coming, moving toward the iron gates of her property with a sense of purpose that had her shifting back half a step.

Thrilling anticipation as much as cautious fear revved in her veins and gathered speed as the blood raced from her heart into her tingling extremities. Her lips parted to accommodate the quicker pace of suddenly shallow breaths.

Was he the one? Was he finally coming for her?

Nothing about him seemed familiar. And yet, how could she know?

The dog stood and circled her legs, antsy about her next command. Would she order him to run down the stranger? Stay and protect? Attack?

Jessica shook her head, answering the dog’s unspoken questions. “I don’t like the looks of him, either.”

She slipped back another step, into the shadow of a wooden post. She needed more time to think, more time to make a decision. She needed to remember.

But he just kept coming.

The sun hung low in the western sky, not yet at the point on the horizon that would color the Indian-summer clouds in a palette of orange, pink and gold. Silhouetted against the sun, she could see he was a big man. The pack he carried on his back seemed to hold a whole life’s worth of belongings, from the faded denim jacket tied at the top to the sleeping bag that hit his hips. Yet he carried it all with an easy posture and resolute stride that said he could carry the weight of the world on those broad shoulders. And had.

Jessica reached down and scratched Harry behind the ears, catching up a handful of his longish black coat, which reflected more of his wolfhound heritage than his police dog ancestry. She needed the comfort of contact with another living creature to forestall the sense of impending doom that made her chest seize up. Had she felt this same fear before? Reacted this same way? Had she gone numb with shock like this? Choked on her helpless anger?

“Turn the corner,” she coaxed the stranger beneath her breath. “Walk on by.”

He could turn at the crossroads at the foot of the hill and head east. But long before he neared the brick posts and wood rail fence that surrounded her land, she knew he wasn’t going to turn. He would come right through the gate, saunter up her long gravel driveway and invite himself up to the house.

And he didn’t look like the type of man who’d hiked out into the countryside southeast of Kansas City just to buy antiques at her shop. He paused only to read the carved wooden sign, Log Cabin Antiques. He must have read the hours, knew she’d just closed at six.

Frozen in the shadows, Jessica curled her fingers around Harry’s collar. “Walk on,” she mouthed again.

The stranger’s shoulders heaved in a controlled sigh beneath the taut fit of his faded black T-shirt. Then he lifted his eyes and looked straight at her. Sought her out in the shade of the porch. Made eye contact as if he’d known she’d been watching him all along.

Her breath stuttered out in a rush of panic. Harry growled and barked twice, sensing the exponential swell of his mistress’s fear.

She grabbed the dog by the collar and pulled him inside with her, bolting the door behind them.

She hurried through the tiny living room, past the stairs to her bedroom loft, sidestepped a glass-front display case that housed doll dishes and campaign buttons and slipped into the private nook that doubled as office and dining room. She squatted down out of sight beside the rolltop desk that held her computer and hugged Harry close to her chest. She could scarcely think. Breathe. See.

She was flashing back.

Flashing back to what? she demanded of herself, trying to see through the blind haze of terror that filled her mind. All she could remember was the fear, the sense of being trapped. A business trip and romantic evening gone horribly awry. She could recall that last dinner in Chicago with Alex almost word for word—how angry and heartbroken she’d been. She knew what the doctors and cops had told her when she came to in the hospital more than twenty-four hours later. But she couldn’t remember anything in between.

Twenty-four hours of her life lost in the closed-off fog of a memory, purged by a mind that craved sanity in order to survive.

All she knew was that she should have been dead. That she’d been violated in a way beyond imagining and had lived to tell about it.

Only she couldn’t tell about it.

She couldn’t remember it.

“Damn,” she muttered, as frustrated now as she’d been last March.

She came from a family of cops. Her brothers had taught her how to defend herself, had lectured her on how to be more observant than the average citizen. But it hadn’t been enough. Somehow she’d let them down and he’d gotten to her.

The crunch of gravel beneath a heavy footstep reminded her of the danger at hand. Was he here? Was that him coming closer and closer?

Burying her nose in Harry’s neck, Jessica could feel the dog’s warmth and strength. She could sense his unwavering loyalty and devotion to keeping her safe. He licked her arm, his long, raspy tongue a gentle request for direction and understanding.

“I don’t know, boy.” She hugged him tighter, trading comforts. “I don’t know what to do.”

Hidden in the dining room behind a wall of shelves and an old walnut wardrobe filled with antique dresses and quilts, she could simply lock the doors and hide until the man went away.

But she had a feeling locked doors and windows wouldn’t stop a man like him. She could hide inside the wardrobe itself or lose herself in the aisles of furniture and collectibles she had for sale—and he’d still find her.

Paralyzing fear warred with the less certain instinct to survive. Her brothers had taught her to protect herself. And although she had failed then, she was a different person now. One who was a lot smarter about the harsh realities of life. One who had a lot less to lose.

One who wasn’t done living yet.

Besides, there was really only one way to know if the man who’d come to her remote cabin was him.

And more than anything—more than the fear itself—she wanted to know the truth.

Jessica leaned back and caught the dog’s streamlined jowls between her hands. “You with me, Harry?”

Uncanny intelligence stared back at her from midnight-brown eyes. He’d had one hell of a past, too, before she’d found the giant mutt on death row at the pound. Maybe it took someone who’d survived the worst the world had to offer to understand what she’d been through, what she had to face every day of her life now. Maybe someone could understand—and love her anyway. The dog’s unflinching support actually coaxed a smile out of Jessica.

And inspired a sense of calm that allowed her to think clearly once more. “Let’s go.”

Latching on to Harry’s collar, Jessica pulled against the dog’s weight and stood, quickly unlocking the gun cabinet beside her desk. She pulled out the Remington double-barrel shotgun she used for trap shooting and loaded two rounds. She stuffed two more shells into the front pocket of her jeans, whistled for Harry and headed out the double screened doors onto the back porch.

Matching the full-length porch on the front of the house, this one wasn’t decorated to show off the cabin’s rustic charms. This was a workspace full of rockers that needed recaning, wagons that needed new wheels, a 1910 buggy that needed one of its traces replaced. Wooden boxes, shutters, a washing machine, stools, barrels, trinkets, gadgets. It was a veritable fortress of camouflage, and Jessica used it to her advantage, keeping the faded green buggy between her and the stranger who approached.

“That’s far enough,” she ordered, hugging the rubber butt of the gun against her shoulder and leveling the business end at the center of his chest. It was a broad enough target. And she was a better shot than he could ever imagine. Harry bristled to attention at her side.

The man halted his steps, betraying more curiosity than alarm. “Not exactly the back-door hospitality I’ve heard tell about Missouri.”

His voice was low pitched, smooth as whiskey and tinged with the barest hint of an accent.

And completely unfamiliar to her.

“This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast,” she warned. “It’s private property.”

He tilted the crown of his coal-black hair toward the front gate. “The sign says you sell antiques.”

She held the gun steady, making her message clear. “We’re closed.”

He’d turned from the customer parking lot up the private driveway that bisected the grounds between the cabin and her storage barn. And though she stood three steps above him on the elevated porch, she was almost looking him straight in the eye. And they were the coldest eyes she’d ever seen. Icy gray. Almost colorless behind the squint of his expression. He was a man who didn’t give a damn about anything. It was the best impression he could have made.

That meant he didn’t care about her, either.

“Do you know how to use that thing?” he asked.

He might not be a voice from her past, but he was still trespassing. “Yes.”

“And the dog?” His gaze never shifted off hers.

“I know how to use him, too.”

“Look, lady, I don’t—” He raised his hands in mock surrender and took half a step forward.

It was all the provocation she needed. “Harry, sic.”

The snarling black powerhouse leaped from the porch and charged the man at a dead run. But despite the stranger’s big size, his reflexes were quick. Before Harry lunged for his forearm, the man whipped the huge pack off his back and wielded it like a shield, absorbing the brunt of Harry’s first blow. One hundred and twenty pounds of charging canine knocked the man back a couple of steps.

Harry bared his teeth and menaced in a horrible growl as he lunged again. The man used the pack to buffet the second attack. He twisted and blocked, countering Harry each time the dog tried to latch on to something with flesh.

The man was either trained in self-defense or damn lucky. But he would tire long before Harry ever surrendered. “Lady!”

Jessica almost smiled. Good boy. If Harry could best this man, she’d have a lot less reason to be afraid of him. “You lie down flat on the ground and I’ll call him off.”

Harry had a chunk of the backpack between his teeth now, and the attack had turned into a desperate tug-of-war. The man couldn’t surrender his grasp or he’d be defenseless at the next charge. “Fine. Call him off.”

“Harry, sit!” she commanded.

The dog obeyed, plopping down on his haunches beside the man’s shoulder as he dropped his pack and threw himself prostrate onto the swath of fading grass at the center of her driveway. The man lay perfectly still beneath the dog’s watchful eye.

Harry panted from the exertion, licking his muzzle, then letting his tongue loll out the side of his mouth. The man was catching his breath, too. But the instant he moved, a big black paw settled onto his shoulder and he went still.

“Is this how you greet all your customers?”

“You’re no customer.” Lowering the gun from her cheek and shoulder, she kept it trained in his general direction and left her finger near the trigger. “What do you want?”

SAM WASN’T READY to answer that question truthfully. He hadn’t expected a warm, trusting welcome when he showed up with his vagrant cover story, but he was a little surprised to be greeted by a backwoods, Hatfield and McCoy, you’s-trespassin’-on-my-land routine.

Where was the professional businesswoman with an eye for beauty and a penchant for history his contact in Chicago had told him about? Her face matched the newspaper photo of the elegant brunette at a museum exhibition opening he’d found in the Chicago Tribune archives—the same face the attending E.R. nurse had confirmed as his Jane Doe rape survivor.

He’d spent three weeks piecing together nebulous clues and putting a name to the face of the woman he was searching for. Then he’d run a background profile on her. And now he was here.

This was Jessica Taylor.

His Jane Doe had a name. And a definite attitude.

He suspected that earning her trust wouldn’t be easy. Without the sanction of the Bureau, and with little more than a hunch to go on that she would be the break he needed in order to find Kerry’s killer, Sam couldn’t conduct a normal investigation. He needed to get to know Jessica Taylor better than he knew his own partner. He needed to become her very best friend and get her to start talking. About Chicago. Her attack. How she escaped.

Who did it.

Either she’d been too terrified to give a useful report to Chicago PD, or her attacker had been too crafty—too intimidating—for her to recall much. He might even have done a little brainwashing on her. Sam intended to find a way inside her head and learn the truth. Learn enough so he could match up her attacker to Kerry’s and track him down.

But with that pump-action shotgun pointed his way and this hairy, black beast standing over him, his covert mission would be damn near impossible.

Kerry had always teased that it had skipped a generation, but Sam wondered if he could dredge up any of his father’s Belfast charm. Lifting his cheek from the scraggly grass and dirt, he tried to restart the conversation. “What kind of dog is this?”

“The very protective kind.”

Idly, Sam wondered if she’d always sounded this hard. Judging by the resonant tone and sultry pitch of her voice, Ms. Taylor could sound downright sexy if she softened up her articulation and dropped the sarcastic wit. It was probably an unfortunate byproduct of the attack. He’d be curious to know what other feminine attributes she was trying to hide.

Irrelevant, a stern inner voice warned him. Though curiosity was not the same as attraction, he wanted to argue, Sam wisely ignored the deviation from his quest. He turned his nose to the ground and inhaled the dank, musty smell of the dirt that reminded him of Kerry’s funeral—reminded him of why he was here. “So I gathered. He looks like a black shepherd, but his muzzle is broader. And obviously he’s bigger than any German shepherd I’ve seen.”

“He’s a German shepherd, Irish wolfhound mix.” Irish, huh? Maybe the hairy beast had some redeemable qualities, after all. “He was too big and too smart for his previous owners. But he suits me.”

Sam tried to move his head so he could actually look at Jessica, but apparently the dog didn’t feel the connection of their Irish roots. The growl in his throat became a deafening bark and a flash of sharp, white teeth. Sam forced his body to relax and resumed his prone position on the grass. “He seems well trained.” He’d worked with K-9 units before, but had never been on the receiving end of such training. No wonder the perps usually surrendered without much of a fight.

“He is.”

“I didn’t show up by chance, Miss Taylor.” He heard her feet shift their solid stance on the wooden floorboards, the first flinch in her protective armor. He’d called her by name. Better retreat a step. Even up the playing field. “I’m Sam O’Rourke. The clerk at the convenience store up on the Highway 50 intersection gave me your name and directions. If you let me have a chance, I can explain why I’m here.” Silence. Damn, she was a hard nut to crack. “Do you need the dog and the gun both?”

“I don’t know yet.”

It was hard to be charming with his face pressed to the dirt and a wolfhound-shepherd beast sitting on his shoulder. Kerry had been right. He’d always done better with a more direct approach.

“Look, I can see this was a mistake. The guy at the store said your regular help wasn’t able to put in enough hours and that you were desperate for an extra hand around the place.” He looked around slyly and noted the overgrown patches of grass taking over the gravel parking lot and driveway, the dead branches of stately elms that needed trimming, the rust on the red-and-white metal storage barn, the tarp-shrouded load in the back of a pickup truck waiting to be unloaded. The man hadn’t lied. “But he must have been mistaken. If you let me up, I’ll go back into town and find work somewhere else.”

“You’re looking for a job?” She sounded skeptical. She might be stubborn, but she was smart. Deceiving her wasn’t going to be easy. “Why didn’t you call first? Where’s your car?”

Technically his Kia was in a garage back in Boston. But the junker he’d picked up in Chicago had been easy enough to abandon at the side of the road outside Kansas City to establish his cover. “Until I earn enough money to fix it, it’s sitting in the shop. I’m driving cross-country from Boston to San Diego. Sort of a sabbatical. It broke down on the highway.”

“What kind of sabbatical?” she asked, her voice still filled with doubt. “You don’t look like a professor.”

“That’s my business.”

“Not if you want to work for me, it’s not.” Was she considering his proposition? “I’ll let you sit up if you explain who you are and don’t make any sudden moves.”

It wasn’t much of an offer, but he’d take it. “Deal.”

She whistled—a bold, brassy tomboy whistle. Unexpected. Interesting. Irrelevant. “Harry, come.”

A tremendous weight lifted as the dog immediately obeyed her command. The jet-black beast trotted up the steps onto the porch and cuddled at his mistress’s side as if he thought he was a lap dog. Minding her warning, Sam slowly rolled over and sat up. He spun around on his bottom to face her, brushing bits of grass and gravel dust from his shirt and jeans. His arm had actually started to go to sleep beneath the dog’s lucky guess at pressure points. Sam massaged at his shoulder and arm, easing the tingling rush of reawakening.

Using the massage as an excuse, he didn’t say anything for several moments, giving himself his first opportunity to size up the woman who was going to make his mission a success. The stock of her Remington rested on the generous curve of one denim-clad hip. The woman up on the porch was a far cry from the sophisticate he’d seen in the new-paper’s black-and-white photograph.

A hole in one knee broke the long line of leg that might be the most distinctive feature of her tall, subtly masked body. While the woman in the photo had worn a strapless evening gown that managed to look classy and seductive at the same time, this woman on the porch was a nature girl. No upsweep of long hair. No jewelry beyond a watch. And not much skin to catch the late September sun. Her modest blue Taylor Construction T-shirt looked as if it belonged to one of her brothers that had shown up in his research. The short sleeves hung past her elbows, and the collar rode high at the neck. The hem was loosely tucked into the waistband of relaxed jeans.

Body camouflage. She could be plump or thin or anywhere in between, but the outside world would never be able to tell. Sam wondered if Kerry would have hidden her fair-skinned attributes in the same way if she’d survived her rape. Damn. He didn’t need to go off on a tangent like that.

Suddenly the enormity of all he had lost seized his throat. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to choke the emotions back down. He couldn’t let Jessica Taylor see how much he had at stake in this at-gunpoint job interview.

When he was in control of himself again, he turned back and lifted his gaze up to hers. He knew most of her stats by heart. Age: twenty-nine. Height: five-eight. Weight: 140. But the stats didn’t do her bright-blue eyes justice. And to say her hair was brown was to miss the whole point of subtle auburn highlights and a loose, face-framing style.

Stats couldn’t tell him word one about what was going on inside that head of hers. And whether or not she could help him.

“Okay, Mr. O’Rourke.” She nudged the air with the point of her gun. “Talk to me.”

“I’m looking for some work to tide me over ’til the end of September, maybe mid-October. I like to get a feel for a place. And, hopefully, make enough money to fix the car and pay my way until the next stop.” He braced his elbows on his bent knees and nodded back toward the road. “The clerk in Lone Jack said you were looking for some help. Seven miles straight down the road didn’t seem like a terrible hike. So I took a chance.”

“Ralphie, the clerk, likes to look out for me. My regular hand is one of the neighbor kids. Now that school’s back in session, he can only work Saturdays and some nights after football practice.” Was she opening up to him? She might be talking more, but the gun made it hard to tell whether or not he was making progress. “He’s the one who almost ran you off the road on the way in. Derek Phillips. He’s a sweet kid.”

“He’s a road hog.”

“He’s eighteen years old. What do you expect?” Okay, so clearly she was protective of her hired help. Or teenagers. Or this one in particular. Did that mean he could rule out a young man as her attacker? She did have a younger brother. Maybe the kid was just a reminder of him, and therefore she considered him safe.

She definitely didn’t consider him safe.

Sam thought the conversation had died with his speculation. She stood in silence long enough for him to become annoyingly aware of the sharp gravel digging into his backside. “Can I get up now?”

“No, I—”

He got up anyway, slowly unwinding his legs and pushing to his feet.

“I said no!” She lifted the shotgun to her shoulder and had her finger on the trigger guard again.

Sam put up his hands in surrender and slouched his weight to the side. But he didn’t retreat. He didn’t want to scare her, but he wanted her to know he meant business. He had no intention of leaving Log Cabin Acres without this job. He had no intention of leaving, period. He’d let his hair grow out, and hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, hoping his vagrant look would earn him an offer of room and board. Even if it meant bunking on a cot in the barn.

“I have a cramp in my leg,” he said to explain his moderate show of defiance. “Believe me, you still have the advantage.”

She had good form, he’d give her that. Steady, too. He could see one blue eye, clear and focused, as he looked into the over/under barrel of her gun and on up to the sight. She might have him lined up between the crosshairs, but the fact she didn’t sic the dog on him again made him think she wouldn’t actually shoot.

Progress.

“So what about that job?” he asked. “I don’t know much about antiques, but I’ve worked with furniture—repairing and refinishing it. And I’ve done yard work and construction since I was a kid if you need help winterizing the place.”

That blue eye squinted with doubt. “You’re taking a sabbatical from yardwork and construction?”

“I have a reference. Virgil Logan.” He’d tried to keep his partner as far removed from his off-the-clock investigation as possible. If anything about this quest for vengeance went south, Sam’s career would be toast. But Virg would be free and clear of any wrongdoing. But surely his old buddy would be willing to say something nice about the cabinets he’d helped him install in his new kitchen last year. “I’ll give you a number and you can call him.”

Was that slight hitch in her shoulders a pensive sigh? Would a bit more gentle persistence wear her down?

“The clerk—Ralphie—said you lived alone out here.” With his hands still in the air, he angled his head to the right and left. “It looks like you’ve got plenty of work. I think you need a few muscles to tackle some of these jobs. Unloading that furniture, regravelling the driveway. I tinker around with mechanics, too. I might be able to get that old steam engine tractor I saw out front running again. If you’ve got the parts.”

She took her left hand off the gun and motioned him to be silent. “Fine. I have no doubt you can do the job. It’s just…”

Sam lowered his hands to his sides. She was going to have to learn to trust him sometime. “It’s just you’re one woman, living out here on your own. And I’m a big, scary man. A stranger, to boot.”

His understanding of her fears seemed to suck the argument right out of her. She was almost shaking as she lowered the gun once more and reached down to stroke the dog’s head. “Yeah,” she finally agreed on a soft, wistful sigh. “I have to stay safe.”

He respected the admission of fear. Jessica Taylor’s honesty would work in his favor. An admission of truth from him might be the first step toward earning her trust. He let just enough of the pain and guilt that riddled him seep into his expression. He kept the rest locked down tightly inside the prison of his heart.

“I, uh, lost someone very close to me earlier this year. My baby sister. We were all that was left of my family so we were pretty tight.” He inhaled a steadying breath that wasn’t all for show. “I took a leave of absence from my desk job, and I’ve been working on other things to try to get past it.”

“I’m sorry.” She sounded genuinely moved by his bare-boned version of the truth.

Sam looked up at her, and for a long, foolish moment out of time, lost himself in a sea of azure compassion. For that one brief instant, his world wasn’t such a lonely place. He wasn’t such a driven man. And his heart…

His heart almost felt something. Something hopeful.

Sam blinked and shook his head, looking away. Hell. What was that all about? The only thing that was going to make him feel better, the only thing that was going to make the pain go away, was to get the bastard who’d desecrated and snuffed the life out of the sweetest thing God had ever seen fit to put in his world. He’d swallow his pride, trade his life, whatever it took to put a bullet through that freak’s head or watch him die by lethal injection.

“So, Miss Taylor…” There was more harsh than gentle in his voice now, and the light that he’d seen in her pretty blue eyes had vanished. “I need the job. I have no intention of harming you or putting the moves on you or any other damn thing that might get me into trouble.” He curled his fingers into tight fists. “I just need to get my hands on something and work it out of my system.”

“You need to forget.”

“Yeah.” But he never would.

To his surprise, she lowered the barrel of her shotgun and removed the ammunition. As she stuffed the unused slugs into her pocket, she looked toward the smaller log structure just east of the house. “There’s an apartment over the garage you can use if you need a place to stay. Since you’re on foot, I imagine it’d be more convenient.”

Whoa. Sam shifted inside his dusty brown work boots. What just happened here? When had he missed the transition from Backwoods Annie to this efficient, articulate professional woman? “You’re giving me the job?”

“I’ll call your Virgil Logan in the morning to double-check you’re who you say you are. If it pans out, you’re hired for a month. But I have a few rules.” She stepped back toward the double doors that led into the cabin. “You’re to come into the main house by invitation only. I’ll fix or provide three meals a day. You can eat on the porch as long as the weather holds, or up in your room. That apartment is small, but the mattress is new. It’ll hold a big guy like you. There’s a coffeemaker and small fridge for snacks or cold drinks. I don’t tolerate drunks, though.”

Sam reached down and slung his pack over his shoulder. Now that he’d broken the ice, he was getting somewhere. Had her attacker been drunk? Had Kerry’s? He’d have Jessica Taylor sized up and spilling her secrets in half the time she’d offered him. “I haven’t been on a binge since college, and that’s been a few years,” he reassured her.

“No guests, no parties—”

“I don’t know anyone here.”

“And no surprises. You give me one reason to doubt your story, and I’ll call the sheriff and my brothers. Three of them are K.C.P.D. cops, and my cousin is captain of his precinct. You don’t know overprotective until you’ve met them. Anything happens to me and they will track you down.”

So why hadn’t they tracked down her rapist and put him behind bars yet? Maybe they weren’t as good as she thought. Maybe he was better.

“Are we clear on the rules?” she demanded, drawing his thoughts back to his first need—establishing his cover. He’d clue himself in to whatever the Taylors had found out about their sister’s attack later.

“Crystal clear.”

She hesitated a moment longer, as if having doubts about her decision. “Did your sister really die?”

Damn. Blindsided. He hadn’t seen that one coming. He couldn’t look at her. Not right away. Not until he got that instant image of Kerry’s chopped black hair, and the bruises and cuts that mangled her porcelain skin out of his head. With a sharp curse on a sharper burst of pent-up air, he slammed that door shut in his mind. “Yeah.”

That was all she needed to hear?

“I’ll get the key.” Before she opened the screened door and went inside, she paused. “Harry, stay.”

After she disappeared inside, the hairy, black, monster mutt positioned himself squarely in front of the door, clearly reminding Sam of the stay-out-of-the-house rule.

Sam braced a hand on his hip and leaned in. “You and I are going to have to find a way to get along, big guy.” If he wanted any chance to snoop through Jessica’s things or get close to the woman herself, Sam would have to get the dog’s permission. Or he’d have to find some way to get the furry guard beast out of the way. “Can I tempt you with a big, juicy steak?”

Jessica felt sorry for him. She thought she was helping him through the grieving process by giving him the job and a place to stay.

His lie must have been a tangible scent in the air. Because the damn dog glared at Sam, as if it knew he was going to take advantage of his mistress’s foolish heart.

Chapter Two

Walnut Avenue Tenement Hotel—Las Vegas, Nevada

“Die, bitch.”

He pulled the belt tighter and tighter around her neck, loving the invigorating strain that burned through the muscles of his forearms and biceps and chest. Sweat beaded on his skin. He was the man. The world was his to control.

The voiceless words that formed at her cracked, swollen lips stopped as a dying sound gurgled up from her throat.

“What are you saying, honey? Is that too tight?” He loved the power. At the slightest nod of her head he loosened the tourniquet. “There. Is that better?”

Her breasts thrust up as she sucked in a deep gulp of air, but he was more intent on her face. Her lips sputtered one word. And he waited patiently for her to repeat herself. “Why?”

Not please? Not sorry? Why?

Damn her!

He jerked back on the belt, pinning his thighs around her hips as he sat on top of her. She thrashed beneath him, her struggles only adding to her pain and his delight as she tore her milky white skin against the bindings at her wrists and ankles.

He was almost giddy with the gluttonous rush of energy that pulsed through him. He was masterful. Thorough. He towered over her with his strength. “You don’t have so much to say now, do you?”

He looked down on her as her eyes wept, beseeched, went blank, then closed.

“That’s it?” he crooned in a soft voice, exhaling a dissatisfied breath of air. She should have protested more. At the very least, asked for his mercy. But this one had been too shocked, too damn full of herself to even scream properly. Disappointing. His entire body deflated as the energy that had jazzed him to yet another high dissipated.

He slipped off her quietly, not wanting to disturb her imitation of slumber. He rolled up the stocking mask that had covered his face and dropped it into his bag. He hadn’t worried so much about hiding his identity as he’d enjoyed the symbolism of it all. He was man at his most base, his most powerful.

And he’d been triumphant.

A glance at his watch on the nightstand told him he had only a few hours before his flight. There wasn’t much time to savor his victory. But he couldn’t just leave.

He picked up his black jeans off the floor beside the bed where he’d stripped, and reached into the front pocket. He pulled out a pocketknife with a polished, inlaid ebony handle. It was a thing of beauty, a true find for his collection. He opened it up and tested its weight, appreciating the feel of it in his hand.

Padding across the threadbare carpet, he reached out and lifted a long, silky lock of her dark hair between his thumb and forefinger. Sawing delicately back and forth, he cut the lock from her scalp and lifted the fragrant strands to his nose. Beneath the odors of sweat and fear and that dusty mattress, he smelled the tangy scent of the woman herself.

It would be an appropriate souvenir of their night together.

“Unfortunately, I have to be leaving,” he whispered to her. He didn’t bother with meaningless platitudes. She’d served her purpose. There would be no next time for them. “Thank you.”

He stuffed the hair and knife into his pocket and went into the tiny bathroom. He chased the roaches from the shower and quickly cleaned himself. In a matter of minutes he was dressed and packed and ready to depart.

But he wasn’t done yet.

She’d learned her lesson. She didn’t deserve to be found trussed up like a turkey.

Sparing her a few precious moments of his time, he went to the bed and untied her. He pulled her legs together and crossed them at the ankles. Then he freed her bruised wrists and laid them neatly atop her naked belly. He pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed and covered her up, tucking the cover around her, tenderly putting her to bed.

This one wouldn’t cause him any more trouble. But that other one…that other one…

A fistful of that familiar rage tightened in his chest and made him forget for a moment his triumph here tonight. “I was in control tonight,” he reminded himself. Not this dead bitch. “I was in control.”

The anger left him almost as quickly as it had come. He pressed a hand to his chest and expelled a weary sigh. Her time would come. The one who got away—the one who could spoil it all—her time was coming. Sooner than she’d ever expect.

He smiled, feeling rational and benevolent and in control once more.

“Goodbye, love.”

He leaned over the bed and kissed her gently on her cool cheek. Then he disappeared into the night.

“SHERIFF HANCOCK, this is a surprise.” Jessica peeled off her gloves and dropped them onto the worktable beside the rusted toy wagon she’d been cleaning.

“Mornin’, Jessie.” Curtis Hancock slipped his broad-brimmed hat over his salt-and-pepper hair before climbing out of the white official county cruiser. “Fine September day, isn’t it?”

Jessica didn’t answer. She rarely judged her days by the quality of the weather anymore.

She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and whistled for Harry who was sunning himself at the far end of the porch. “Harry, come.” Shaking off his snooze, the big dog stretched and trotted over as soon as she gave him a stern look. She rewarded his instant obedience with a “Good boy” and a vigorous scratching along his chest and muzzle. “Harry, heel.”

Together, they walked down to the gravel parking lot while the sheriff adjusted his holster and utility belt around the waistband of his dark-brown uniform. Short and on the stocky side, thanks to his wife’s Southern-style cooking, Curtis Hancock was every inch the proper, old-fashioned gentleman. Maybe that, and the fact he was closer to her father’s age than her own, made her relax enough to smile. “Can I help you with something?”

The sheriff tipped his hat in a polite greeting. “Just making some rounds. I like to check on my favorite people in the county when I can.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “I let my deputies check on the ones I don’t like.”

He straightened with a wink and Jessica laughed on cue. “I’m flattered.” She thumbed over her shoulder toward the cabin. “I still have some coffee in the pot. Would you like a cup?”

“No, thanks.” He rested both hands near the buckle of his belt, assuming a casual stance. But his dark, darting eyes surveyed her place with a thorough curiosity. “I’m having lunch with Trudy Kent in half an hour. We’re going over security for that big soirée she’s throwing tomorrow night.”

“Security? For a dinner party?” Gertrude Wallace Kensington Kent was one of Missouri’s wealthiest widows and liked to do things in a big way. But as the older woman’s neighbor, she’d also learned that Trudy did them with grace and style. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

“Half the county’s invited. It’ll be more like a political rally, I imagine. She and her son, Charles, are determined that the city not buy up any more property to build a highway or new industrial complex. The Kents have lived in this part of the county since before the Civil War. They intend to keep a pristine countryside.”

She nodded. Trudy Kent had a standing offer to buy Jessica’s adjoining property if she ever decided to sell. “And the business owners who are looking to expand or turn a tidy profit on land sales aren’t thrilled with Trudy’s plan. Are you really expecting trouble?”

“I just like to be prepared so I can control the situation should anything come up.” His gaze lit and narrowed at a distant point beyond Jessica’s shoulder. “Are you going to the party?”

His question was perfunctory and polite, but she could tell he was more interested in what he was watching than in her answer. She slowly turned to look over her shoulder, already guessing what had caught his eye.

Sam O’Rourke.

“I hired him yesterday.” She answered his unspoken question first. “There’s a lot I need to get done. Derek Phillips is busy after school with sports and farm responsibilities so he can’t put in the hours he did over the summer.”

Sheriff Hancock nodded. “Looks like a good worker.”

The big man with the shaggy black hair and granite eyes was pushing a gravel-filled wheelbarrow from the barn to her driveway. Perspiration from honest work glistened on his golden skin, making dark patches on his black T-shirt at the center of his chest and the small of his back. His biceps and triceps corded with the effort as he negotiated the heavy load across the bumpy terrain. Though she knew he’d shaved this morning, the navy bandanna tied around his forehead gave him a dangerous, street-tough look.

It was all unnerving somehow, having Sam O’Rourke around the place. “He’s doing fine so far.” She tried to focus on conversing with the sheriff. “At the rate he’s going, he’ll have the driveway, the parking lot and the road up into the woods regravelled by the end of the week.”

Though Sam hadn’t spoken to her beyond proposing a list of tasks, asking about tools and thanking her for breakfast, she hadn’t once forgotten he was there. She made a point of knowing where he was at all times.

But her vigilance wasn’t solely due to commonsense safety and a lingering distrust of the man. With her eye for detail, she couldn’t help noticing how his faded jeans hugged his lean hips and the solid trunks of his thighs. Sam O’Rourke was big. She was five-eight, and he towered over her by a good eight inches. He was in shape. His stomach was flat and his arms were corded like a man who worked out. And he was sexy. Not handsome. Not by any conventional definition of the word. Everything about his features was too strong, too angular—all set in stone without a smile or laugh line to soften them.

But he was undeniably compelling. A testament to honed strength and raw masculinity.

Jessica watched him fill three holes until he glanced her way and caught her staring. She quickly looked down, busying her attention with scratching Harry beneath his ears and praying the edginess that suddenly suffused her body didn’t show.

But she doubted Sheriff Hancock was seeing the same details about Sam that she was. Her cheeks heated at the realization. She hadn’t noticed a man’s looks in months. Only to size up whether or not he was a threat to her, and to try to decide if he was the one. She couldn’t remember the last time her body had buzzed with this long-forgotten awareness of a man.

Not since Alex. And her attraction for him had dimmed the moment he’d introduced his wife at that museum fund-raiser. That had been during that same fateful trip to Chicago. Her sexual appetite had soured that night in the face of his arrogant deceit. Later, it had been destroyed by something much, much worse.

But she was noticing Sam O’Rourke.

And it scared her. Scared her enough to tighten her fingers around the cold steel of Harry’s collar to steady herself. What was she thinking? Her therapist said when she started to heal, she’d begin to think of men in a sexual way again. That that was normal, and not to be afraid of the feelings.

But when she thought of how much she’d been hurt, how humiliated she’d been, how degraded and stupid she’d felt at letting a man…

No. You didn’t let him do anything, she chided herself. He attacked you. He used you. The scars on her fingers and neck, her wrists and ankles reminded her of how valiantly she’d fought. The fact she’d been naked and battered beneath a threadbare blanket when she’d hailed that cab proved she’d been in fear for her life.

One man had done something unspeakable to her. One man.

Not the entire male population.

She loved her brothers and father. She could conduct business with men, carry on a conversation with them. She could look at—and even admire—them. That was all normal.

But she’d be a suicidal idiot if she allowed herself to get close to another man. If she allowed herself to feel anything—even empathy or attraction—for a man.

Not until she knew which man had stolen twenty-four hours from her memory and left her to die.

“Jessie?”

Jessica flinched, almost swinging out at the hand that grasped her shoulder. Harry growled in immediate response to her distress. Sheriff Hancock. Quickly orienting herself in the present and shutting off the vengeful commentary inside her head, she exhaled a calming breath.

“Easy, Harry.” She smoothed the wiry hair atop his head, reassuring herself as much as the canine. Curtis Hancock didn’t know what she’d gone through six months ago in Chicago. No one did. Secrecy was a necessary byproduct of her shame. Even if she never felt it again, she had to at least act as if she was normal. She even dredged up a shaky laugh. “I’m sorry.”

The sheriff held up his hands and shook his head. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Jessica shook aside his apology, moving on without offering any explanation. “I got my invitation to Trudy’s, but I’ll probably stay home. Since I’ve expanded my business onto the Internet, I’m having a hard time keeping up with orders.”

“Is that why you hired the new man? What do you know about this new fella, anyway?”

Ah. The real reason for the unannounced visit. Curtis Hancock knew just about everyone in the county, from retirement-home residents to newborn babies. A stranger from the East Coast was definitely worth checking out.

Funny how a woman alone seemed to bring out the protective urges in every male. Except one. Sam O’Rourke seemed content to mind his own business and bury himself in his work. She could understand that need to lose himself in something long enough to forget the pain for a while. In the past months she’d treasured finding an escape like that—putting together her Web site to expand her five-year-old business, training Harry. Because the guilt and the pain never truly seemed to go away.

She’d better put Sheriff Hancock’s concerns to rest before he took his questions any further and alerted her family. “Don’t worry. I checked him out. This morning I called his supervisor back in Boston. He said that Sam had taken a leave of absence for personal reasons, but that he’d always been reliable and above reproach.” She smiled and pretended complete confidence in her choice. “I wouldn’t hire some bum with a criminal record.”

“I know you Taylors are a big deal in the city. But out here in the county I’m your first line of defense.” If Hancock could have puffed out his chest a little more when he said that, he’d have busted a button at the front of his shirt. “You won’t mind if I do a little checking on this guy myself?”

“No.” She didn’t mind his interference as long as he didn’t make a big deal out of it. “Just tell me if you find out something, before you let anyone else know.”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks.” She thumbed over her shoulder toward Sam. “Do you want to meet him?”

A soft, guttural woof from Harry alerted her to the gray-and-white tabby cat tiptoeing through the grass toward relative safety beneath the porch. Harry didn’t much mind the cats who’d taken up residence in the barn and took care of the mice. He was more likely to go after the rodents and their larger cousins in the woods. But he was always careful to assert his dominance as chief pet.

“Hey, kitty.” Sheriff Hancock’s portly face creased with a smile. “Here, baby.” He circled around Jessica and Harry and scooped up the willing feline in his arms. “Aren’t you a sweet thing,” he cooed, stroking the cat’s striped coat. “This one’s not full-grown yet. How many of these you have?”

He turned and displayed the cat in his arms as if he’d just picked up a new grandbaby. Jessica drifted back a step, responding to an unfamiliar impulse. “I don’t know. Ten? A dozen?”

“Would you consider parting with one or two of them?” He buzzed his lips, imitating the cat’s purr. Jessica pressed her hand to her stomach, wondering at the sudden knot of nerves that clutched inside her. “I’d pay you a fair price,” he offered.

Right now she was more creeped out by the cat he was petting than concerned about striking a business deal. Something toyed at the fringe of her subconscious mind. The cat. She was scarcely aware of the irregular pattern of her breathing now. “Take the cat.”

“Are you sure?” the sheriff asked. “My wife’s been bummed out ever since we had to put her yellow tabby, Peanut Butter, to sleep. Lord, how she loved that cat. Had her sixteen years.”

Jessica didn’t understand the panic that was sending intermittent shocks of terror through her system. She took a conscious step back, away from the cat. “Take however many cats you want. They’re free. Just take them. With my compliments.”

“Why that’s right nice—”

“Is everything all right, Miss Taylor?” A giant shadow fell across her, temporarily blocking out the sun and breaking the inexplicable spell that had seized her. Sam O’Rourke pulled off his work gloves and stuffed them into his back pocket, circling around the sheriff and stopping at a respectful distance beside her. “I saw the sheriff’s car parked—”

“Just paying a friendly visit.” Sheriff Hancock angled his head to the side to mask how far he had to look up to see Sam’s face. “It’s my philosophy that the law needs to show up from time to time, even when there isn’t any trouble.” He shifted the cat to one arm and extended his free hand. “I’m Curtis Hancock, County Sheriff.”

Sam’s pale eyes narrowed as they studied the proffered hand and the man it belonged to. He paused long enough for the silent duel of wills between the two men to overshadow her own discomfort. Then he wrapped one big paw around the sheriff’s and shook hands. “Sam O’Rourke. My car broke down outside of Lone Jack yesterday morning.”

Sheriff Hancock pulled back, wise to Sam’s subtle effort at intimidation. But he was the one with the badge, and Jessica watched him reassert his authority. “That’s what Ralph Edmonds told me,” he said, informing Sam he’d already been watching him. “So you’re from Boston, huh?”

“Born and raised there. My parents were immigrants from Belfast, Northern Ireland.” That explained to Jessica the hint of non-New England accent in his voice.

“Were they caught up in the conflict there?” asked Hancock.

“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate.

Like a fool, Jessica hadn’t even considered looking into Sam’s personal background. She’d checked one work reference and trusted her gut that he was a loner without much of a stake in anything beyond his grief. Maybe she’d just invited some sort of Irish rebel to live in her garage apartment. Very foolish. Her hand automatically slid to Harry’s collar.

“I see.” Thankfully, Curtis’s attention had shifted from her to Sam. Though she wondered at the unexpected relief she felt at having her hired hand join the conversation. “Where you headed?”

“San Diego,” Sam answered. His voice was as clipped and unrevealing as his answer. “Is there a problem with me working here, Sheriff?”

The older man absorbed Sam’s dare with a good-ol’-boy smile. “There’s not a problem for me as long as there’s not a problem for Jessie.”

Jessica felt rather than saw the icy gray gaze sweep over her. But the deep voice was surprisingly warm. “I don’t want to cause her any trouble.”

Struck by the soothing tone of Sam’s low-pitched promise, Jessica tilted her head and caught a glimpse of shadow darkening his pale eyes. A glimpse of what? Regret? The gray eyes shuttered and he looked away before she did. What a crazy notion. It was probably just the terminal sorrow he seemed steeped in that gave a false impression of caring.

As if she should trust her instincts about men, anyway.

Needing to end this torture of doubts and suspicions and constantly being on guard, she tapped on the crystal of her watch. “Oh, Sheriff, look at the time.” She forced herself to smile. “You don’t want to keep Trudy waiting.”

He jumped in his shoes as if he’d just gotten goosed. “Oh, Lordy, no. Here.” He thrust the gray tabby toward her. Jessica recoiled as if the furry creature had attacked. “Jessie?”

“I—” Oh, God. A giant door slammed shut inside her head, triggering an instant headache. Nothing rational could escape, only a tidal wave of instant, all-consuming fear. “Get away from me!”

She backed off, instinctively grabbing Harry and putting the big dog between her and the invisible threat that advanced on her.

“Jessie?”

“Miss Taylor?”

“No.” She pummeled her way through the barriers inside her head. A flashback. Only she wasn’t remembering any details about the attack or the attacker. She was only remembering the fear. “Stop it.”

“Jess!”

Sam’s sharp tone was punctuated by a bark from Harry. Like an electric shock stopping the defibrillation of a heart, hearing the personal abbreviation of her name snapped her out of that emotional hallucination. The darkness inside her mind vanished as if the combination of Sam and Harry calling out had switched on a light.

She was aware enough of her surroundings to see Sam’s hand reaching toward her and to feel the bunching of muscles in Harry’s shoulders as he prepared to defend her. “Down, boy. Harry, down.” She waved aside Sam’s attempt to help and commanded the dog to lie at her feet. “I’m all right.”

“You don’t look it.” Sam dropped his hand to his side and retreated a step.

She felt faint and embarrassed and completely confused. But she flashed a fake smile and said, “I’m fine. I guess Harry’s spoiled me. I’ve become such a dog person that I don’t like cats anymore.”

It was such a pitiful excuse for her behavior that it seemed neither man had the heart to question her.

Jessica studied the ground while both men studied her. Curtis Hancock was the first to break the awkward silence. “Well, I’d best not be late to Trudy’s.” He held out the cat, and she jerked away. Sensing the trigger of her discomfort this time, he set the cat down and shooed it back toward the barn. “I’ll bring a carrier out Sunday afternoon, if that’s all right? I’ll bring Millie with me so she can choose her own cat.”

“That’s fine. Sunday’s fine.”

“I hope to see you at the Kents’ tomorrow night. Jessie.” He tipped his hat to her, then nodded to Sam. “Mr. O’Rourke.”

Jessica stared into the branches of the old elm tree that grew near the corner of her cabin. She concentrated on counting how many of its green leaves were turning gold instead of dealing with the post-traumatic stress flashback that had tried to take her back to that night she’d subconsciously blocked from her memory.

Her therapist had told her that the memory would try to assert itself. It might come in bits and pieces or all at once. Something like the cat might trigger it, or it might come back when her mind was relaxed and focused on something else. Without any physical trauma to her brain, the only explanation for her selective amnesia was that her mind was trying to protect her from something.

Something she desperately needed to remember.

Something she was mortally afraid to.

She heard the sheriff’s car door shut and the engine roar to life. Without really seeing the white car, she turned and waved as he drove off through her gate.

“Jess—”

“Miss Taylor.” Jessica held up one pointed finger to halt Sam O’Rourke’s polite concern and remind him that he was her employee, not a friend. She didn’t think she could handle making nice and keeping her distance right now. “It’s not your job to worry about me.”

He propped his hands on his hips, hesitating for a moment, standing far too close for her peace of mind. “My apologies. I’ll get back to work.”

But when he relaxed his stance and headed toward his wheelbarrow, her shoulders sagged. She felt inexplicably abandoned. For a few horrible moments she’d been plunged back into that horrible nightmare.

But a deep, Irish-laced voice had pulled her free.

She wouldn’t explain what had happened. But he didn’t deserve her censure. Jessica inhaled a cleansing breath and called after his wide, retreating back. “Find a stopping place and wash up. It won’t take me long to throw together some sandwiches for lunch.”

He stopped and turned. “Sounds good.”

Then he strode away, his long legs eating up the ground while she watched the casual, controlled grace with which he carried himself.

Jessica shook her head and looked away. She had an eye for beauty, that was all. And the way Sam O’Rourke moved was a precise, powerful, beautiful thing.

She didn’t need to be thinking of him as sexy. And she certainly didn’t expect him to be her savior. Sam O’Rourke was just the hired hand. He had his own problems to deal with.

Harry whimpered, drawing her out of her depressing funk. She clicked her tongue and urged him to his feet, kneeling down and hugging him tight around his sturdy neck, finding strength in his unwavering loyalty. Finding comfort in the one male she’d let herself trust.

“I bet I can find a slice of turkey with your name on it in the fridge.” She stood up and rubbed her nose against his damp one. “Shall we go inside?”

The dog’s ears pricked up with excitement at the teasing tone in her voice. He ambled along beside her as she headed up the steps and into the house.

She tried to latch on to the dog’s joy at a potential treat and ignore her lingering thoughts.

Sam O’Rourke wasn’t looking for a relationship and neither was she. Besides, if he could dredge up one ounce of charm to go with that body of his, he could have any woman he wanted.

And he wouldn’t give a skittish recluse of a woman like her a second glance.

Chapter Three

Jess. The name had slipped out as naturally and familiarly as if he’d known her for years instead of fewer than twenty-four hours. He’d shouted the word as if he had the right to personalize a nickname for her, a right to care about the deathly pallor and stark terror he’d seen etched across her face.

Sam breathed a sigh that did little to ease his frustration and guilt.

Jess Taylor was afraid of cats.

Interesting.

Not that she’d admit it, and it wasn’t terribly helpful to his mission, but it was an interesting tidbit of information to add to her file.

Sam rolled the dusty, grit-filled wheelbarrow over to the hose and spigot at the west side of the cabin and turned on the water, letting it run until the sun-warmed water ran cold. He was starting to learn all kinds of interesting things about his eccentric employer, few of which were any help in tracking down Kerry’s killer. But he took note of them, all the same.

Like the fact she cooked food as if she was feeding an army of gourmands. Her idea of throwing together sandwiches for lunch had been a mouthwatering, deli-style feast, complete with homemade sourdough bread, deviled eggs and pecan pie.

He’d also learned that her legs were about a mile long, and she’d dangled them off the edge of the porch with an abandon that left him fantasizing about what they’d look like in something besides a ratty pair of work jeans. Something short. Covered in shimmery stockings. Or in nothing at all.

“Damn.” Sam shook his head to dispel the image of long, shapely legs waltzing through his weary imagination. He squirted the hose into the air and let the cold water spritz across the sticky bare skin of his back and shoulders, easing the ill-advised heat that had been building inside him all afternoon. The unseasonable seventy-eight-degree weather and demanding physical labor weren’t the only things that had him all fired up.

His fingers had itched inside his work gloves, longing to sift through the casual curls of Jess’s hair to see if it was as light and silky as it looked. And her own hands were part earth mother, part artist. Long, strong fingers that moved with elegant ease through whatever task she undertook. The thought of her touching him with the same fine-tuned confidence with which she stroked her dog or curled them around the trigger of a shotgun had him breathing deeply and praying for a break in the muggy heat even now.

But despite his body’s stirring interest in her long, leanly curved shape and soft blue eyes, Jessica Taylor was a woman who required a patience and expertise he didn’t possess. Not in the relationship department, at any rate. He hadn’t been with a woman since before Kerry’s death. He hadn’t even gone on a date. He’d lost his ability to connect with his heart that night he’d ID’ed his sister’s body at the morgue.

The only emotions he’d been able to feel with any conviction were anger, sorrow and guilt.

Tenderness and compassion were foreign to him now.

The victim of a brutal rape would need both in abundant supply.

Sam sprayed the water across his shoulders again and tried to get a decent drink from the end of the nozzle. He had no business thinking personal thoughts about his new boss. She wouldn’t be interested in any kind of intimacy with him—with any man—right now. And as much as he would love to hear that hot, steamy voice of hers couched in a seductive whisper, he wasn’t the man with the skills to make it happen. He couldn’t afford the distraction from his real purpose. His only purpose.

He had less than a month left on his leave. Less than a month to find out the truth. Less than a month to mete out the justice his baby sister deserved.

Thoughts of vengeance cleared his mind and tamped down his libido as nothing else could.

Sam turned the jet of water onto the wheelbarrow and rinsed it out. If only he could cleanse his soul of its guilt, his heart of its anger and sorrow so easily. He’d give Jess a couple of days to get used to having him around. And then he’d start a subtle push for information—and a not-so-subtle search of the place the minute she was gone. She must keep a journal or a planner or something that would give him a lead on the bastard who’d attacked her and killed Kerry.

Of course, there wasn’t just Jess’s distrust and stubbornness to get around. There was that damn mutt. Hopefully, Harry stayed by her side even when she traveled. He’d have a hard time explaining a drugged dog or a nasty bite if she left the Shepherd mix to patrol the premises while she was gone.

And he’d already learned that Jessica was protected by the watchful eye of the local sheriff. Curtis Hancock might be down-home-country personified, but Sam wouldn’t underestimate the portly man’s intelligence or skill as a law enforcement officer. This was his territory. He wasn’t afraid to ask questions, and he picked up quickly on local gossip. Would he pick up on Sam’s secret intentions as well?

Sam flattened his mouth into a determined line. The sheriff might be smart, but he was smarter. He wouldn’t let Curtis Cow Pie or anyone else stand in the way of finding Kerry’s killer.

He tipped the barrow over and attacked the wheel with the water, grasping the hose’s gun-shaped nozzle between his steady hands and taking certain aim at each glob of dirt and grime. Yeah. Poof. Just like that. Smack. Right between the eyes. Bang. Dead center in the—

“You’re pretty good with that thing. I don’t suppose I should have you water the garden, though. The tomatoes would never survive.”

Sam tensed at the sultry, smart-aleck voice behind him. He quashed the instinctive urge to spin around and point his facsimile weapon at the woman intruding on target practice. He wasn’t sure how to respond to Jessica Taylor’s ribbing sarcasm. He hadn’t expected humor from her. He hadn’t expected the urge to toss back a comment as if she’d made some type of flirty come-on instead of an astute observation.

Not that it mattered. How the hell had she gotten the drop on him? He couldn’t blame it on the force of the water pinging against the wheelbarrow’s metal frame. He’d been off his game. He’d been so focused on not noticing her that he hadn’t…well…noticed her.

So much for not being distracted from his purpose.

“Hey. Is it quittin’ time?” he asked.

“It’s past time. I should have had you knock off half an hour ago.”

Without betraying his surprise, Sam eased his grip on the nozzle and shut off the hose before he turned and looked at Jess. He was noticing all kinds of things now. The setting sun cast a rosy glow across her cheeks and ignited the deep red tints in her tousled hair. Despite his best intentions, a very basic awareness simmered along his nerve endings. Even without a speck of makeup, there was no hiding her classic beauty.

There was no hiding the determined way she held out the frosted glass of lemonade like a peace offering, either. “Here. I imagine you worked up a pretty good thirst this afternoon.”

Her blue gaze boldly met his, but he suspected her directness had less to do with confidence than with keeping a careful eye on him.

“Thanks.” Sam dropped the hose, wiped his palms across the hips of his jeans and extended his hand, taking careful note of the big furry beast standing guard between them, watching his movements with something like a dare in his brown-black eyes. With a cautious bit of challenge himself, Sam reached out. “He doesn’t mind sharing, does he?”

She pushed the drink into his hand and smiled. “Lemonade isn’t Harry’s thing. Try it. It’s my mother’s recipe.”

The glass felt icy cold in Sam’s grip, and the condensation on the outside dribbled through his fingers. “Nice. I feel cooler already.” He raised his glass in a toast of thanks, then tipped his head back and emptied half the delicious concoction in three long, throat-soothing swallows.

“Now, if I’d offered you a cheeseburger…” Sam glanced down as her voice abruptly stopped. The dog tilted his nose up and looked at her as if he understood the word. Or maybe he’d picked up on the sudden tension radiating from his mistress. Sam didn’t need the dog’s intuitive senses to see the way her smile flatlined and the color blanched from her cheeks.

“Jess?” Sam shook his head, quickly correcting himself before she had any reason to walk away from him. Or, more likely, run. “Miss Taylor? Are you all right?”

Her gaze stuttered down his torso, then darted from pec to pec, shoulder to shoulder. She looked back and stared a hole dead center of his chest. “Where’s your shirt?” She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her whole body away. “Don’t you have a shirt you can put on?”

Sam splayed his fingers across the mat of black hair at the center of his chest, subconsiously shielding her from whatever had offended her prudish sensibilities. “I didn’t know there was a dress code. Sorry, I…” He set his icy glass on the end of the porch and circled around Jess, the dog and a rainwater barrel that was being used for trash, striding toward the railing that led up the back porch steps. “I’ll put it back on.”

He snatched his damp, dusty black T-shirt from the wooden post at the end of the railing, and fumbled to get it turned right side out. He kept his irritation and concern to himself. Half a step forward and three steps back seemed to chart his progress with her. She’d seen his naked back when she’d walked up, hadn’t she? Why hadn’t she said anything then? He supposed he’d been the only one to feel an instantaneous attraction.

Still, the prick on his ego meant nothing. The last thing he wanted was to make Jess nervous in any way. She’d clam up, or fire him, making his quest for information practically impossible. He pulled the sleeves of his shirt free and scrunched up the material. He had one arm jammed into its sleeve when he felt five long, strong fingers latch on to his wrist.

“Wait. I’m the one who’s sorry.” Sam froze at the unexpected touch. He forced the tension from his body and looked down at Jess as she pulled his arm to his side. She came up to his shoulder, standing tall. But her deep-blue eyes were marred by a frown as they locked on to his. Her fingertips kneaded against his racing pulse. Although he suspected the gesture was meant to soothe, to silently apologize—if she even knew she still held him—Sam found the tender touch oddly seductive. He was reassured by her gentle show of bravery. “You must think I’m a total flake.”

“No.” Any irritation fled in the face of her courage to make things right between them. “I made myself at home, and you weren’t comfortable with that.”

He was beginning to get an idea of why his bare torso bothered her. She wasn’t at fault. Her attacker had probably been shirtless, and just as close—even closer—to her than he’d been a moment ago. And he was a big man, strong enough to overpower her if he was that kind of male. But Sam wasn’t supposed to know about the rape. He couldn’t respond with sympathy or understanding of a victim’s fears. He couldn’t apologize for scaring her without giving himself away. So he shrugged his shoulders and opted for a humourous out instead.

“I just figured you didn’t like the looks of me.”

“No. It’s a nice chest.”

Sam grinned at her vehement argument. “Thanks.”

Her cheeks flooded with color, flustering herself and flattering him all at the same time. “I mean, of course, it’s a nice chest. You probably work out. And…” There had been nothing shy about her firm touch. But suddenly she snatched her hand away in a rapid release and retreat. She retreated all the way to the end of the porch. “This is silly. You’d think I was a gawky teenager again.”

“Miss Taylor—”

“No.” She spun around and faced him. Her fingers opened and closed in angry bursts of anger and self-recrimination. The dog danced around her feet. “It’s almost eighty degrees out here, and the humidity’s higher than that. Every one of my brothers would have had their shirts off if they’d been working the way you have. I apologize for the double standard.”

“Don’t.” He followed her, pulling on his shirt despite her protests. “Something made you uncomfortable.”

Was it him? Did he look like her rapist? A tall Caucasian with dark hair? Great. Getting close to her would be damn near impossible if he reminded her of her attacker. On the other hand, it gave him a physical description he hadn’t had before. Maybe if he could pinpoint exactly what it was about him that frightened her so he’d have a definite clue.

Now, to keep her talking. Sam picked up his glass, then leaned his hips against the edge of the wooden porch. It was a relaxed, nonthreatening pose, cutting a few inches off his height and keeping his distance. He took another drink of the sweet-tart lemonade and switched to a safer topic. “Compliments to your mom. You say she taught you how to make this?”

Jess had shoved her fingers beneath the dog’s collar, petting him and holding him close at the same time. “Yes. Things weren’t always easy for us growing up—I come from a big family. But always on our birthdays she’d fix us whatever we wanted. For me it was always a big fresh pitcher of lemonade.”

It wasn’t so irresistible that she wouldn’t come over to pick up her glass where it sat on the porch beside him. But he didn’t point out the obvious. The goal was to keep her talking, after all. “You have a summer birthday, then?”

Her wide, unadorned mouth blossomed into a smile. She shook her head, almost laughing. “December, actually.”

Her amusement triggered his own urge to smile. “Where’d she get the fresh lemons that time of year?”

“My mother’s pretty resourceful.”

Must run in the family. It couldn’t be just dumb luck that enabled Jess to survive her attack.

“Here.” He picked up her glass and held it out. She kept one hand on the dog but accepted the offer, not even flinching the way he almost did when their fingertips accidentally brushed against each other. Sam cooled his jets with another sip of the cold liquid and silently cursed the untimely awakening of his hormones. “I don’t suppose you or your mom would share the recipe?” he asked, putting the conversation back on track.

“The secret is to add a few squirts of lime juice. And to cook the sugar down into a syrup before adding it. I keep some on hand.” She took a long drink and savored it. “It tastes more like a fountain drink this way.”

Sam drained the last of his. “That’s it. It does taste like it was made in an old-fashioned soda fountain.” Which brought them full circle back to his initial impression that she’d brought him the lemonade as a peace offering. “So what did I do to deserve the special treatment?”

His question hung in the muggy air, and after a moment Sam assumed Jess wasn’t going to answer him. But he needed to learn to stop underestimating this woman’s backbone. She hugged her glass to her chest, unmindful of the beads of condensation soaking into her baggy shirt. She looked him straight in the eye when she decided to speak. “I wanted to tell you a couple of things about me. Why I got weirded out by the sheriff and the cat. And, I guess, explain why your…bare chest…set me off.”

Sam held himself perfectly still, masking the sudden flood of anticipation that tensed his entire body. This was it. He counted off each breath, tamping down the need to shake the answers he needed out of her even faster. He drew on the blarney of his Irish ancestors to keep his tone mildly curious. “I’m listening.”

She looked down and stroked the dog, as if that constant contact gave her strength.

“I was…mugged…a few months back.” It was only half a truth. Not even that. He’d learned that much just reading the sketchy report she’d given the Chicago police. “Sometimes…” She determinedly raised her gaze to his. “Things remind me of that night. I think the sheriff, holding the cat out—reaching for me like that—is what set me off.”

Sam squeezed his fingers around his glass. He had the forethought to set it down before his frustration shattered it. A damn lie was less help than knowing nothing. Yet he couldn’t call her on it. He couldn’t demand the truth. But he did ask, “Your mugger wasn’t wearing a shirt?”

“I…he…” Her expression clouded over. She closed up and turned away. She was done sharing info.

But he wasn’t done needing answers.

“He didn’t look like me, did he? Tall? Black hair?” Gray eyes? Midthirties? Irish? Dressed in a sweat-stained black T-shirt and blue jeans?

But Sam couldn’t ask those questions. He couldn’t follow up, he couldn’t push, the way he’d been trained to run an investigation. But he needed something. He slowly rose to his feet. “I’d hate to think I remind you of him. That I scare you.”

“You don’t.”

Liar. She’d backed off a step the instant he stood. What wasn’t she telling him? “Did the police catch him?”

“No.” At least that much was true. “I guess I’m afraid he might…”

“Might what? Come here looking for you?” Not likely for a mugger. A serial rapist, on the other hand…He had no doubt her fear was genuine. “I suppose he took your wallet and can find your address. Why don’t you tell me what he looks like, so I can help keep an eye out for him. The dog’s great protection, but—”

“I just wanted to tell you that so you wouldn’t think I was crazy.” Now she was mad, as if she resented him pushing for even that much information. Her voice caught on a husky croak of temper and fear. “I don’t want to share the details.” She picked up his glass, slipping beside him with a visible effort to avoid touching him. “And I definitely don’t want to share them with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” A sharp bark from the dog glued his hand to his side when he reached for her. Sam glared at the guard beast but wisely stood still while Jess stalked away. “So I do remind you of your attacker.”

“Attacker?” She spun around. “I never said he…”

Jess’s temper and posture sagged as if the switch that kept her running had been suddenly turned off. Sam heard the crunch of gravel the same time her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Harry barked. He, too, had noticed the teal-green van cresting the hill and slowing as it neared the entrance to Log Cabin Acres.

“Expecting someone?” Sam angled himself toward the approaching vehicle and made some quick mental notes. Two people—the driver and a passenger—inside. Missouri plates. His protective hackles rose, his senses fine-tuned with a hyperawareness of the intruders as they drove between the brick pillars at Jess’s front gate. “It’s after six.” He glanced back over his shoulder to remind her of the excuse she’d tried to use to dismiss him last night. “You want me to tell them you’re closed?”

“We can’t turn them away. They’re my parents.” As the van came up the main drive toward the parking lot, Jess released the dog who was pacing back and forth at her feet. “Go, boy.”

Harry took off at a lope to greet what must be a familiar vehicle. His bark and gait were considerably more joyful than the protective charge with which he’d greeted Sam’s arrival.

But releasing the dogs, so to speak, was a stalling tactic, Sam realized. While Harry ran ahead to meet their visitors, Jess was smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt, pinching her cheeks, finger combing her hair. More than that, she was breathing deeply, preparing herself. For what? Sam watched her transformation from defensive and upset to welcoming and wondered what was going on. Was she hiding something from her parents, too?

As the van’s doors opened, Jess pasted a serene smile on her face and turned to greet them. “Hey, Ma. Dad.”

Sam hung back and watched the scene unfold. A stocky man, six feet in height, with silver at the temples of his tobacco-colored hair climbed out from the driver’s side and clapped his hands. Harry instantly propped his front paws on the man’s shoulders and proceeded to lick his face. “That’s my boy.” The man grunted a sound that seemed to excite the dog even more.

Where were the bared teeth the dog had shown Sam?

“Good grief, Sid, you haven’t even kissed your daughter yet.” A tall, slender woman with soft, silvery curls framing her face climbed out the passenger side. She carried a covered dish.

The stocky man answered back with a laugh. “It’s all right, Martha. Jessie and I like our dogs.” He winked. “Don’t we, sweetie?”

Sam’s gaze immediately caught the elegant sway of Jess’s backside as she strolled up to her father and greeted him with a hug and a kiss. “That’s right, Dad. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine, thank you very much.” He patted his hand against his chest. “Healthy as a ham.”

“Hambone, you mean,” chided Jess’s mother.

Not to be outdone on the welcoming committee, Harry bounded around the van and met Martha Taylor halfway. He obeyed her “Down” command and was rewarded with a thorough scratch around his ears, some blown kisses and an indulgent, “How’s my great big grand-doggie today?”

Harry ate up the attention.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Hey, sweetie.” The dog returned to his good buddy, Grandpa, while the women hugged.

Sam noted that genetics ran strong in the Taylor family. Jess was a younger version of her mother, matching her classic lines and height inch for inch. Yet she’d inherited her father’s rich dark hair.

Jess’s smile never wavered as they traded information about their drive from the city. And she still wore that mask of not a care in the world when she stretched out her arm and invited him over to join them. “Ma, Dad, I want you to meet my new hired hand, Sam O’Rourke. These are my parents, Sid and Martha Taylor. They live in the city. Just north of downtown.”

Sid Taylor immediately stepped forward and gripped Sam in a firm handshake. “O’Rourke.”

Sam understood that he was being checked out for his suitability to spend time in his daughter’s company, even as an employee. Sam had done the same thing himself with his sister’s dates and co-workers.

It was the one man he hadn’t met who’d torn his life apart.

“Mr. Taylor.” He could appreciate Sid Taylor’s protective instincts and respected the way he sized him up.

Martha Taylor wasn’t shy, either. She handed the dish she carried to her daughter and insisted on shaking hands. “I’m Martha,” she smiled. “So tell us about yourself, Mr. O’Rourke. Where are you from? What kind of work are you doing for Jessie? Do you like antiques?”

“Ma.”

“Martha.”

Reprimanded on both fronts, she shrugged off her family’s warnings and smiled. “Pay no attention to them. You look like a healthy eater. I’ve brought some of my homemade lasagne. It’s a low-cholesterol recipe for Sid’s heart, but the whole family eats it up.”

Sam slowly withdrew his hand. “I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

“Does your wife cook for you?”

“Ma!”

“Martha.”

This time she answered their warnings. “I can’t help it.”

Jess’s cheeks bloomed with color, but Sam could only laugh. So Martha had been checking him out, too. But for entirely different reasons. “I’m not married, Mrs. Taylor.”

“But you do like antiques?”

“I’m no expert at finding them. But I like working with my hands, rebuilding and refinishing old furniture. That kind of thing.”

Sid Taylor wasn’t so easily charmed. “That’s not your regular job.” He inclined his head toward the bridge of Sam’s nose. “Your sunburn’s fresh.”

“Dad, he’s the hired help. Nothing more. I checked his references.” Jess intervened before the inquisition got fully underway. She slid in between Sam and her parents, bringing her close enough to breathe in the herbal scent of her shampoo on her hair. Sam retreated a step before his libido could get in the way of his duty again. “Sam’s just working here for a month. He’s passing through on his way to San Diego.”

Sam? What happened to Mr. O’Rourke and keeping a polite distance? Why was she defending him?

“Is that so?” Sid challenged, glancing above his daughter’s head. His brown eyes looked as doubtful as Martha’s were intrigued. “You’re a drifter?”

“Only part-time,” he joked. Sid didn’t laugh. “I’m on a leave of absence from my regular job. In Boston. I’m traveling the country, working my way when the money runs short. I ran short when my car broke down yesterday.”

“I see.”

Before Sid could follow up with any more questions, Jess turned and lifted an imploring gaze. It was a silent plea for help. “Don’t you need to finish cleaning up?” She strongly hinted that he make a hasty exit. “I already have dinner in the oven. It’ll be ready in twenty minutes, tops.” She refocused her smile and turned back to her parents. “Can you guys stay? We’ll eat the lasagne tomorrow.”

In the midst of excuses about having already eaten and being en route to baby-sit four grandsons, Sam took his leave, feeling three sets of eyes on him.

He rolled the wheelbarrow back to the garage and out of sight before he stopped to consider his immediate, heart-slamming response to the panic he’d read in Jess’s unspoken appeal. The instant she’d turned those true blues and honest despair on him, something inside him had shifted into gear. The need to help her. To protect her. To keep her secret. The desire to grant even the simple request that he leave and take a good deal of her tension with him.

Ah, hell. He was falling under her spell. One she wasn’t even trying to cast. He was getting personal, when this job should be nothing but professional. After just twenty-four hours he was thinking of Jess as a woman. A desirable woman. Jess. Not a victim. Not the answer to the mystery surrounding Kerry’s death. Certainly not as a pawn he intended to use to uncover the truth.

“Ah, hell.” He repeated the damnation out loud and tried to concentrate on the details of what he’d just witnessed.

Sid and Martha Taylor didn’t seem overly concerned that their daughter lived alone out in the country. Or that she had a man they didn’t know living on the property. Martha had even hinted at some unsubtle matchmaking. Sid had done his best to try to figure him out, yet he hadn’t sicced the dog on him or ordered him to leave or offered to stay and chaperone.

And that didn’t even begin to address Jess’s effort to give the appearance that everything was hunky-dory and under control in her life.

Sam closed the garage door and climbed the outside stairs to his apartment, letting the possibilities simmer in his mind as he headed for a quick shower. Either Sid and Martha were the most open, trusting parents he’d ever met—which, after that fatherly grilling, Sam suspected wasn’t the case.

Or her parents didn’t know she’d been raped.

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