At his husky comment, she risked a peek at him. Inches away, his T-shirt stretched taut against his broad chest. His eyes were blue as a summer sky. His jaw sported the barest hint of late-day stubble.

Raw magnetism swirled around her, and she clutched the edge of the sink to steady herself.

“If I stay, you have to let me help you paint.” The caveat tumbled out before she could stop it.

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”

No. Of course not. She couldn’t be. Her whole life, she’d walked a wide circle around anything that could remotely be termed DIY.

However . . . she didn’t want to leave. And since sitting on the sidelines watching him work wasn’t an acceptable option, she’d have to pitch in if she stayed.

Yet strangely enough, much as she’d always disliked painting and sanding and sawing and stripping wallpaper and all the jobs Eve had done while rehabbing her house, the prospect of doing them side by side with Nate wasn’t all that distasteful.

In fact, it held a certain tantalizing appeal.

Plus, she felt safe here. Protected. At home. As if she belonged in this house.

Odd, but comforting.

And painting a wall was a small price to pay to sustain that feeling as long as possible.

Because once she left . . . once she returned to her fortified house . . . she’d be alone.

Yes, her security should be adequate to keep her safe. But it didn’t take the place of a living, breathing protector. In a dicey situation, she’d choose the man beside her over sophisticated surveillance cameras or alarms any day.

The ideal would be to have both.

For hard as she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever had left the doll with the dagger in its chest on her doorstep was still nearby, lurking in the shadows.

Planning another terror attack.

18

MR. MULLINS?”

At the summons from the unfamiliar voice, Dave pocketed his key and swiveled toward the foyer of the small commercial building where he kept an office for client meetings.

The uniformed man standing a few yards away wasn’t his two o’clock appointment arriving twenty minutes early.

It was the sheriff.

And odds were he wasn’t here to talk about insurance or investments.

Dave fisted his hand inside his pocket and fought back a suffocating wave of panic. Letting Cox pick up one iota of his fear could be disastrous. After all, there was a chance, however slim, the man was here on business unrelated to BK.

He pasted on a smile. “Good afternoon, Sheriff Cox. I don’t believe we’ve ever been formally introduced, but I’ve seen you around.” He pulled out his hand and extended it. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” The man’s grip was firm. No nonsense. “Can you spare a few minutes to talk?”

“I have a two o’clock meeting. I’m free until my client arrives.”

“This shouldn’t take long.”

“Then please, come in.” He opened the door and motioned toward a round table with four chairs. “Make yourself comfortable.”