him a thanks-but-no-thanks look, she grabbed at a decent-looking bunch of bananas on the far side of the display.
“There’s a bruised one on that,” the stranger said, leaning over her shoulder. “The next one behind it is better.”
Stiffening against the invasion of her personal space, Alyx hardened her voice. “But more than I wanted.”
“Hey, no wedding ring? Me, either,” he said, wiggling the fingers of his left hand before her face. “I’m Denny. Put back that crummy bunch and I’ll pick you a better one.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m in a hurry.” Ignoring his offer, she stepped around the man to get to the tomato display. Unfortunately, Denny soon proved himself to be the type not easily dissuaded.
“They’ve got decent coffee at the deli,” he said close on her heels. “Can I buy you a cup?”
“Thank you, but no.”
“Why not? You don’t look dressed to where you have to hurry back to work.”
Internal alarm bells sounded inside her. That was a subtle put-down if she’d ever heard one, and as a divorce attorney, she’d heard plenty—from personal attacks and from stories told by clients, spouses of masters of passive-aggressive behavior. What a cheap way to make a woman grateful for a man’s attention. All it did to Alyx, though, was to remind her of those wounded people she’d tried to help, people who had listened to such drivel for longer than was sane—or safe. Well, this lover boy was about to learn that he had made a poor choice if he was looking for his next doormat.
Giving him her most chilling look, she enunciated, “Let me make this as clear as possible—I. Am. Not. Interested.”
He shed her remark like water off a duck’s back. Beaming back at her, he asked, “Why not? You look like a nice person. I know I’m a nice person.”
“Who told you that, your mother? My hunch is she lied to get you to leave the nest.”
Denny laughed, but something in his gaze sharpened. “You’re tough.”
“You don’t want to find out how right you are.”
Giving him what Alyx hoped was her best courtroom ice-queen look, she snatched a bundle of vine-ripe tomatoes in a net bag. “Lettuce and milk,” she muttered to herself. Then she could put this nonsense behind her.
“Aw, now, tell me you aren’t a vegetarian?”
Was there a hidden TV camera catching all of this for some silly reality show? Alyx doubted she was that lucky. Either this character was honing some creepy method-acting muscles, or she had a stalker candidate on her hands. “Sir,” she intoned, “can you not take a hint?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed about.” He shrugged as though she hadn’t spoken. “I’m a true-blue beef lover myself, but I can risk turf-and-surf as a change of pace if it means spending the evening with you.”
As her scalp started prickling, Alyx knew that if she didn’t get out of there, she would be facing a full-fledged panic attack. In desperation she looked for a market employee—naturally, they’d all vanished, either they had gone to different aisles or back into the warehouse for more supplies.
“Okay, Hard Time,” she said, turning on the man with grim determination. “Either go away or I call for the manager.”
“Shoot, he’s my uncle.”
It was all she could do not to gape. Why hadn’t Parke warned her about this great mental and physical lug? It sounded like this self-anointed Casanova was a regular fixture in the store.
Her cousin was the eye candy: coal-black hair inherited from Welsh ancestors, and piercing black eyes that could hint at a great soul, but didn’t apologize for temper when necessary. Truth be known, Alyx had coveted her dramatic coloring when they were kids—her own coloring had been teasingly called Welsh-light—and had emulated Parke more than once during tough cases when the situation warranted the Lone Ranger style of help-or-get-out-of-my-way approach. It had usually worked. She could use a dose of her cousin’s verbal strength now.
“Your uncle? What’s his name?” When Denny failed to answer, Alyx drew a deep breath and called, “Uncle of Denny! You’re needed in Produce!”
Denny’s smile flattened. “That wasn’t funny…or polite.”
“Neither is bothering women who don’t want your brand of special attention.”
She dropped the tomatoes into her basket with less care than they deserved, and strode out of the section; spotting the aisle sign for bread, she veered left. A third of the way down it, she had to sidestep a deliveryman pushing a tiered cart to restock shelves, then she grabbed the first loaf of oat-nut bread she came upon. In the next instant she was gasping with pain as a vise closed around her wounded upper arm and she was swung around.
“No!”
Training as much as instinct had Alyx shoving Denny away from her. Unfortunately, that sent him into the wheel-based tower of fresh bread. She watched in a mixture of fascination and dread as the surprised man triggered an avalanche of plastic trays full of baked goods. Denny ducked and dodged; then, growling with anger, he charged again.
Still swallowing against the pain in her upper arm, Alyx wrapped her good arm around the damaged one and dropped into a tight ball on the linoleum in the hope of escaping further injury. She heard a crash and looked up to see that this time Denny was being fully buried under trays and bread. Had she done that?
“Are you nuts? Hey, mister! Help get him out from under there!”
Blinking, Alyx saw Denny being hoisted by the collar out of the pile of bread and plastic like a scrappy pup, an impressive feat, considering the size of the guy. More amazing was that while her rescuer was taller than Denny, he was leaner—but what a great butt for jeans.
Wait a minute, she thought. I’ve had that response before.
“Get lost,” her hero snarled. “Pull that stunt again and so help me, I will drag your sorry backside through every cactus between here and Agave Ground Zero.”
Jonas?
Alyx stared in growing horror as the man with the silvering blond hair shoved a dazed Denny the rest of the way out of the aisle. By the time he turned to face her, she didn’t need to see his face for confirmation; every angle of him was imprinted in her mind—although her brain was feeling as if she’d just suffered the second concussion of her life.
Passing the slack-jawed deliveryman, Agent Jonas Hunter of the FBI squatted before her. “Are you okay?” he asked, frowning as his gaze swept over her face.
“What are you doing here?” It was a rude response, considering that he’d just rescued her from a guy who had been a serious handful. She should be hugging him with gratitude, but as the pain spasms eased, the one emotion she was aware of was dread, snowballing dread that felt as though it was about to crush her.
“Yeah. Small world.” He nodded at where only he knew she hurt and kept his next words low. “Can we get you to your feet and finish this conversation elsewhere? You look like you need fresh air—or a barf bag.”
Over
