man halted, too. He removed a phone from his jacket pocket and stared down at the display. Kyle kept him in his line of sight, taking note of his accelerated respiration, sweaty brow and the way he kept swallowing repeatedly. He could almost smell the guy’s fear.
“Hi, David. Better than you, looks like.” Kyle tipped his head in the direction of the lobby. Odd, Kyle noticed, that the guy was still staring at his phone but had yet to touch the screen. He glanced up, noticed Kyle and quickly refocused on the phone.
David’s smile was cheerful, his tone appreciative as he remarked, “Passionate, aren’t they?”
Kyle chuckled. “Quite.” The man had such a unique view of the world.
“I thought you were still overseas. What are you doing here in Seattle?”
“I was discharged a couple of months ago.” He didn’t add that Owen’s death had hit him hard, prompting him to evaluate his life and his relationships, including the desire to reconnect with his family. “I’m here interviewing for a job with your downstairs neighbor.”
“Ah, Dahlia, of course. You’ll be a great fit there. Such a tragedy about Owen. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Kyle wanted to ask about Harper but was distracted by the lurker again who’d tucked his phone into his left pocket and was now slinking closer, a determined expression on his face. Kyle went into high alert. Nearly a decade in Special Forces had taught him to trust his instincts.
“Are you living here in Seattle now?”
“No, I’m staying in Pacific Cove, Oregon, for the time being. Spending time with my family.”
Dr. Bellaire said, “Did you—”
The lurking guy’s right hand slipped into his pocket and came out holding a short cylindrical object. In one smooth movement, his arm lifted up and back like a major-league pitcher gripping a baseball. His target was obviously Dr. Bellaire, but Kyle was already in motion. David was shoved aside as Kyle went airborne, crashing into the attacker, his left hand seizing the guy’s wrist. As they went down, Kyle twisted his arm back and up, subduing him completely. Shattered glass lay on the floor, accompanied by balls of a pink jellylike substance. Kyle recognized the distinctive odor of cured salmon eggs.
For a few beats, the entire lobby went quiet before erupting with renewed chaos, screams and cheers. The crowd surged toward them, but Bellaire’s security detail was already escorting the doctor away. Kyle handed the guy off to one of the security guards. “Those are salmon eggs on the floor, I think.”
The police were called. Dr. Bellaire was fine. Kyle was fine. Everyone was fine. With the exception of the would-be attacker, who’d landed hard on the marble floor and was whining about an injured wrist.
It was all over in a matter of seconds. Just another day at the office for Kyle. It should have ended there. And it would have. Except for the fact that an eager reporter from Channel 11 had filmed the whole thing. That, and then Kyle received his second job offer of the day.
LIP-SYNCHING TO Carrie Underwood while baking (okay, and eating) cookie dough will be weird with a stranger in my house. No more yoga in my pajamas. No more whale watching from the deck in my pajamas. Binge watching Tiny Dancer while practicing my hip-hop moves is probably out, too.
A bathrobe-clad Harper Jansen searched around her living room and let out a panicky bark of laughter, a sound she hoped not to make on the first date she was about to go on in months. Spotting the lotion she’d been seeking, she shoved the bottle into her pocket, secured the robe’s lapels firmly around her and hurried through the house to her bedroom.
“Bodyguard,” she said aloud and cringed. Even the word felt personal and intrusive. “Body. Guard,” she tried again more slowly and then realized she was gripping the robe so tightly around herself it was hard to breathe. See? There was an inherent threat to her well-being in the very word itself. Although, her dad insisted the position was that of security consultant. “Feels like a bodyguard to me,” she muttered.
She considered canceling so she could mentally prepare for this looming and indefinite invasion of her privacy. Yes, she should stay home and relish her last evening of precious aloneness. As the only child of a single dad—one who worked a lot—Harper was no stranger to being alone. She’d been alone here in Pacific Cove for three months now. Sure, it was a feeling she’d been wanting to shed lately, but it suddenly seemed both essential and precious. Then she remembered she didn’t have the guy’s number.
“Brilliant, Harper.” Lotion forgotten, she donned her carefully chosen outfit.
When her yoga acquaintance and sort of friend, Samantha, had arranged the date, right before leaving for her six-weeks-long honeymoon, Harper declined to take his number, so she wouldn’t be able to freak out and cancel at the last minute. Like she had the last time. It had seemed like a good idea at the moment—a symbol of her courage and commitment to “getting back out there,” as Sam liked to say. The problem for Harper, however, was that “out there” only led to disappointment and heartbreak. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever recover from her last relationship. Owen’s betrayal had taken heartbreak to a whole other level. His subsequent death had exacerbated and complicated those emotions to the point that she’d wondered if she’d ever fully heal. But she had. Or at least she was way, way better. That’s what today was supposed to prove: a better Harper ready to move on.
That’s when the next depressing thought struck her. This will likely be my last unchaperoned outing of any kind for weeks, if not months.
What she needed to do was make this date a good one. Like epic. Technically, there was no making up for lost time, she knew that, but she could make the best of the time she had left.
Fueled by this notion, Harper channeled her frustration into determination. Frantically, she changed out of her dressy clothes, trading skinny jeans, tunic and boots for leggings, T-shirt and running shoes. She twisted her auburn waves up into a bun and tied a long-sleeved fleece top around her waist. She was going to have a good time tonight if it was the last thing she did. Now that she thought about it, even if her date didn’t want to go along for the ride, she’d take that ride on her own. She’d enjoy her final hours of freedom, all right, and not at home fretting and pouting.
Basic security had always been a part of her life. Her father’s house on Seattle’s Lake Washington included a state-of-the-art security system as did the offices and labs at his company, Bellaire Environmental Solutions & Technology. But Harper had always felt like that was more about the important, proprietary nature of her dad’s work and the general safety of her surroundings than about her.
Even so, when she’d moved into her house a few months ago, Denny, her dad’s head of security, had brought the system up-to-date. She used it maybe half the time and not very well at that. The facial recognition technology functioned so that whenever a human stepped onto the property, the cameras began recording, and if it was a person who’d visited before, or was already in the system, their name would pop up on-screen. If not, a close-up still shot was recorded, cataloging the face for later. All visits were logged along with the time and date. The app chimed while Harper was tying her shoes, shooting a surge of nervous adrenaline through her bloodstream.
The irony did not escape her that this was a blind date. Probably, in addition to getting the guy’s
