wasn’t an issue, she reminded herself. The property was alarmed and gated and her fence was high and in good repair. A brief glance at the blinking light of the alarm system she’d had installed shortly after she had moved in assured her that the house was secure.
Jenna carried a glass of water up the long, sweeping staircase lined with, admittedly, gloomy Whitmore family portraits. She avoided the dark stares of ranks of long-dead relatives. Lately the sepia-toned record of the past and her lack of current family portraits had become a depressing reminder of the emptiness of her personal life.
It was one o’clock before she finally climbed into the elegant French provincial-style bed she had bought in response to an article she’d read on curing insomnia.
Apparently, there were two keys to getting a good night’s sleep: forming a routine and setting the scene for a restful night.
She was hopeless at the first, so she’d decided she could at least make her bedroom look as serene and inviting as impossible. With dark teak wood and white-on-white bed linen and furnishings, her bedroom could have been lifted straight out of a movie set. Unfortunately, that fact didn’t seem to make any difference to her sleep pattern, which was erratic.
As she switched off the light she became aware of sirens somewhere in the distance and recalled the current story in the news. Apparently there was a serial arsonist on the loose, a creepy coincidence since six years ago a serial arsonist had been responsible for Natalie’s and her baby’s deaths.
She stared at a bright sliver of moonlight beaming through a gap in the heavy cream drapes and found herself fixated on the possible identity of her poisonous fan.
She had not been callous enough to use Natalie’s mysterious death in her story, but she had drawn on the fact that Natalie had had a secret online friend who had sent her Valentine’s-style gifts: single long-stemmed white roses and chocolates.
Although the idea that the person who had sent the threatening email could be Natalie’s long-ago secret admirer was definitely pushing theory into the realms of fantasy.
It had to be a coincidence that she had received the email on the anniversary of Natalie’s death.
Chapter 3
The next afternoon, Jenna drove to the cemetery. The cars occupying almost every space and the large numbers of well-dressed people walking through the grounds signalled that a funeral was in progress.
Gathering the bunch of flowers she had placed on the backseat, she slipped dark glasses on the bridge of her nose and strolled through the grounds. The sun was warm, the air crisp, the sky a clear, dazzling blue. Large oaks cast cooling shade on row after row of well-tended plots.
As she neared the vicinity of Natalie’s grave, she noted the lone figure of a man. For a split second she thought it could be O’Halloran. Her heart slammed against her chest then she dismissed the idea. The man was tall, but not tall enough, and on the lean side rather than muscular. He was also wearing a ball cap, something that she had never seen O’Halloran wear.
A large group of mourners moving toward the parking lot obscured her view. The next time Jenna got a clear view of the gravesite, that part of the cemetery was deserted.
She strolled the rest of the distance to the grave, which was already decorated with a wreath of pink roses and a tiny blue teddy bear, which Aunt Mary would have placed there first thing that morning. Blinking back the automatic rush of tears at her aunt and uncle’s pain, which, after all the years, showed no sign of abating, she unwrapped the bunch of bright yellow and pink chrysanthemums she’d bought from the local florist, and placed them in a stone vase set to one side of the headstone.
Extracting a bottle of water from her purse, she topped up the vase. Straightening, she stepped back to admire her handiwork, and became aware that she was no longer alone. She spun a little too quickly, wincing as her knee, still stiff and sore, twinged. The plastic bottle bounced on the grass as a large hand briefly cupped her elbow.
A small shock ran through her as she processed dark, cool eyes beneath black brows, clean-cut cheekbones and a tough jaw made even edgier by a five o’clock shadow.
For a split second, even though she knew it was O’Halloran, she had trouble accepting that fact. Six years had passed since she had last seen him up close, and in that time he had changed. His hair was still the same, dark and close-cut, his skin olive and tanned, but his face was leaner than she remembered, his gaze more remote. A scar decorated the bridge of his nose, and his chest and shoulders were broader, as if he worked out regularly, which, given the rehab he’d had to do following his operation, was probably the case.
The rough jaw, oddly in keeping with his long-sleeved T-shirt and black pants, added a wolfish quality that signalled that whatever else O’Halloran had been doing, he hadn’t taken the time to shave. A small quiver shot down her spine when she realized that O’Halloran was studying her just as intently as she was studying him, and suddenly, the notion that the large, fierce male looming over her had anything remotely in common with the model who had posed for the cover of her latest book was ludicrous. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Instantly, Jenna regretted the bluntness of the comment, even though it was true. Since Natalie’s and Jared’s deaths, O’Halloran had almost completely distanced himself from the family, politely declining all invitations. According to her aunt and uncle he seemed to have no interest in visiting the grave. She had certainly never seen him here any other time she had visited, or seen any evidence that he left flowers.
O’Halloran retrieved the empty water bottle and handed it to her. “I visit. I just try to keep out of Mary’s way. The stuffed toys are hard to take.”
The blankness of O’Halloran’s gaze made her chest squeeze tight. For the first time, she saw it for what it was, grasped just how deeply O’Halloran had been affected by the loss of his family. It was etched in his face, in the muscle pulsing along the side of his jaw.
He had not attended the funeral because he had been flat on his back in hospital at the time.
While he was injured, she had worried about him to the point that she had tried ringing him and, once, had even gone looking for him. She hadn’t found him. Like a wounded animal, O’Halloran had gone to ground. Months later, he had surfaced but had continued to keep his distance.
Crouching down, she retrieved the cellophane wrap for the flowers and stuffed it in her purse along with the bottle. “I’m sorry, I should know better than to make assumptions.”
His gaze touched on hers as she straightened, before shifting to a group of mourners drifting past, sweeping the cemetery, with a mechanical precision, as if he was looking for someone. “You’ve had your own grief to deal with. The military is hard on families.”
She frowned. “How did you know that I came from a military family?”
His gaze was suddenly way too percipient, reminding her of just how seductively dangerous O’Halloran could be. The last thing she needed was a reminder that aside from possessing the kind of dark, dangerous good looks that made women go weak at the knees, O’Halloran had another set of traits that had always threatened to melt her on the spot. He liked women. He was solicitous of and ultra-protective of them, and he didn’t seem to have a built-in fear of emotional reactions. Nine years ago, after the near miss with the drunk driver, O’Halloran’s offer of a shoulder had proved to be her breaking point.
He
