and turned off the light. The clock beside the bed read nine-thirty-three. It was past time for Lionel to be asleep.
In the dark she listened. The voices from across the hall went quiet. She’d give it a few more minutes, then sneak downstairs for a snack.
As she eased one toe out of the bed, her door opened a crack. “Michael?”
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I was checking to make sure you were all right before I went to sleep. Do you need anything?”
The sound of his deep voice was pleasantly reassuring. She lay back on the pillows. “I’m fine.”
“It’s been a long day,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
His voice…
“Good night, Annie.”
“G’night.”
The bedroom door swung closed with a click.
Her mind was racing toward a conclusion, but she didn’t know what it was. All thought of food vanished as she concentrated with all her might, reaching for an answer that was just beyond her grasp. What was it?
Moments passed as she searched the corners of her mind. What had he said?
Annie bolted upright on the bed. His voice! She’d heard his voice in the rainy darkness four days ago.
Michael had been the good Samaritan.
Chapter Two
Michael descended the staircase, thoughts of Annie lingering in his mind. He tried to match his memory of a sweet, spunky sixteen year old to the reality of a competent, strong woman. Though now a cop, her gentleness and vulnerability were still there. And she was still beautiful, naturally lovely.
He turned out the lights as he went through the house to the guest bedroom at the rear. When he’d left Bridgeport, he never expected to see Annie again, never hoped she would forgive him for abandoning her. And now? He wondered if she would ever be able to trust him again.
In the guest room, he tossed his suitcase onto the bed and opened it. His hanging clothes were already in the closet. From the moment he’d arrived, there’d been no question about whether or not he would stay. Annie and Lionel were in danger, and it was Michael’s fault. He would not leave them here unprotected.
He stretched, yawned and unbuttoned his white shirt as the stillness of a Bridgeport night settled around him. The deceptive quiet masked dark motives and old hatreds.
Michael heard a sudden crash.
Unlike the clean snap of gunfire, the noise resonated with a faint tinkling aftermath. A smashed window. A break-in.
Automatically he responded to the threat. From his open suitcase, he grabbed his Smith and Wesson automatic and snapped the 10-mm clip into the magazine. He turned off the overhead light in the guest bedroom and slipped into the unlit kitchen.
Above the half curtains, moonlight spilled across the countertops, the table and tile floor. With eyes unaccustomed to the dark, Michael scanned. He expected to find an intruder, and he hoped it was Bateman. Caught red-handed, Drew Bateman would be sent back to jail where he belonged.
There was nothing unusual in the kitchen. No movement except for the shifting shadows of wind-tossed tree branches outside the windows.
He moved on, swiftly and silently. This house was a security man’s nightmare. There were too many windows, some of them open to the fresh spring air with nothing but a mesh screen protecting the people inside. The door locks were a joke. There weren’t even dead bolts. Tomorrow he’d get this place wired with burglar alarms and sensors. He couldn’t have Annie and her grandfather living in a fish-bowl.
Bracing his gun in both hands, Michael listened for betraying noises. A cough. A creaking floorboard.
From overhead, on the second floor, he heard the alarming shuffle of someone moving around. Damn it! The crash had come from the front of the house. Most likely the intruder would go upstairs first—to the bedrooms where Annie and her grandpa slept.
If he’d failed her again…Michael hurried toward the staircase. Flattened against a wall in the hallway, he saw the front entry. Two etched-glass windows, twelve inches wide and three feet tall, bordered the carved oak door, which was still closed and apparently locked. The window on the right side of the door, nearest the handle, had been broken. Porchlight shone through the jagged shards still clinging to the frame. On the floor lay a good chunk of brick and more shattered glinting glass.
“Annie!” he called out. “Annie, are you all right?”
He waited. Seconds dragged into an eternity of apprehension as he imagined Bateman standing over her, threatening her, touching her with his filthy hands. Michael prepared himself to charge up the stairs.
Finally he heard her clear voice from the landing. “We’re okay.”
Thank God! “Stay up there.”
She peeked over the railing. A small cry escaped her. “They broke Grandma’s roses.”
“What?”
“Those decorative windows were one of my grandma’s last projects. Grandpa is going to be really furious when he finds out that—”
“Annie! Listen to me! Go into Lionel’s room and lock the door.”
“I’m the professional here,” she responded. “We need to secure the first floor and the basement, and two sets of eyes are better than one. You need backup.”
She was correct of course. But her security intelligence bothered him. He didn’t like to think of sweet beautiful Annie in danger. Being careful not to silhouette himself in front of the two windows flanking the front door, Michael ducked down and approached the front-porch light switch. From a crouched position he looked up the staircase.
Annie stepped down from the second-floor landing. Her sleeveless pink satin gown fell past her knees, outlining every graceful curve of her long lean body. Her sleek blond hair splayed out on her shoulders. In her left hand she held a black police-issue nightstick. In her right hand—in spite of the splint—she aimed a can of pepper spray.
The incongruous combination of sexy, slithering satin and dangerous weapons was appropriate for her. She was half “Come hither,” half “Touch me and I’ll kill you.”
“What are you waiting for?” she whispered. “Turn off the light.”
He flipped the switch, and shadows consumed the foyer.
In her white running shoes, she darted across the glassstrewn floor and crouched beside him. “There’s nobody upstairs, and Grandpa is still snoring. His nighttime medication is heavy-duty stuff.”
He gave a brief nod.
“I guess we should assume this isn’t an act of random vandalism. It was Bateman. But why?”
“He wanted to get inside,” Michael said. “After he broke the window, he could
