standing guard at the gate. He obviously hadn’t seen Javiero creeping up on her. So she was safe enough.
Because she didn’t want the policeman to hear, she called very softly, “MacReady? Breakfast time.” She set the bowl down, looked around and called a bit louder. “Mac? Here, kitty-kitty!”
There was no sign of the ornery cat she’d named for her new bodyguard’s alter ego. Sara sighed. So far Houston had proved a bit lonely. She’d expected that when she’d made the decision to move here. After all, her social skills were barely up to befriending a starving alley cat. Making human friends was going to take time.
Unconsciously Sara began to toy with the hair at the back of her neck, a habit she had when she was troubled. Maybe it was the nearness of the holiday that made her feel the loneliness more keenly. Sometimes lately she even missed her aunt.
How ridiculous. In most of the ways that counted, Aunt Julia was no more distant now than she had been for years. They talked on the phone once a month, just as they had when they lived thirty miles apart instead of a thousand. Even if Sara had still been living in Connecticut, she could only have counted on receiving a box through the mail with a Christmas present or two in it, rather than an invitation to spend the holiday together. Aunt Julia craved solitude the way most people craved the company of their fellows.
Sara shook her head to dispel the maudlin mood. Hadn’t she learned to value her aunt for what she was instead of fretting over all that she wasn’t? The box with the present or two hadn’t arrived yet, but she knew it would. Her aunt might be distant, but she was as dependable, in her way, as the seasons.
Back inside, she went straight to the stereo and put on a couple of Christmas CDs, cranking the volume up before she headed for the kitchen. She hummed along with the London Boys’ Choir while she assembled ingredients. It was only Tuesday, but she wasn’t waiting for her usual baking day. She needed the exertion of kneading, the lusty scent of yeast and the satisfaction of creation to settle her mind.
Raz heard the music before he stepped onto the porch. He’d made a circuit of the outside of the little house, checking for ease of access, before talking with the cop on duty. Officer Palmer had informed him that the subject had stepped out onto the porch for a while.
Apparently she wasn’t taking her situation seriously. Raz used the key she’d given him and walked into a room that all but shook from the chorus to Handel’s Messiah.
Good Lord, didn’t the woman have any sense? All forty or so of Javiero’s old gang could break in and she’d never notice until they shot her down. He shook his head. People never failed to surprise him. Handel, now—that was just the sort of music he’d expect the little mouse to enjoy. But not at these decibels.
Her living room fit his image of her, though, and added to the impression the cottage gave of being a dollhouse. It was a tidy, feminine room, maybe ten feet square. The end table, bookcase and armchair were white wicker, and the print on the chair cushions and love seat was a dainty floral. A multitude of ornaments all but buried the small flocked Christmas tree in one comer.
Christmas again. He grimaced and studied the love seat pessimistically. It didn’t look like it made out into a bed. They were going to have to have a talk about the sleeping arrangements. Among other things.
He set his garment bag down on the love seat but kept his shoulder holster in his hand when he went to her bookshelf. It shouldn’t have surprised him to see it stuffed with medical books and back issues from magazines like the New England Medical Journal, but the grim realism of her reading material seemed incongruous in the dainty setting.
The bottom shelf of the bookcase held her stereo and one of those cordless phones that had an answering machine in the base unit and caller ID in the receiver. The caller ID was a sensible idea for a woman who lived alone. Yes, he thought, kneeling, Dr. Grace was a very sensible woman. In most ways.
He shut the stereo off, and silence dropped like a stone.
In the kitchen Sara froze. Someone is here. Here, in the house.
Fear swept through her, a cold fire that lit every cell, sending her heart rate skidding crazily. A series of images exploded in her head—images of bodies jerking with the peculiar rhythm of gunfire. She saw liquid red blossoms flowering around entry holes in chests, abdomens, elsewhere. She saw the surprised eyes of the security guard who’d shown her pictures of his grandchildren one evening. He’d slid to the floor so slowly, leaving a shiny red smear on the wall behind him.
And the noise. She heard it again, the terrible thunder of gunfire, a sound she heard often in her dreams and tried to drown out when awake.
Trembling, she pulled her hands out of the sticky bread dough she’d been kneading. The back door lay directly opposite the hall doorway. She took a step toward it.
A floorboard creaked in the hall.
She whirled, jerked a knife from the wooden block that held them on the counter behind her and turned back to face the intruder.
Raz walked into the kitchen.
Relief spread as quickly as fear had, leaving weakness behind. Her fingers lost their grip on the knife. It clattered to the floor.
“Oh,” she said stupidly. “Oh. it’s you.”
His quick glance took in her white face and shaking hands, the knife on the floor. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, coming toward her. “I didn’t mean to—”
Sara didn’t decide to scoop up a handful of dough and sling it at him. She just did it.
He stopped. He looked down, amazed, at the sticky dough slowly sliding down his chest. Then he looked at her.
“Are you crazy?” she demanded. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Ah—I’m not the one throwing things around here.” A smile tugged at his lips as most of the glob of dough splatted on the floor.
That smile made her even more angry. “Did you think I hired you to terrify me? Do I look like someone who wants to be terrified?”
“No,” he said soothingly. “Not at all. You look like someone who wants to throw things at me. I’m just glad you dropped the knife first.”
The knife. Oh, God, what if she’d—? Sara’s knees suddenly refused to hold her. She sank into the nearest chair. “I wouldn’t have,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thrown it.” Would she have used it at all, if he had been Javiero? Could she?
“Of course not.” He came and knelt in front of her. She noticed vaguely that he held a leather belt in one hand. He set it on the floor beside him. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head, bewildered by herself. “I don’t get mad. Not like that. At least,” she added conscientiously, “not when there isn’t a patient involved.”
“But it’s a natural reaction, to go from fear to fury. You’re the doctor,” he pointed out. “You ought to know about that sort of thing.”
With him kneeling and her sitting, his face was slightly below hers. He smiled up at her with eyes the color of candy kisses and lips just as sweet. Sara felt the oddest fluttering in her middle, as if she’d swallowed a bird and it was trying to get out.
