through tight lips.
“Any relation to Peter Shackleford?”
“My father.”
The officer literally took a step backward. When hearing the name, a lot of people kowtowed. Although her father hadn’t lived in Denver for ten years, he’d left an impressive legacy including a twenty-seven-story office building downtown and a small airport, both named after the man the newspapers called “Peter the Great.”
Jayne hated using her parentage for leverage. She’d left home when she was really young to attend college and hadn’t moved back to Colorado until her father was settled in Dallas. Trying not to sound like a brat, she confronted the policewoman.
“Here’s what I’d like to do,” Jayne had said. “I’d like to take some time alone to calm my nerves and to use my neighbor’s computer to type up every detail I remember.”
“That’s not usually how we do things.”
“I have a rational basis for my suggestion.” She had explained that much of her work in neurosurgery focused on memory. According to some theories, it was best to write things down while adrenaline levels were high. She had colleagues who would disagree, and her words were taking on the tone of a lecture. “Without the sharp focus engendered by panic, the brain may sort details and bury those that are too terrifying to recall.”
The policewoman had patted Jayne’s shoulder. “Tell you what, Doc. You can take all the time you need.”
Hiding out in Brian’s office had given her a chance to catch her breath. She’d finished her statement for the police, printed it and sent a copy to her email. She should have emerged, but fear held her back. The tech-savvy intruders had chosen her house for a reason. She had no idea why, but she felt the pressure of danger coiling around her.
Cocoa rested his chin on her thigh and looked up at her. He truly was a handsome animal. She gazed into his gentle, empathetic brown eyes. He’d tried to warn her.
“I misjudged you,” she murmured as she stroked the silky fur on the top of his head. “I thought you were a pest with all that running around and barking.”
Not a good sign...she was talking to the dog.
There was a tap on the office door, and Cocoa thumped his tail twice—a signal that the person at the door was friendly, probably Brian. If a police officer had knocked, Cocoa would have growled.
Swiveling to face the door, she said, “Come in.”
In a quick move, a man with glasses and a ponytail stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He confronted her directly and said, “I’m the guy.”
Jayne would have reacted to “the guy” with more hostility, but she’d used up her quota of snarkiness for the day. Besides, Cocoa seemed to trust this person. With much tail wagging, the chocolate Lab bounced toward the stranger, who reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.
She cleared her throat and pushed her messy hair off her face. “What guy?”
“The one who can repair your security system.”
She vaguely recalled a two-minute conversation with Brian. When she told him that her home alarm system had been compromised and her cell phone wouldn’t turn on, Brian might have said something like I know a guy who can fix that. And she might have said that she wanted an appointment with that guy.
“I didn’t expect you tonight,” she said.
“Fine with me. I like being unexpected.”
“How so?”
“Since I’m buds with Brian who’s an IT specialist and I know how to repair your system, you might think I’m all about computers. You’d be surprised to learn that I’m also the part owner of a security firm with a license to carry a concealed Glock 17.”
To prove his claim, he pivoted and flipped up the tail of his plaid flannel shirt to show a holster attached to his belt. He turned to face her, pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose, grinned and said, “Ta-da!”
In spite of her fear, she had to grin back at him. “Did they send you in here to bring me out?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have much luck at rock-paper-scissors.”
Her initial impression was NERD in capital letters. He certainly wore the uniform: glasses, baggy plaid flannel, jeans rolled up at the cuff and a purple baseball cap on backward.
Then she took a second look—a lingering assessment from head to toe. She tilted her head, and her hair rippled all the way down her back. Though she was seated and not able to judge his height accurately, she estimated that he was well over six feet tall. The wide shoulders under that flannel shirt were impressive but he wasn’t bulky. His body was long and lean. His wrists were muscular, and he wore an expensive dive watch. Behind those dorky horn-rims, his eyes were a smoldering shade of gray.
Unexpectedly, very unexpectedly, she was attracted to him. Tickity-tick-tick-tick. Maybe he was her early Christmas present. “Do you have a name?”
“Dylan Timmons.” He held his hand toward her and then curled the fingers inward for a fist bump.
She tapped her knuckles against his. “Jayne Shackleford.”
“I thought you might prefer a bump. Being a neurosurgeon, you have to take good care of those hands.”
“I’m not that much of a prima donna.” She frowned, thinking of the way she’d behaved with the police. “At least, I try not to be.”
He placed her cell phone in her hand. “They said I could give this to you.”
The screen flashed on, and she felt a glimmer of hope. “You fixed it.”
“The phone fixed itself. Somebody used a signal-jamming device to disrupt your signal.”
“That’s just wrong,” she said.
“But not illegal. I’ve heard that pastors are using jammers during their sermons.”
Now that she had the cell phone, her mind jumped to practical concerns. “I might need to cancel my surgery for tomorrow morning. I should get a good night’s sleep before I operate.”
“Why so much?”
“The surgery takes five or six hours. I’m not intensely involved the whole time, but I need to be alert.”
Still, she hated to cancel. Rescheduling the staff was a hassle. A guest neurosurgeon from Barcelona would be observing. Jayne had prepared and reviewed the most recent tests, neuroimaging, PET scans and MRIs. Starting over at another time was an inconvenience for the medical personnel involved. But postponement was much worse for the patient, who had already checked into the hospital, and for his family and friends.
He asked, “What kind of surgery is it?”
“It’s not
