she returned to the kitchen table with a glass of water, DPD Detective Cisneros looked up from the typed statement and smoothed the edges of his mustache. “You work at Roosevelt Hospital, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re a neurosurgeon. A resident?”
“I completed my residency last year.”
“Is that so?”
Dylan heard the disbelieving tone in the detective’s voice and didn’t blame him for being skeptical. She looked too young for such an important occupation. In the droopy bathrobe with her hair in a ponytail, she’d have a hard time passing for eighteen.
“It is, in fact, so.” She took a deep breath and recited her accomplishments by rote. “I completed college at age sixteen, med school at nineteen, internship at twenty and fulfilled the requirements of an eight-year residence in neurosurgery last year. Twice, I’ve won the Top Gun Award from the YNC, Young Neurosurgeons Committee.”
If his theory that smart women were sexier was correct, Dylan had hit the jackpot with Jayne. She was a genuine, kick-ass genius.
Cisneros took a minirecorder from the inner pocket of his brown leather jacket, verified with Jayne that it was okay to record her and launched into the standard questions.
“Do you have any enemies? Anyone who would wish you harm?”
“There’s professional jealousy. Some of my colleagues wouldn’t mind if I vanished off the face of the earth, but none of them are likely to hire thugs with stun guns and stage a break-in. Likewise with patients and the families of patients.”
“What about in your personal life? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Not at the moment,” she said.
Dylan stifled a cheer.
“Any bad breakups?” Cisneros asked. “Is there anyone who won’t take no for an answer? Or women who think you stole their boyfriends?”
“My personal life is super dull.”
“In your statement,” he said, referring to her typewritten account, “you quote the intruder as saying he doesn’t want to hurt you. Did you believe him?”
“He had a stun gun,” she pointed out.
“But he didn’t use it.”
Cisneros asked half-a-dozen more questions that circled the main issue, trying to get a handle on why the intruders had staged this break-in. They had to be after something.
Jayne’s responses weren’t real helpful. Not that she was being difficult. She just didn’t know why men wearing ski masks had attacked her.
Cisneros glanced down at the account she’d written with such care. Very deliberately, he set those pages aside. His unspoken message was clear. “Maybe they don’t want to hurt you, Jayne.”
“No?”
“Tell me about your father.”
“Please don’t call him,” she said quickly. “He doesn’t need to know about this.”
Dylan heard fear in her voice.
Cisneros picked up on it, too. “Are you afraid to tell him?”
“It’s not that.” Frown lines bracketed her mouth. “It’s just... I haven’t spoken to him on the phone for a couple of months, haven’t seen him since the Christmas before last.”
“Is he local?”
“Dallas, he lives in Dallas.”
Dylan watched as the cool, sexy, smart woman transformed into a little girl with messy hair. She gazed down at her hands, pretending great interest as her slender fingers twisted into a knot on her lap. Her feet in their scuffed moccasins turned pigeon-toed.
Her father, Peter Shackleford, was rich enough to have an airport named after him. His fortune was tied to the oil-and-mining business, and he had a rep for being smart. Not as smart as his neurosurgeon daughter but savvy enough to surf the waves of business and avoid a wipeout.
Cisneros smoothed his mustache and said, “Could this have been a kidnapping attempt.”
“I just told you that I’m not close to my dad.” Without looking up, Jayne shook her head. “I can’t imagine he’d pay a ransom for my release.”
“Does your father have any enemies?”
“Yes.”
“Any enemies who might want to hurt you.”
She lifted her chin and looked directly at Dylan. “My father isn’t a bad man.”
He didn’t believe her.
Dylan excused himself to go next door and pack a suitcase for Jayne. He didn’t want to listen to her heavily edited version of what a great guy her dad was, and he expected that was all Cisneros would hear from her. Though Dylan gave her points for loyalty to Peter Shackleford, he doubted that she’d score high in the honesty department. He could almost see her digging in her heels. No way would she speak ill of her father even though her mysterious intruders were very likely tied to dear old daddy.
That was Jayne’s business. Not his. He was her bodyguard, not her therapist.
Before he left Brian’s kitchen, Detective Cisneros ordered Officer E. Smith to accompany him to the crime scene. Cocoa escorted them to the back door and wagged goodbye. The dog needed to stay inside while the strangers on the DPD forensic team ferreted out clues at Jayne’s house.
Dylan glanced down at the lady cop, whose short legs had to rush in double time to match his long-legged stride. “Does the E stand for Emily?” Dylan guessed. “Or is it Eva, Ellen or Eliza?”
“Eudora,” she said. “That’s why I go by Smith.”
“Nice meeting you, Smith.”
“Same here.” She had a broad smile and big, strong teeth. Her orange-blond hair stood out from her head in spikes. “Did Jayne give you a list of things she needs?”
“In detail,” he said as he took the list from his jeans pocket. “I’m not sure how accurate it is. She’s still shaky. Her map of the upstairs of her house shows three separate bathrooms.”
“That’s true,” Smith said. “The weird floor plan is because of the renovations she’s been doing on the house since she moved in four years ago. Brian told me all about it.”
Dylan had also heard a lot about Jayne and her intense renovating. Since Brian spent a lot of time working from home, his neighbors were a source of amusement. He’d told Dylan how she’d dive in and work like mad on some project, then she’d come to a complete halt while concentrating on her career. For several months, the eaves and porch in the front
