a chance, lady. I’m not suicidal. Take a look out there!”
A shiver ran through her. He decided she wasn’t going to shoot him and gave her his best glare.
“And put that thing away before you hurt someone.”
He took a step forward. Her hand tightened convulsively. Maybe she would shoot him after all. The fear was back in her eyes. He felt a twinge of guilt, but shook it aside.
“Look, I’ve had it with you. Either shoot me or don’t, but I’ve got things to do. One of those lightning strikes took out the power. Now if holding that gun makes you feel more secure, feel free, but I have to go out back to start the generator.”
R.J. suited action to words, moving with deliberate care as he started into the living room. She tensed. So did he, but the half-expected sound of a gunshot didn’t come. He continued through the dining room and out to the kitchen, releasing his breath.
Lucky padded ahead, hoping for a treat. After a second, R.J. sensed her following them.
“Watch where you step,” he cautioned gruffly without turning around. He paused to turn off the turbo fans as he went past so they wouldn’t blare to life once he started the generator.
“Are you lost?” he asked without looking at her.
“Not if you’re R.J. Monroe.”
Chapter Two
R.J. spun around. He hadn’t expected that. She took a hasty step back. Her hand was thrust inside her jacket pocket, holding the gun no doubt. She might be nervous but she faced him boldly.
“Who are you?”
“Stay where you are,” she commanded.
“Please,” he added with soft menace. She froze.
“What?”
“You aren’t real big on manners, are you? ‘Stay where you are, please.’ My foster parents were sticklers for good manners,” he explained. “They taught me a person gets a lot farther on a few please-and-thank-yous than all the bullying in the world.”
Scowling, her voice deepened. “Please.” R.J. stopped moving. “Do you always abuse a person’s hospitality this way?”
The sudden crack of thunder was so loud they both gave a start. For a second, R.J. was afraid she’d fired the gun. Lucky barked and shook himself again.
“Come here, dog.”
Ignoring her and the possibility she’d shoot him, R.J. strode past her without another word. Lucky trotted after him into the mudroom. Drying the dog off gave him a chance to collect his thoughts. She knew his name, but he was pretty sure he’d never seen her before, and he couldn’t imagine anyone being mad enough to send someone after him with a gun.
She came to the doorway, a silent shadow watching as he toweled Lucky and reached for the dog treats in the box up high on the shelf. The gun made him nervous. He had a feeling it wouldn’t take much for one to go off in inexperienced hands, and she didn’t look all that experienced to him.
Pulling a clean towel from the stack in the basket waiting to be carried upstairs, he set it on the dryer. “You can use this to dry off. I need to start the generator.”
Without waiting for her reaction, he grabbed the flashlight and a jacket from the hook and stepped back outside into the storm. The worst of it seemed to be moving away.
R.J. debated his options. He could go around to the front and try to come in behind her and take the gun away, but that seemed risky. She could have shot him already if that had been her intent. And he was curious. Who was she? What did she want?
He wished he had thought to grab his cell phone. Then he could have called Wyatt. As Stony Ridge’s chief of police, Wyatt Crossley could have told him the best way to handle this situation. Even better, he would have sent reinforcements to take the crazy lady off R.J.’s hands.
He ran around the side of the house and started down the drive. There was still too much lightning in the air for comfort, but he spotted the glint of chrome after a brilliant flash that wasn’t as close as most had been. The small car was mired in the mud under the trees all right. Well and truly stuck.
Texas plates. He whistled under his breath. She was a long way from Texas. And he didn’t know anyone from that part of the country. What was this all about? The car was locked. A purse and a pair of night-vision goggles sat on the front seat.
Not exactly standard equipment for any of the women he knew. There was also a blanket and pillow on the back seat and a tidy bag of what looked like trash on the floor.
Now why would a woman come looking for him with a gun and a pair of night-vision goggles? This made no sense, but there was only one way to get any answers. He hurried back around the house and got the generator started. For once, it purred to life without argument.
The mudroom was empty as he stepped back inside. Her jacket dripped from a hook. Nice to see she was making herself at home. He hung his beside it and checked her pocket.
“I kept the gun,” she told him.
“Figured as much.”
Unrepentant, he turned. Suddenly he was aware that his chest was bare and dripping wet. She’d used the towel to wrap her hair turban-style, but the black, long-sleeved turtleneck she’d worn under her jacket was nearly as wet as her coat. Wet enough to cling like a second skin, outlining lush curves. There were dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted.
He turned to the clothes dryer. He did not want to feel sorry for her. He wanted to cling to his anger, but something about her made that difficult. Pulling out a black T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, he glanced up at her.
“I have extras if you want something dry to wear. They’ll be big, but better than wet clothes.”
“I have a suitcase in my car,” she told him.
“Good. When the storm stops, you can get it.”
She frowned, watching as he used another towel to dry his hair and pat his chest dry.
“I’m about to drop my pants, so unless you want the full show, you might want to step back in the kitchen.”
The air charged with electricity more potent than the sky outside. Color suffused her cheeks. Without a word, she backed out of sight. R.J. grinned and stripped quickly, toweling himself thoroughly before donning the clean outfit.
She wasn’t beautiful, though she was pretty in a wholesome sort of way that definitely didn’t go with the gun. And while she intrigued him, he was in no mood to play games with strangers, pretty or otherwise.
He tugged his softball sweatshirt off the hook and found her standing in the middle of the kitchen, next to Lucky, looking lost.
“Here. You look cold. It’s not freshly laundered like the stuff in the dryer, but it’s warm.” Hesitantly, she accepted the sweatshirt. “There’s a bathroom off the kitchen that backs to this laundry room.”
“I
