leave it on the porch if you like.” He hated to go, knowing she was upset, but Olivia struck him as a private person and she probably wouldn’t want anyone to see her crying. Besides, what could he really do to help?
After a few seconds of silence, he knelt to place the mail on her welcome mat. Just as he set it down, the lock scraped and she opened the door.
If she was surprised to see him kneeling on her porch, she didn’t show it. She stared down at him, her eyes dull and red-rimmed, the tip of her nose pink. Logan gathered up the mail again and slowly rose to his feet, sensing that any sudden movements would spook her into retreat. “Hey, there,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”
Olivia merely shrugged one shoulder in an elegant gesture that managed to both answer his question and convey a sense of hopeless surrender.
“I have some of your mail.” He extended the bundle, but she merely stared at it for a few seconds, as if trying to recognize what he held and why he was trying to give it to her. Then she reached out to take it, her movements jerky and painful-looking.
“Thanks,” she said, her voice as subdued and lifeless as her eyes.
“No problem.” He cast about for something to say, but before he could come up with something comforting or helpful, Olivia shrank back into the house, her expression one of horror.
Logan whirled around to see a car driving past, its headlights sweeping up the yard as it turned. The illumination showed nothing amiss—no lurking stalkers hiding in the bushes, no threatening dogs slavering up her driveway, hungry for a bite of her flesh. Just a normal lawn on a normal street. Why then did she look like she’d seen a ghost?
He turned back to see her leaning against the wall, hanging on to the doorknob for support. Her knuckles showed white under the skin, betraying the strength of her grip. It was clear she was on the verge of falling, so Logan reached out to steady her. As soon as his hand made contact with her shoulder, Olivia jerked away, her dark brown eyes going wide and unfocused.
“No!” She took a step back, stumbled over a rug and went down hard on the tiled floor of her entryway.
Wincing, Logan moved forward and crouched down next to her. His arms ached to pull her up and support her, but given her violent reaction to his touch, he didn’t want to risk hurting her. “Olivia,” he said softly. “Please let me help you.”
She was curled in a ball, her arms wrapped tight about her middle. Had she hurt herself? Or was she simply trying to protect herself from him? His heart twisted at the thought that she was afraid of him—never in a million years would he want to give her that impression. Her actions reminded him of children who were left behind in the aftermath of some drug busts, those innocents who were so traumatized they turned inward to block out the world. “I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder and help you sit up,” he continued, keeping his tone even. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to get you off the floor.”
She didn’t speak, but he caught her quick nod. Good. She wasn’t going to panic. Moving slowly and deliberately, he did as he’d said, moving her into a sitting position. He let her adjust for a moment, watching her face for any signs of newly realized pain.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
She shook her head. “Just my pride,” she muttered, pushing her dark brown curls away from her face.
He offered her his hand, and she pulled against him as she rose to her feet. They stood together, their bodies only inches apart. He knew he should move back, give her some personal space. But she still seemed fragile, like a young sapling at the mercy of the wind. She looked like she could go down again at a moment’s notice, and given the fact she had yet to release his hand, she probably felt that way, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her eyes on the floor. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s okay,” he assured her. “I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt.” That much was true, but her reaction troubled him. Her response to his touch had been over-the-top, a fight-or-flight instinct most people only displayed in response to a mortal threat. The fact that her first impulse had been to run made him think she had been hurt in the past, maybe even abused. Was that the problem? Had she had a run-in with a bad former boyfriend tonight?
The thought made his muscles tense, and he glanced around, his training kicking in as he looked for any evidence of a physical encounter. Men who hurt women were lower than scum, and Logan would have no trouble stepping between Olivia and that kind of danger.
His eyes trailed across the entryway table that sat flush against the wall. There were some small tokens arranged on the table’s surface, but they looked out of place, as if they’d been knocked askew. Three narrow parallel lines made tracks in the thin layer of dust on the table, and he realized with a shock they were the impressions made by a hand skimming across the surface. Had Olivia run her hand along the table, searching for a weapon?
At the end of the table, a small square impression was left in the dust. Something had sat here, but what? A dark shape on the floor caught his eye, and he focused on it to discover it was a long, thin candle. It had rolled under the table, but he saw a waxy spot on the tile where it had first made impact. So the square impression must have been a candlestick. But where was it now?
Olivia cleared her throat, interrupting his musings. “Ah, thanks for bringing the mail over.” She picked up the scattered papers and stacked them on the hall table, then turned to face him. She had regained her composure and was quickly rebuilding her defenses. That was good, but it meant he was losing his chance to find out what kind of trouble she was in.
“Is that Chinese food I smell?” He took a step farther into her house, following his nose. “Man, I haven’t eaten all day. Do you mind if I crash your dinner?” It was a lame excuse, but it was the best he could do on short notice.
Olivia stiffened, but when she met his gaze he put on his best “who, me?” expression, hoping it would earn him a spot at her table. His stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, further advancing his case. He smiled sheepishly and was rewarded by a small smile from Olivia.
“Sure,” she said. “It’ll be nice to have some company.”
She led him through the living room and into the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of the candlestick lying on the sofa cushions. Interesting. Had Olivia sat there earlier, facing off against a threat? He inhaled deeply as he walked through the room and caught the faint hint of men’s cologne lingering in the air. So someone had been here, someone Olivia had felt the need to defend herself against, using only a candlestick for protection.
Logan waited until Olivia had retrieved plates and silverware and placed them on her kitchen table.
“Olivia, are you in trouble?”
She went pale and dropped the silverware in a noisy clatter against the plates. “No.”
“That’s not what it looks like to me.”
Her dark eyes flicked up to his face before she returned her attention to dishing up the food. “And I suppose you’re some kind of detective.” She pushed a plate in his direction and sat, and he did the same, taking the chair across from her.
“Something like that,” he replied easily.
“What do you do again? You’re in security, right?”
“I’m
