Constable Tommy Godsoe's blood sang.
His breath rasped harshly in his ears as he pelted along
the concrete sidewalk, but he wasn't winded. Not yet. Not
even close. Max, the four–year–old Belgian
Malinois straining at the business end of the
thirty–foot lead, lent Tommy extra speed. Even now,
backup was falling further and further behind, but Tommy
couldn't check Max's momentum or the dog would think he was
being corrected.
Suddenly, at the mouth of an alleyway, Max slowed.
Without conscious thought, Tommy took up the slack in the
lead even as he studied the dog nosing the asphalt. The dog
wheeled in a tight semi–circle, then turned away from
the alley and shot off again down the sidewalk. Tommy fixed
the location in his mind. Max had eliminated the alleyway
as a direction of travel. Always had to remember the last
negative sign. If they lost the trail further on up ahead,
they could come back to this spot, so Max could pick up the
scent again.
At the next alleyway, Max did the same check, but this
time he bounded off down the narrow passageway. Tommy raced
after him, his heart rate kicking up another notch.
Fence!
Max cleared it in one leap, and Tommy vaulted over it
right behind him. Over the sound of his own breathing, he
heard backup in the mouth of the alley now. Good. No need
to radio his location. He could save his breath for —
Ding–dong.
What the hell?
Tommy jerked awake, struggling up into a sitting
position. The sheets, cool with sweat, pooled in his lap,
and his heart pounded against his ribs as though he'd run a
marathon.
Ah, Jesus wept. A dream. It was just a dream. He wasn't
a cop anymore. He wasn't a dog handler. Bitterness,
familiar as the pain in his hip, curdled his stomach.
A light tapping at his door.
"All right, all right, keep your shirt on."
Throwing off the sheet, he swung his legs gingerly over
the edge of the bed. He thought about scooping up the blue
sweat pants from the floor and hauling them on over his
boxers, but another peal of the doorbell dissuaded him.
Grabbing his cane, he lurched to his feet and hobbled
toward the living room, grimacing with every step.
Ding–dong.
Cripes, that's what his doorbell sounded like? Something
from a 50s Avon commercial? He'd lived here four years and
couldn't remember ever hearing his own doorbell. No doubt
the ‘Beware of Dog' sign had something to do with that. He
and Max never stayed indoors when they could be outside,
and they sure as hell never waited around for life to come
to them.
Until now.
The doorbell sounded again, and he wished he still had
his service weapon. He'd happily put a round into that
little speaker by the front door.
Reaching the door at last, he tore it open. "What?"
Paige Harmer took an instinctive step backward.
When she'd moved into this duplex last month, the other
side had been vacant. The landlady'd said its occupant was
in hospital recovering from surgery. But even after her
neighbor had come home nearly two weeks ago, the unit next
door had been unnaturally quiet. No visitors came or went,
and no music thrummed through those walls. If it weren't
for the small bag of garbage that materialized at the curb
beside hers every Tuesday morning, and the occasional muted
sound of a television deep in the night, she'd have sworn
the other apartment was deserted. Now, her neighbor stood
framed in the doorway, wearing a pair of white boxers and a
thunderous expression.
And oh, Christmas, he was most gorgeous thing she'd
clapped eyes on in years, outside of a Calvin Klein ad.
Despite their current storminess, his eyes were blue as
the July sky. Black hair, a startling contrast to his pale
complexion, stood up in all directions, all the sexier for
its dishevelment. Thick, black eyebrows slanted over those
killer eyes. More dark hair crowned his chest in a liberal
thatch, tapering to a thin line that arrowed out of sight
beneath his boxers.
Runner, she thought. Endurance athlete. Just a hair over
average height, with a leanness that shaded toward too
thin. Yet the conformation of arms and chest disclosed
enough wiry muscle to give the impression of power.
"Can I help you?"
Mister, if you can't, there's no help for me.
The thought barely had a chance to form before her
internal censor roared to life. He was way too young for
her to be ogling, for goodness sake. Hardly much older than
Dillon, by the look of him.
There, that did it. Though he was clearly nowhere near
as young as her son, the mental association was enough to
clamp a firm leash on her imagination.
Unfortunately, the extra seconds it took to channel her
thoughts in more pure directions didn't go unnoticed. One
thick eyebrow arched inquiringly, reminding her she hadn't
yet stated her purpose.
She felt a flush begin to climb her neck. No chance he'd
miss that, either. Her skin was almost translucent, at
least the stuff between the freckles. She lifted the
foil–wrapped plate she held. "I thought you might
like some dinner."
He looked at the plate. "Thanks, but I'm not a big
eater."
"I can see that," she said, injecting her tone with the
same censorious note she might use with her son when he
ignored his body's nutritional needs. He shifted, and she
finally noticed the cane, which he appeared to be leaning
on pretty heavily. "Don't worry. It'll freeze nicely if you
can't handle it all right now."
"Look, lady, that's real nice of you, but —"
"I'll just put it in the refrigerator for you, shall I?"
She angled sideways and slipped right past him before he
could finish brushing her off. No way was she going back to
her lonely unit to worry about Dillon. Not tonight.