Between Dusk and Dawn Read online

  "I was just... I wanted to... You must be feeling a little better," she stammered.

  "Much," he said, draping the towel across his broad shoulders. The fluffy material contrasted dramatically with the faded golden planes of his too thin, but well muscled chest. His eyes landed on the keys, and his expression hard­ened.

  She sighed and thrust a quart jar of homemade potato soup into his hands. "I was just going to leave this on the counter. I thought you might be hungry." The jar slipped and both of than grabbed for it. One of her hands covered his and she gingerly released her hold.

  The effect he had on her, just standing looking at her with those dark, dark eyes, was bad enough. Touching him was disastrous. And she didn't want whatever bug he was fight­ing.

  "Well," she said, backing away self-consciously, "I just wanted to see if you were feeling better. I'd better get go­ing. I still have the evening chores to do."

  He followed her slowly out onto the porch. "I'm sorry I've let you down. That was never my intention."

  "I know. It's not your fault you're sick," she protested, backing away another step.

  "Shall I get dressed and come help?"

  "Oh no. I've done this all a million times. You rest up so you'll feel better tomorrow."

  She backed up again and he caught her arm to keep her from falling off the porch.

  Heat flooded her face and seemed to burn her all over. And the fingers that splayed briefly against his abdomen as she'd tried to stabilize herself felt as scorched as if she'd touched a hot pan. "Sorry," she murmured, trying to side­step him. Her heart picked up an uneven tattoo as he guided her back to the center of the porch and then released her.

  "You want to come back after you're done and share this?" He hefted the jar and looked as perplexed as she felt by the invitation.

  "Oh, I don't think..." Dammit, she thought. He looked relieved as she started to refuse. If he didn't want her to come, he shouldn't have invited her. "That would be nice," she agreed. "I'll be back as soon as I finish the chores. In about forty-five minutes?"

  He nodded and she turned, stalking quickly away so he wouldn't have a chance to renege.

  His offer was obviously as big a mystery to him as it was to her. But he had wanted her there—the invitation had come as inevitably as his touch. Something in her chest fluttered, pleased yet apprehensive at the same time.

  With his dark hair mussed and damp and the reluctant pleasure at seeing her in his eyes, she'd be smarter to stay away. But he'd be dressed when she came back, she told herself, and she'd be neighborly. They would share a brief meal, get to know each other better, then she'd be on her way.

  He was still shirtless and shoeless when she came back almost an hour later. At her knock he flung the door wide. "Perfect timing."

  "The soup's ready?" Her eyes caught on the faint brushing of dark hair forming a V down his chest. The point disappeared beneath the sagging waist of his jeans.

  He nodded and waved for her to follow him.

  She draped her jacket over the banister of the stairs lead­ing to the second floor, and joined him in the dining room where he was putting the hot pan at one end of the table.

  Her eyes wandered to his taut, nicely rounded buns. At least his jeans weren't hanging on him there.

  "Have you been sick a lot?" she asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I just noticed that..." Shoot, she couldn't say she'd been staring at his behind and happened to notice that the only thing keeping his jeans from falling off were his rounded hips and tightly cinched belt. "It looks like you've lost a lot a weight."

  He poured her soup, catching the drip from the side of the pan with a paper towel as he moved the pan over his own bowl.

  "I guess you could say I haven't bothered much with eat­ing regular meals lately.'' Sam slid out a chair at the end of the table. "Here, sit down." He returned his attention to the pan.

  Though a bit shabbier because of the casual use of a number of employees, the dining room hadn't changed much. Except for the dust, of course. Her father hadn't tolerated dust.

  "I meant to have this whole house cleaned before you moved in," she apologized, puzzling over the scattering of wood shavings that littered the opposite end of the big, heavy table. A handprint indicated that someone had tried to brush them away. She glanced at the floor and saw a matching heap of trimmings there.

  "I'm afraid that mess is mine. I meant to clean it up be­fore you got back."

  She frowned at him questioningly.

  "I forgot the crackers," he said and hurried out of the room.

  "One of the windows upstairs was stuck. I brought it down here, took it apart. Planed a little off the side," he said as he came back in, purposely meeting her eyes. "Hope you don't mind."

  Her dad's pickup, now the old house? "Of course I don't mind," she said.

  "Good." He was obviously relieved. "Shall we eat?"

  "Some of the electrical wiring could also use some work, I noticed," he added as he took his place. "I'll work on that, too—in my spare time of course."

  "Since Dad died, most of the people I've hired have pretty much treated this job—and the house—as tempo­rary. Something that would do until something better came along. It’ll be a nice change to have someone around that cares about the condition of this house."

  He looked uncomfortable. "Don't nominate me for sainthood," he said bluntly. "I just like to keep busy."

  "Even when you're sick?"

  "Especially then," he said. "If I'm busy, I at least forget for a while how bad I feel—works every time."

  "I wouldn't know. The last time I was sick, I think I slept all the time."

  "You must not be sick very often if you can't remember the last time."

  "It’s that good healthy farm stock I come from," she said wryly. "The last time was probably when I was thirteen and had the chicken pox."

  "Must not be too healthy. Your parents both must have died fairly young."

  "They were older when they had me. Mom was thirty- four, Dad was in his forties." She was telling him an awful lot for someone who had checked her out. "You didn't find all this out in your 'investigation?'"

  "Only that they were deceased," he admitted. "I mostly wanted to know about you—now," he added, one corner of his mouth turning up subtly. He added, as she opened her mouth to ask, "Everything I found was glowing."

  She smiled and shook her head in genuine amazement.

  "How old were you when your mother died?"

  "Six," she said, ashamed of being so catty when he was trying hard to be congenial. "Natural causes," she added.

  "That’s definitely the way to go if you've got to," he said, his eyes troubled again.

  And not the way his sister died, she surmised.

  "How long ago did your father die?" he asked.

  She raised an eyebrow and he raised his hands.

  "If this is a sensitive subject—"

  "Four years," she interrupted. "I don't mind talking about this, but it’s strange you ask so many questions when you're so hesitant to answer any." She pressed at the cor­ner of her mouth with the paper towel he'd dropped beside her, and pushed her bowl away.

  He shrugged, his jaw squared, the little white scar prom­inent again. "I promised you I'd keep my problems away from you."

  "I guess that's up to you." She stood, picking up their empty soup bowls and headed for the kitchen with them. From years of past experience, she flipped the light switch with her elbow. He followed her, filling the doorway as he leaned against it, watching.

  "I'd think you would want to perpetuate all that good farm stock. I'm surprised you're not married," he com­mented.

  She half smiled and shook her head again. "And you ought to give lessons in that," she said.

  One questioning dark eyebrow disappeared beneath his casually styled hair.

  "You could start your own seminars. How to get infor­mation without asking questions or without having to re­ciprocat
e with any information of your own," she explained. "For the most part, you do it very inoffen­sively.' '

  "Does that mean I just crossed the line?"

  "You're on the edge," she said.

  "You aren't going to tell me anything?"

  "Not much to tell, except that I was engaged once and it was typical of my luck with men," she confessed. "I've found it easier not to trust any of them."

  "Except me, of course."

  She laughed. She couldn't help it. "No, Sam. Not you. I think you might be very dangerous."

  "Oh?" He moved nearer, and she knew it was her imag­ination but she could feel his body heat surround her. She felt her breathing grow shallow. "In what way?"

  "Oh, I don't know." She rinsed her hands, then dried them on the towel by the sink, tossing it onto the counter. It gave her a chance to back another step away. "So far in our short acquaintance, you've been a big bag of contrasts. One minute you're secretive and solemn, the next you're friendly."

  The intriguing little lines between his eyebrows deep­ened, but he didn't say a word. Or reclose the widened gap between them—not physically, anyway. His gaze held steady on her mouth.

  "Sometimes, you're very intimidating."

  "Intimidating?" he asked. "How?"

  She knew she was getting in deeper and deeper, that she should stop, but with him just standing there watching—

  "You're very watchful," she said. "I supposed it's an occupational habit."

  "I've learned to be very cautious, careful." He smiled slightly. "Especially with women. Like you, my luck with them the past couple of years hasn't been good."

  "Except with me, of course." She borrowed his phrase, trying to turn the conversation playful again. It had sud­denly become very somber.

  "Especially with you, Jonna," he said without a smile in sight. "I don't plan to get caught up in the idea of taking care of you."

  He'd done it again. Without her being aware of it, he'd moved closer till he was practically on top of her again. She flattened herself against the hard edge of the kitchen counter. "I can take care of myself," she said, and knew it was time to leave if that were true. The predatory way he was looking at her was beginning to do funny things to her in-sides.

  He boxed her in, his hands gripping the counter on ei­ther side of her, his face inches from hers, his lips drawing her gaze.

  "And what do you do now, Jonna?" he asked silkily, his low voice caressing her skin.

  "I push you away," she said, planting her hands on his chest. He didn't budge but she felt his heartbeat quicken under her fingertips.

  "Not so easy, is it, Jonna?"

  Though his face remained impassive, a wariness had crept into the coffee-colored eyes. He didn't want to be affected by her, she realized, but he was. And with sheer will and wits he was waging this subtle battle with himself as much as with her.

  "What next?" he asked again.

  He stayed away from women, especially her? Jonna wondered. Maybe she could scare him away. "I try a new tactic," she said. The palms still against him softened and shaped themselves to his rock-solid chest.

  She heard his sharp intake of air as she raised her lips and brushed his. For a moment, her strategy worked. He froze; she felt his arms fall away. She felt his sudden withdrawal, and she ignored the message to her brain that said now was the time to escape triumphantly.

  But his lips seemed to hold hers like a magnet and his arms came around her like a vise, pulling the length of her tight against him. She parted her lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

  She could feel his skin through the lightweight material of her sweater. Her hands moved to his back, exploring the planes and hollows, creeping up to discover the texture of his hair as he increased the pressure of his mouth against hers. His fingers formed some peculiar brand on her as he caught her arms, gently tugging her away.

  She inhaled deeply, intending to retreat, but his earthy scent lingered in her nostrils and incited some primitive, long-forgotten need.

  His lips were sweet, as addictive as chocolate, and his skin was as warm as the sun. It had been so long, so long since she'd felt want this intensely, and she clung to him.

  "You're playing with fire, Jonna," he whispered. "Do you want to get burned?" He moved against her, his desire evident, contagious. An aching throb started somewhere low in her belly and rose, opening like a budding flower until her chest felt as if it would burst from the pressure.

  His lips brushed hers, then her cheek, then right below her jawbone. They dipped toward the sensitive place behind her ear. Her body weakened even further to his tantalizing as­sault, and she was suddenly terrified by her reaction to him, by his calculating, analytical discovery of her weaknesses, by the way her attempt to turn the tables on him had back­fired. She finally managed to push herself away.

  He released her abruptly, then stabilized her and let her go. Where she had been hot, she suddenly felt icy cold. "I'm sorry," she said, avoiding his eyes.

  "My pleasure," he said. "And it's nice to know you can take care of yourself. But I'd be very careful who you try that tactic on."

  She felt her face flame. "A miscalculation on my part," she whispered. She brushed past him, headed for the front door, anxious to get away from him and the humiliation and raging mess of emotions she couldn't define.

  He grabbed the jacket she had flung over the stair rail­ing. "You'll need this," he said, tossing it without coming closer.

  She caught it and stepped outside, stopping, startled by the darkness that had engulfed everything outside the half-open screen.

  He flipped on the porch light. "You want me to walk you up the hill?"

  "Thanks, but no thanks," she flung over her shoulder.

  "Be careful, sweet Jonna." His soft tone seemed to stir the air around her. "Life is full of surprises. You never know what might be waiting in the dark."

  She shivered, reminding herself he was just doing his in­timidating thing again. But the night suddenly seemed deeper.

  And all the way to her lonely house up on the hill, she could feel him watching.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nightfall!

  Sam loved the night. The most interesting things hap­pened between dusk and dawn: crickets hummed outside open windows on warm summer nights; fires crackled, shedding light and heat in a darkened room on crisp, cold nights. A nice Chablis was nicer, sentimental songs were more stirring, and willing women—Jonna Sanders came to mind—were much more willing, late at night.

  He had always known how to make the best of this spe­cial time.. .until the killing started.

  Now, night was no longer a predictable, comforting time. Since Denise's death—1:13 a.m.—night had fashioned it­self into something to be dreaded. He dreaded it now.

  He'd followed Jonna up the hill using the night scope on his binoculars. Then he'd watched her house until her lights had gone out a half hour ago. It ought to be safe now, he decided.

  The wind slipped icy fingers under his coat as he crept out the back door. The length of electric wire he'd curled and draped over his shoulder slapped against his side. He un­coiled it as he retraced the path he'd laid out that after­noon.

  He hated chancing it but snapped on the flashlight he carried to find the reflectors he'd planted to mark his course.

  The light caught the first one and he turned it off.

  If he hadn't been concentrating on wiring his device to the electricity inside, he never would have impulsively invited Jonna to share the soup she'd brought him. Or maybe he had a deep-seated need to torture himself.

  Sitting with her, watching her seductive body flow from one position to another, smelling that subtle perfume and her own unique Jonna scent, all of it was torture. And he congratulated himself again on his control when she'd tried to seduce him. It still amazed him and brought back mem­ories of every night he'd spent in some woman's warm and willing arms.

  Damn, he had to quit thinking of her. It had been too long. He co
uld feel the fever building. And what was worse—every time he thought about her, a bundle of emo­tions crowded in, cluttering up his well-ordered discipline.

  The fourth reflector mocked him, glimmering briefly in the dim light, then hiding in knee-high dry prairie grass.

  By the time be found it again, his concentration was back where it should be.

  He fastened the wire to the ground with one of the small hooked stakes he'd found in the hardware store, then re­traced his steps, tightening and making sure the wire lay flat and invisible on the ground. Fluffing the matted grass back in place, he picked up the reflecting markers as he went, hooking them beneath his belt.