Dying for Love

A firm believer in equality, Grace returned the perusal. Once again, he had his sunglasses tucked into the neckline of his shirt. Never before had she found that sexy, but hey, times changed. From the look of it, he wore a black silk T-shirt under his leather jacket. He looked scrumptious in black.

Lisie cleared her throat. When she glanced at her, she fanned her face, eyes wide. If it wouldn’t have been obvious, Grace would have done the same.

“What do you have?”

“What?” She blinked and whipped her gaze back to Matt. Her female parts were begging to get up close and personal with his male parts, but she was fairly sure that wasn’t what he meant. Especially not in front of her friend. She wasn’t into that sort of thing.

His lips curved to reveal that tempting dimple. She didn’t know what she’d do if he gave her a real smile. Probably melt into a puddle of undersexed hormones at his feet.

“You offered me a drink?”

“Oh. Right. Um…soda, iced tea, wine and water.”

“A glass of ice water would be nice.” The intensity of his gaze ratcheted up a few notches. “It’s a bit warm in here.”

She swallowed and hurried into her kitchen. Lisie followed close on her heels.

“Damn, sug!” Lisie hissed, eyes bugging a bit as she ogled Matt. “You could’a warned me.”

Grace shrugged and stole glances at him over her shoulder as she grabbed a glass. He strolled over to the French doors that opened onto a nice-sized balcony overlooking the Boise River. Ice clinked loudly in the glass from the dispenser and he turned. Grace’s face heated and she lowered her gaze, but couldn’t resist sneaking another peek through her lashes.

“I’ll leave you to it, cher.” Lisie winked at her before heading to the front door. “Hope to see you again soon, dawlin’,” she called to Matt. He nodded his head and waved, smiling at her.

Looking oddly at home in Grace’s feminine room, he settled onto her couch. Except for his earlier visit, no men had been in her living room. In her condo, period. Not even a date in seven months. No wonder she was having a hormone overload. She wasn’t used to being aware of her sexuality, much less someone else’s.

Lifting a black boot to settle his ankle on his other knee, he rested a long arm on the back of the couch.

“Sorry I’m not ready.” She thought about the mess in her closet and her knees weakened. “I found… I don’t know what I found, actually. The clothes in my closet…” She bit the inside of her lip and walked into the living room. She didn’t want to get into this with him again. “Never mind. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

He accepted the glass of ice water, frowning. “What did you find?”

“Matt.” She sighed and surrendered to the inevitable. “The clothes in my closet are messed up.”

“Show me.” He rose.

Grace sighed again, but what difference did it make? She led him to the open closet door. He stood beside her, silent. She shivered. Clothes that had hung just so, neatly folded sweaters, her shoes—they were all scattered on the floor.

Matt wrapped an arm around her and pulled her snugly to his side. She hadn’t expected it or wanted it, but sharing the moment helped. Diluted the impact somehow. The warmth of his body and the hard muscles wrapped around her melted the insulating layer of shock.

She leaned against him, struggling to resist hiding her face in his shirt. Hiding from the fear that had every muscle clenched to the point of pain. From the sense of violation churning her stomach. Hiding from the thought of a stranger in her home. Again.

“You need to call the police. I know it seemed like a waste of time the first time, but you still need to file a report.” His gaze held her fast. “This is the second time. In case anything else happens, and I’m not saying anything else will, but if it does, this will be factored into the equation.”

Her head began to throb.

His eyebrow arched. “You didn’t get your locks re-keyed, did you?”

Shoulders drooping, she shook her head. The urge to rest her head against his broad shoulders was strong. She resisted.

Matt’s lips tightened, then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll call a locksmith while you get dressed.”

She nodded, numb. He was taking this so seriously it made it hard to pass it off as some teenage prank. His arm tightened around her, then let go. The bedroom door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Grace allowed a moment to wallow, then straightened her shoulders and pulled on a pair of blue jeans. Reluctantly, she went into her closet and dug through the pile on the floor. Something was odd about some of the clothes.

The arm of a red sweater seemed too long, while a black skirt was oddly misshapen. She held them up and gasped. Hands trembling, she dug through the pile. About half of them were torn or ripped. Her lower lip quivered and she bit it, blinking back tears.

Sitting on her closet floor and having a good old-fashioned sob-fest sounded appealing, but her boss was waiting in the other room. They were moving into dating territory, and she didn’t want to start out with puffy eyes and a red nose. Not attractive. She yanked a lightweight cashmere sweater off the floor.

A jagged-edged piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Her breath caught. The white square lay on top of the tweed skirt she’d worn to work a few days ago. Innocuous. Apprehension coiled inside. Not another one.

With the same cautious respect she would show a boa constrictor, she picked it up. She took a breath. Squeezed her eyes shut and flipped the paper over. She opened one eye and peered at the paper.

Both eyes open, she sat back on her heels.

Think you’re something special, don’t you? A fancy job, big condo

and expensive clothes won’t change anything.

You’re nothing but trailer trash, slut.

Trailer trash?

A shudder trembled the paper in her fingers. On the edge of hysteria, she rubbed her forehead. Be rational. Deep breath. Her chest rose and fell on a deep inhalation. Okay, good. You’re life hasn’t been a bed of roses. You can cope without falling apart. It’s just words on a piece of paper. Yes, someone was in your home. Someone damaged your clothes. No biggie. Clothes are replaceable. The important thing is, whoever was here is gone. Right now, there’s a big, handsome man waiting in your living room. For you. Focus on that.

Grace straightened her shoulders, wiped a stray tear from her cheek and stood. She set the paper on her bed and pulled the intact cashmere sweater over her head. Her thoughts ran in circles as she tugged on socks and tennis shoes. Looping a strand of hair round her finger, she stared at the paper. What she wouldn’t give to crumple it into a ball and toss it. Instead, she grabbed the scrap and headed into the living room, resigned to the inevitable.

Matt glanced up from where he sat on her floral couch, her cordless phone and the phone book in hand. Her lips twitched. Like a physical caress, his gaze moved over her. Appreciation gleamed in the dark depths. His eyes narrowed on the paper in her hand.

“What’s that?”

“I found it on the floor mixed in with the clothes—most of which have been slashed.” She placed it face up on the coffee table. Matt leaned forward.

“Trailer trash?”

She settled on the couch beside him. “I’ve never even lived in a trailer.”

“I don’t like this, Grace. The note makes it more personal.”

She bit her lip, not wanting to mention the other note. The one she’d found in her car. A stress headache bloomed into life right behind her eyes. He picked up her cordless from the coffee table and handed it to her. “Call the police.”

“You know you’re incredibly bossy, right?”

“Hazard of being the boss, I guess.”

He leaned back against her pillows. He didn’t even appear offended. Relaxed and comfortable came to mind, despite the frown drawing his dark brows together and the tight set of his lips. Sprawled on her couch, he also looked entirely too sexy for her peace of mind.

His gaze dropped to the phone lying in her limp hand, then back up to her face, with a lift of his brow.