Mountain Shelter

“Is he local?”

“Dallas, he lives in Dallas.”

Dylan watched as the cool, sexy, smart woman transformed into a little girl with messy hair. She gazed down at her hands, pretending great interest as her slender fingers twisted into a knot on her lap. Her feet in their scuffed moccasins turned pigeon-toed.

Her father, Peter Shackleford, was rich enough to have an airport named after him. His fortune was tied to the oil-and-mining business, and he had a rep for being smart. Not as smart as his neurosurgeon daughter but savvy enough to surf the waves of business and avoid a wipeout.

Cisneros smoothed his mustache and said, “Could this have been a kidnapping attempt.”

“I just told you that I’m not close to my dad.” Without looking up, Jayne shook her head. “I can’t imagine he’d pay a ransom for my release.”

“Does your father have any enemies?”

“Yes.”

“Any enemies who might want to hurt you.”

She lifted her chin and looked directly at Dylan. “My father isn’t a bad man.”

He didn’t believe her.

Chapter Three (#ulink_e6f46846-df22-5937-b5a7-5b188d6c92a1)

Dylan excused himself to go next door and pack a suitcase for Jayne. He didn’t want to listen to her heavily edited version of what a great guy her dad was, and he expected that was all Cisneros would hear from her. Though Dylan gave her points for loyalty to Peter Shackleford, he doubted that she’d score high in the honesty department. He could almost see her digging in her heels. No way would she speak ill of her father even though her mysterious intruders were very likely tied to dear old daddy.

That was Jayne’s business. Not his. He was her bodyguard, not her therapist.

Before he left Brian’s kitchen, Detective Cisneros ordered Officer E. Smith to accompany him to the crime scene. Cocoa escorted them to the back door and wagged goodbye. The dog needed to stay inside while the strangers on the DPD forensic team ferreted out clues at Jayne’s house.

Dylan glanced down at the lady cop, whose short legs had to rush in double time to match his long-legged stride. “Does the E stand for Emily?” Dylan guessed. “Or is it Eva, Ellen or Eliza?”

“Eudora,” she said. “That’s why I go by Smith.”

“Nice meeting you, Smith.”

“Same here.” She had a broad smile and big, strong teeth. Her orange-blond hair stood out from her head in spikes. “Did Jayne give you a list of things she needs?”

“In detail,” he said as he took the list from his jeans pocket. “I’m not sure how accurate it is. She’s still shaky. Her map of the upstairs of her house shows three separate bathrooms.”

“That’s true,” Smith said. “The weird floor plan is because of the renovations she’s been doing on the house since she moved in four years ago. Brian told me all about it.”

Dylan had also heard a lot about Jayne and her intense renovating. Since Brian spent a lot of time working from home, his neighbors were a source of amusement. He’d told Dylan how she’d dive in and work like mad on some project, then she’d come to a complete halt while concentrating on her career. For several months, the eaves and porch in the front of her house were painted charcoal gray while the back was sky blue.

Though the electricity at her house had been reconnected, Smith pointed the beam of her Maglite at the back door. “If you look close you can see a couple of scratches from where they picked the lock and the high-security dead bolt.”

Since the intruders had already turned off the alarm system, breaking out a window would have been a simpler way to gain access. The neatly picked locks showed a level of finesse that made him think these guys were professionals. In her written account, Jayne had described a whispery voice with a slight accent.

As he strolled through Jayne’s house with Smith nodding to the forensic team, he noticed an eclectic sense of decorating that seemed to mimic the pattern of off-and-on renovations. He believed you could tell a lot about a person from their living space. If that was true, Jayne had multiple personalities.

Her renovated kitchen was ultramodern, sleek and uncluttered. Directional lighting shimmered on polished granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances and a parquet floor. This room told him that a modern, classy woman lived here...not necessarily someone who cooked but someone who appreciated gourmet food.

Walking through the archway into the dining room and living room was like entering a different house. The chairs and tables lacked any sort of cohesive style. The walls were bland beige and empty, without artwork or photographs. The only notable feature was a dusted and polished baby grand piano. From these rooms, he might conclude that Jayne didn’t do much entertaining at home and was passionate about her piano playing. The sheet music on the stand was for Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag.”

He caught a quick glimpse of the library opposite the staircase at the front door. The big, heavy, rosewood desk and wall-to-wall bookshelves showed an old-fashioned sensibility and a reverence for tradition. Not like the kitchen at all.

Climbing the carved oak staircase, he noticed the loud creak on the third step that had alerted Jayne to the intruders. The stairs and banister had been cleaned and refinished but otherwise remained unchanged from when the house was built in the 1920s. The same held true for the carved crown molding on the upstairs landing. Again, he had the feeling that she appreciated the work of a long-ago craftsman and was perhaps old-fashioned.

Her bedroom, which had been redesigned in shades of peach and gray, looked like the sanctuary of a fairy-tale princess...a tasteful princess but super feminine with a dainty little crystal chandelier. Set aside on a chair were three stuffed animals, all cats with white fur. The kitties were worn but sparkling clean. Though he didn’t see any fresh flowers, the room smelled of roses and cinnamon.

He doubted that anybody had sex in this room. There was zero hint of testosterone apart from the forensic guy who was crawling around on the carpet, peering and poking into the fibers.

Dylan noticed the wineglass on the bedside table. In her account, Jayne mentioned spilling the wine but never said that she’d picked up the glass.

“Excuse me,” he said.

The CSI popped up. “Who are you?”

Smith said, “He’s with me. Are you about done in here? We need to get some clothes for the owner.”

“I’m wrapping it up.” Like Smith, he held a Maglite with a beam that flashed wildly when he gestured. “How come we’re making such a big deal about this break-in? Nobody got killed.”

“A weird situation,” Smith said, “what with cutting the power and disabling the alarm system and all. Have you found anything?”

“A bunch of prints, but they all belong to the lady who lives here and her employees—a maid and a cook.”

“How did you get them read so fast?” Dylan asked.

“Computer identifications, plus I’ve got one of those handheld fingerprint-readers.” As he stood, he picked his satchel up off the floor. “Everything I need to break open a crime is right in here.”

“When you arrived,” Dylan said, “was this wineglass on the floor?”

“No, sir, it was standing right where it is.”

“Have you checked it for prints?”

“I’ll be doing that right now.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I’m done with the closet and the dresser, if you need to pack.”

Dylan found Jayne’s hard yellow suitcase with spinner wheels in the back of the closet right where she said it would be. The organization of her clothing and shoes was impeccable, and he would have thought she was obsessive-compulsive but those characteristics didn’t fit with the casual messiness downstairs. He packed the three outfits that she had described precisely. One was for before the operation, then a pair of baby-blue scrubs and then another outfit for post-op.

When he opened the top drawer of her dresser, there was an outburst of colorful silk and satin. Jayne had mad, wild taste in panties and bras. He held up a black lace thong and a leopard bra. For a long moment, he stood and stared.

She baffled him. A brainy neurosurgeon who wore stripper underwear and played ragtime on her baby grand. Who was this woman? He needed to find out more about her.

The CSI made a harrumphing noise. “I’ve got two prints on this glass—a thumb and a forefinger. And they don’t look like all the others.”

“Run them,” Smith ordered. “I’ll step over here and help Dylan pick out the right undies.”

When she rapped his knuckles, he gratefully dropped the thong and said, “I’d appreciate your help.”