Just A Little Bit Married?

Back inside, she went straight to the stereo and put on a couple of Christmas CDs, cranking the volume up before she headed for the kitchen. She hummed along with the London Boys’ Choir while she assembled ingredients. It was only Tuesday, but she wasn’t waiting for her usual baking day. She needed the exertion of kneading, the lusty scent of yeast and the satisfaction of creation to settle her mind.

Raz heard the music before he stepped onto the porch. He’d made a circuit of the outside of the little house, checking for ease of access, before talking with the cop on duty. Officer Palmer had informed him that the subject had stepped out onto the porch for a while.

Apparently she wasn’t taking her situation seriously. Raz used the key she’d given him and walked into a room that all but shook from the chorus to Handel’s Messiah.

Good Lord, didn’t the woman have any sense? All forty or so of Javiero’s old gang could break in and she’d never notice until they shot her down. He shook his head. People never failed to surprise him. Handel, now—that was just the sort of music he’d expect the little mouse to enjoy. But not at these decibels.

Her living room fit his image of her, though, and added to the impression the cottage gave of being a dollhouse. It was a tidy, feminine room, maybe ten feet square. The end table, bookcase and armchair were white wicker, and the print on the chair cushions and love seat was a dainty floral. A multitude of ornaments all but buried the small flocked Christmas tree in one comer.

Christmas again. He grimaced and studied the love seat pessimistically. It didn’t look like it made out into a bed. They were going to have to have a talk about the sleeping arrangements. Among other things.

He set his garment bag down on the love seat but kept his shoulder holster in his hand when he went to her bookshelf. It shouldn’t have surprised him to see it stuffed with medical books and back issues from magazines like the New England Medical Journal, but the grim realism of her reading material seemed incongruous in the dainty setting.

The bottom shelf of the bookcase held her stereo and one of those cordless phones that had an answering machine in the base unit and caller ID in the receiver. The caller ID was a sensible idea for a woman who lived alone. Yes, he thought, kneeling, Dr. Grace was a very sensible woman. In most ways.

He shut the stereo off, and silence dropped like a stone.

In the kitchen Sara froze. Someone is here. Here, in the house.

Fear swept through her, a cold fire that lit every cell, sending her heart rate skidding crazily. A series of images exploded in her head—images of bodies jerking with the peculiar rhythm of gunfire. She saw liquid red blossoms flowering around entry holes in chests, abdomens, elsewhere. She saw the surprised eyes of the security guard who’d shown her pictures of his grandchildren one evening. He’d slid to the floor so slowly, leaving a shiny red smear on the wall behind him.

And the noise. She heard it again, the terrible thunder of gunfire, a sound she heard often in her dreams and tried to drown out when awake.

Trembling, she pulled her hands out of the sticky bread dough she’d been kneading. The back door lay directly opposite the hall doorway. She took a step toward it.

A floorboard creaked in the hall.

She whirled, jerked a knife from the wooden block that held them on the counter behind her and turned back to face the intruder.

Raz walked into the kitchen.

Relief spread as quickly as fear had, leaving weakness behind. Her fingers lost their grip on the knife. It clattered to the floor.

“Oh,” she said stupidly. “Oh. it’s you.”

His quick glance took in her white face and shaking hands, the knife on the floor. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, coming toward her. “I didn’t mean to—”

Sara didn’t decide to scoop up a handful of dough and sling it at him. She just did it.

He stopped. He looked down, amazed, at the sticky dough slowly sliding down his chest. Then he looked at her.

“Are you crazy?” she demanded. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Ah—I’m not the one throwing things around here.” A smile tugged at his lips as most of the glob of dough splatted on the floor.

That smile made her even more angry. “Did you think I hired you to terrify me? Do I look like someone who wants to be terrified?”

“No,” he said soothingly. “Not at all. You look like someone who wants to throw things at me. I’m just glad you dropped the knife first.”

The knife. Oh, God, what if she’d—? Sara’s knees suddenly refused to hold her. She sank into the nearest chair. “I wouldn’t have,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thrown it.” Would she have used it at all, if he had been Javiero? Could she?

“Of course not.” He came and knelt in front of her. She noticed vaguely that he held a leather belt in one hand. He set it on the floor beside him. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head, bewildered by herself. “I don’t get mad. Not like that. At least,” she added conscientiously, “not when there isn’t a patient involved.”

“But it’s a natural reaction, to go from fear to fury. You’re the doctor,” he pointed out. “You ought to know about that sort of thing.”

With him kneeling and her sitting, his face was slightly below hers. He smiled up at her with eyes the color of candy kisses and lips just as sweet. Sara felt the oddest fluttering in her middle, as if she’d swallowed a bird and it was trying to get out.

Right now, right this minute, he didn’t look like Eddie MacReady at all. Neither did he look like the cocky police officer she’d met earlier. He looked... nice. As if he cared.

She flushed. Stupid, Sara, she told herself. His concern might be genuine, but was hardly personal. “I’m all right,” she said, and started to smooth her hands on her slacks. She stopped just before she smeared dough all over herself.

He grinned, picked up the leather belt, and stood. “Well, I’m not. I think I’d better change before we have our talk. But first I really do need to apologize. I should have said something the second I turned the stereo off.”

That wasn’t a belt he carried, she realized. It was a shoulder holster. She saw the handle of the gun it carried. She swallowed, staring at the dull gray metal. “Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “You were expecting me back about now, and so far you’ve seemed pretty oblivious to the danger you’re in. It didn’t occur to me you’d think someone had broken in.”

“If that’s another attempt to make me change my mind about the safe house, please don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, but I haven’t given up.” His smile this time held conscious charm—which made it all the more irritating when the fluttering started again inside her. “Tell you what. Rule number one—I might try to change your mind, but I’ll let you know up front that’s what I’m doing. Now, why don’t I go change before I get any more dough on your floor?”

“The bathroom is right across from the kitchen.” Sara felt unsteady and vaguely nauseous. She clasped her hands tightly together to keep them from shaking. Adrenaline was great stuff if you had to fight or flee, she reflected, but it played havoc with your system if you didn’t get it all burned up.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, “and we’ll talk.”

Sara didn’t watch him leave the room. She forced herself to stand and go back to her dough.

She wasn’t disappointed, she told herself as she kneaded, working off the lingering effects of the adrenaline, that Raz thought he could talk her into doing things his way. People often thought that because she was shy, she was a pushover. And she was, about some things.

Not about her profession.

She was needed at Memorial. With all the increased security at the hospital since the shooting, she should be just fine while she was there. It was later, when she was home again, that worried her.

Home ... with her new bodyguard.

Three

Raz buckled his shoulder holster in place over a clean T-shirt. Damned if he’d put a jacket on just so she wouldn’t have to look at his gun. He wasn’t in the mood for tact. He’d seen the shocked look she’d given his weapon.

How had she thought he was going to protect her? Insults at fifty yards? Bad breath?

The rich smell of yeast filled the kitchen when he walked in. His subject stood at the table, wrist-deep in dough. She didn’t look up.

At least this time she didn’t turn deathly pale.

Raz was still shaken by what had happened earlier. His fault. Completely, stupidly his fault. He hadn’t stopped to think, a sin for which there was no excuse. He couldn’t even allow himself the luxury of confession. Admitting to her how thoroughly he’d messed up would only make her lose what little confidence she had in him, and that was more dangerous than his own doubts.