Flirting with Disaster

She looked over her shoulder toward her studio, but Lauren pushed past her and pointed to the bedroom. “Do it. Sophie’s not here to protect you anymore. It’s just me and my cruel demands.”

“I think I read a book like that recently,” Isabelle muttered.

“Yeah, well... Wear something pretty for me or you’ll be punished.”

“Does this mean I’m not allowed to wear panties?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Fine. Let me get rid of the brush first.” As much as she resented having to stop painting, she still smiled as she ditched the brush and hurried to clean up. She’d gotten in almost ten hours of work, after all. Even she could be satisfied with that.

So she did exactly as Lauren instructed. She washed her face and pulled her hair up into a neater knot than usual, and she even put on makeup. Then she stared into her closet for five minutes before finally deciding that she just wasn’t into dresses right now.

She settled on her favorite pair of skinny jeans and a gold top she’d worn only once before. It was sleeveless and low-cut and too sparkly, but what the hell. Tonight was girls’ night out. Plus, she’d found her last pair of clean underwear, and that was something to celebrate. Of course, that meant she’d have to do laundry tomorrow. Or just go commando. Probably the latter.

“I’m ready!” she called out as she walked back into the living room, but her smile transformed into an O of surprise when she saw Tom standing there with Lauren.

Isabelle fought down her alarm. She’d almost decided he wasn’t onto her the night before. But then he’d asked to search her house, and she was fighting that fear again.

“Hello,” she finally said.

“Hi.” His eyes swept down to her cleavage then back up so quickly she could’ve imagined it. But she hadn’t. Maybe he really had been interested in her internet porn.

She relaxed enough to smirk. “Braving the house of horrors? This must be important.” She met Lauren’s questioning look. “He saw my work. He’s not a fan.”

Lauren huffed, but he shook his head.

“It’s not that you’re not talented. I just...” His gaze slid toward the kitchen and the double doors beyond. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Want another look?” she asked.

“No!”

Isabelle laughed so hard that she snorted. “It’s funny because he’s a big strong US marshal,” she explained to Lauren.

“Oh, that is funny!”

They both grinned at him for a long moment while Tom frowned back. “I was just stopping by to check on you.”

“Hey,” Lauren said, “are you here working on Judge Chandler’s case?”

“Yes.”

“I saw his daughter today at the library! She said she’s staying at her dad’s place for a while. It’s right around the corner, isn’t it? We should invite her over for a girls’ night in. We have to replace Sophie.”

Isabelle’s smile fell. “We do?”

Lauren nodded, and her voice went quiet. “I talked to her last night. She was tiptoeing around it, but I think she’s finally going to turn in her notice at the library. She’s living her dream.” Lauren nudged Tom. “Which is riding around the country on a motorcycle with a big tattooed guy. Isabelle, she’ll be back for a week on Tuesday. Don’t forget!”

Tom cleared his throat. “I’d better let you get to your evening.”

Isabelle remembered her wariness. “Did you need something?” she asked.

“Not really. I was making the rounds of the area and decided to stop by.”

Her paranoia made her want to snap at him, but she forced it back. She’d decided she didn’t need to worry about him. If he were really on a stakeout, looking for her father, he’d never have walked right up and introduced himself. Isabelle had overreacted. There was nothing to fear.

She shrugged. “Everything is good. Aside from the horrifying carnage in my studio, I mean.”

“Right. Well. I hope you’re taking this seriously now. Lock your door. Be careful when you get home tonight.”

“I will,” she said. “Scout’s honor.”

As soon as he closed the front door behind him, she winked at Lauren. “I was never a Girl Scout.”

“Yeah, he could probably tell by the way you held up two fingers instead of three.”

“Oops.” Isabelle cringed. “Oh, well. He’s too polite to call me on it.”

“Polite, huh? I was going to say ‘fucking sexy,’ but I guess that’s just me.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s just you.”

“Oh, really? Honey, I’m gonna need all of these details.”

Isabelle laughed off Lauren’s curiosity, but she could feel her cheeks warming. He really was sexy. And if she could keep him focused on her paintings instead of her past, he wouldn’t be a threat to her. “There aren’t any details.”

“Then I need reasons why. You’ve been whining about your sex drought for the past year, and now the gods have dropped a hot US marshal on your doorstep, and you haven’t devoured him yet? You’ve got some ’splaining to do, missy. Over drinks.”

“Fine. But only over drinks.” Isabelle excused herself to grab her purse, feeling strangely discomfited around her friend. Tom being there had reminded her that she wasn’t lying to only him; she was lying to everyone.

Somehow it hadn’t felt that way with her girlfriends, at least not since those first few conversations. They knew who she was. Who she really was now. But having Tom around reminded her that her whole life was a lie.

No. Not her whole life. Just her past. Everything she was doing now was real and genuine, and she was not going to let one US marshal ruin that.

She grabbed her little clutch purse. “Ready?” she called out as she headed back to the living room.

Lauren waved toward the front door. “This girls’ night has officially begun. Let’s do this.”

* * *

FROM THE COVER of the trees on the far side of the road, Tom watched the taillights of the car move slowly away. He felt guilty standing in the dark, watching, but he was in the woods only because he was heading back to the judge’s on a trail he’d already cut through the snow. He wasn’t spying. Much.

The problem was that he hadn’t had a good reason to stop by Isabelle’s tonight. He hadn’t really needed to check on her. Everything had gone quiet in anticipation of the start of the trial tomorrow. They hadn’t heard one word from the defendant’s brother or any of his other supporters. Of course, that silence had Tom on edge, too, but not as much as his suspicions about Isabelle.

Or whatever her real name was. That name was a lie. He was sure of it. She wasn’t from Washington, she wasn’t Isabelle West and she wasn’t an innocent isolationist suspicious of the feds.

“Or you’re overreacting,” he muttered.