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  “And this is Sigmund.” She lifted her cat so she could rub noses with it, then gave Ethan a small smile. “You seem surprised.”

  “You’re not what I expected.”

  “Neither are you.”

  His jaw slid to the side. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She studied him a long moment, then shrugged. “Nothing.” Setting Sigmund down, she moved to the kitchen. Despite his irritation, he couldn’t help admiring her graceful walk, much like a cat’s itself. The long legs and feminine flare of hips were hypnotizing. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water’s fine. We really should get started. The day’s half over already.”

  She paused in reaching for a glass and raised an eyebrow at him.

  Damn, again. He’d sounded so annoying. “I mean, I want to teach you as much as possible before I have to leave.”

  Dr. Levine returned to filling two glasses with water from a refrigerated pitcher. “What did Damian tell you, exactly?”

  Damian. They were on a first-name basis. Ethan filed that away under Interesting, too.

  “About what?”

  She handed him a glass and took the seat opposite him. “About my past.” Her eyes clouded again, and Ethan found himself reluctantly intrigued.

  “That you’re a radio-talk-show celebrity. And a professor at the university.” He paused, knowing what she was really asking him. “And that this isn’t the first time you’ve acquired a stalker.”

  She pursed her lips, drawing his attention there. The huff of laughter surprised him into meeting her gaze again. “Acquired. Interesting choice of words, Mr. Townsend.” She studied her glass before continuing. “But of course, it would be important for you to know that part of my history. After the first time, I took a course. I’ve learned some things about self-defense.”

  “Good for you. Then, hopefully, this will mostly be refresher material. I may, however, have a few new things to add.”

  “I’m always open to learning more about staying safe.” She sat back and rubbed her hands up and down her arms, as if warding off a chill. “And I assure you I take my own safety, and that of the people I love, very seriously.”

  “You live alone.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I do. Unless you count Sigmund.”

  “Depends. Would Sigmund sink his claws and fangs into an intruder?”

  Her mouth twitched. “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  She let out a sigh. “If you’re asking if I have anyone who can come stay with me, or who is willing to protect me, the answer is no. Not anyone I would call on, anyway. I wouldn’t endanger the people I love.”

  “You don’t have any family? A boyfriend?”

  “I have family. As I said, however, I won’t endanger them.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “They might not see it that way.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  She wasn’t going to budge. The woman was as stubborn as a mule. She’d rather put her own life at risk than accept help. Still, she had called Damian. She needed help. And it was Ethan’s job to see that she got it.

  “I can take care of myself.” The quiet way she said it lacked the confidence Ethan would help her find.

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No, but there are other ways of defending oneself.”

  He smirked. “Like kicking a man where it hurts most?”

  Scowling, she shifted in her chair. “You mean the instep of his foot? Or a solid clap to the ear? Now you’re insulting my intelligence.”

  So she had paid attention in her self-defense class. “Still…”

  Her expelled breath lifted a curl from her forehead. “I have pepper spray in my purse. And I know how to shoot a gun, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t own one and don’t particularly care for shooting,” she added under her breath, “but would I if I had to?” She met his gaze unflinchingly. “Absolutely.”

  The truth of her words was evident in her expression.

  “Okay. Let’s start with an assessment of your home. Walk me through it.”

  As she took him on a tour of her small home, Ethan analyzed the strengths and weaknesses. She’d done a good job securing the windows and doors, but there were things even she, as cautious as she seemed to be, had missed. Things such as choosing an everyday item in each room of the house that could be used as a weapon, should she be trapped there with an assailant.

  He reached around her as they stood in her master bathroom, his arm brushing the creamy skin of her bare shoulder as he lifted her can of hairspray. He caught the scent of her hair. Something flowery, but also earthy and subtle. Whatever it was, it had his body responding in a way it hadn’t since he was in high school—quick and shameless. Accidental contact with her had almost brought him to his knees, so he didn’t mind when she quickly stepped away, putting distance between them, though the bathroom was small. She didn’t get far.

  Heat seared the bare skin of Maggie’s shoulder where Ethan’s body grazed it. It had been so long since any man had touched her, let alone a man as attractive as the security specialist Damian had insisted she speak with. Wanting Damian’s help, she couldn’t refuse, no matter how hard it was to let a near-stranger into her home.

  Into her home? Heck, the man was standing in her bathroom.

  Her reaction to Ethan Townsend was a surprise. Taller than her by a few inches, and wide enough through the shoulders to make her wonder if he’d ever played football, he made her bathroom seem more like a coat closet with the two of them filling its space. And here he was handling her personal-care products. The things she used every day. There was something unbearably intimate about it, especially after so much time alone, and the thought brought a rush of heat to her face.

  Seemingly oblivious, he lifted her bottle of hairspray. “Ever get this in your eyes?” he asked. She nodded. “Doesn’t feel good, right? And it won’t feel good to an intruder, if he happens to corner you in the bathroom. Spray it in his eyes if you can. It’ll impair his vision—hopefully, long enough for you to make an escape.”

  “Sounds like you know from experience.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been trained on what to do if I’m sprayed with pepper spray. Or hairspray. Or a couple other things that I’d rather not ever face again. My eyes still water when I think about it. But it taught me some valuable lessons, such as how to focus on taking my target down while enduring incredible pain.”

  He gestured for her to lead him out of the bathroom, and she exhaled a breath of relief. Some space between her and this man who smelled faintly of coffee and some mouthwatering spice—she thought maybe it was cinnamon—was definitely a good idea.

  He led her to the kitchen where he selected a large knife from among others in the wooden block she had on her counter. Any spark of attraction she’d felt was quickly squelched as he held it up. She backed up a step. He couldn’t know about her aversion to knives. Even Damian didn’t know the full extent of that terror.

  As her breath hitched, Maggie tried to focus on Ethan’s mouth instead of the weapon, watching his lips form words. His mouth looked strong, yet soft when one side quirked upward into a semblance of a smile. She wondered what it would be like to kiss that corner. Would it taste of whatever spice scented his skin?

  Ethan turned the knife over in his hand. “Don’t go for the obvious—the knives. Too often, they can be turned on the victim and make a bad situation that much worse.” He put the knife away and she sucked in a breath of relief. “Do you have a fire extinguisher nearby?” She nodded, opening the cupboard under the sink. “Use this on him, either as a club, or spray him and run. Or, use a good ’ole frying pan.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all.” He touched her shoulder, his fingertips brushing the flesh exposed there by her tank top. She felt it catch fire from his heat. “You do whatever you have to. Fight him. Your life could depend on it.”

  She nodded.
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  His voice softened. “I know you’ve been through something like this before. I don’t know the details.” He hesitated, as if waiting for her to supply the story.

  No way was she going there. Her feelings were too fragile after the past twenty-four hours.

  “It could impact how you handle a crisis situation.” He paused again, but she didn’t take the bait. He shrugged and moved away, his hand gone from her skin. She felt cold where a moment ago it had been hot.

  They moved into the living room, where the red-brown letters stared down at them as Ethan spent another hour showing her basic self-defense techniques. It was a review for her, but she was grateful. After Deborah’s brutal attack, she’d needed to feel in control again and the YMCA had offered a basic course that helped her regain some sense of security. In fact, she prided herself on how careful she was, both in public and at home. So she found her patience slipping as Ethan went over several home-safety issues yet again.

  “Satisfied?” she asked, irritated when he’d pushed her through yet another round of questions about how often she changed her passwords, alarm code, and the light bulb on her porch.

  His jaw slid to the side. “Cockiness can get you killed.”

  She sobered. He was only doing his job, after all. She knew better than to bite the hand that was feeding her. “I’m all too aware of that, Mr. Townsend.”

  “Call me Ethan. Can I call you Margaret?”

  She laughed. “God, no. Call me Maggie.”

  The husky waves of her laugh flowed over him like a stimulant and a balm all at once. It made him want to reach out and touch her again, even if only to brush back that stray wisp of hair from her forehead that kept escaping from her kerchief.

  He opened his mouth to say something when the ringing of her telephone interrupted. As she turned to the kitchen to answer, he looked around the living room, his eyes tracing the harsh strokes that formed the letters over and over.

  F. E. A. R.

  She’d scrubbed about half the living room, but there was more to be done. The smell of bleach permeated the air, yet she didn’t risk opening a window. Did she find removing the message herself was cathartic? Or was she punishing herself for some unknown sin? Why would she put herself through it?

  After seeing her level of privacy and security, he wondered if she just didn’t want anyone else crossing the threshold of her sanctuary. It was obvious she lived alone except for Sigmund, who’d stuck close during his tour of the home. Her bedroom had been decorated in shades that weren’t exactly feminine, but gave the impression of…softness. Comfort. The second bedroom was a home office. The third, which many people would have made into a guest room, stood completely empty.

  He heard Maggie’s sigh and turned back to her. “No, Mom, really, I’m okay…Yes, I’m sure Agatha told you all about it.”

  Unabashedly listening for clues as to her relationship with her family, Ethan stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. Her slender fingers reached to tuck away the lock of hair he’d been tempted to touch back into her kerchief. A tiny furrow formed between her eyes. Then she looked up and crossed her eyes in a way that had him smothering a laugh.

  “Yes, the police were here. I’ll tell you about it later. I’ve got company right now…No, he’s here about the break-in, so I have to go…Love you, too. Bye.” She crossed the kitchen to replace the receiver. “Sorry about that. My neighbor apparently observed the chaos this morning and couldn’t wait to inform my mother. They used to be bridge partners, when my parents lived in this house.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her what happened?” Ethan asked, puzzled that she’d told her mother she loved her, but hadn’t called her when something of this magnitude had occurred. His own mother would crucify him if he’d left her out of the loop. Despite the overwhelming testosterone that he, his three brothers and his father had brought to the household, it was definitely a matriarchy.

  Maggie hugged her middle as she shrugged. “She would have worried.”

  “She’s a mom. She’s supposed to worry. It’s in the job description or something.”

  She turned away, clearly wanting to end the discussion. “I’d like to get back to scrubbing the living room, if we’re done here.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, studying the rigidity of her spine, the stony set of her shoulders. The woman was holding it together. Barely. Dr. Levine struck him as an intensely private woman. It was obvious she wanted her privacy now.

  “We’re done. For now. You’re not to go anywhere alone.”

  She turned back to protest but seemed to think better of it and pressed her lips together instead. She nodded. “Okay. How am I supposed to get around?”

  “Limit your activities to what you absolutely need to do.”

  “And let him win?”

  “And survive,” he corrected. “Your safety is my job, so listen to me and you’ll stay alive. Work, home, grocery store. That’s about it.”

  “I could ask David to go with me, I suppose.” The furrow between her eyes was back.

  He didn’t know who David was, and until he passed Ethan’s stringent security check, the guy wouldn’t be allowed alone with his client. “I’ll accompany you, or Becca will.”

  “Becca? The woman who called earlier?”

  “She’s new at SSAM, but she’s good.” He hoped. “She’ll pick you up for work tonight.”

  Snapping her rubber gloves back in place, she muttered something under her breath and grabbed the sponge from the bucket.

  “What was that?” he asked, perversely wanting to see the flare of heat in her eyes once more. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “I hate being babysat.”

  “But you like being alive.”

  She looked as if she was about to object to that, and he raised an eyebrow expectantly, but she only turned back to the wall and began scrubbing. He strode to the door and stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for her attention, but she was engrossed in her work. Allowing himself the luxury of watching her for a moment, he took in the slim line of her body, the slight part of her lips as she blew out a breath. His body stirred in response.

  “Maggie,” he said, frustration making her name sound like a growl.

  She turned, her face flushed. That pesky tendril had escaped its confines again, curling across her cheek. “What? You can’t find the door? It’s right behind you.”

  He shook his head in disappointment. “Did you listen to anything I said today?”

  “What?”

  “The alarm? You need to set it behind me. Immediately. And I hope you changed the code since this guy somehow knew it.”

  Jesus. If this Owen guy was Fearmonger, Maggie had to be more careful. Didn’t she know that? But then, he hadn’t told her yet about the possible serial killer connection. He hadn’t wanted to worry her until he had more evidence the break-in was linked to a murderer. As long as she was taking proper security measures, it wouldn’t matter anyway. A stalker could be just as dangerous.

  Looking sheepish, she rose immediately, tossing the sponge in the bucket with a small splash. “Right. Sorry. I promise I’m usually very good about that, and I did change the code this morning. I just got mad and forgot.”

  “And stirring your emotions to the point of distraction will be exactly what Owen is counting on.”

  She whirled on him and before he could stop himself, Ethan took a surprised step back. “Right now he’s not the one pissing me off. I told you I forgot, but I promise you I would have remembered as soon as the door shut. I assure you, I don’t want to go through anything like I did before ever again.”

  He stared, intrigued by the pulse pounding at her slender throat. She spun away and waited, her fingers poised on the keypad of the alarm. She cast a pointed look over her shoulder at him, as if to say, “Are you leaving or not?”

  “Becca will be here to escort you to the station tonight. In the meantime, don’t go anywhere.” He left, pausing on the other side of
the closed door until he heard a series of beeps, followed by a blast of music as Maggie apparently resumed her attack on the vandalized walls.

  Good. Let her take her anger out on something other than him. She didn’t like feeling like a prisoner? Too bad. It was his job to keep her alive.

  When the living room was restored and her anger had faded with the onset of fatigue, Maggie double-checked the alarm and the locks on the doors and windows for the tenth time. Satisfied that she was safe for the moment, she sank into an armchair with a glass of pinot and rested her head against the cushion. And tried not to look at the wall where Owen had left his gruesome message. Though the letters were gone, they were still a vivid image in her mind.

  The phone rang. Sighing, she dragged herself up again. She didn’t have to look at caller ID to know who was calling. It was only a matter of time before Julia and Nancy Levine joined forces in the crusade to save Maggie from herself. It was a familiar, and tired, cause. “Hello, Julia. I guess Mom called you.”

  “Well, she can’t very well talk to you, now can she?” Only because she knew her younger sibling so well did Maggie hear the concern beneath the irritation. Still, she winced. Direct hit.

  “There’s nothing to tell.” She hoped. Why worry them when they had no leads on Owen yet? “Someone broke in, wrote a strange message on my wall, and that’s it.”

  “That’s it? Are you that jaded?”

  That was putting it mildly. “Maybe.”

  “We just want you to be safe,” Julia said, her voice softer now. “And happy.”

  “I am safe. Working on happy.” Not really, but Julia didn’t need to know that. “Safe” was taking up too much energy, anyway. After what she’d been through in the past year, Maggie would settle for normal and boring, if not happy.

  “You need someone,” Julia continued. “If not us, then someone else. Someone to talk to.”