J Saint - Collateral Damage

But the more likely scenario that Bill had been involved in something criminal nagged her.

Already the Brazilian police had asked a number of questions this morning. Namely wanting information on any known drug use or if he had a history of criminal activity.

Lauren had sat in Angie's kitchen in a state of surreal numbness, whispering her answers into the telephone and referring them to Bill's Brazilian mistress, Milania Carridas. Angie was heaven sent. She'd kept the Godiva flavored coffee flowing and kept Matt and Mitch busy watching their favorite Thomas the Tank Engine videos. Meanwhile, Sasha and Sam sat at her feet each laying a paw on her shoes, clearly sensing her upset and comforting her. They did make her feel better, which was why she'd brought them along with her now.

"You two are the tops." She glanced at the White Shepherds in her rearview mirror. They'd saved her and the boys last night, and she thanked God they hadn't been hurt. Wagging their tails, they gave a short bark in response as she pulled into the driveway. She didn't bother with the garage. She wouldn't be long. Just enough time to pick up a few things and meet the handyman to board up the French doors.

According to Officer Jenkins there had been no other disturbances in the neighborhood and nothing out of the ordinary had been seen during the drive-by checks on her house last night and this morning. Still, she searched the shadows on the white columned porch and carefully scanned the surrounding gardenia bushes and magnolia trees framing the red brick home. Sasha and Sam sniffed around, acting normal as they dashed around the corner of the house after a squirrel.

She mounted the steps, recalling yesterday's pony fiasco and the boys' excitement in finding their presents from Bill on the porch. How could so much have changed in so short a time?

Her lingering gaze on the flowering red begonias framing the stairs brought a FedEx envelope to her attention. It lay on the ground between the flowers and the white wood of the steps. Getting on her knees, she reached through the railing and retrieved the envelope. It was from Bill, mailed from Brazil on the same day he'd sent the boys' presents.

Her heart thumped and her stomach flipped as she ripped open the packaging and pulled out the sealed letter. But the "My Dear Lauren" scrawled across the envelope killed her twinge of sadness as well as her desire to read the letter. She almost ripped it in half, but in the end folded it and stuck it in her back pocket.

How dare he? After his affairs and abandonment of his family, how dare he write MY DEAR LAUREN? She shoved the key into the lock and flung open the front door. My Dear Lauren indeed.

Moving into the foyer, she glanced up, irritated enough to spit nails then froze. The fifteen-foot entry mirror was cracked as if someone had taken a hammer to it in several places. She quickly looked around, absorbing the total silence of the house and the devastation.

Dear Lord in heaven. Everything as far as she could see had been trashed. Furniture upturned, pictures and cushions slashed, drawers emptied, their contents all over the floor. Nothing appeared unscathed. The door slipped from her numb grasp and fell shut behind her. She backed to it, heart pounding with fear as she listened for any sound.

The deafening silence told her that whoever had done this had left and a dizzying nausea washed over her. This just couldn't be happening.

Taking several deep breaths, she moved farther into the foyer and saw more of the same from where she stood. The living room, the dining room, and the kitchen. Devastation lay everywhere.

The doorbell rang and her cry of surprise remained stuck in her throat, trapped by choking emotion and shock. Approaching the peephole, she expected that one of her neighbors had come to complain about Sasha and Sam being on the loose. Instead, a rough, imposing stranger stood impatiently on her porch. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm, which likely meant he was another salesperson from the local paper, trying to drum up business.

Quietly she slipped the chain on and cracked the door open. She was in no mood to be polite. "I'm sorry. I'm not interested in anything you might be selling. There is a no solicitation ordinance in this neighborhood, so I suggest you leave before I call the police."

"Lauren Collins?" The man faced her and arched an amused brow over his sharply intent green gaze.

Rough didn't even begin to describe the man's hard edge, or reveal the almost frightening freshness of the reddened scar on his right temple. His physique and square jaw cut a determined line as did his buzzed black hair and stiff bearing. Military, she thought, immediately reminded of her brother's demeanor. Her breath caught with hope and trepidation that he was a friend of Jason's with news.

"I'm Lauren," she whispered.

"I realize this is a difficult time, but I need to speak with you about your deceased husband, Bill Collins. My name is Jack Hunter. I'm stationed at Fort Bragg." He slipped a business card into the door crack.

Their fingers touched when she took the card and she practically jerked away from the heat that shot up her arm and flushed her face. The man narrowed his gaze at her, intensifying the green of his eyes. His look was almost suspicious.

She blinked and directed her focus to his card. Sergeant First Class meant the man had about twenty years of experience under his belt. Though he wore jeans and a black polo shirt that hugged well-honed muscle and not an official uniform, his boots were the kind a military man preferred. She'd spent a lot of time online looking for just the right tactical boot Jason wanted the Christmas before he went missing. As he put it, "you get comfortable in the field in something and want that same feel even when you're off duty."

Clutching Jack Hunter's card, Lauren inwardly cried that the man was here with more questions about Bill and not with news about her brother.

"What about Bill?" She almost shivered in fear of what she would hear. What could Bill have been involved in that had the military's attention?

Just then Sasha and Sam came around the corner of the house barking in warning, teeth bared, hackles up. She reached for the chain, ready to rush to the man's rescue, yet hesitant to remove the barrier between them.

The man held out his hand to Sasha and Sam. He spoke low and friendly but with total authority. Amazed, Lauren watched the dogs sniff his hand and then wag their tails as if he was their new best friend. Apparently that magnetism worked on more than just her X-chromosomes and she had better be extra sure the man was on the up and up.

For a moment there, Jack thought he was about to be dog food and had the rolled up newspaper ready to strike, a trick an old postman showed him. Many dogs were more intimidated by a newspaper than by anything else, because owners often disciplined puppies with one. Thankfully, the White Shepherds decided he was a good guy because he seriously questioned if he was up for the challenge of fighting them both off.

Walking out of Walter Reed had been easy, but the effort to get from DC to Atlanta, get armed, and make it through traffic to the Collins' house had cost him more than he'd thought. His head pounded and his back and leg ached like hell, telling him he'd been relying on the hospital pain killers more than he should. The beating sun made sweat trickle along his spine and his head swim with dizziness. He hoped his strength would improve, but for now he could use a seat and a cold drink. Something about him and this encounter was really off.

Blame his weakened state or being celibate too damn long, but Lauren Collins's sex appeal hit him with a knockout punch the moment she cracked open the door. His instant let's-do-it attraction took him by surprise. Not only because he hadn't felt that in forever, but also because he was a smart man and long past knee-jerk hormones.