Janelle Denison: Forbidden

“It’s a trait some people appreciate,” she replied lightly.

“And others take advantage of.” The tail end of a gust found its way into his corner of the porch. A chill shivered throughout his body and made goose bumps rise on his damp flesh. The glowing warmth of her house beckoned.

“You know, Josh, you look like hell, and you’re as surly as an angry bear.” She tilted her head, regarding him with a small degree of amusement “If you’re looking for me to invite you in, you’re going about it the wrong way.”

If he’d been standing on her doorstep under different circumstances, he would have laughed. His relationship with Paige had always included plenty of good natured teasing, and the smiles and laughter that seemed to be lacking in her relationship with Anthony. They’d always gotten along well-too well, he sometimes thought, connecting on so many levels that stretched beyond simple friendship.

Today, laughter wasn’t on the agenda. Instead, he blew out a harsh breath that did nothing to ease the anxiety knotting up his insides. “This isn’t a social call,” he said, his tone heavy with regret. “I’m here on official business.”

“Oh.” Her smile fell away, as did the tenderness and teasing. She automatically stepped aside to let him enter.

He brushed past her and into the foyer, welcoming the rise in temperature. The interior of the house was warm and inviting, redolent with the pleasing aroma of fresh-baked bread and another richer scent he couldn’t name, but his empty stomach appreciated nonetheless.

He stopped just inside the entryway, when the soles of his leather loafers squeaked against marble. Not wanting to muddy the expensive Oriental runner leading to the living room, he toed his shoes off by the door.

“Criminy,” he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. “Even my socks are wet.” He took those off, too, and put them with his shoes.

Paige tried to smother a grin, and failed. “You’re absolutely soaked, Josh.”

He jammed his hands on his hips and glanced down at himself. There wasn’t a dry patch on his jacket, and his jeans were plastered to his hips and legs. The wet denim was heavy and clammy against his skin. “Right down to my briefs,” he confirmed wryly. “I got caught in the downpour.”

“Let me get you a towel.”

She left him standing in the foyer, and returned in less than a minute with a fluffy, cream-colored towel. He took it from her and dried his face, then ran its thickness over his dripping hair.

“Why don’t you get out of those wet clothes and I’ll throw them in the dryer?” she suggested.

He stopped towel-drying his hair and met her gaze. A faint smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “And run around in the buff?”

A lovely shade of pink suffused her face. “No,” she said primly. “I haven’t cleaned out all of Anthony’s stuff yet. I’m sure I’ve got an extra pair of sweats you can use.”

A shiver snaked down his spine, making him all too aware that he was chilled to the bone-and would remain so for hours if he didn’t change out of his wet clothes. He’d be no help to Paige if he got sick; she needed him healthy, his mind sharp and his body alert.

“I’d appreciate that.” Unzipping his jacket, he shrugged it off and hung it to air-dry on the elegantly carved mahogany coatrack by the door.

Her gaze went to the holster strapped to his left shoulder, and the 9mm Beretta tucked within it, a direct reminder of who and what he was. A cop. His automatic pistol was as much a part of him as his limbs were, a natural extension of his persona as a homicide detective. He rarely left home without it, and it would be his constant companion until this new ordeal was over.

Judging by the aversion glittering in her eyes, she resented that particular intrusion into her home. Her life.

Guilt rippled through him, and he resisted the impulse to reach out and touch her, to offer reassurances. But he couldn’t extend false hope. Couldn’t dispense with his weapon no matter how much she wanted him to. Not when her life was at stake, and the future so uncertain. She needed to accept his presence, and reconcile herself to the fact that he would protect her with the most persuasive, and lethal, means possible.

Before the night was over, she would understand his purpose, and accept it. She had no choice.

Finally, she turned away, heading toward the main part of the house. “Come on in to the living room where it’s warm,” she said over her shoulder. “And I’ll get you the sweats to change into.”

She veered off to the right, disappearing down the hall that led to the master bedroom, a guest room and an office. Josh stepped into the living room and gravitated toward the dying fire in the hearth. He tossed a few more logs on the grate, and absorbed the warmth while his eyes surveyed the room and its rich, luxurious furnishings.

Josh had often wondered how Anthony had been able to afford such an extravagant and somewhat pretentious home on a relatively modest salary. Over the years, Anthony’s outrageous spending habits had included custom-made racing boats, fast sports cars and other expensive, frivolous toys. Anthony had always lived life to its fullest, never hesitating before purchasing his newest whim-not before Paige had come into the picture, and certainly not after.

So where had that constant flow of cash come from? Anthony had no wealthy family to back him up, and no inheritance or trust fund drawing interest In light of recent events, the most logical explanation burned like acid in Josh’s stomach.

Soft, relaxing music drifted from the speakers mounted in the corners of the room, and his gaze took in the invoices, files and catalogs spread out on the coffee table. A nearly empty glass of wine sat in the midst of the paperwork.

Investigative instincts prompted him to move closer. He caught the name of Paige’s boutique, the Wild Rose, embossed in mauve on cream-hued stationery. A deep green vine and dew-pearled roses trailed across the heading and down the left side. The letter was addressed to a broker, the contents half-covered by another piece of paper with impressive dollar amounts listed.

Frowning, and wondering what kind of business Paige might have with a broker, he reached for the letter.

“Are you looking for something in particular, Detective?”

Damn . He casually straightened and glanced at Paige, who stood at the end of the leather couch, sweats in hand, watching him steadily. “Nope.” He grinned. “Just admiring your pretty stationery.”

A faint smile touched her lips, but didn’t reach her eyes. “If I knew you had a penchant for roses and trailing vines, I would have given you your own personalized notepaper for Christmas.” Her words were sugarcoated, but not enough to sweeten the sarcasm in her voice.

He shrugged. “Maybe next year.”

“Don’t play those games with me, Josh,” she said, her mouth thinning in anger. “I had enough of them with Anthony.”

He had no desire to be compared to her deceased husband. “Fair enough.” At that moment, he decided candidness between them was crucial. “I was curious as to why the Wild Rose would be contacting a broker.”

She stared at him for a long, hard moment, a range of emotions flitting across her face-none of which were complimentary or reassuring. Finally, she said, “It’s none of your business.”

He wanted to refute that and demand answers, especially since she was being so vague and secretive. As a friend, he had an interest in her life. She’d certainly never been reticent about information about her flourishing boutique before, so it was even more disturbing that she was now. As the man assigned to protect her, his concern stemmed from that essential need to know all the facts so nothing took him by surprise.