Aimee Thurlo - Navajo Justice

“What did I say?”

“It was written all over your face.” She’d spent years pointing out to critics of the genre that romance novels qualified as “real” books, and often wondered whether her readers went through the same nonsense.

“Do you write other stuff? Maybe I’ve read your work.”

“I doubt it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“If you’d read my work, you would have remembered,” she said, looking him straight in the eye.

He laughed. “Okay. Point taken.” He looked around. “If the break-ins aren’t the result of your work, then what’s your theory? Who’s doing this, and why?”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “That man was crazy, angry, or both. He twisted my arm behind my back and told me he’d tear it off if I screamed. I honestly thought he might. It hurt that much.”

“So you were hurt.” Without even thinking about it, Burke moved closer to her, and she felt his nearness with every fiber of her being. Ripples of uneasiness and excitement danced through her.

“I’m fine now,” she stated, stepping back. She couldn’t even breathe when he stood so near. “He just scared me, particularly when he said he’d kill me unless I told him what he wanted to know.”

“And that was…?”

“He wanted me to tell him where ‘it’ was. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. But I was terrified of what he was going to do next.” Laura told Burke about her self-defense move, then shivered.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, then slid them upward in a slow caress until he cupped her face. Awareness shimmered between them as they stood facing each other for one breathless moment.

“You don’t have to be afraid again,” he said, his voice low and seductive. “I’m going to stick around to help you even out the odds.”

Laura couldn’t think; emotions swirled wildly inside her. His palms were rough, hard and very male, and his touch intoxicating.

Hearing a loud crash in the direction of the kitchen, Laura jumped. Burke reached beneath his jacket, and she saw that the same hand that had caressed her now held a gun.

“Stay here,” he said.

He moved purposefully out of the room toward the sound. “It’s clear,” he called out a moment later.

She found him and Wolf next to the open door in the kitchen. A gust of wind blowing in had stirred a window curtain, which in turn had toppled a miniature carnival glass hurricane lamp from the counter.

Laura began picking up the broken pieces with a heavy heart. It was a keepsake from long ago—one of the few things she’d kept since high school. Some boy whose name she’d long ago forgotten had won the little lamp for her at the fair while on a double date. The trinket, which would have cost only a few dollars, represented a time in her life when she’d been open to the possibility of romance in her future. She’d later used the lamp in her first published novel to represent that same hope for her heroine.

“That lamp obviously meant something special to you. I’m sorry it’s broken,” Burke said.

Sadly, she gathered up the pieces, wondering if she could glue them back together. Then, with a sigh, she dropped them into a wastebasket.

“Maybe it’ll help if you talk about it,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “Like with most things, what made it special were the memories it held for me.”

Before Burke could ask more, and she’d have to explain all about the lamp and what it meant to her writing career, she switched the topic of conversation. “I really want to try and secure my home from another break-in before we leave tonight. Any ideas?”

“Since the lock in the front still works, that should keep any street thugs temporarily at bay. We could use some boards to hold the back door shut. But it’ll mean that the repairmen will have one more thing to do when they come.”

“It’s still a good trade-off as far as I’m concerned. But where am I going to get wood at this hour?” She glanced at her watch. It was nearly one in the morning.

“I think I’ve got a few pieces of plywood in my garage—mostly scraps the previous owner of the house left behind, but I think they’ll work.”

“I have a hammer, hand saw and a box of nails in the garage.”

“So we’re all set,” Burke said, walking to the door.

“Let me give you a hand bringing the boards over,” she said.

“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll be back in a minute.” He paused, then quickly added, “But if you don’t want to stay here alone right now—”

“I’m fine.” He hadn’t meant it as a challenge, but it was one nonetheless. Pride set Laura’s course. “While you’re taking care of that, I’ll start cleaning up here.”

“I’ll leave Wolf with you. Just remember, he’ll knock you down and drool all over you if you don’t stay put,” he added with a smile.

“Okay,” Laura said. “But don’t think I’m going to be taking orders from now on. Next time I’ll wear a wet suit and do whatever I please, anyway.”

“I think I’d enjoy seeing you in a wet suit.” His slow, languorous grin made her tingle in all the wrong places.

She threw a pillow at him. “So far you’ve been gallant—a knight in leather armor. Don’t ruin it for me.”

He laughed. “I’m no romance hero.”

“How would you know? Have you ever read a romance novel?” she countered smoothly.

“Nope. You busted me there,” he said. “Well, I better go get what I need.”

It took another half hour of work before the back door was secure. Laura helped, and nailed some of the pieces in place herself.

“For someone who works with fantasies and fiction, you’re very helpful in the real world,” Burke commented.

“I’ve had to be. My mother was sick most of my life and I had to take care of both of us. Money was scarce for us back then, so I learned to do a little bit of everything. Now that I own this house, that’s come in handy. I’m starting to collect some tools, and I don’t always have to call in a plumber or a handyman when I need something done.”

Finished, Burke looked through the rear window at the garden, a place he’d run through only a short time ago without paying much attention to anything except a fleeing criminal. Just beyond the glow of the porch light, moonlight spilled over multicolored tulips and other spring flowers. A stone walkway, bordered by white flowers, glittered with specks of silver and led to the central flower bed. It astounded him that anyone could create something that dazzling in a place where the soil was basically nothing more than sand. “I’ve never met a romance author,” he said quietly, then glanced back at her. “But it actually suits my image of you.”

Laura watched him carefully, trying to figure out what he’d meant. From his tone of voice, she was almost certain it was a compliment. But experience warned her that men often confused a romance author with a fluffette, and she wouldn’t have taken kindly to being seen in that light.

Before she could ask him, he gestured to the wooden kitchen chairs that had survived intact, and sat across from her. “Laura, there’s something I need to explain. I’m not associated with the police. I’m a private investigator. I work for Gray Wolf Investigations.”

She’d heard of the firm. It was a prestigious one, often mentioned in the newspaper in association with VIP cases, or with crimes they’d solved that the police had been unable to close.

“With people breaking in and threatening you, you’ve obviously got a serious problem,” Burke continued. “With your permission, I’d like to look into this situation for you. It won’t require you hiring the agency. I’ll do it on my own time.”