Lori Foster - Close Contact

The house, dark inside and out, appeared as a looming gray structure that left her decidedly uneasy. She felt as if she approached danger rather than shelter.

The darkness didn’t make sense. She always left on the outside lights in the evening. A power outage? Maybe during a storm, but they hadn’t had one of those in a good long while.

Besides, an outage couldn’t explain why she’d awakened outside.

Nervousness and fear coalesced into real terror. While she gulped in the clear evening air, she belatedly realized why.

Someone did something to me.

How, she didn’t know. Thinking made her head hurt worse. She summoned only a vague memory of drinking a glass of wine on her sofa while reading a book. That had to have been hours ago. What had happened after that? Folding her arms around her stomach, she again fought the sickness.

Could there be an intruder in her house? Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Pausing near the back porch, she strained to listen for unfamiliar sounds, steadying her shaky limbs with a hand planted on the outer wall. More cats joined her. The isolated farmhouse her grandmother had left her came with too many cats to count—and a distinct lack of nearby neighbors. At about eight miles away, Mr. Barstow would be the closest, but at seventy-nine, he wouldn’t be much help if a threat remained.

She was too far from town to walk anywhere, and her car keys were in the house.

What to do?

Desperation decided for her.

Her chest tight with dread, she crept up the porch, carefully turned the doorknob and found the back door unlocked, then slipped inside while making sure to keep the cats out. The last thing she needed was to try to distinguish their movements from any other sound.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears and her blood rushed, making her dizzy.

The back of the house opened into a short hall. Stairs to her right led up to the bedroom she used, a small study and a bathroom. To her left was the main floor bedroom, but it had been her grandmother’s, and other than packing up the belongings and keeping it clean of dust, she didn’t intrude into that room.

Her keys hung in the kitchen straight ahead, but her purse, which had her wallet, would be in the living room on the desk. She couldn’t leave without money.

Each creeping step sharpened her nervousness until a scream built in her throat. Gasping each silent breath, she lacked her usual grace, moving like someone suffering a killer hangover. In the dark, she groped around, being as silent as possible. She didn’t dare turn on a light; what if she did and she found someone standing there? She shuddered at the thought.

When she finally located her purse, her knees almost gave out. She hooked the strap over her head and across her body to ensure she wouldn’t drop it. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness so that now she could make out vague shadows.

Somehow that seemed even eerier.

Anxious to escape, she made her way back through to the kitchen. Praying she wouldn’t drop them, or even rattle them, she grabbed the keys in her fist. Next, she slipped her feet into the rubber boots she wore when going to the barn and, because she couldn’t stop shaking, she snagged the flannel shirt off the hook. She felt sick with trepidation by the time she got back out the door.

And she still didn’t feel safe.

Dawn cast a gray hue over the horizon, telling her it was almost morning. How long had she been outside? No, she wouldn’t tax herself by thinking about that now. Her number one priority was getting away until she could figure out what had happened.

She wanted to run to her car, but not only was she unsteady on her feet, she feared that once she started to run, hysteria would set in. She needed to stay calm, so she took one deliberate step after another, constantly checking her surroundings.

At her car, she hesitated. If anyone was watching for her, the light when she opened her door would give her away.

As to that, what if someone was in the car?

She dug out her cell phone and, willing to risk it, used the softer light to look into the front and back seat.

Thankfully empty.

All but diving into the driver’s seat and then locking the doors, she fumbled until she got the key in the lock and started the engine.

Breath held, she turned on the headlights.

A dozen sets of cat eyes reflected back at her, but she saw nothing more sinister than that. She quickly looked behind her, too, but saw only shifting shadows that further intimidated her.

She put the car in Drive and, because she remained a little muddled, carefully pressed on the gas. Down the long drive to the main gravel road, she drove slowly, well aware that the cats often showed up out of nowhere.

As she cleared the property line, she knew what she had to do.

He might not appreciate seeing her again, not after such a long absence without a single word from her, but she could explain that if necessary.

She knew where he worked. She knew he was more than capable of helping.

And thanks to her recent inheritance, she could even afford him.

Miles Dartman, heavyweight MMA fighter turned bodyguard, the sexiest, and most sexual, man she’d ever known, was about to be in her employ.

It was the only upside to a very rough two months.

* * *

MILES RODE THE private elevator in the Body Armor agency to his boss’s very upscale office. The early-morning summons left him confused and he didn’t like it. He’d been in the shower when she’d called at 7:00 a.m. Her message said only that he was to get there as quickly as possible. She had a surprise for him.

Of course, he’d called her back, but she’d told him she’d explain everything once he made it to the office.

He’d finished his extensive training only a few weeks ago, learning enhanced computer skills and practicing his shot with a variety of guns. He’d settled on the Glock as his preferred weapon, but he carried a few other toys, as well.

So far, he’d had two cases, both of them pretty routine. He’d helped to control pushy fans at a sporting event for a baseball player during a PR stint, and then he’d escorted a big-time author with a new movie deal to some local signings around the area.

Easy peasy.

He missed competing, damn it. Missed the cage and the physical exertion. If fate hadn’t played him a dirty hand, he’d be at it still, fighting his way to a championship belt.

The loss of his fight career was only one of many regrets he suffered lately, and as usual, he shoved it from his mind, determined to live in the here and now.

The elevator opened and he stepped out, going straight to Sahara Silver’s posh office. As he passed Enoch Walker, Sahara’s personal assistant, he said, “She’s expecting me.”

“Indeed she is,” Enoch said without looking up from his PC screen. “Go right on in.”

Did he detect an unusual note in Enoch’s voice? Hard to tell when Enoch stayed focused on his task.

Miles liked Enoch a lot. He was a little dude with a will of iron and mad organizational skills. Always friendly, incredibly smart and damned reliable.

Because the door was closed, Miles knocked, and a mere second later it opened, almost as if Sahara had been waiting for him.

Oozing satisfaction, she smiled. “Miles.”

He paused, suddenly on guard. So far, his boss had been something of an enigma. On the outside, she was a real looker, a shapely five feet eight inches of sass with glossy mink-brown hair, direct blue eyes and the demeanor of an Amazon. On the inside, she probably wrestled alligators and won. Always polished, always in killer heels and always sporting attitude.

“That’s a different smile for you,” he noted. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be offered as a sacrifice to angry gods?”