Victoria Dahl - Flirting with Disaster

He glanced past her toward the studio doors. “I’d rather you come with me.”

“You’re not seriously scared of my paintings, are you?”

“No, I’m scared of the photographs.”

It took her a moment to recognize the dry humor in his voice. “I’ll protect you. Try to think of them as part of a case file.”

“I want you to come with me because I know your privacy is important to you.”

She drew back a little in surprise that he even cared. “Okay,” she agreed and followed him back to the living room, where he spent a lot of time checking her window locks.

“Living here alone, you might want to invest in some pin locks. They slide into the frame of the window.”

“I’m too isolated to worry much about that. Anyone who wants in can just break the glass. Even Jill wouldn’t hear that.”

He grunted, not looking pleased. “You’ve got a dead bolt on the door, at least.”

“It was here when I moved in.”

“Any weapons?” he asked.

She hesitated long enough for him to stop his inspection of the door and look at her. “Yes. I’ve got a 9 millimeter.”

“Legal?” he asked, clearly wondering if that was why she’d hesitated.

“Yes.” But the Luger wasn’t. Tom didn’t need to know anything about that. Her father had given it to her. She didn’t even have ammunition for it. Still, she assumed it was illegal in more ways than one.

“Well,” he finally said, “don’t shoot any of my people if you see them poking around on girls’ night.”

“Deal.”

His eyes swept over the living room one more time before he moved on to the garage and laundry room and finally the kitchen.

“You don’t have any family?” he asked as he did a quick check of the window above her kitchen sink. She hesitated again. She could feel herself doing it and couldn’t stop it.

“I don’t see any photos,” he added.

“They’re all gone,” she said, and that was true enough. Her father was gone for good, whether he was alive or not.

“No pictures, even though they’re gone? I guess you weren’t close?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah?” he pressed.

“Yeah.”

“So you don’t want to talk about your family.”

She set her jaw, preparing to lie or tell him off for prying or...something. She should never have kissed him. This was not a man whose curiosity could be easily brushed aside. But while she was chastising herself, he became distracted, staring down the double doors to her studio as if he were steeling himself.

“Come on,” she said. “The easel lights are off. It’s not so bad.”

He rolled his eyes as if he hadn’t been watching the doors as if they’d burst open and zombies would come shuffling out. She noticed he waited for her to open them.

“Don’t you have nightmares?” he asked as soon as he stepped in.

“Of course not.” Not because of her work, anyway.

He took a breath and moved quickly past the first few easels to the two-story wall of windows. “This is the weakest point in your security,” he said, testing the lock on the French doors that led out to a small deck. “But at least you have a slide lock here.”

He engaged the lock at the top of the door, pushing it into the frame. “Where does this lead?” he asked, flipping the light switch next to the door. Nothing happened.

“Sorry. It’s burnt out.”

“Could you replace the bulb tomorrow?”

“Sure. There’s a deck out there.”

He pressed his hand to the glass to see past the lights of the room. “Stairs?”

“Yes.”

“If it’s—” Something slammed against the glass. Before Isabelle could even yelp, Tom had shoved her behind his back and drawn his weapon. “Out of the room!”

“It’s just Bear!” she cried.

Tom was backing up and forcing her toward the door. “What?”

“It’s the cat.”

Bear batted at the glass slightly more gently this time. His big paw pressed against the window, the pink pads splaying out on the glass.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tom barked. “That goddamn cat.”

“He just wants in.”

“Well, let him in.”

Isabelle rolled her shoulders, trying to release the tension that had latched in like claws. “He won’t come in here. He doesn’t like this room.”

“I’m not surprised!”

“It’s the smell of the paint, not the carnage. You should see what he can do to a rabbit.”

Bear hit the door harder this time, and Tom jumped even as he put the gun away. “Why is he banging on the glass if he won’t come in?”

“Because he wants me to open the door so he can stare at me while I get exasperated. Haven’t you ever had a cat?”

“I’ve missed out on that joy,” he said drily.

“They have their benefits.”

“Like?”

She smiled. “He’s really warm on a cold night when I’m alone.”

He slanted her a look as he ran a hand over a windowsill. “How often are you alone?”

“Marshal Duncan, that’s a very forward question.”

He sneaked another look over his shoulder. “That was a very forward kiss.”

She couldn’t stop her grin. “I’m not attached to anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“Why?” she asked slyly. “Are you going to kiss me again?”

He looked gratifyingly pained by the question. “I can’t. I need to get back to my assignment. Plus, we barely know each other.”

She realized her laughter was a little impolite, but she couldn’t help it. “And we’re not going to get to know each other. You live on the other side of the state. But we can still kiss.”

He finished checking the windows and turned to her, his mouth flat. “Come on. Cheyenne isn’t that far away. Tell me something about yourself.”

“You know plenty about me already. It’s your turn. Do you have family?”

“Yes. Mom and Dad, and a sister who has a family of her own.”

“Are they all in Wyoming?”

“Yes,” he answered as he led the way out of the room.

“Do you get along with them?”

“We get along fine,” he said, as if that meant anything at all. Before she could press, he asked her a question. “How did you end up here?”

“I came through on a road trip, and I liked it.” Another truth. She was getting almost comfortable with it. “Why aren’t you married?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I travel too much.”

“Oh? So US Marshals don’t get married?”

“Fine. I never met the right woman. I don’t want kids, so that complicates things, or so I’ve been told.” He didn’t look to see if she was following him toward her bedroom.

“Now we’re getting interesting. Why don’t you want kids?”

“Why don’t you? You’re, what...midthirties? Why aren’t you married?”

Ha. She could answer that. “I’m thirty-six. And I’m too mean.”

He stopped and turned toward her. “You’re not mean.”

“Oh, really? Am I nice?”

His head cocked, and he studied her for a moment. “You’re not nice, exactly.”

She laughed so hard she had to press a hand to her stomach to try to control it. “I like your honesty,” she managed to say past her gasps. “You’re pretty cool.”

“Now, that’s something I haven’t heard in a really long time.”

“Then we’re even.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Tom shook his head. “Shit, I want to kiss you.”

“Do it,” she dared him, her insides already tightening at the idea.

But his gaze slid to her bed, and he shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Afraid I’ll lure you into my bed and steal your virtue?”

“If you can find my virtue, you can have it. And if that’s a euphemism, even better. But what I’m afraid of is having to leave in twenty minutes. Not very memorable. And...” He held up a hand as if reminding himself. “I really shouldn’t get involved when I’m in your house on official business. Now tell me why you’re not married.”