Secret Agent, Secret Father. Donna Young

his palm—told himself that he was only searching for memories. Answers.

      “Jacob—”

      “Shh.” His thumb stopped her mouth, midmotion, leaving her lips slightly parted. He slipped between to the warm smooth touch of her teeth, felt her intake of breath rush over his skin—

      The doorbell sounded, jolting them both apart.

      Jacob swore, low and mean. His body went rigid, his hand already reaching for the gun in his back waistband. “Your father?”

      “He wouldn’t ring the bell,” she answered, trying to get her heart back down from her throat. Not from the interruption but from the realization that in another minute, probably less if she were honest, she’d have been in Jacob’s arms.

      “Is your car out front?”

      “Yes. It’s parked under my carport.”

      “Then you’d better answer.” Jacob’s face turned cold, almost savage. The fact he reached for his gun only fed her trepidation.

      “Leave my plate. It will look like you’re eating breakfast alone. I’ll wait in the bedroom,” he whispered while he checked his clip. “But I’ll be watching, so no worries.” This time when he cupped her cheek, it was for reassurance. “You’ll be okay. Just stay calm.”

      After Jacob disappeared into the bedroom, she walked slowly to the front door.