the gate she saw a dark silhouette ahead of her. “Got you, buster!” Dixie shouted and shone her flashlight full beam ahead. The beam lit up a pale face and a dark leather eye patch. Christopher! So all that talk about wanting to buy books was a front.
“Dixie, turn out the damn light!” He sounded more irritated than guilty. The nerve of the man!
“No way. Get off my land and don’t ever come back,” she yelled, feeling like a heroine in a Western romance, waving a flashlight instead of a six-shooter.
He stared straight at her, unblinded by the light. “Hush, Dixie,” he said and took a step forward.
“No way. Go now, or I’ll scream.”
“And alert whomever’s in your house?”
He’d whispered but she heard him as clearly as the night. One glance confirmed the light still moved upstairs. As she watched, confused, his hand closed over hers and switched off her flashlight as he pulled her between two scratchy shrubs. She tried the evasion techniques she’d learned in self-defense. They didn’t work. Something scraped her ankle and a twig grazed her cheek. His arm closed round her shoulders and held her tight against his hard chest. She flattened her hand and tried to push away. His chest felt like steel and his arm tightened like a vice. “Let me go.”
“I will.”
Not a muscle moved.
“When? Next week? Someone’s in my house and I’m finding out who.”
“This Englishman’s-home-is-his-castle act is impressive, but foolish.”
That did it. “I’m female and American. If you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” She didn’t doubt it. Her breasts were half-flattened against his chest.
“You’ll let me go this week or next?”
“Now, if you promise not to go rushing out to protect your property.”
“That’s my house getting broken into.”
“Yes, and burglars today carry guns, knives, tear gas and bicycle chains. Stay here,” he whispered, “trust me.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“I’m not the one thieving your great-grandfather’s first editions.” He had a point. The light moved again, disappeared, then appeared lower.
“He’s having a good look,” Christopher whispered in her ear and pulled her beside him against the wall, his arms loosely circling her shoulders.
“Who?”
“You know it’s not me. Who else could get in?”
“Sebastian, but he’s giving Emily a cup of coffee.”
She heard his chuckle but his chest never moved. “You resisted his blandishments then?”
“It wasn’t hard.” Even laughter didn’t ripple a muscle in his chest. Where did he work out? “Enough of that.” She’d come to waylay an intruder not discuss Sebastian’s advances.
“Whoever it is, they’re not afraid of being in a haunted house at night.”
“Oh, please!”
“The villagers believe your aunts haunt the house.”
“Well, I don’t. I don’t believe in ghosts. Especially ones that carry flashlights.”
“They also believed they were witches.”
“I don’t believe in witches either.”
“What a woman. You scoff at witches and ghosts. What about fairies, pixies and elves?”
“Not hobbits, either.”
“What about…” He hesitated, then whispered, “Vampires?” As he spoke, his fingers trailed cool down the side of her neck.
At that, her foot slammed down on his instep. He didn’t flinch or move away, just looked into her face.
“Only in Anne Rice. Quit fooling! I’m not here to play games. Anyway, what are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you. I was walking along the lane and saw a light.” He almost hissed the words as he pushed her away. The night chill settled on her shoulders. He watched the window a minute. “I’ll take care of this. Go back to your car and lock the doors. Better still, drive away.”
“I’m not leaving as long as that intruder’s there!”
He paused as if to take a breath, but Dixie never heard him inhale. “We could try scaring him out. Get rid of him before he nicks something. Are you game?”
Why not? It was her property at stake. “What shall I do?”
“Slip back out the gate, get in your car and lock the door.” He spoke lightly but stared at her with an intensity that made her shiver. This close, his one eye seemed to warm as it met hers. For a minute she felt weak, giddy. Then she shook herself out of it. The tension was getting to her.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Sit in the car while he confronted a possibly armed intruder?
He frowned. “Don’t get so riled up. I want you ready for a quick getaway if things get nasty.”
It sounded more like antiquated notions of chivalry. “Why lock it then?”
He pulled her closer and whispered, “Are you trying to be difficult?”
Again the giddiness, the feeling of warmth, of weakness. She had drunk too much this evening. “No. Sensible. You mentioned weapons. Why are you barging in unarmed?”
He chuckled. “I’m Superman, remember?” He took her hesitation as consent. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing. Wait in the car. I may need your help later.”
Grudgingly, Dixie agreed and went out the side gate but didn’t go straight to her car. A car parked up the side lane caught her attention. Christopher’s? She imagined him driving something more stylish than a battered compact. Bennie the Burglar’s? Why not? With the help of her flashlight, she memorized the number.
So much for country quiet. Rustles, creaks and whines filled the night. Talk about spooky! She decided to ignore them and her body’s reaction to being held close by Christopher. Impatience tugged at Dixie. This was crazy. She was going back.
A shriek cut through the night quiet. A door slammed and Dixie ran round the corner just in time to see a dark figure running for the parked car. The engine started, but as the car pulled away down the road, a second figure ran after it. Christopher? The car swerved just as he came alongside. Dixie’s heart stilled as Christopher’s body arched through the air, frozen in the headlights. She raced up the lane as he staggered out of the ditch.
“You were supposed to be in your car.”
“You’re hurt?” He had to be.
“Just shaken.”
Shaken? He had to be injured after that fall. She imagined broken bones, internal injuries—but he was standing. “I’ll get the car. You need a doctor.” Without waiting for a reply, she tore down the lane. When she got back, he was leaning against a tree. As she stopped, he opened the passenger door.
“May I get in?”
He stood there, holding on to the door. Was this British or something? “Of course! Get in!” He got in, his legs a little too long for a compact car. Dixie flicked on the interior light. “That was a homicidal maniac, not a burglar.”
“I’m okay. I just wish you’d seen the car number.”
That did it. “Let’s have a reality check here. You’re half dead and you’re worrying about a registration number. Anyway, I have it.” She recited the memorized numbers, amazed that she remembered them after all this