a year since the night he was murdered, but every time she had to talk to the D.A.’s office, the police or a judge, all the wounds opened up again.
Now Harte was putting her into protective custody until after the trial. She was the one being threatened and targeted. It wasn’t fair that she had to be the one locked up while the murderers were free to go where they pleased.
Under the hot soothing spray of the shower, she felt the weight of sadness and worry, heavier than ever. To her dismay, her eyes stung.
“Stop it,” she told herself. She never cried. To cry meant to lose control, and she did not like feeling out of control.
Turning off the taps, she dried off, then wrapped up in a short terry-cloth robe and squeezed the last of the water out of her shoulder-length hair.
In the kitchen she put on a pot of coffee. As she waited for it to perk, she couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday and her near miss. It had been almost dark when she’d gotten home. As she’d walked from the driveway to the mailbox, she’d heard a car engine rev.
By the time she’d realized the car was coming straight at her, it was almost too late. Somehow, instinct had kicked in and she’d managed to leap onto the porch. The car ripped through the wooden steps and then swerved back onto the street and took off.
It had been a close call. Too close. She shuddered, her shoulders drawing up. With a long sigh intended to help her relax, she poured herself a mug of chicory coffee. She added cream and sugar and stirred briskly, then took that almost unbelievably delicious first sip of the morning. It was so good it gave her goose bumps.
A few more sips and she felt her courage begin to rise. Coffee made so many things better. Consciously relaxing the tense muscles between her shoulder blades, she headed toward the front porch to see what kind of damage had been done. She stepped outside and breathed deeply of the cool morning air. March temperatures in south Louisiana could be as hot as July, but they could also be fresh and springlike. This morning was leaning toward spring. But she quickly forgot about the weather as she surveyed the damage. The car had taken a huge bite out of the front-porch floor. The steps were nothing but splinters, and if she hadn’t managed to clear the edge of the porch with that desperate leap, she might be just as smashed and scattered as the wood.
Shuddering at that thought, she eased closer to the porch’s edge. Had the car damaged the four-by-fours that supported the front end of the porch? She took another couple of steps toward the edge.
“Dani! No!”
The sharp words shattered the quiet. Dani jerked and spilled coffee down the front of her robe. She whirled toward the voice, her heart racing with shock.
It was him! She’d been so concentrated on the damage to the porch that she’d completely forgotten about his promise to sleep in the driveway. “Stop!” he shouted.
Fury burned the shock right out of her. “You!” she cried indignantly, flicking drops of sticky coffee off her fingers.
“Don’t move!” He held up his hands in a stop gesture.
But she had no intention of budging. He was approaching fast and she was four feet above him on the porch in nothing but a bathrobe that came to midthigh—maybe. No underwear. Oh, brother. Her face grew warm.
“Don’t come any closer!” she cried out. When he didn’t stop, she screeched, “Don’t!”
He stopped, looking bewildered. “What’s wrong?”
“Go around back,” she said, gesturing with her head. She didn’t dare move anything else. Her left hand pressed the front hem of the robe against her thighs. “Go.”
Harte cocked his head quizzically, then shrugged. “I will, but not until you back up carefully toward the door. The front of the porch is sagging.”
“No! You first,” she insisted. Her ears burned, she was so embarrassed. “Please,” she begged.
His brows raised and that damnable smile appeared on his lips. “Ah,” he said, his tone lightening. “Okay, I’ll go. But you meet me at the door in five seconds flat or I’ll come in and get you.” He gave her a brief nod. “Nice robe.”
She glared at him, but she still didn’t dare to move a muscle.
“Go to hell,” she said.
He waved a hand and headed around back.
Dani baby-stepped backward until she’d made it through the door. Then she sprinted into her bedroom to get dressed, marveling at the fact that he really had slept in his car in her driveway. The idea that he’d actually followed through with it, in some sort of quixotic effort to protect her, gave her a sense of security she hadn’t felt since the night her grandfather had died.
As Harte waited at the back door for Dani to let him in, he chuckled. Once he’d been sure she wasn’t going any closer to the rickety front edge of the porch, he’d paused for a second to admire those amazing legs. As he enjoyed them, she’d squirmed and turned red. When she begged him to go around to the back door while nervously tugging at the bottom of the short robe, it dawned on him why she was so reluctant for him to leap to her rescue.
She had nothing on under the robe. That thought had sent urgent, almost painful signals to his groin, signals that hadn’t faded yet. He clamped his jaw against the sharp, pleasurable thrumming and forced himself to think about something miserable, like hiking in a freezing rain—or sleeping in his car. It helped a little.
He pushed his fingers through his hair and rubbed his stubbled jaw, as if that would help wipe away the sight of those forever legs. He busied himself with smoothing out the wrinkles in his T-shirt. Just as he tugged the tail down, Dani opened the door.
She’d thrown on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, along with a don’t you dare mention my robe glare. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” she groused.
“Morning,” he said cheerily, then pointed vaguely toward the front of the house. “Mind if I …?”
She stepped back from the door. “Down the hall on the right.”
By the time he got back to the kitchen, he felt a whole lot better. He’d found a glass and some mouthwash in the hall bathroom, as well as a comb.
Dani was sitting at the kitchen table with a fresh mug of coffee in front of her. She nodded toward the coffeepot. “Mugs are in the cabinet above. Sugar’s in the white canister. Cream is—”
“Let me guess,” he broke in. “In the refrigerator. That’s okay. I take it black.” He retrieved a mug and filled it with the dark, strong brew.
“Of course you do,” she muttered. When he sat, she looked pointedly at his wrinkled T-shirt. “Don’t let me keep you. It’s obvious you need to go home and get ready for work. I do.”
“No,” Harte replied, setting down his mug. “You’ve got to get ready to go to the bed-and-breakfast. Pack enough for at least two weeks.”
Her mug stopped an inch from her lips. “I told you last night. I can’t be away from work that long. I’ve got my own cases, people depending on me.”
He drew in a frustrated breath. “Listen, Dani. This is your grandfather’s murder trial. Your testimony is vital to link Ernest Yeoman directly to your granddad’s murder. Do you have any idea how long the D.A.’s office has been trying to get something concrete on him?”
“You’ve got fingerprints from that night, right?”
“Not Yeoman’s. He’s got more sense than to show up at a crime scene.” He looked at her quizzically. “Didn’t anyone tell you about the fingerprinting results? There was one good set. They belong to a small-time burglar and general no-count named Chester Kirkle. He’s got two convictions and he’s on parole now. He’s not going to make the most reliable witness. Our best bet is to talk him into giving up Yeoman. Then his testimony, boosted by yours about what they said,