Silken Threats. Addison Fox

her head, she took in a dim shape in the corner of her room. “Max?”

      Now that she was aware of it, pain throbbed in her skull with all the finesse of a jackhammer. Despite the searing pain, she couldn’t hide the rush of awareness and excitement at the figure she sensed in the dark. “Is that you?”

      “Been wondering when you’d wake up.”

      “Why are you here?” Why was he here? He never came, and she’d stopped expecting him to long ago.

      “That’s the question I’ve been waiting to ask you.” He moved slowly—wasn’t that the way of it now?—before coming to stand beside her.

      Despite the age that tinged his features, she saw the young man she’d loved so well underneath. The firm jaw that had added folds of age still begged for her touch and those bright blue eyes saw as much now as they had fifty years ago.

      “What happened to you, Jo?”

      “I don’t know.” Confusion warred with the sweet memories of Max and again, the pain rose up in her head with sharp claws. Through the haze of hurt, a dim memory registered. “My house... Someone broke into my house.”

      She pulled at the blanket, the warm cocoon turning suffocating. “In my house. There was someone in my house. Someone hurt me.”

      He moved closer, his large hand on her shoulder to steady her. “Shh. Don’t move like that. Take it easy.”

      A wave of panic stuck in her throat, choking her, as hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes.

      Were they tears for the sudden realization she’d survived an attack, or were they for the fact that he was finally touching her? On a hard exhale, she admitted to herself she had no idea.

      But it was probably both.

      “Who would do that?”

      “We don’t know who.”

      “We?” The word struck her as strange since she’d been the one hurt.

      “My grandson and his friend are helping out your girls. Seems like trouble’s found its way to their door.”

      Max leaned closer, his gaze firm as those blue eyes lit with understanding. She’d seen those same eyes on his grandson—his namesake—and it never failed to choke her up.

      Never failed to remind her of things best left buried.

      “What aren’t you saying, Max?”

      “We don’t know who attacked you, Jo. But I think you and I both know why.”

      * * *

      Cassidy closed her front door behind Tucker, touched he’d walked her to her door. She’d purchased her small bungalow in East Dallas two years before, her home quickly becoming her haven, and it was odd to see his large frame in her doorway.

      Odd, yet lovely, she thought now as she watched his long-limbed strides through the glass pane that edged her front door frame.

      Maintaining his streak, he’d been the chivalrous gentleman, escorting her home and doing a quick check of her house to ensure the problems they’d battled all day hadn’t found their way to her door.

      She’d known the moment they walked in no one had been inside the house, but that knowledge hadn’t negated how nice it felt to be looked after. Nor had it kept her from allowing him to roam through her kitchen and living room, bedroom and studio, confirming all was well.

      If he’d noticed the thick duvet and red silk accent pillows that covered her bed she didn’t know. But a girl could hope the sight had been what put the slight hitch in his stride as he walked from her home.

      Yep. Tucker Buchanan had gentleman written all over him.

      And why was that so damn appealing?

      He pulled away from the curb, and she turned to focus on her home. The warm, almond-colored walls set off by bright, vivid prints of various sketches filled her with pride. This was her home. She’d earned it through hard work and the determination to make something of herself.

      To make something of her life.

      And with a soft sigh, she acknowledged she’d better get her mind off her attractive escort and back to work. She might have started the day early, but the unexpected twists ensured she still had a fair amount to get done.

      With a cup of hot tea in hand ten minutes later, she made her way into her studio and assessed the dressmaker’s dummy that stood half-clothed with her latest design.

      Although the bride wasn’t getting married for a year, the young woman was in the mood to experiment, and Cassidy had promised a preview of some mocked-up designs by the end of the following week.

      The opportunity was a new one and she enjoyed the challenge of designing something with the wearer in mind. Even so, she was still struggling with the sweep of silk she’d planned at the waist.

      Gaze speculative, Cassidy kept her distance from the dummy, considering the angles as she stood across the room. The cut of the neckline negated an empire waistline but the gathers she’d planned didn’t quite fit, either.

      The dress looked like every other dress and the carefree artist she was designing it for was anything but traditional.

       Unlike Tucker Buchanan.

      She settled her now-empty mug on the edge of her desk and considered her neighbor. The man had traditional and old-fashioned stamped across every inch of him. He was smart, strong and capable, with that damnable streak of chivalry she’d have never known she even liked until he found her standing in the middle of Dragon Street.

      “He even has a dog,” she muttered to herself as she padded back to the kitchen to make a second mug of tea. “A freaking dog. With a smooshed-in face and a big loyal gaze.”

      Other than Vi and Lilah, commitment and lasting bonds were not her strong suit. And a man with a dog had commitment painted across every inch of him.

      There was no way she was getting herself mixed up with a modern-day version of the Lancelot she’d teased him about. Nor was she a tease, so their hot kiss would have to be the end of things.

      When she saw him next—and based on what they’d discovered she knew more time with each other was inevitable—she’d keep her distance.

      She’d be polite.

      Friendly.

      Warm, without being a tease.

      It was only right. They were neighbors, after all, running up-and-coming businesses.

      The whistling teakettle added a smooth punctuation to her thoughts, confirming the finality of her decision. She had no real interest in Tucker Buchanan. They’d shared nothing more than a luscious lip lock between two healthy adults, capping off a tense and action-filled day.

      It was understandable. And really, it could happen to anyone.

      She’d nearly convinced herself as she carried her steaming mug back toward her office, once again determined to figure out the lines of the gown.

      But when images of Bailey—curled at her feet while she sat with a sketch pad working on dress designs—floated through her mind, Cassidy had to admit the truth.

      Who, exactly, was she trying to convince?