her, just in case.
In case he had a chance to ask her out. Instead, he had to ask her for help. Again. He vowed to get what he needed and get out before the terrorists knew he’d been here, before Joy could wind up like his ex-fiancée.
Dead.
The question he’d ignored, the question he had to disregard, nipped at his conscience.
How are you going to let her go a second time?
* * *
“WE’LL HAVE A deputy out there as soon as we can, ma’am.”
“I have to report to work in an hour. Can I give you my work address and they can take my statement there?”
“No, ma’am.” The emergency operator’s voice was firm. Practiced in getting panicked people to tell her what she needed.
Joy wasn’t panicked. But she was getting annoyed.
“I’m just trying to do my civic duty. I’m an attorney, if that helps. Former Navy JAG.” It was a little bittersweet, saying former, but thrilling to think of her new life, too.
“Then you’ll understand, ma’am, why we need you to stay put. As you can imagine, we’re getting a lot of calls at the moment. Call and tell your boss you’ll be late, and an officer will be at your home, either from Oak Harbor PD or the sheriff’s office.”
“Fine.”
She disconnected and made a quick call to the firm’s receptionist as she hurried to her bedroom. Maggie picked up immediately.
“I’m so sorry to do this on my first day, but it’s unavoidable.”
Grabbing her jewelry she went into the bathroom.
“No problem. I’ll let Paul know. He’s a proponent of flexible working hours, as I’m sure he told you, and you have a valid reason for coming in late.” Maggie’s soothing tone reflected professionalism and concern. “Are you okay, Joy?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be in as soon as possible. Thank you.”
She hung up and hoped Maggie was right—that Paul wouldn’t think twice about her tardiness.
Joy hated being late for anything.
After she applied her makeup in record time, despite her trembling hands, she took a minute to take in her full appearance.
And snorted.
She threw her mascara into the vanity drawer. How could she care about her appearance when she’d witnessed what could very well have been a terrorist attack?
Her stomach churned, and she regretted that last cup of coffee as it threatened to come back up. GERD and its annoying symptoms was how her body handled the stress, the overload of information and emotions; she was aware of that. It aggravated her gastrointestinal problems. But understanding her physical coping mechanisms didn’t make them any less bothersome.
The beating of helicopter blades and wail of sirens had been constant. She should take the long route to the office and avoid the shore road, but she knew she wouldn’t. She’d want to see what kind of crash recovery site had been set up. Of course it would be on West Beach, practically next to her house.
Back in her sunroom she couldn’t take her gaze off the shoreline. Sure enough, several people were walking the rocky stretch in front of her house, two hundred feet below her vantage point. Most were in some sort of uniform, either Navy or local emergency management. A couple of the responders wore windbreakers with identifying letters like “OHPD” for Oak Harbor Police Department and “US NAVY.”
The police officer or deputy sent to take her statement probably wouldn’t learn anything new from her. The people who could use her eyewitness testimony were higher up on the chain of command and in Washington DC, able to make decisions that affected national defense. As a civilian, however, with no immediate access to official Navy communications systems, she had no recourse.
A sharp rap at the back door made her jump. She hadn’t seen anyone walk up the side of her property, most of which was visible from the sunroom.
That couldn’t be the police officer, not yet. It’d only been five minutes, and it took at least ten to drive to West Beach from downtown Oak Harbor, where the police station was located. And a sheriff’s deputy would have to come from Coupeville, twenty minutes away.
Maybe the sheriff’s deputy was already out this way. That was it. She forced herself to relax. And then froze.
Why hadn’t the cop used her front door?
She crept quietly into the kitchen, wishing like hell she’d left for work before she saw the explosion.
She saw the tall silhouette through the door’s window the moment she stepped onto the kitchen’s hardwood floor. The cream curtains she’d hung last weekend meant she couldn’t make out her visitor clearly, but based on the height and breadth of the shadow, it was a man. No evidence of a uniform hat.
Her new suit felt too tight, the tailored jacket too restrictive. What if she needed to defend herself? She tore off the peplum coat, her hands flailing as she freed her arms from the sleeves.
She didn’t have a weapon.
As her jacket fell to the floor she searched under the kitchen sink for something heavy.
She really needed to get a baseball bat to keep next to the kitchen door, besides the one next to her bed. She grasped the cool neck of the small kitchen fire extinguisher.
Tiptoeing to the door, her senses on high alert, she tried to remember every self-defense move she’d ever learned. Today’s events had been far from routine or normal. She wasn’t going to take a chance that her visitor was a friendly one.
* * *
BRAD HEARD HER moving around the house. Joy hadn’t had Spec Ops training, that was for sure—judging by the fact that she’d parked her car in the driveway, allowing any passerby to determine whether she was home. Not to mention that he’d been able to get to her side entrance so easily. She should have a tall fence around the back of her property, with a locked gate. And a more secure side door; this one wouldn’t be hard to kick in.
There’d been no barking, either, so she didn’t have a dog to protect her.
As he listened to her shuffle about in the kitchen, he wondered if she might be grabbing a weapon.
Unlikely. She’d never struck him as the type to harbor a weapon, no matter how legal it might be. That was the advantage someone like Joy had over him—she’d never seen what he’d seen, never had to face down the bad guys except on paper or in a courtroom. She could still believe in the inherent goodness of humanity.
The curtains moved a fraction, enough for her to see him, make positive identification. She’d remember him—but not like this, all muddy, wet, cut up and bruised.
It’d been a rough morning.
“What do you want?”
Her voice was clear despite the door between them.
“Joy, it’s me, Brad Iverson. From Norfolk.”
The door opened.
“I know who you are, Brad.”
He didn’t give himself a chance to absorb the freshness of her beauty, or to register the wariness of her eyes as she looked at him. With moves he’d employed countless times, he wedged his foot in the door before he reached in, twisted the fire extinguisher out of her hand and clamped a hand over her mouth—her very soft mouth. Then he pushed himself inside the house and maneuvered her up against the nearest counter. It took every bit of his focus, every ounce of his strength, to make sure he treated her as gently as possible.
He had one arm wrapped around her waist, confining her arms against her torso, with her hands on his chest. His other arm was across her chest,