Suddenly she was in her car and hands wrapped around her throat and squeezed unmercifully. He was killing her and Layla didn’t want to die. She wanted to live and get married and have babies. She wanted to have lunch with her friends and be happy.
But she was dying, her throat being squeezed so hard no sweet air could reach her lungs. Inside her mind she screamed for help, but no sound escaped her lips. She knew nobody could help her. She was going to die alone—as she had been all her life.
“Layla!”
The deep voice cut through her, familiar and yet somehow frightening. She struck out with her fists, with her legs, desperate to get away from him, fighting for her very life.
“Hey, hey! Stop! Layla, wake up! It’s Jacob.”
She came awake with a gasp for air as her heart crashed in a frantic beat. She blinked against the brightness of the overhead light and then Jacob came into focus.
It was Jacob, not the man who had tried to kill her. It was Jacob, not her father who had been the source of so many of her nightmares.
Without thought, functioning only with need, she sat up and grabbed him around the neck, pulling him close as the residual fear from her nightmare shuddered through her body.
“You’re okay,” he said gruffly, not moving away but not engaged in the hug. “It was just a dream. You should be fine now.”
She shook her head and burrowed her face into the crook of his neck where warmth and the faint scent of minty soap and a spicy cologne comforted her. The dream had been a horrifying blend of past and present and her heart still rocked in her chest with an unsteady rhythm.
He released a small sigh and finally wrapped his arms around her. She felt the strength of his arms and shoulders, the very warmth of him that radiated through his T-shirt and her silk nightgown. She closed her eyes and reveled in the moment of safety, of complete and total security.
Even as she began to fully relax she felt the tension that filled him. It was finally he who disentangled himself from her and stepped back, his eyes dark and enigmatic. “You’ll be okay now,” he said and turned and left the room.
Instantly she was chilled to the bone, bereft with the lack of his presence. She wrapped her arms around her own shoulders, seeking comfort as her mind raced with the images not only from her dream, but from her attack earlier in the evening.
Just go back to sleep, she told herself, but the idea of falling back into those same dreams was terrifying. What she needed was to talk about something, about anything that might take her mind off her dreams, off the fact that somebody had tried to kill her that night.
She eyed the doorway longingly, wanting to get out of the bedroom where she was alone with her thoughts. Jacob certainly wasn’t the most sociable creature on the face of the earth, but at the moment he was all that she had.
Making a decision, she slid out of bed, pulled on the sleek, short robe that matched her leopard print nightgown and went into the living room.
She turned on the lamp next to Jacob’s recliner and offered him a tentative smile. “I feel like talking. Do you mind?”
“Would it make a difference if I said yes?” One of his dark eyebrows rose sardonically.
“Probably not,” she replied truthfully and sat on the sofa. “I can’t go back to sleep right now. I’m afraid I’ll go right back into that horrible nightmare. Can we just sit here and talk for a few minutes?”
She could tell he’d rather eat nails, but he gave her a weary nod and put his chair into the upright position. “You want to talk about your nightmare?”
“Absolutely not. That’s the last thing I want to talk about.” She fought against the race of a shiver that threatened to walk up her spine. “I just want to talk about pleasant things.” He frowned, as if he couldn’t imagine anything pleasant to discuss.
“So, what’s your favorite food?” she asked, desperate to talk about something—anything—no matter how mundane.
“Pizza, anything Mexican and I like a good steak.” He stared at the blank television screen. “What about you?”
“I think it would be easier for me to list the kinds of food I don’t like. Brussels sprouts and lima beans. Other than those, I love almost everything.”
He focused his gaze on her and she couldn’t help but notice the quick slide from her face to the gaping top of her robe. His frown deepened as he once again jerked his attention back to the television screen.
An uncomfortable silence descended as Layla gathered her robe more closely around her. She knew she should go back to bed, but now she was afraid her dreams would be haunted by his dark gaze.
“What kind of television shows do you like to watch?” she asked in an effort to keep the conversation flowing. “Personally I love most of the sitcoms that are on now. There’s nothing better than a good laugh after a day of work. I’m also a reality show freak. They’re all so silly but they definitely take your mind off your own problems.”
Once again he looked at her, a wry lift to his lips. “And what kind of problems do you have? Whether to buy the shoes you want today or wait to see if they go on sale tomorrow?”
There was a derisive edge to his voice that instantly rankled her. “That’s right,” she replied with a forced airiness. “I’m all about shopping and going out to lunch and good times.” Her voice broke as a sudden wash of emotion gripped her. “I’m sure that’s why somebody hid in the backseat of my car tonight and tried to choke me to death.”
He cursed silently under his breath. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. I’ve obviously lost my social skills while I’ve been cooped up here.”
He offered her a smile and in that gesture she remembered the man she’d once had a major crush on. “I really don’t know anything about you except that you said you owned the realty in town,” he said.
She nodded. “I opened the business four years ago, just after my father died. I love finding the right home for my clients and business was good for about two years. But it’s been lean lately.” She began to relax as she thought about her work. “Hopefully the economy is turning around now and business will get better again.”
“What about your mother? Where is she?” His gaze remained fixed on her face.
“She died when I was seven.” And that was when all the love in Layla’s life had also disappeared. A wave of grief tried to pull her into its clutches, but she fought it, refusing to go there.
“And you don’t have any brothers or sisters?”
“No, it was just me. You’re lucky to have such a big family. It must be nice to have people who care about you,” she replied.
“It has its moments, but it can also be a pain.”
“Are you still with the FBI?”
The smile instantly disappeared, as if it had only been a figment of her imagination. “I’m retired.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You’re awfully young to be retired. What are your plans for the future?”
“To get some sleep before morning comes.” His voice was clipped, filled with a new irritation as he reclined his chair once again. Layla knew the moment of tenuous peace and conversation between them was over.
“Then I guess I’ll just say good night.” She got up from the sofa, turned off the lamp next to him and then went back into the bedroom.
The bedroom was small, the double bed covered with what appeared to be a handmade patchwork quilt. A dresser with a mirror stood against one wall and a nightstand was against the bed.
It was a nice room and there was a photo of the entire Grayson family hanging on the wall next to the dresser.