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  What an awful way to face life. She wasn’t like her cousin Patience, who had this overwhelming desire to fix every hurt animal that limped across her line of vision. But she hated seeing a tortured soul and that was what she was looking at, Janelle thought. A soul that had been through torture. He’d said something about being this way ever since he could remember. There was only one reason for that.

  “What kind of a childhood did you have, Detective Boone?” she asked him.

  His eyes met hers. He bit off the inclination to tell her to mind her own business. Instead, he said, “I didn’t.”

  She nodded, as pieces moved into place. “That would explain it.”

  Janelle was surprised to see his mouth curve ever so slightly into a smile. But by no means was it a warm smile, nor did it involve any part of him other than the skin on his lips. His eyes didn’t smile. They remained detached, cold. Analytical.

  Robots had eyes like that, she thought. In high-tech science-fiction movies. Intelligent, but without a soul, without compassion—because they had no frame of reference available against which to measure feelings. Was that the case with him?

  The cold smile faded as if it had never existed. “Don’t try to analyze me, Cavanaugh. Your talents would be best used elsewhere.”

  There was another knock on the door. A firm one this time. Before she extended an invitation to come in, the door was opened, bringing with it a smattering more air, not exactly fresh, but every little bit helped right now, she thought.

  Janelle drew in a lungful, as if that would somehow help her deal with Sawyer and his all-encompassing disdain. She looked at the sensibly dressed young woman in the doorway. “Yes?”

  Another one of the assistants. Marcia Croft had been there three weeks longer than Janelle had and was still trying to direct Stephen Woods’s attention over in her direction. It was no secret that she wanted him to view her not as an up-and-coming assistant, but as a wealthy graduate of Cornell University who had set her cap not so much on an illustrious career in the D.A.’s office as on the A.D.A.—seeing as how the D.A. was taken. To Marcia it was all about connections.

  “Woods wants us all in the conference room,” she told Janelle. Belatedly, she seemed to take note of the fact that Janelle was not alone. “Well, hello,” she declared with more than a little feeling.

  Marcia’s normally frosty delivery had warmed up several degrees. Obviously Sawyer brought out the best in someone, if not herself, Janelle thought. Marcia usually behaved as if she were entering a leper colony every time their paths crossed. The woman considered her an unworthy rival. Her dark eyes quickly swept over Sawyer’s impressive torso, coming to rest on the holster he wore. She rubbed her thumb over her fingers, as if vicariously feeling the leather.

  “Packing heat, I see,” Marcia murmured appreciatively, raising her eyes to his. Her mouth curved. “And you have a gun, too.”

  Janelle looked at Sawyer. His expression was unreadable. But if he was a typical male, she thought, he was probably eating this all up.

  “Here’s a thought, why don’t you guard her body?” Janelle suggested. Not waiting for a response or comment, she grabbed her portable notebook and darted around Marcia as if she were a mere obstacle to be circumvented.

  The latter smoothly shifted in order to block Sawyer’s exit. “Why don’t you?” she purred, looking up at him.

  “Yours wasn’t the name I was given,” Sawyer replied simply. In no mood to exchange banter, he took hold of Marcia’s shoulders and physically moved the assistant to the side.

  “I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” Marcia offered, raising her voice to be heard. She’d said the words to his back as he quickly strode down the corridor.

  With a careless shrug, Marcia hurried to catch up to Janelle.

  The meeting—briefing would have probably been a more apt description for it—was called to let the four score and plus people who worked for the D.A.’s office in on what was going on and to explain the presence of both Sawyer and the other detective.

  The situation necessitating his having a bodyguard would just be temporary, Woods assured them. In response, Marcia made a small, disappointed sound, like a kitten anticipating being left out in the snow without food. The noise was audible only to the handful around her. But it included Janelle and Sawyer.

  Janelle slanted at look toward him. It was her turn to smirk and she enjoyed it. “Well, it looks like you have a groupie.”

  “A what?”

  “A groupie,” she repeated. When there was no indication that he knew what she was talking about, she couldn’t help staring at him. “Don’t you know what a groupie is?”

  He had a tendency not to retain things if they didn’t have a direct bearing on his work. “Not really, but I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.”

  “A fan,” Janelle explained. “An intense fan. Usually female. You can track her by following the drool marks on the ground.” She paused for a moment, then put it in more familiar terms. “In a parallel universe, you might think of a groupie as a stalker.”

  He snorted. “I don’t believe in a parallel universe,” he told her. “There’s too much garbage to deal with in this one.”

  He had that right, she thought. And part of that garbage was standing right behind her in the conference room. It made her nostalgic for the “good old days” when all she’d had to contend with was an overwhelming workload.

  There was more to the briefing than just the necessary introductions and a summary of events that had brought about the detectives’ presence in the D.A.’s office. Verbal progress reports were given. The various assistants discussed how far along they were in their individual cases and whether or not there was enough to indict the defendants.

  Janelle found she had difficulty keeping her mind on the subject even though she was concentrating as hard as she could. She felt as if her thoughts were leaning in two different directions. Part of her mind was still on Wayne and the phone call. Although she hated to admit that Sawyer was right, the crime lieutenant could have compromised her position in the case just by calling.

  Thinking, she chewed on her lower lip. Should she tell Woods, or take a risk that Sawyer would keep his mouth shut about this? After all, it wasn’t as if Wayne had offered her a bribe, or even hinted at one. And she certainly hadn’t done anything improper—other than not immediately hang up on him. Sawyer had taken care of that, she thought darkly.

  What if Wayne had taped their conversation? she thought suddenly. He could have the tape altered, make it sound as if she’d said something she hadn’t. If he did that, he could get a mistrial. And she’d be out on her ear.

  She needed advice, Janelle thought.

  There was only one person she went to openly for advise. Her father. She decided to go see him tonight, even if just to use him as a sounding board. Maybe, if she was lucky, he could help her get this damn monkey off her back.

  Which brought her to the other reason that her mind kept wandering. She was having a devil of a time concentrating. Knowing that Sawyer was standing right behind her chair for some reason kept her mind from moving forward. From taking in more than a few sound bites at a time as the A.D.A., or someone else at the conference table, was speaking. Part of the reason, she supposed, was that she was waiting for a sneak attack, the way she used to when she was a kid and one of her cousins or brothers was out to get her at any time, any place.

  She had no idea why that feeling seemed so pertinent now.

  Sawyer wasn’t here to attack her, she silently argued, he was here to protect her from an attack. While antagonizing her at every turn. Was that on purpose? Was he doing that to keep her at a distance?

  That was it, she realized suddenly. Sawyer was being surly and off-putting to assure himself that she would remain at arm’s distance. That she wouldn’t get to know him, break through his steel reserve. For some reason, that seemed to bother him.

  The good thing about having so many male relatives milling
around, she thought, her mouth curving, was that the mystery of the male psyche was pretty much exposed to the light of day.

  She glanced smugly over her shoulder toward her shadow just as Woods was winding up the impromptu meeting.

  I have your number, Detective Sawyer Boone. And I’m pretty sure that I know how to use it.

  Chapter 5

  Janelle glanced at her watch. She’d been at this a number of hours now. Since her office had no windows, she couldn’t identify the portion of the day by the sun’s position in the sky. But she could congratulate herself for being able, for the most part, to block out the man seated to the side. Pausing, she looked at him now. Sawyer was reading some paperback book he’d pulled out of his jacket earlier.

  Probably something triple-X-rated, judging by the way it absorbed him, she mused. Tired, not making nearly enough headway, Janelle dropped her pen and rocked back in her chair, careful not to lean too far. The chair was somewhat unstable.

  Sawyer seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Some bodyguard. “So, just what’s the plan here? You’re going to sit there all day, reading, while I work?”

  He glanced over in her direction. Nothing had escaped him since they’d entered this oversize crayon box of a room. Ever on the alert without giving that impression, a burst of adrenaline was only half a heartbeat away.

  Still, he managed to sound almost lazy as he said, “Pretty much.”

  She would have thought a man like him would be going stir-crazy by now. But then it occurred to her that everything she knew about him was just supposition on her part. Beyond what her brother had mentioned earlier, no one had given her Sawyer’s credentials. Something she was going to have to look into the first chance she got, Janelle promised herself.

  Until then, she went on instinct, picturing one of her brothers in this same situation. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Since the conversation didn’t appear to be ending, he closed the book he was reading, marking his place with his index finger. His eyes swept over her. “You have no idea.”

  She leaned forward a little, wanting suddenly to distract him. “Then why didn’t you protest?”

  He lifted one wide shoulder in a careless, dismissive manner. As far as battles went, his were chosen carefully. And they had already had this conversation. “I did. It wouldn’t do any good.”

  “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who just goes along with the flow. More like someone who swims upstream, defying gravity and tides.”

  Her words evoked something akin to a smile. Whether it was at her expense or just amusement, she couldn’t quite say. “If you’re trying to flatter me into going away, it won’t work. You’re my assignment,” he told her stoically, “until I get liberated.”

  “So guarding me is your idea of being in prison.”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “Pretty much.”

  Janelle felt that she’d just caught him in a contradiction. A feeling of satisfaction began to bubble up inside of her.

  “You threw yourself over me in front of the courthouse,” she pointed out. If he had no desire to protect her, why had he risked his life then?

  He looked unfazed, and she felt satisfaction slipping away. “That was different.”

  Janelle tried to make sense of the man. “Why? Because no one told you to do it?” That kind of a feeling was the stuff action movies were made of. Real life, however, was different. “You draw a paycheck, Detective, you follow rules.”

  She saw his eyes pass over her again. Slowly. So slowly that she could almost feel them as they passed. Feel them assessing her. Touching her. She found it hard not to squirm.

  “You follow rules?” he asked, his voice close to expressionless.

  “Whenever possible.” Okay, it was a lie, but he didn’t have to know that. But the look on his face told her he didn’t believe her simple statement. It rankled her even though he was right, or maybe because he was right. She didn’t want him to feel as if he were privy to secret information about her.

  Janelle followed rules when she felt they were right, or when she had no other choice. But there was a whole gray area that came up between those two points, an area where rules were bent when they needed to be—and when she felt she could get away with it. The trouble was, she believed in honor and justice, but there were times when the two turned out to be mutually exclusive. And then her choice was clear.

  Sawyer was still studying her face. “Define possible.”

  It was a challenge. How did this man manage to get under her skin so fast, especially when she’d been so confident that she could handle him? That she had his number and could put him in his place?

  Obviously, she was wrong.

  She sighed. This was going nowhere. “I’d love to continue this philosophical conversation with you, Detective Boone, but one of us has work to do and it’s obviously not you.”

  If she meant the last as a little dig, it didn’t get the desired results. Sawyer gestured toward her desk, indicating that she was free to get back to what she was doing. “Didn’t mean to keep you from it.”

  The hell he didn’t, she thought. This man was angry, angry that he’d been ordered over here, to watch over her instead of doing whatever it was he normally did. And he was taking it out on the only person within firing range. Her.

  She didn’t have the time to get distracted. Or to engage in some kind of mental duel. Swallowing an impatient sigh, she lowered her head and looked back at the three open reference volumes spread out before her. With effort, she blocked Sawyer out and resumed trying to find cases that would back up the points of law that she felt would be raised during the trial.

  At times, the law was nothing more than a big chess game. It wasn’t about right and wrong so much as about thinking three moves ahead. About being able to outwit your opponent and block legal moves, like motions to suppress evidence that could clearly win the case for them if it was admitted. Justice and truth had a way of getting lost amid the logistics sometimes.

  That was the part she hated about the legal system. That in protecting the rights of hypothetical citizens, criminals got off free and victims had no recourse, no feeling of being championed and vindicated. It was all for the ultimate greater good, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. Especially not to the victim or the victim’s family.

  Janelle heard Sawyer shifting in his chair. She refused to look up, refused to let her thoughts stray in that direction.

  She did her very best to concentrate on the case and shut out the very real, very distracting presence of her temporary bodyguard. The faster this case was resolved, the faster she would be allowed to cast her own shadow and not have someone provide it for her.

  Despite her resolve, ignoring Detective Sawyer Boone was not easy. She only hoped that he wasn’t aware of just how “not easy” it was.

  The crick was becoming worse. Raising her hand, Janelle spread her fingers out along the back of her neck and began to massage muscles that could have doubled as rocks. Still massaging, she rotated her head from side to side.

  Time to call it a day, she thought. There was nothing to be gained by pushing when she felt this tired. Besides, she wanted to drop in on her father at a decent hour for a change.

  When she felt hands suddenly on her shoulders, she immediately stiffened. Janelle tried to turn, but those same hands wouldn’t allow it. They held her firmly in place.

  Sawyer had vacated his seat and was directly behind her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  Sawyer didn’t answer her immediately. When he finally did, it wasn’t a reply to her question. She was beginning to notice that her bodyguard had a nasty habit of never answering anything directly. He responded either with a question of his own or employed some sort of sideways logic. Like now.

  “Nobody can give themselves a proper massage,” he told her matter-of-factly as he kneaded the knots along both sides of her neck.

  Pain shot through the
top of her head and fanned out along her shoulders, making its way down through her chest. The only part of her upper torso left unaffected was her waist.

  Mercenaries probably tortured their enemies this way, Janelle thought. It was hard for her to take in a complete breath.

  “And you’ve made a study of this?” she asked with effort, gritting her teeth together to keep from moaning out loud in pain. Maybe it was childish, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that this was hurting.

  This time he responded with a question. “You always sarcastic?”

  “Only…when…I’m being…tortured.” Was it her imagination, or did he just increase the pressure he was exerting? Each of his fingers felt as if it was forming a hole in her neck. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from wincing.

  “This isn’t torture,” he told her, sounding almost cheerful. “I promise, you’ll know when I’m torturing you.”

  “Not something I intend to find out,” she retorted. Shifting suddenly, she managed to surprise him and momentarily elude his grasp. Janelle was on her feet in less than a heartbeat, just in case he had any ideas of continuing to squeeze her shoulders with his hamlike pincers.

  As the throbbing slowly faded away, so did the initial pain that had prompted her to begin the massage in the first place.

  Coming around in front of her, Sawyer lowered his head until his eyes were level with hers. He put the question to her mildly.

  “Better?” The expression on his face told her that he already had his answer and was only going through the motions to be polite.

  “Better,” she allowed grudgingly.

  Swiftly shutting down her computer, she butted her chair up against the desk and took out her purse. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sawyer pick up his jacket from the back of his chair, stuff the paperback book he’d been reading into one of the pockets and fall into step with her. She still wasn’t able to catch the title, but the front page didn’t appear too colorful.