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Watching For Willa
Helen R. Myers


Someone was out thereWilla's new neighbor was watching her. Her every move, her every breath. A horror writer with a questionable past, Zachary Denton was an irresistible enigma. He claimed he only wanted to warn her, protect her–possess her.And like a butterfly drawn into a deadly web, Willa could not resist his mesmerizing, sensual pull.But was Zachary a loving protector–or a scheming predator? Willa had to determine his true motives before she lost her heart further. Because a madman was stalking the women of her quiet Texas town–and his victims looked exactly like Willa.









“Get away while you still can,”


Zachary warned.

“Excuse me?” Stunned, Willa couldn’t have budged now if she wanted to.

“You heard me. It’s dangerous for someone like you.”

“Someone like me? You’re going to have to spell that one out,” she said, growing more angry every second. “Exactly what are you driving at?”

He nodded as though she’d satisfied some private question. “Yes, you look like a woman who wants to hear men say it. Beautiful. And alone.”

A surprisingly cool breeze blew in through the screen door, and Willa shivered. It felt like phantom hands stroking her arms.

“But I’m hardly alone, am I, Mr. Denton? After all, I have you to watch over me.”

Something mesmerizing and yet untamed flared in his eyes. “That’s your biggest danger.”


Helen R. Myers satisfies her preference for a reclusive lifestyle by living deep in the Piney Woods of east Texas with her husband, Robert, and—because they were there first—the various species of four-legged and winged creatures that wander throughout their ranch. To write has been her lifelong dream, and to bring a slightly different flavor to each book is an ongoing ambition.

Admittedly restless, she feels this trait helps her writing. “It makes me reach for new territory and experiment with old boundaries.” In 1993 the Romance Writers of America awarded Navarrone the prestigious RITA Award for Best Short Contemporary Novel of the Year.




Watching for Willa

Helen R. Myers







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u83bd1f7f-5b04-54c4-af5b-b8a38903c7da)

CHAPTER TWO (#u3ded1a63-2934-5e9d-8564-f10db39479ab)

CHAPTER THREE (#u70ba0613-0c01-5210-b718-4191a15c7dfb)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u086d0a12-8ce9-5d13-8f00-7f03beb2163c)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u56c9236d-e16f-57b9-a31b-93fa9b9d972a)

CHAPTER SIX (#uc2ef0c49-ef4a-5805-b48d-1565f94875e0)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


He sat motionless behind the faded blue net drapes and watched his new neighbor dash from the house to the van for another box. Thunder rumbled endlessly, as only spring thunder could, underscoring the assault of rain as it machine-gunned the gutters. The combination of sounds sent something rattling precariously behind him. The racket compounded an already brutal three-aspirin headache; still, he took considerable pleasure in seeing the woman getting drenched. She deserved to be miserable, and he hoped trip from van to house added to her disgust. It would serve her right for buying the vacant Miller place. Little fool…she wasn’t asking for trouble, she was provoking it.

It had been her arrival, the slam of the driver’s door that had roused him from yet another drunken nap. His third…or was it the fourth of the morning? It didn’t surprise him that he’d lost count of how often he’d drifted in and out of consciousness; when he worked himself to the point of exhaustion, he could sleep through a tornado. Once he’d done just that. But the sound of another human presence always put him on the alert. Ignoring the need to brush the foul taste of Scotch from his mouth, to shower and get a potful of coffee into his system, he gripped the chair’s padded arms and leaned forward to peer outside, keenly aware that the time he’d been dreading had come. Actually, he’d been waiting for it, aware of its inevitability ever since the For Sale sign disappeared from the front of the empty two-story house. And now he had another reason to dread the event because everything about her was right, which made her wrong, dead wrong to be here.

As he exhaled, the sheers shifted subtly, his vision blurred and a wave of nausea swept through him. Those reactions, however, had less to do with his hangover than with fury. He knew what this intrusion meant, what she was forcing him to do, and he resented her for putting him in this predicament. But heaven help him, she was something to look at…as perfect and stunning a target as those first teasing glimpses of her had led him to believe.

Fair and shapely, she was a shimmering woman who became more so courtesy of the rain drenching her and plastering her tank top and leggings to her body. The fact that both were white, and that she wasn’t wearing a bra fueled his imagination, and forced him to remember cravings he preferred to forget, and anticipate horrors that might be even too terrible for one of his books.

Despite the distance and the downpour, he could see the full delineation of her breasts, the tautness of her nipples. He could also see that she wore bikini briefs beneath her leggings. Not much of a pair, he thought, his mouth going dry as she stretched to reach for something from deep inside the van.

Out came a plastic pail loaded with what he figured were cleaning products, followed by a mop. The head of the mop got stuck on something and she had to jerk it free. That sent her ponytail swinging across her shoulders; several shades of blond, it made him wonder about the color of her eyes. When he’d first seen her, he’d guessed aquamarine blue, pale and aloof like the business suit she’d been wearing. Now he wondered if they weren’t the vibrant green of the lush shrubbery she momentarily disappeared behind. By the time she reappeared, hurrying along the sidewalk and up the stone steps to the porch, he decided that whatever color they were, she looked and moved like money. Some women were gifted that way, born with an indefinable quality, an aura of elegance, even when dressed in something someone else might use as a polishing cloth.

All the more reason to resent her arrival.

What had possessed her to move into that relic next door? The question so agitated him that he wanted to rip down the drapes and shout at her through the screen. The old-fashioned house was all wrong, totally out of character for someone like her—and didn’t she read the papers? Listen to rumors? Was she that naive to think living away from town, down a dead-end street, would protect her from what was going on? She must be, otherwise she would have realized how, instead, she’d placed herself in the path of danger. No, directly at hell’s doorway.

Her laugh, spontaneous and breathless as she dropped everything and shook rain from her hair, cut off his brooding and had him shifting to peer through the slight part between the draperies. He wasn’t used to laughter, at least not this lighthearted and happy. What had elicited it? he wondered, frowning because it made no sense. The weather was lousy, the house a white elephant…. He’d overestimated her, all right. The woman wasn’t merely guilty of bad judgment, she was a fool with the survival instincts of a moth.

Once again he glared at her new home. Some investment. It couldn’t be considered a smart one under any circumstances. Over fifty years old, the place was what people in the real estate business generously call “quaint,” a “fixer-upper.” He saw it as approximately eighteen-hundred square feet of stone-encased trouble. Granted, the roof had been reshingled, and the foundation cracks repaired—he’d been forced to suffer through the interminable racket and could bear witness to a job well-done—but considering how long it had remained empty, he had a hunch a great deal more needed attention.

A woman all alone in the world had to be nuts to take on such responsibility. As he thought of her marital status, which he’d first suspected and later confirmed, a pain seared through his head—but most unwelcome was the surge of heat that shot into his loins.

Alone…alone…alone.

Yes, that was the ultimate temptation.

It was a relief when she unlocked the front door and disappeared inside. Slumping back in his chair, he waited for the tension inside him to ease. It took its damned time. Long enough for a seed of an idea to germinate in the barren wilderness that was his mind these days. Grow…and…expand, until he forgot about the craving for coffee. “My God. Yes!”

With the grit of sleep and the sting of too many wasted hours at the computer burning his eyes, he spun around his wheelchair to face the computer monitor’s blue screen and began typing with feverish zeal.

Despite the several thousand dollars she’d already invested, the inside of the house still resembled a nightmare: scratched and dirty walls, filthy hardwood floors, cracked or missing chandeliers, and more. But she loved the place because it was now officially her nightmare. Besides, she’d always had an imagination to match her energy; she could handle this.

Glancing around with more optimism than intimidation, she knew that given a few days, she would perform miracles. It wasn’t only the feminine form that she had a talent for enhancing.

Pushing the pail of cleaning supplies farther into the small entryway, she elbowed the door shut behind her, and once again wiped at the rain streaking down her face. “Well, Willa,” she drawled to the room at large, “you’ve taken on a handful now.”

Back when she’d first opened Whimsy by Willa in downtown Vilary, her family, as well as legal and accounting advisers, had insisted that a woman’s intimate apparel shop could never survive in the county seat’s town square, even though many of the community’s residents were upscale commuters who worked in Houston. Yuppies or no yuppies, economic recovery, or outright boomtown, they’d argued, Vilary remained staunchly conservative. She would lose the insurance money she’d received after A.J.’s death, maybe end up having to file for bankruptcy.

Eleven months later, when she’d moved the increasingly popular boutique to its larger facilities at the new mall on the fringes of town, the lecturing started all over again. But this time she hadn’t bothered pretending to listen. She’d known that taking the slot next to the Vilary Vantage Health Club and Spa was financially a wise move, despite the intimidating rent. And now, six months later, she was proving herself right.

She planned on being as on target about her new home, too, regardless of everyone else’s pessimism. Yes, the place would need a great deal of her attention, but the condition of the house was primarily a result of neglect, and the minor vandalism that had occurred was thoroughly understandable. The old woman who’d owned it had spent her last years in a nursing home, and her children had lived out of state. It had been impossible to watch over the house as closely as anyone would have liked.

Willa didn’t intend to be swayed or frightened by the criticism over her new home’s isolated location, either. Who cared if there was only one other house at this end of the dead-end street and that except for it she was surrounded by woods? That just made the setting more appealing to her.

After spending so much of her day dealing with employees, customers and suppliers, she’d been yearning to move from her rented duplex, to find someplace where she could relax, and rejuvenate both her energy level and her creativity. This secluded property promised to give her that, and she refused to feel threatened because of the unfortunate stalkings going on in the area. Yes, like every other woman in town, she was taking precautions. She double-checked all doors and windows, carried tear gas, tried to be observant and aware of what was going on around her.

But the police were doing their part, too. They had increased and intensified their presence in the community, and in their last statement they’d sounded reassured that perhaps the stalker had left the area. At least there hadn’t been any report of him since the third incident almost ten days ago.

At any rate, she wasn’t alone, not really. Thinking of the house that stood only a few dozen yards from her own, she went to the double window in the small dining room and considered the two-story, vintage Victorian.

Willa shook her head. Her accountant had dubbed her place “The Eyesore,” but that monstrosity was nearly as spooky as its celebrated occupant—and ugly enough to scare off the dead, let alone some demented soul bent on terrifying women.

But neglected mess or not, she still couldn’t believe it. She, Willa Leeds Whitney, was living next door to Zachary Denton, the most successful horror writer since Stephen King! Mr. Denton, however, was the true recluse, and for good reason.

He was confined to a wheelchair, the result of a flying accident three years ago. Although news about the crash had received media-wide coverage, her real-estate agent had been eager to repeat everything she’d ever heard about the incident. Willa had changed the subject as soon as possible, though, not wanting to seem like a snoop, or to be reminded of her own loss. Plus, she figured that if she was meant to know anything else, fate would see she found out soon enough. Who knows? Zachary Denton might tell her himself. Then again, probably not. Mrs. Landers did mention he was worse than ever these days, a certified misanthrope. Willa certainly wasn’t about to begrudge him his right to privacy. She did, however, hope he appreciated having survived the crash. Her A.J. hadn’t been so lucky.

Did Zachary Denton know the house had been sold? Did he care? Well, he needn’t have any concerns that she would bother him. As she noted each successive window, how all the drapes or shutters were tightly shut, she thought he might find it reassuring to understand that she valued her privacy, too. True, the consensus that she never met a stranger was accurate—she liked people and found it easy to strike up conversations with just about anyone—but no one had ever called her a star-struck groupie. Nor was she the stereotypical lonely widow. After what she and A.J. had shared in their all-too-brief time together, she would never settle for anything less; and since that wasn’t likely to happen, she was content to live her life alone and expend her considerable energy toward other interests.

Her gaze settled on the top floor of her neighbor’s house, specifically the window directly opposite the bedroom she’d chosen for herself. Unlike the other windows, it was open to the rain, and the mild breeze gently billowed the sheers. Was that a TV beyond them? No…a computer screen.

Could that be his office where he conjured all those twisted stories? Fascinating. But she shivered, too.

It was from being wet and chilled, she told herself, not because of his dark imaginings. A self-deprecating smile tugged at the left corner of her mouth. Goodness, she hadn’t had one of his books around since…The smile withered, and she wondered how she could have forgotten. It had been the night she’d awakened to the sound of the ringing telephone, reached across A.J.’s copy of The Well, only to learn that her husband’s emergency medical helicopter had gone down in a storm.

Willa backed away from the window and rubbed her bare arms. “All right, you had your ten seconds of self-pity, now stop it.”

She had too much work ahead of her to succumb to melancholia. It was Friday and, ready or not, on Monday morning the movers would be transferring her things here from her apartment across town. Even then there would be plenty of projects left to fill a month of weekends, let alone this one. Floors needed to be scrubbed, wallpaper had to be wiped down, and a mile of trim needed to be painted; but before she started any of that she had the kitchen and bathrooms to scour.

For a moment she wondered if she hadn’t been a bit obstinate in insisting on handling everything herself. Then she shook her head and went to get her cleaning supplies. Of course, she could handle this; she had pep and determination to spare. Besides, there wasn’t anyone available to help even if she had wanted it. Her staff at Whimsy was busy with the store’s big spring sale, her parents were on their annual vacation—this time touring Europe—and in a few weeks her sister was going to make her an aunt for the second time. No way would Willa let her drive down from Dallas, let alone consider seeing her overexert herself doing housework. The only option if she couldn’t “solo” this job was to contract help, and that was—

“Oh, no.”

She’d carried the pail, mop and cleaning supplies to the kitchen, and had turned on the water taps, only to find nothing came out. This couldn’t be happening to her! Yesterday, the city water department had guaranteed she would have service by that afternoon!

She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Someone down there had to be in the office by now, but she had no telephone service yet, and wouldn’t until later today. That’s if the telephone company proved more reliable than the water people.

What to do…?

She could drive back to town and handle things in person, but she was hardly dressed for taking care of that kind of business, even if she slipped on the oversize shirt she’d left in the van. She could go back to the duplex and call from there, except that it was even farther out of town. It would be such a waste to lose that much time.

Biting her lower lip, she once again looked out the window at the gloomy house only a few dozen yards away. Would Zachary Denton let her use his telephone? From what she’d heard about his zealous protection of his privacy, she doubted it. On the other hand, who would turn away a neighbor in need?

She had nothing to lose by asking.




CHAPTER TWO


The downpour hadn’t eased a bit. Once outside, Willa sprinted across the two overgrown yards trying not to think about snakes and any other crawling creature. What with the lightning getting closer, she told herself she probably had more to fear from it. Concentrating on her neighbor’s home helped, too.

Zachary Denton’s house belonged in one of his books. Not only did it need a new coat or two of paint—and in a color less morbid than the current grim brown—the junipers and Chinese loquats surrounding it had grown past several of the first-floor windows adding to the general aura of wild neglect. As she dashed up the cracked sidewalk, Willa reasoned maintenance would be difficult, if not impossible, for someone who’d been incapacitated. But the man could easily afford to hire someone, several someones, to periodically clean up around here.

Sprinting up the creaking ramp instead of the stairs, she hurried across the wooden porch to search for a doorbell. As far as she could tell there wasn’t any. Ridiculous, she fumed, feeling like a half-drowned rat. About to knock on the outer screen door, she spotted the security camera out of the corner of her left eye.

Was it running? A momentary spasm of self-consciousness had her wanting to turn her back to it, to dash for the haven of her own four walls. Although she hated to waste time bemoaning hindsight, she also wished she’d taken a second to retrieve that damned shirt. But a sudden, close flash of lightning followed by an ominous crash of thunder stopped that wistful thought.

Get it over with, she told herself. The sooner she made the call, the faster her problem would be solved. Anyway, a man in his condition wasn’t likely to pay attention to her in that way, was he?

Frowning, she knocked briskly, and waited.

Since his computer monitor was on, that probably meant he was awake and working. How long should it take him to get down here? How would he manage? She crossed her arms again regretting her state of dress. But, no, she’d wanted comfort because of the humidity and the dirty job ahead of her.

She knocked again. “Excuse me! Anyone home? I need help!”

Several more seconds passed. She leaned closer to the door to listen, but as far as she could tell it was as quiet as a mausoleum in there.

Surely he wouldn’t ignore her? Had he suffered a hearing problem along with his other injuries?

Just when she was about to knock more forcefully, she heard a click and then the hardwood door swung open. The long accompanying creak had the hairs on Willa’s arms and at the back of her neck rising. But it wasn’t only the eerie sound that got to her, it was the realization that no one was there!

Don’t you dare start again. As dark as it was in there, she just hadn’t seen him yet, that was all.

Holding fast to that logic, she cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the screen. Seeing the cavernous foyer, she decided to try the handle of the outer door. To her surprise it was unlatched.

She opened it slightly and stepped inside. Careful. She glanced around the hardwood door. Even if her neighbor was a bestselling writer, it would be foolish to take anything for granted. Anyone could get a little crazy if they found a stranger in their home; what’s more, hadn’t she read that after the crash, Zachary Denton had been accused by his own wife of becoming “twisted”? Anyway, Willa supposed a person had to be a bit strange to create such convoluted stories as he did.

But instead of discovering someone hiding behind the door, she found a metal armlike mechanism attached to a motor box that was bolted to the inside of the door. Well, well, she mused. So that’s how he did it. Clever contraption.

“What kind of help?”

The unexpected demand almost made her yelp like one of the high school girls who worked at her store on weekends. But as she spun around, she decided it was a good thing she continued to hold on to the door; it helped her stand her ground, rather than run.

He sat on his wheeled throne at the top of the stairs, and although it was quite dark, one glance and the impulse to offer a bright, friendly smile evaporated. In its place emerged renewed doubt, and growing trepidation.

This was Zachary Denton? She swallowed, but her heart stayed stubbornly locked in her throat. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t this cross between a grizzly bear and a wild man.

The only picture she’d ever seen of him was the one on the back of his books. In it, he’d been posed leaning against a single-engine plane, the same one he’d ridden to the ground shortly after takeoff at Houston’s Hobby Airport. The black-and-white photograph had captured a man no more than thirty, tall and physically fit, but hardly muscle-bound; and although attractive, even intense, he’d hardly looked the sort to spend so much time focused on the dark side of human nature. The man glaring down at her was a different story entirely.

The fierce-eyed, scraggly bearded sentinel above had the haunted face of someone who could be at least a decade older—until you looked at the rest of him. Even from down here, she could tell he wasn’t anything close to the atrophied wreck she’d expected. Within what looked like a moth-eaten sleeveless sweatshirt was a body that seemed capable of bench pressing someone twice his size. It made her grateful for the distance between them.

“I asked you a question. What kind of help?”

His sharp reprimand snapped her out of her trance. “Excuse me. I’m—”

“I know who you are.”

He did? Had he seen her pull in next door? She wanted to ask, but his stare stopped her. It wasn’t that being looked at was a new experience for her; she and Kelly had been blessed with good genes, inheriting the best features from their striking parents, and as a result had always attracted their share of attention. But few people tended to be quite this…direct about it. Zachary Denton’s visual inventory felt anything but flattering; it was almost an assault!

“I don’t like people wandering around out there.” His voice echoed off the high ceiling and dark-paneled walls, sounding not too different than the rumbling thunder. “When they do, I find out why.”

The accusation gave her the courage to reply. “Then you know I’m not wandering. I’m your new neighbor.” She pointed behind her with her thumb. “11 Raven Lane?”

When she’d first read the street sign down the block, she’d chuckled, reminded of Poe’s famous poem. Now she wondered if the road hadn’t been named after Zachary Denton moved in.

“Well, this isn’t 11, it’s 13, so what do you want?”

What a charmer. Bet anything his house suffered a good trashing from disappointed kids on Halloween, she thought with disappointment. For A.J., of course; how crushed her husband would have been if he’d discovered his favorite writer was a big…creep. Maybe the man had suffered a horrible tragedy, but he wasn’t the first to do so. A person needed to pull himself together and get on with life. All Zachary Denton seemed to have done was entomb himself.

On the other hand, she wasn’t about to offend the man. She needed his help too much to risk getting thrown out.

Moistening her lips, she tried to ignore the deep shadows filling every corner, or how angry the rain sounded beating against his house. “Mr. Denton, if you’ll just let me borrow your telephone, I’ll be on my way in a minute. You see, I was told the water would be on at my place, but apparently someone didn’t make it out here yesterday.”

“No, they didn’t.”

So he didn’t miss anything from his second floor observation point. Wouldn’t George Orwell have found this “Big Brother” inspiring?

When he didn’t add anything else, Willa sighed inwardly and continued. “Yes, well, unfortunately, my telephone isn’t hooked up yet—I mean, either.” Good grief, the man was turning her into a babbling ninny.

“Only a fool would be alone over there without a phone.”

She couldn’t believe his gall! That did it; as soon as she moved in, she intended to lease one of those cellular models. No way did she intend to deal with this caustic, ungenerous…writer again! “That matter should be taken care of shortly,” she assured him, holding fast to the last shreds of her manners, if not her goodwill. “In a few hours at the most.”

“Yes…but sometimes a few hours can feel like an eternity.”

It was a warning despite the softer delivery. It sent another chill racing through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself, barely managing to resist rubbing them again. How dare he entertain himself by attempting to unnerve her! Worse, he’d succeeded. And it wasn’t merely the threat she had a sudden urge to run from, it was an inescapable something reaching for her through his dark, hypnotic stare…something blatant and physical. Something…sexual?

Are you crazy? The man’s in a wheelchair for pity’s sake!

Willa straightened and tried to look like the businesswoman she was, polite but cool. Clearly, she’d made a mistake. He’d gotten the wrong impression from the way she was dressed. It was too late to do anything about that; however, she intended to let him know she didn’t unravel quite as easily as he seemed to want.

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Denton, but thank you for your concern.” Trying not to appear anxious as she glanced around, she spotted the phone on the side table not three yards away. “Oh, I see it right here. If you don’t mind, I’ll—”

“If you have any sense, you won’t move into that house. Get away while you can.”

“Excuse me?” Stunned, she couldn’t have budged now if she wanted to.

“You heard me. It’s all wrong…dangerous for someone like you.”

“Someone like me? That one you’re going to have to spell out,” she said growing more angry with every second. “Exactly what are you driving at?”

He nodded as though she’d satisfied some private question. “Yes, you look like a woman who wants to hear men say it. Beautiful.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she snapped with a dismissing wave.

“And alone.”

A surprisingly cool breeze blew in through the screen door and Willa shivered. It was because it felt like phantom hands stroking her arms, she insisted to herself as goose bumps sprang up on her skin. She wouldn’t let it be him. He was just playing games to scare her, toying with her mind to make sure she never bothered him again.

Fury gave her the nerve to shift her hands to her hips and take a few steps toward him. It brought her directly under the single, but dim chandelier light. She wanted to make sure he had an excellent view; then she gave him the slow smile that used to make A.J. start breathing like a freight train engine carrying one car too many. “But I’m hardly alone am I, Mr. Denton? After all, I have you to watch over me.”

Something mesmerizing and yet untamed flared in his eyes. “That’s your biggest danger.” This time he was the one to point to the phone. “Make your call. You have three minutes before I reset the electronic bolt lock. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of that door when I do.”

Willa stared, speechless, until he disappeared into a room and slammed the door behind him. Surely he didn’t mean that?

But what if he did?

Most important, what was that nonsense about his being dangerous to her? She didn’t care for that threat one bit, or how it reminded her of the stalkings going on around Vilary.

Get a grip, kiddo. The only thing she could take comfort in was knowing that a man in Zachary Denton’s condition was about as likely to be connected with the trouble in town as it was apt to snow tonight.

Wishing she’d never come over here, Willa hurried across the room and snatched up the telephone’s receiver. Only then did she notice that her hand was shaking. Zachary Denton had achieved what he’d set out to do: he’d frightened her. In fact he’d left her trembling all over.

He waited until late to make his move, waited until she’d returned from another trip to town and had shut off the lights for the night. He’d begun to think she never would. What an energetic one, he thought, circling the house to peer in the uncurtained windows to make sure she had given up the scrubbing and polishing for the day.

Determined, too. She had to be to spend the night in a sleeping bag on the floor. He’d seen her retrieve the thing from the van a short while ago. He would have to remember that about her. It meant she wouldn’t be a pushover; not at all like the others, who’d proved no challenge, making him lose interest.

He’d already discovered much from simply watching her. Yes, she was the best so far. The least like Judith, though, except for the hair…and the eyes. But that was okay. What was important was that she was here, conveniently within reach.

The sudden flash of the overhead light in her kitchen made him recoil and press flat back against the cool damp stones of the house. Damn, now what? His heart pounded surging adrenaline through him like a pulsating sprinkler system gone haywire. Had she spotted him? He hadn’t heard a scream. But what if she’d run to the phone to call the police? He had to check and find out.

Easing to the window again, he peered around the metal trim. No, he’d let himself worry for nothing. Apparently, she was only thirsty and had come down to get a drink. He watched her fill a glass with ice cubes, then bottled water from the refrigerator.

His confidence returned and with it came lust. But all too soon he had to press himself back against the unyielding stone because her skimpy top and panties left little to the imagination.

He wanted to touch her breasts. He rubbed his hands over smooth mortar and stone pretending it was her flesh. He wanted to hurt her, knowing she would be aroused; he wanted to hear her beg him to stop, though he knew she wouldn’t really mean it.

He owed Judith for teaching him that secret. If not for her, he might never have discovered his hidden talent, his great power. And soon beautiful Willa would know it, too…would know his power.

He imagined the ecstasy that moment would bring, the feel of his hands around her creamy throat as she drew him deeper and deeper inside her body. That would be the best moment because the harder he squeezed, the sooner her face would become Judith’s…desirable, untouchable…cruel, untouchable Judith. Only then would he let the fiery red sea of excitement and pleasure consume him.

If only he could tell Willa now how fantastic it was going to be. But it was too soon. “Much too soon,” he groaned in misery as he rocked his feverish forehead against the night-cooled stone. His pelvis, too.

Then he stopped. Another idea was forming.

If he hurried, he could do something. He could be her first thought in the morning. It wasn’t enough, not nearly, he thought as the house went dark again, but it was a beginning.

Eager to get started, he stumbled off into the night.




CHAPTER THREE


She stretched, as far as the sleeping bag allowed, and took her time before opening her eyes. Waking had always been a sensual experience to her, much like indulging in a long bubble bath, slipping into something sleek and silky or making love. Something to be enjoyed thoroughly or not at all. Her mattress hadn’t been ideal—now thirty, she had to admit she preferred the comforts of a conventional bed to roughing it with the equipment she and A.J. had used back when they’d been hikers and campers—but there was nothing like the sleep that followed a day of all-out physical labor to make a hard floor inconsequential.

Ready for some coffee and round two, she finally flipped back the top of her unzipped sleeping bag and rolled herself up onto her feet. She stretched again as she padded to the bathroom. By the light already spilling in through the windows she estimated it was around six o’clock, her favorite hour to start the day. All she needed now was coffee and a banana, her breakfast almost every morning. After that she would be ready to start painting.

When she came out of the bathroom, still toweling her face dry, she thought about the newspaper and hoped she would find one on her driveway when she got downstairs. Thank goodness the paperboy had been running late yesterday; she’d intercepted him and he’d agreed to add her to his route starting today. She liked to ease into her mornings with the paper. Not via the front pages, though. After A.J. died, she’d stopped giving herself an ulcer over what they printed there.

What appealed to her was browsing through the home and living sections, the fashions and finally the comics. Who cared if her accountant brother-in-law rolled his eyes at that? Willa smiled as she hung up the single bath towel she’d brought from the duplex. Jack could chide and lecture all he wanted about how a business-woman needed to pay attention to the financial news. As far as she was concerned, her “business” was understanding women and their fantasies. Nothing she’d ever read in the so-called serious sections of the paper had ever helped her or anyone she knew have a happier more satisfying relationship with a lover or spouse. In fact, from her vantage point, those killed romance.

An article about how more people were adding fountains into their homes for their ornateness as well as their soothing effect, inspired her to invest in one for the entryway of her store. As anticipated, it soon lured passers-by, who then became intrigued with the sensual massage and bath products she displayed around the fountain.

And that hadn’t been an isolated experiment. The fashion sections of the paper helped her determine upcoming color trends and styles for her lingerie and loungewear inventory. The comics gave her a lift on days when being an entrepreneur seemed to be the most insane choice a woman in her situation could make. Let the financial moguls posture and pontificate on the business section’s pages; she’d never met one who understood how to tell his slightly plump wife that he would love to see her in a sexy item of lingerie or robe.

Willa bent at the waist and brushed her long hair forward from the nape. Thinking of robes reminded her that she needed to call Starla and remind her about the short silk ones they were going to bring out of stock to add to the sale merchandise today. Then again, maybe she shouldn’t. Her young assistant manager would utter a funny, theatrical groan, but underneath would be a subtle accusation about not being trusted. Willa knew she’d already pushed her luck. Yesterday she’d dialed to pass on her new number, then she’d phoned to check how sales were going. And she’d called again later that night to make sure Starla remembered to lock up securely.

No, she wouldn’t do it. Everything was under control. If she felt like a mother away from her baby for the first time, that was her problem, one she’d better keep to herself—unless she wanted to risk losing a valuable employee, as well as someone she’d come to care for as a friend.

Straightening and flinging her hair back over her shoulders, her gaze settled on the windows of her bedroom…and beyond. To his house. Those windows.

Her heart gave a jolt as she saw the dark silhouette behind the net draperies. It was him. For a few blissful moments she’d actually managed to push yesterday’s disturbing incident to the back of her mind, and now the man had the gall to be spying on her like some…Peeping Tom!

She felt the strongest urge to hide behind the bathroom door, and an equally strong impulse to throw her brush at him. It wasn’t a matter of being self-conscious about her body. Good grief, her tank top and briefs were more concealing than what women wore on the beaches these days. But just because she didn’t have her draperies and blinds yet, did that give him a right to invade her privacy like some voyeur?

Well, he’d picked on the wrong woman if he thought he could intimidate her this time, in her own home. Losing A.J. had forced her to toughen up in a great number of ways. She knew how to stand up for herself and not let anyone boss, shame or bully her.

With indignation and fury building, she matched him stare for stare. She could almost feel his gaze shift and linger. Never had she met anyone with such audacity.

“You won’t intimidate me again,” she muttered, fuming.

But her defiance didn’t have much effect on him, either. The only movement came from the birds flying between their houses in search of breakfast for themselves and their hatchlings. Cardinals, chickadees, wrens and bluebirds sailed by, singing their praises of the May sunshine. Farther off she heard a woodpecker work diligently at a dead pine tree; the staccato, hollow tapping that came through the screen echoed the pulse pounding in her throat and at her temples. All that sweet innocence only made the broad-shouldered shadowy figure next door all the more surreal, and menacing.

Feeling her confidence wavering, she tossed her brush onto the counter. Back in the bedroom she grabbed her leggings, and shoes, and shot through the doorway. Awful, awful man, she seethed, stomping down the stairs. She wished her bare feet and modest weight created the thunderous acoustics that her annoyance craved. Did he sleep by that confounded computer? Was this what she had to look forward to from having him as a neighbor?

To think she’d been so pleased to have double windows in the master bedroom. It meant she could better enjoy the view of the ancient wisteria that rose from Zachary Denton’s backyard and nearly engulfed everything in its path as it crept over fences and trees in search of sunlight. Bad enough to have missed this year’s blooms; was she going to have to keep everything tightly shut and lose the view altogether? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair!

Downstairs she dropped her things by her new telephone and angrily stepped into her leggings and shoes, then jerked open the front door. She’d give him credit for one thing, though—he’d raised her blood pressure so much she didn’t need any caffeine to finish waking up!

Outside, she took a welcome, deep breath of fresh air. Yesterday’s rain had soaked everything through and through, and lingering humidity made the air heavy, the grass and shrubbery dew-drenched. The sun peered through the haze, its warmth stirring a potpourri of scents from the countless varieties of wildflowers and trees that flourished in the piney woods of East Texas. Willa let the promising day and the fresh air soothe her. It lasted only until she realized her paper wasn’t on the driveway as she’d hoped.

“Not this, too?” Sighing, she checked on the other side of the van in case the delivery boy’s aim had been way off.

It wasn’t there, either. But as she scanned her yard, she spotted the plastic-bag-enclosed paper tied to her mailbox. Relieved that a black cloud of bad luck wasn’t settling in over her house after all, she went to retrieve it.

Easier said than done, she decided, realizing how well the boy had secured the thing to her mailbox. She had to tug hard to free it, and the force of the move jerked open the aluminum box’s lid. Inside, was a folded sheet of letter-size paper.

“Oh, happy day,” she drawled, almost amused. She hadn’t even finished moving in yet and already she was the recipient of her first piece of junk mail.

Curious to know who had been this ambitious, she drew out the paper and unfolded it.

It wasn’t an advertisement, and for a moment she frowned down at the cut-out, odd-shaped letters from magazines and newspapers that had been glued unevenly to the sheet. Her mind simply refused to make sense of it.

“Too tempting for words.”

What on earth was this? Who would put something so ridiculous and—

The nerve! Oh, yes, she understood now. Did he think she wouldn’t be able to put two and two together? From what she could tell of the few other residents who lived farther down the road, they were either elderly or working people with no children. Hardly the type to indulge in such a tasteless gesture. But she had no such confidence in her nearest neighbor.

What had been his plan? Did he think she was going to be fooled into believing the Vilary stalker had chosen her as his next victim? It would serve him right if she phoned the police this minute and turned him in. Let him explain away his unbalanced behavior to them!

But that would probably bring every reporter in the state upon them like a swarm of those killer bees said to be invading from South America. Willa drew her lower lip between her teeth. No way did she want to cope with something like that. She was no recluse, but the ads and interviews she occasionally did for her store was enough “media” for her. In comparison the press who’d haunted her every step after A.J.’s employer had tried to blame his crash on pilot error had been like being chased by a pack of starving wild dogs.

Her resentment growing, she eyed Zachary Denton’s house. No, she didn’t want to go over there again; however, she would. She could handle this herself, and enjoy it! Let him have a taste of what it was like to be threatened.

She underhanded her newspaper in the direction of her front door, and this time used the street to reach Zachary Denton’s front walk. It wasn’t a much better choice than the tall weeds, though. Maybe she’d avoided the ticks and chiggers this way, but the number of potholes made the trip a different challenge. Thanks to yesterday’s flooding, every one of them was brimming with muddy water. Apparently the county road department didn’t like him, either.

By the time she reached his porch, her once pristine jogging shoes and leggings were splattered with East Texas red clay. Disgusted, she pounded on the screen door.

“Don’t you dare ignore me!” She glared up at the unblinking eye targeted on her. “Open up or this goes to the press.”

She held up the sheet of paper to the camera. Several long seconds later she heard the inside latch give. Telling herself that she had to ignore the responding lurch from her stomach, Willa stormed inside.

He sat where she’d found him yesterday, at the top of the stairs, looking like an exiled dictator of some ragtag country who was in a particularly bad mood. She eyed him with disdain. Whatever the man spent his money on, it certainly wasn’t clothes and razor blades.

Intent on giving him a taste of his own medicine and making him as agitated as he’d made her, she quickly started up the stairs. She knew better than to dwell on the wisdom of the move—or rather, the lack thereof. This had to do with principle.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Although his dark, almost wild gaze had the sharpness of a spear lancing through her, she shot back, “I’ll do the talking this time.”

“Not if I decide to call the police and have you arrested for harassment and trespassing.”

“Good idea. Call them! I can’t wait to hear you explain away this.”

“Let me see that!”

With impressive control and speed, he leaned forward and, before she could stop him, he snatched the paper out of her grasp. Afraid he meant to shred it, Willa considered trying to get it back, but she didn’t want to risk destroying it herself. Checking her impulse, she attempted to ignore her sudden disadvantage by studying her strange neighbor from this closer vantage point.

At least he looked somewhat less unkempt this morning, although he still hadn’t shaved, and his eyes were as bloodshot as ever. Finding that they were gray surprised her. She’d expected the same opaque brown of his hair and beard, a shade that in certain light people was often mistaken for black. Then again, the gray was opaque and nearly black, too. And so was his mood, she noted as he shot her a brief, sharp glare.

What a big, fierce man. He looked perfectly capable of launching himself out of that wheelchair and strangling the life out of her; in fact, his hands weren’t anything close to what she’d pictured for a writer. No long, elegant piano fingers here. Zachary Denton’s hands were closer to paws: huge, thick-fingered and callused like a laborer’s. She knew the latter was from wheeling his chair, but it reminded her of what A.J. used to say about Denton’s work. He writes like a man’s man.

What a crazy thing to remember. She’d never quite understood what A.J. had meant, either. In fact she’d argued to him how silly the comment was, insisting that no woman had ever declared a member of her sex, “a woman’s woman.”

However, as she watched the broken, but still-powerful man before her sweep a hand through his thick wavy mane, her increasingly rebellious imagination kicked into gear and suddenly she understood the macho thing. She could visualize how Zachary Denton’s hands would look caressing a woman’s body…how they would feel.

No, not just any female body. Hers.

She gripped the railing more tightly and looked away as an irrepressible quiver centered deep inside her.

“I warned you,” he said, his tone never more grim.

She glanced back in time to see him suck in a deep breath, his broad chest swelling, until it seemed almost too much for the seams of the cleaner, but ancient, black T-shirt. No surprise when even his pale but well-developed biceps were at least twice the size of hers. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me. If you’d listened, this would never have happened.”

Willa was glad for the subtle insult; it served to get her mind back on business all the faster. “Nice try but no Oscar, Mr. Denton. I know this is your doing.”

“Are you nuts?”

“No. But you are if you think you’re going to get away with it.”

“Lady,” he ground out, his glare all but impaling her, “in case you haven’t noticed, this is a wheelchair.”

“Which proves nothing.”

For an instant he looked genuinely dumbfounded, but the rage quickly returned, stronger and more explosive than before. “Excuse me all to hell, but this thing doesn’t come with a certificate qualifying me to be in it. You’ll just have to take my word that when you crash-land a single-engine plane, flipping it twice, there’s a good reason to believe the doctors when they tell you you’re in this thing for the rest of your stinking life!”

No one had ever yelled at her before, at least not quite like this. Between her shock and the sickly feeling that came as he described his living nightmare, she reached for the last shreds of her patience. “With all due respect, Mr. Denton—”

“Let’s get something straight, Mrs. Whitney, you have no more respect for me than I have for you.”

Unfortunately, that was proving true, but the remark still stung. “Fine. Then let’s get down to the bottom line, shall we? I’m here and plan to stay, and I’d better not find anything like this in my mailbox again.” She snatched back the paper.

Sun-dried rawhide couldn’t have stretched any tighter than the muscles on his square-jawed face. “Did you see any mud trail from my house to yours? Any on the porch ramp?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly. What’s more, it had stopped raining early in the evening.

“And there isn’t any mud on my tires now, is there? So what makes you all-fired certain I did that?”

He had to ask that? After yesterday? “There’s no one else,” she replied, struggling to keep from letting him spook her again.

“Really.” Once again his gaze swept over her, lingering on her breasts. “I think you’re forgetting one crucial point.”

She couldn’t understand how someone in his condition could turn a simple comment into such an insult. Barely able to stay put, Willa replied, “What?”

“Some nut case is out there stalking local women.”

Willa wouldn’t buy it. “I think you’d like me to believe this is connected with that. But I find it more than slightly suspicious that after living in Vilary for nearly six years, operating a successful shop in a busy mall and having my photograph in the local paper any number of times, it’s only when I move in next to you that this happens.”

“Maybe the stalker does know about you and your sexy lingerie business,” Zachary Denton countered with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe he’s just been saving you for something special.”




CHAPTER FOUR


Willa felt certain someone or something was sucking the air out of the room. Had Zachary Denton triggered another of his ingenuous contraptions, or was he a true fan of hypnotism and testing his skills on her? Whatever the case, she had to open her mouth to get any air into her lungs.

“How do you know about what’s in my store?”

“Maybe I’m psychic.”

“You think mocking me is going to resolve anything?”

“Who says I’m mocking you? At any rate, when you storm into a man’s house, you take what you get.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he gestured for her to save her breath. “All right, you said it yourself, you’ve been in the paper…and as I told you before, when something happens around here that may affect me, I ask questions.”

“A reasonable explanation.”

“You mean this is the start of a beautiful friendship?”

“At least a civil coexistence if you’ll finally admit this.” Willa held up the note again. “Because I still think you did it.”

“Go away, Mrs. Whitney. Go home and lock your doors, because I may be a lot of things, including half-mad. But most of all, I’m no gentleman, and I’m damned tired of pretending for you.”

Hoping he couldn’t see her knees trembling, she nodded. “I’m going. But consider this my final warning. Anything more and I’m going straight to the police.”

His face turned a deep red, his eyes feverish. “If I were you, I’d put up some curtains on my windows first. You wouldn’t want our boys in blue jumping to the conclusion that lonely, young widows who prance around practically naked deserve what they get.”

Until this instant, she’d never wanted to commit physical violence before, and considering the size and build of the man, if she tried it, no doubt she would end up with a broken hand…or neck. But it might be worth it.

For pity’s sake, he’s turning you into a barbarian!

“To think my husband used to rave about your work,” she whispered, her throat raw from tears she’d choke on before spilling. “You’re worse than pitiful. You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re a tease!” A new, almost satanic gleam lit his eyes. The mouth that should have been tender, even passionate, twisted cruelly. “But you’d better be careful. Apparently you haven’t noticed a pattern with the stalker.”

The more he mentioned the dreaded situation, the more she was willing to believe he really knew something. Her tank top began to stick to her back, and she made herself ask, “What pattern?”

“All the women who’ve been followed have been blondes. They all had blue eyes.”

She almost reached up to touch her own hair. “The newspapers haven’t reported anything like that, nor has that been stated on TV.” She knew. This was the one bit of bad news she had been following. All three women had been returning to their homes late at night, and luckily had escaped serious injury. One faint when the stalker put his gloved hands around her neck. Another managed to knock him off-balance and run. And a neighbor out for an evening stroll saved the third from rape, or worse. But little else had been disclosed. “How do you know this?”

“I told you, I’m psychic.”

She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. “If you know anything, you have to tell the authorities.”

“No.”

She couldn’t believe his resolute rejection. He was worse than a barbarian. “You must! How can you even consider not telling them?”

“That’s my business. In any case, if the authorities haven’t already picked up on the pattern, they deserve to be fired.”

“Don’t those women deserve something? What are you waiting for? He might rape or kill the next one!” She had to be caught up in some incredible nightmare. Befuddled, Willa rubbed at her forehead and searched for some way to reach him. “If you could help someone, save someone, wouldn’t you want to do that?”

“I’ve tried, but the lady chooses not to hear me.”

He was referring to her—she understood that much—but was it a warning or threat? “I can’t not pass this on. You can play your mind games, but the police—Oh!”

She’d begun to turn around, intent on getting out of there, but she’d underestimated Zachary Denton’s speed and reach. As he closed his hand around her wrist and jerked her back, she knew she’d said too much, and now there would be hell to pay.

The note sailed out of her grasp. She went sprawling across his lap. The force of her fall sent his chair rolling back a few feet until it thudded to a stop against the wrought-iron elevator cage.

Eye to eye with her captor, she tried to focus, tried to catch her breath…tried not to notice the fierce pain in her left thigh from striking the chair’s arm, tried not to notice his powerful muscles bunching beneath her hand, and beneath them the strong beat of his heart. She failed on all counts.

Not only did she have to deal with a sudden, debilitating fear, the longer their gazes stayed locked, the more she became aware of him as a man. It was impossible. Beyond bizarre, she thought, dazed and edging toward panic when she couldn’t free herself.

“Let me go.”

“When I’m ready.”

What did that mean? What was next? Was he going to fling her down the stairs? He had the strength. The only question was whether he possessed the brutality.

But something other than violence transformed the whiskered pale face so close to hers. To her amazement his gunmetal-gray eyes almost cleared of haunted shadows and secrets, and taking its place came emotions she wasn’t prepared for. Wonder…concern…regret…all proved shocking enough. But desire?

At first she thought she might have struck her head on the banister and was imagining it. Intent on focusing on the pain their collision must have caused, she was about to insist he let her up. Then she felt the unmistakable, physical stirring against her hip.

Neither of them moved. Trapped and vulnerable, she could only wait, and watch the wide, well-formed mouth so frighteningly close. Wait and wonder. Would his kiss be hard and rough, or slow and hungry? How far did he intend to go? Would she survive it?

“My God, you’re lovely.”

His gaze shifted to her lips. Her mouth went dry as he slid a hand up her back, beneath the fall of her hair. Strong fingers molded themselves around her nape…and slowly, slowly he drew her toward him.

You’re going to let this happen?

“Zach? Yo, man!”

Willa started at the sound of the unexpected, but strangely familiar voice rising from below. Someone was at the front door! She began to glance around, but Zachary Denton tightened his grip, keeping her still. As he moved his hand from her nape to her throat, those emotions that had almost seduced her receded, and back came the secretive shadows and the glint of violence.

She swallowed, but afraid to make a mistake, waited for him to make his decision.

“Hey, you all right? I’m coming in, okay?” the visitor shouted upon hearing no response.

Before the screen door opened, Zachary Denton lifted her back onto her feet. Surprised, Willa steadied herself by holding onto his forearms. They were hot steel against her fingers.

“Go. Say nothing to him.”

Although he spoke calmly, he looked paler than ever. Drained. But eager to put some distance between them, Willa didn’t dwell on that; instead, she hurried down the stairs. She didn’t remember the note until she approached the bottom, and spun around in time to see him tucking it into his T-shirt’s single pocket.

“Whoa! Sorry, man. Did I mess up on the time or something?”

Ignoring the man who’d just noticed her, Willa hesitated. Did she make a scene and demand her property back or leave as he’d said? Blast him for being so enigmatic.

Leave!

Zachary Denton’s intense look projected as strong a message as any verbal command. “I was just going,” she said to the newcomer as she hurried down the rest of the stairs. But disgusted with herself for losing the note and more, Willa could only nod toward the blond giant who appeared as embarrassed as he did curious.

Like Zachary Denton, the newcomer was a well-toned product that bespoke hours of extensive and disciplined weight training; and if she hadn’t recognized him, the Vilary Vantage Health Club and Spa logo on his T-shirt would have identified him. He was one of the trainers. The one with the neon smile and a cavalier’s manners, she recalled, remembering how he often ran to open the doors for the health club’s female clientele. Even her oldest saleswoman, sensible Sophia, grew all breathless and giddy when he strolled by Whimsy.

“I know you.”

So much for thinking she could escape without small talk. Willa nodded politely. “Hi.” She knew she owed this man with the model-perfect tan a debt a gratitude, but with Zachary Denton’s warning echoing in her mind, she wanted desperately to get out of there. “I’m the new neighbor,” she offered reluctantly, hooking her thumb in the direction of her house. “Willa Whitney. I came over to introduce myself.”

Youthful features puckered into a slight frown, making him look no more than a year or two her senior.

“Couldn’t help but wonder seeing as the door’s rarely open. He doesn’t like visitors.”

The conspiratorial whisper came as the custom-made elevator cranked into operation, and Willa stiffened. “He’s made that abundantly clear.”

“Don’t take it personally. He’s had a rough time of it.” Glancing across the foyer as the elevator settled on the ground floor, his gaze grew troubled, almost sad. “You should’ve seen him before I started working with him.”

“You’ve done wonders with keeping him in shape.” Too bad you can’t do something with what’s going on beneath that wild mane of hair. “It’s…Greg, right?” she added, trying to recall what the girls at the store had called him.

“Ger. Ger Sacks. Sounds less nerdy than Gerald.” He grinned and shrugged. “I like your store. Crazy stuff you peddle.”

So much for hoping he’d confused her with someone else. She didn’t know if she liked the idea of her merchandise being described as “crazy,” but Willa murmured her thanks, adding, “Well, after you prime the bodies, they want some nice things to show off the results.” Her gaze drifted beyond him as Zachary Denton wheeled out of the metal cage and rolled himself toward them. Feeling his eyes like two drills boring into her, she began backing away. “Um…I really have to run. Nice to finally meet you, Ger.”

“Ditto. Come see me some time. Not that you need it,” he added with a brief, sweeping glance, “but everyone could use a little cardiovascular workout once in a while.”

“True, but I get that by doing all of my own housework.”

She did run then, all the way back home, not stopping until she had her front door locked and bolted behind her. Only when she slumped against the sturdy wood did she think about what had happened.

Had the combination of Zachary Denton’s accident and his work driven him to the edge of madness? If so, he’d at least been sane enough to outmaneuver her and get that note. Why did he want it if he hadn’t been the one to put it in her box? And is that why he’d almost kissed her? Oh, God, that was the most incredible of all—she was disappointed it hadn’t happened.

Blue-eyed blondes. Just like her.

My God you’re lovely.

Blondes…blondes…blondes…

Willa covered her face with her hands. Dear Heaven, what had she gotten herself into?

“You’re tight.”

“And I plan to get tighter,” Zach replied, thinking of the stiff drink he would pour himself as soon as he sent his trainer on his way.

Not bothering to open his eyes, he willed the strong, capable hands massaging the knots and kinks out of his back to work their magic—but faster. At least the guy was good. Gerald Sacks wasn’t a fully-trained masseur; however, he was more than adequate, and most important, he saved Zach from having to deal with yet another person intruding on his space and privacy.

“You keep pouring all that booze into yourself and pretty soon you won’t need me anymore, you’ll need a mortician.”

“Anytime you figure you no longer want my money, say the word. Then you won’t have to watch.” Zach had no intention of taking that kind of bull from anyone. Not even Felix who had been his agent since the start—well before his first-class trip through hell—had permission to lecture him.

“Sorry.”

Hearing the mumbled word and sensing the hurt beneath it, Zach realized what a mistake he’d made. A stupid one. He needed to stop remembering the scene of Willa talking to Sacks, not to mention replaying the moment he’d almost learned the taste and feel of her, and keep his mind on the business at hand.

After a grunt and an oath, he added, “Ignore me. Too many hours at the computer lately.” That much was true. His body ached from the ninety-minute workout Ger had put him through.

“I know. Your neck and shoulders are a mess, man.” As if wanting to make his point, he gave a surprisingly painful twist to the muscle he’d been working.

“Son of a…hey!” Zach lifted himself on his elbows and glared at the man who gazed back at him through startled, summer-blue eyes. “It’s the legs that have the nerve damage! What are you trying to do, kill me?”

Ger’s expression turned as studious as when he was teaching a new move. “Killing wouldn’t take that much strength. When I was into martial arts, I learned that much. And I was only trying to make the point that you ignored technique today. Injure yourself, you’ll be hurting more than you. Think about my reputation, man.”

Zach doubted he’d ever heard Ger say anything half as intelligent, and the revelation about his past was interesting, as well. Wondering how else he’d underestimated him, he lowered himself back to the towel-covered table. “You studied martial arts?”

“Hell, no. I took a few classes and found out it wasn’t for me.”

“Why not?”

“Just wasn’t. Too much head stuff.” Ger paused to pour more lotion into his palm. “You want more work on your shoulders or do you want me to move on?”

“Finish. I have to get back upstairs.”

In the sixteen months since he’d hired Gerald Sacks to transform the den into a training room and keep his body from atrophying, they’d had their moments of tension and disagreement. The accident had honed Zach’s innate tendencies to be strong-willed and acerbic. What’s more, the soft-spoken, machine-tanned Ger was one of only three people who could gain entrance into the house, and was damned well paid for his time and service. Zach figured that gave him the right not to mince words, and pretend to be something he wasn’t.

“You want to talk?”

Sometimes Zach did tire of his isolation, and the singular cerebral focus of writing; and as with the chess games he looked forward to with Roger Elias, he saw conversation as a discipline requiring skill and strategy. But although Ger was a good source of information for what was going on in town, he wasn’t exactly the most inspiring, let alone challenging, conversationalist. Then again, Zach thought as his thoughts darkened, political or philosophical insight wasn’t what he wanted from his trainer.

“Talk about what?”

“The underwear lady. Her coming over the way she did.”

He grunted. Wouldn’t Willa love hearing herself described that way? “From what I’ve seen in newspaper advertisements, �underwear’ doesn’t quite describe what she sells.”

Ger made no response to that, but after several long seconds, he ventured with some caution. “I, uh, thought since she kinda looks like…you know, it might have upset you.”

Renewed tension created the coldest knot yet in Zach’s belly. “Do you think she looks like my ex-wife?” he mumbled into his pillowed towel.

His trainer had been here the last time less-than-beloved Judith had slithered in seeking more money. As usual, the scene had gone from drolly amusing to ugly, thanks to the woman’s vicious mouth. By the time she left, Zach thought her lucky to escape with only a scratch on her chin from the car keys he’d flung back at her.

How he despised the woman. Despise? Hell, he hated her with every ounce of his being. Not because she’d filed an assault case against him after their argument when he’d told her he was filing for a divorce, or for taking so much that wasn’t hers, but for unleashing the demons inside him. The demons that whispered he could commit murder.

“Well, maybe not up close.” Ger sounded sorry to have brought up the subject. Moving down to concentrate on Zach’s legs, he continued, “I mean, I know Ju—uh, Mrs. D. is older. Maybe I thought that because they’re about the same height and build.”

And that was all Willa had in common with his ex-wife, Zach thought. When he’d touched Willa, and looked into her eyes, he’d seen a soul and not a heartless, conniving she-devil.

“Don’t forget the hair,” he drawled, curious to hear what else Ger might say. He already knew, however, that Willa’s glorious coloring didn’t come out of a bottle. “And the blue eyes.”

“Oh. Okay. I hadn’t noticed.”

Disappointed, Zach closed his eyes. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

“Say…” Ger’s laugh sounded almost like a girl’s giggle. “I just had a thought. Wouldn’t it be weird if the stalker got rid of your ex old lady for you?”

Zach opened his eyes and briefly focused on the note sticking out of the T-shirt he’d hung on the doorknob. Then he thought of the several others upstairs in his desk.

“I hope not,” he replied, tempering the savagery stirring inside him. “If anyone’s going to give Judith a tour of hell, it’s going to be me.”




CHAPTER FIVE


On Sunday, Zach was still dropping bombshells…and still groping in the dark.

“Would you mind repeating that?”

He recognized the ominous, chilly tone in Felix Fraser’s voice, but it didn’t keep him from pouring himself another Scotch from the bottle he kept on the corner of his desk. Swirling the melting ices cubes in the amber liquid, Zach took a sip, recalling a time right after the crash when he’d witnessed Felix’s Arctic-Attitude directed at Judith, who’d burst into his hospital room and pretended concern. It was the same frigidity he’d heard countless times since, when his agent negotiated with publishers, movie producers and audio rights reps. But this was the first time Zach had found himself on the receiving end of it.

He found it oddly enjoyable.

“You heard me.” Turning back to the computer screen, he eyed the last page of the chapter he’d finished only minutes ago. Two chapters in two days, not bad. “I’ve put off doing Under the City right now. I want to pursue another idea.”

“But Carstairs is expecting City by Christmas” came the steel-coated-by-velvet reply. “They’ve issued a press release to that effect. Your readers are expecting Under the City.”

“And they’ll get it. But not yet.”

“When then?”

“After Checkmate.”

He could picture Felix, an elegant fifty-seven-year-old, tall, large-boned man, pinching the bridge of his El Greco nose as he fought for control of his temper. It was the curse of Felix’s Spanish, Scottish and Russian genes to be eternally at war with himself. He’d simply inherited too much passion, even for his six-foot-four-inch frame.

“Lord almighty, Zach. Why don’t you simply take a stake and drive it through my chest? Exactly what the—” Pausing just in time to censor a particularly crude expletive because, like an alcoholic, once Felix started swearing it was difficult for him to stop, he drew in a deep breath and started over. “What is Checkmate?”

“Only a fine madness right now.” The liquor was beginning to ease the fatigue, tension and pain in his body, and allowed Zach to indulge in an evil grin. “Primarily because I don’t know how it ends yet.”

“I see. What about the premise? Do you have a clue about that?”

The snideness was vintage Fraser, as well. The Houston literary agent was more than a fascinating, enigmatic study as a businessman; one-on-one he usually exuded a theatrically affected persona. Zach hadn’t been able to resist using him in his work before, but as a composite character. Never the man as a whole. He knew Felix would enjoy being immortalized in print, and wondered how much to hint that it might just happen, and soon.

“A clue…all right. Call it three stories in one. A project like nothing I’ve ever done before.”

“That’s what Under the City is supposed to be, and if you remember correctly, I had to practically prostrate myself before Carstairs to stop his complaining about the young antagonists in the story.”

Zach could think of a few tongue-in-cheek responses to the idea that Felix would prostrate himself to anyone, but decided to leave well enough alone. He hadn’t called his agent to make more trouble for himself than necessary. First and foremost, he was on a fishing expedition.

“Just hear me out,” he replied, attempting to sound believably entreating. “It’s a story, inside a story, inside a story. A play for revenge, and power and the sacrifice of innocence. Only—” he swung his chair around to see if his comely neighbor had finished hanging the blinds in her bedroom “—I’m not sure yet how much the innocent will have to sacrifice.”

Felix’s responding sigh stretched like a full-grown python across the wires. “I don’t need this, Zach. I just saw you Friday night. You said nothing about switching story lines.”

“You didn’t ask. If you’ll recall, you were on your way in from a meeting in Dallas and merely �stopping by to check on your favorite client,’ and a bit of my premium whiskey. You were unwinding and in no mood to talk shop.”

“Well, I am now,” Felix snapped, clearly irritated that he’d missed the opportunity to catch on to this sooner. “And if you had anything close to a conscience, you would have brought up the matter yourself!”

In the pregnant pause that followed, Zach watched Willa frowning over the instructions for the blinds. A part of him would be sorry to see them go up. Another part, less enthusiastic, but rational, knew it was necessary to her survival—and his sanity. What was left of it.

“Zach? Don’t you hang up on me.”

“When have I ever done that, Felix?” he asked mildly, admiring the subtle curves and valleys he’d held against him only hours before.

“That’s true. And I wish you’d be as professional about this commitment. Leave the machinations for your board games with your young chess friend, and write me a nice, scare-the-pants-off-everyone horror story. You know that’s what your readers want from you.”

“They want the next Zachary Denton release…and trust me, it’ll be a page-turner. I’m not even sure I’ll survive it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Zach? Put that damned glass down for a minute and talk to me!”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Felix,” Zach warned, instantly serious. “The moment you hear my voice slur, you can preach and demand all you want, but until then butt out.”

“Bloody hell, Zach. Since the accident it’s been nothing but an uphill battle trying to tiptoe around your black moods and self-destructiveness. You know I’ve sympathized with your tragedy, defended you as your aversion to do publicity intensified. If that was me in that chair, I wouldn’t want to deal with TV cameras and reporters, either. But between your drinking and this neurotic reclusiveness—”

“Be very careful what you say next,” he warned his agent in a near whisper.

“Someone needs to say it, and it’s past time. Sweet heaven, Zach, sometimes I think we’d all be better off if you’d ridden that damn plane straight into the ground. It might have been kinder than having to watch you destroy yourself this way.”

Zach shut his eyes, but there was no stopping the rush of memories Felix’s words triggered…the sickening moment when he’d realized the plane had been sabotaged…the shock and the terror…the vow of revenge and the petrified prayer he’d repeated again and again through clenched teeth as he’d bartered for his soul and fought for his life.

When he reopened his eyes, he saw Willa had succeeded in getting the first blind up. He watched shapely calves, knees, then thighs appear, as she tested it, and almost sighed with relief as the red flames of madness receded.

What was she wearing beneath that man’s dress shirt? And beneath her obvious fear this morning, had the curiosity, even desire he’d seen in those bottomless eyes of hers, been real? The blinds suggested one answer, but he wondered. Were they going up to protect her from him…or to protect her from herself?

Did he want either of them to discover the answer?

“Zach? Zach!”

“I’m here.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, but you did.” He drew a deep, relaxing breath. “I’ve never asked you to like me or even to respect what I do, Felix. But I don’t pay you to lie to me.”

“You’re right.” Felix’s voice flowed heavy with regret. For once, all pretense and affectation vanished. “We need to talk about this. I don’t know how much more I can take. I don’t even know if I have the guts to break this to Carstairs. We have a contract for crying out loud. He could crucify us.”

The blinds lifted the rest of the way, and finally she saw him. He’d swept back the sheers to make it easy for her, although it was almost eight in the evening and new storm clouds made it darker than usual for a late spring night. He hadn’t turned on the lights, either. No need to remove all the challenge. There was only the glow from the computer screen to let her know he was there. He knew it cast him in an eerie silhouette. Visible, but not identifiable. Real and surreal. As he was.

The unexpected flash in the corner of his right eye stung. It came from the car pulling into his driveway. Round three, he thought, his mood sinking once more.

“Zach, talk to me.”

“I have to go, Felix. Young Elias has arrived.”

“Let him wait. Why you waste your time with that overambitious weasel is beyond me. He doesn’t have any real talent.”

“I disagree,” Zach replied, refocusing on Willa’s frozen stance. “At any rate, it’s not wise to underestimate. Anyone. I’ll call you soon.”

He hung up the phone and after punching the proper button on the remote control to release the downstairs lock, he watched as she hesitantly moved closer to the window to see his visitor more clearly. Despite the distance between them, her confusion and wariness were palpable.

Truly lovely.

The underwear lady, indeed.

What was he going to do about her?

When Zachary Denton left the upstairs room to see to his visitor, Willa lowered her new blinds and shut them tight. Her heart continued to pound from the way he’d been watching her, and seeing the unrecognizable car pull into his driveway hadn’t helped. For an unsociable person, Zachary Denton had his share of company.

Stepping back, she considered her workmanship. Not bad for a woman who, only a few years ago, could barely read a tape measure, let alone handle a nail and hammer. Being on one’s own certainly forced a person to adapt and try new things, and Willa was glad she’d decided to stick with the same ivory color as the walls. She would use color through accents; she’d chosen green and yellow to go with the sunflower print bedspread and curtains bagged and waiting in the closet.

One more day and she would have her bed again. She rubbed at her aching back. What she wouldn’t give to be able to climb into the tub right now. But she wasn’t finished with her work for the day. Besides, Starla said she would—

The doorbell sounded, and Willa’s thudding heart nearly leapt into her throat. Good grief, a few days around the crown prince of horror and she was turning into a wreck!

Who on earth could it be? She’d just been thinking that Starla said she would call, not stop by. What’s more, after getting her number from Kelly, her parents had telephoned from Madrid, which canceled any possibility that they’d concluded their trip early.

Hurrying downstairs, she found herself braking by her purse. Of course, she thought as she realized why. She stooped to dig into the outer pouch. Thank goodness for instincts. She hadn’t heard another car stop by except for the one that had pulled into Zachary Denton’s driveway; therefore, it would be foolish to answer the door without being prepared.

With her cannister of tear gas in hand, she went to switch on the front lights. Maybe she would leave them on. It might discourage any more funny business from…well, whomever.

Peering through the peephole, she frowned. No one was there.

“Blast.” Her nerves didn’t need this.

About to go to the front window for a better view, a dark head suddenly popped up out of nowhere. She reared back, but a second later realized who she’d seen.

Starla! Quickly unlocking the dead bolt, she jerked open the door, vowing to herself that as soon as possible she would have a storm door added. Every bit of security would help.

“Starla Donohue, I could shake you!” she cried, stepping aside for her assistant to enter.

Pretty brown eyes tried to look apologetic, but not all the twinkling amber lights dancing in their depths would behave. “Don’t be angry with me. I know I said I’d only call, but the suspense got to me. You have to let me have a peek. Look,” she grinned, holding up bottle of chardonnay. “I brought a bribe.”

Willa shook her head. “But I don’t have a corkscrew.”

The younger woman shook the huge, chic tote bag slung over her shoulder. “Remember this? Since when has anything less than useful emerged from its—Yikes! What’s that for?”

She’d finally spotted the tear gas. With a wry smile, Willa shut the door and returned it to her purse. “Over-stretched nerves, obviously. I’ll tell you about it in a minute,” she added, noting Starla’s confusion. “First come have that look around.”

Starla’s surprise visit gave Willa what she needed—something else to focus on. A good listener with a slightly wacky sense of humor that hid a deeper shyness, she reminded Willa of her sister, Kelly, but with longer, golden brown hair, and a softer, rounded figure.

“This place is darling! Not too big to keep up, but large enough not to give you claustrophobia. Like a certain efficiency apartment I could tell you about,” she added as an aside. “And it’s obvious you’ve been working your butt off. Oh, wow!” They entered the kitchen where brick and copper created a warm, welcoming environment. “I can’t wait to see how you decorate everything. If it turns out half as good as Whimsy did, the paper’s going to want to do another feature on you.”

Willa hadn’t considered that. “I’m not sure I want to share this with the public,” she replied, frowning as she retrieved two paper cups from a basket of supplies on the counter.

“You’re kidding! Ms. My Life’s An Open Book?”

Was she like that? Well, once upon a time maybe, and mostly because A.J.’s stressful work as an emergency helicopter pilot had created a need for counterbalance. More. Relief. His preference had been to throw impromptu, open-house parties. But if truth be known, she would have been happier to have spent those nights cozily in front of a fire, with a romantic dinner and a more romantic bubble bath waiting. Nowadays she had plenty of opportunity to do just that, but without A.J.

“I’m sorry, Willa. What did I say? I didn’t mean to dig up ghosts or anything.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied, smiling as she presented the cups. “You reminded me that I may have some new decisions to make, that’s all.”

“Tomorrow’s the big day, huh? Ready or not, you’re a homeowner again.”

She nodded, regaining some of her excitement. “The movers tell me they’ll be at the apartment at nine. Are you getting tired of playing chief, cook and bottle washer yet?” she asked, aware of the responsibility she’d placed on her friend’s shoulders. Four years her junior, Starla was capable, but young for the pressures Willa knew could come swiftly and without warning.

“To be honest…? As good a time as I’m having, I’d prefer it if you were there.” Starla’s dimples deepened. “Because I miss our chats like heck. Not having had any brothers and sisters, or being very close to my folks, I guess you’ve become like an older sister to me. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. I feel the same way about you.” Willa hugged her, touched by her friend’s admission.

“But I know this is good for me, and that I need to learn to flex my administrative muscles.”

“That’s a girl! I know you can do it.” Willa watched the younger woman ease the cork out the bottle’s neck. The pop underscored her pleasure and gratitude that Starla had stopped by after all. “And it’s not as if I’m far away. If you can hang on until Tuesday…?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” Starla poured the wine. “Now let’s change the subject before we get too mushy and sentimental, and wind up with raccoon eyes.”

They laughed and touched their cups together. Then Starla reported on the day’s sales and reassured Willa that she’d locked the cash and receipts in the small office safe.

“It sounds as if you have everything under control,” Willa said, leading the way out of the kitchen again. “Come on and I’ll show you the rest of the place.” But she was surprised when Starla stopped her at the foot of the stairs.

“Wait. First tell me what’s going on? Why the tear gas?” She held up a hand the instant Willa hesitated. “Unless it’s pushing the boundaries of our friendship.”

“Don’t be silly.” It surprised and dismayed Willa that Starla could think that, and she told her so.

Once again beaming, her young friend replied, “Good. Then what is it? Is being on a dead-end street and practically in the woods more to handle than you’d expected?”

Willa sipped her wine, considering the possibility again. “No, I really enjoy that. There are so many birds, and this evening I glimpsed a deer in my backyard. I can’t wait to put up some feeders, and maybe set out something for the deer, too.”

“Now that sounds like you.” Warming to her subject, Starla tilted her head, continuing, “And I think you’d have to have a good reason to be feeling threatened enough to reach for that stuff in here, so out with it. What’s wrong?”




CHAPTER SIX


Willa nibbled at the rim of her cup. “Promise not to laugh?”

“There’s nothing funny about tear gas.”

“Okay, then don’t blow what I say out of proportion, either.”

Starla rested an elbow on the banister. “That’s not a reassuring way to start this conversation, boss dear. I’m the one who’s supposed to take the long route to get to the point. You’re the one who’s always known your own mind—along with everyone else’s.”

The compliment was nice to hear, despite her doubts about its current accuracy. Willa took a deep breath. “Something’s happened that shook me up a bit.”

She proceeded to tell her friend about the note—for the moment preferring to leave out what had occurred the day before. As she feared, Starla went from concerned to upset.

“That’s too spooky. And I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this when we talked on the phone!” Starla’s expression matched her accusatory tone.

“How do you share something like that over the phone?”

“Well, okay. What did the police say?”

Now came the hard part. Willa glanced toward the dining room window, too late realizing what a reflexive move that was becoming. “I didn’t call them.”

As expected, Starla was aghast. “Why on earth not? There’s a creep out there who’s terrifying almost every woman in this town. You mean to tell me that note didn’t make you think of him?”

“You didn’t let me finish.” Only then did Willa realize she would share everything—or almost everything. Maybe, she decided, it was time to get someone else’s input. “Remember who I said I’ll be having as a neighbor?”

“Who could forget? I was about to ask you if—” Her assistant’s eyes went so wide, they could almost have been used as dual makeup mirrors. “You think…Zachary Denton?”

“I don’t know,” Willa admitted, knowing it would have sounded crazy to her if Starla had been the one presenting such a bombshell. Once again, feeling uncharacteristically unsure of herself, she took a sip of her wine.

“Willa, isn’t he completely disabled or something?”

“He uses a wheelchair, but he’s hardly disabled.” Images of Zachary Denton, flashbacks of his speed and strength, played out before her eyes, leaving her uncomfortably warm. She fingered the damp hairs at her nape that had slipped free of her ponytail. “His house is set up to accommodate the chair—there are ramps, and some electric gizmos. He even has an elevator. Believe me, getting around isn’t a problem for him.”




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