Trusting a Stranger

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  And probably who held me there, Graham admitted.

  At the party, the little boy had been toddling straight for the in-ground pool in the backyard when Graham spotted him. He’d rushed to the kid’s side, grabbing him seconds before he’d plunged in, and just moments after that, Holly had latched on to Graham’s arm in a rather permanent way.

  It was the life Graham had always dreamed of, but struggled to find. His upbringing was hard, his teenage years harsh and lonely, and it had taken every ounce of will to fight his way out. A pretty wife, a perfect son and a nice place to come home to had still seemed far off.

  Until that party.

  The first thing Graham did when he moved in was to have the pool filled. Which was probably the perfect piece of foreshadowing.

  Graham was practical, but Holly liked nice things. Fun things. Shiny things. Things that could hurt Sam, or hurt her, and things that always left Graham wondering just how the hell the package—that perfect-from-the-outside life—could be so different from the contents.

  Nothing reminded Graham more of that fact than standing at the end of the street that led into the heart of that neighborhood. Shiny and nice.

  False advertising.

  Except for Sam, of course. The kid was heartbreakingly golden. Smart and sweet and full of life. The last part came from Holly, undoubtedly, while the first two were prime examples of the simple ability to overcome the odds. Which Graham related to perfectly. And ultimately, that’s what broke him. Not Holly’s affairs, or alcohol abuse, or the feeling that he was living on the periphery of some could-have-been life.

  Graham wanted that kid. He was willing to fight for him, tooth and nail, and when Holly finally came out of her boozy haze long enough to realize what was happening, to see that her shiny doctor husband was going to take away her shiny son, she sobered up. Just long enough to kick him out. Just long enough to make him hurt. And just long enough to get killed.

  Graham eyed the fork in the road warily.

  One direction led to the Niles home and to Keira; the other went straight to Graham’s old place and his bad memories.

  Funny that he and Keira had lived so close to one another at some point, but never crossed paths.

  Though maybe not so funny, if Graham was being honest. The two years he’d called this area home had been a closed-door hell. He hadn’t had much time for making new friends. Between putting in sixty hours a week at the clinic, chasing down Holly at every turn and still trying his damnedest to be a good father to Sam.

  Graham ran a hand through his shorn hair. As much as the past was to blame for his current predicament, he really didn’t have time for dwelling on it.

  He planted his feet in the direction of his former life for one moment, then swung toward Keira’s parents’ house.

  Toward my future.

  If I have one.

  Three blocks brought him to the correct street, and that’s where he switched from a comfortable own-the-place swagger to a don’t-belong-here skulk. There weren’t many people out, but that wasn’t terribly surprising. It was noon on a Tuesday, and the residents were mostly at work.

  Graham wove through the backyards, grateful for the owners’ preference for shared good-neighbor gates and large hedges rather than sparse trees and bolted fences. They offered plenty of cover.

  He didn’t know what he’d find when he reached the Nileses’ place. Maybe Dave would’ve taken up residence on the couch—a thought that made Graham’s lip curl—or maybe he was just watching the place from some panel van on the corner. Either way, Graham was going to tear a strip off him. The man had jeopardized his hope of keeping Keira alive.

  Alive?

  That thought didn’t just make his lip curl. It didn’t even just make him pause. It stopped him dead in his tracks.

  He’d been making his plans—a little spontaneous and uncharacteristically reckless—and the resulting moves with the idea of keeping Keira safe. What he hadn’t been doing was focusing on what it might really mean if he wasn’t successful. He hadn’t truly considered the fact that her life might be in jeopardy. If she met Michael Ferguson, if Dave somehow put her in contact with him...

  Graham closed his hands into fists, flexed them open, then closed them again.

  Damn.

  Keira would be a witness. She’d become someone who could do something even Graham himself couldn’t do—a person who could identify Holly and Sam’s murderer on sight. A liability. No way in hell would the cold-blooded killer let her just walk away at the end of it.

  Graham moved a little quicker and he didn’t slow again until he was two doors down from the Niles residence.

  Once there, he stopped and did a careful visual perusal of the perimeter.

  It revealed no sign of his cop friend. There wasn’t a single car on the cul-de-sac.

  So Dave had either left her alone completely, or Graham’s instincts were off and he hadn’t brought the girl there at all. A niggling of self-doubt crept in.

  What if he was wrong?

  Moments later, though, he spied a solitary light in the otherwise-dark Niles home. It was like a tiny beacon from behind the closed blinds, quashing any question Graham had about his gut feeling. He knew he was right; Keira was in there, completely unguarded.

  Waiting for him, possibly.

  Hopefully.

  Graham cut through the final backyard that lay between him and the girl, then paused on the other side of the fence. After a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching him—at least not overtly—he grabbed ahold of a low-lying branch on a sturdy tree and pulled himself up. He shoved down thoughts of how ridiculous he would seem if caught—a grown man climbing a neighborhood tree—and surveyed the Nileses’ landscaped yard. It was tidy, but not manicured, well-cared for, but not overdone. A yard he might’ve liked to have when he lived in the area. Holly had been partial to all things marble and all things floral, and with the removal of the pool, had commissioned an elaborate gazebo.

  Yard envy is not the point of this mission, he reminded himself and moved his gaze around the lot, looking for ways to get to the house without being detected.

  A big tree, much like the one where he sat now, offered ample coverage between the edge of the yard and the fence. Just a few feet from that was a line of shrub, a storage shed, then another tree, which was right beside a wide porch.

  The layout of the home was familiar to Graham—his had been larger, but otherwise very similar.

  The porch hung from the rear of the house. It was topped by a country-style door that undoubtedly led directly into the gourmet kitchen. Glossy wooden steps led up to the second floor. At the top of those was another deck, this one long and narrow. It would be home to sliding glass doors that would lead into the master suite.

  And that’s your best bet, Graham decided.

  He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look around as he moved from one spot to the next. If anyone was watching closely enough to catch his stealthy entrance, he didn’t want to see them coming. He’d fight, if he had to, but if he was going to be taken out by a sniper, he’d rather not be looking down the barrel of the gun when it happened.

  Graham made the transition from one yard to the other easily, and no one stopped him as he sidled up the back stairs. No alarm sounded when he found the sliding glass doors unlocked and slid them open. In fact, the only noise he heard other than his own shallow breaths was a tiny squeak as he slipped from the master suite into the hall.

  Careful to tread lightly, Graham eased past the requisite family photos that lined the stairwell. When he hit the middle of the steps, he froze.

  There she was, straight across the expansive family room. Her head was down, her face pointed in the other direction, and for a very long, very slow heartbeat, Graham feared the worst. His stomach dropped to his knees, vi
olent waves crashed inside his head and, try as he might, he couldn’t breathe.

  I’m too late, he thought, an indescribable thrum of desperation weakening his whole body.

  His eyes closed and he grabbed at the railing to steady himself, unexpected moisture burning behind his lids.

  He sank down to the stairs, racked with despair.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Keira had woken with a start, her heart thumping in her chest and her head pressed into her dad’s sports-car-themed mouse pad. It only took her a second to remember where she was and why she was there. The only real question was, what had woken her so abruptly?

  Her eyes sought the clock above the mantel.

  It was 1:03 p.m.

  Three hours in a face-plant. And she didn’t feel at all refreshed. She rubbed her cheek, trying to smooth out the little marks left by the mouse pad.

  Then the ceiling above her squeaked, and she went still.

  That’s what woke me, she realized.

  Keira knew the sound well. The culprits were three loose floorboards, one right outside the master bedroom, one on the very top stair and a final one, three up from the bottom step. When she was a teenager, her dad refused to fix them because there was no way to navigate through the hall without triggering one, making it next to impossible for her to sneak out—or in. Now, her dad said the squeaks added character to the house. But right that second, all they added was fear.

  She cursed her own stupidity.

  She hadn’t bothered to bolt any of the doors or check any of the windows. And someone with good intentions wouldn’t sneak in through the upstairs.

  Keira glanced to the other side of the room, through the formal dining room to the French doors just off the kitchen. It was the quickest way out. But the back door had a notoriously rusty handle, which often stuck.

  Her eyes flicked to the hall at the edge of the living room. It led to the front door. And straight past the stairs—the only way for the intruder to get to her.

  She decided to take her chances with the kitchen.

  But she waited a second too long. Before she could move, the final squeaky floorboard sounded, and Keira was stuck.

  In a panic, she snapped up the nearest thing she could use as a weapon—an egg-shaped marble paperweight—palmed it, then closed her eyes and waited.

  She heard the trespasser hit the last step of the stairs softly, then the pause at the bottom. Keira tensed. Whoever was attached to the footfalls didn’t come any closer.

  Why is he holding back?

  She was afraid to breathe. Afraid to move. And her hand, clasped so tightly around the paperweight, was growing sweaty.

  Her fingers wanted to move.

  They were going to move.

  They did move.

  And even the slight adjustment drew a sharp inhale from her potential attacker.

  Dammit.

  Keira leaped to her feet, the paperweight slippery in her palm. She zeroed in on the invader.

  He was standing on the bottom step. The relative dark created by the tightly drawn blinds obscured his face and bathed it in shadows.

  He took a tiny step toward her.

  “Stay there!” Keira commanded, only a slight tremor in her voice.

  He paused, but only for a second. And Keira wasn’t taking any chances. She drew her arm back and prepared to launch the marble egg with all her strength. It might not hit him, he might duck... It didn’t matter. What Keira wanted was time.

  She tossed the paperweight and turned to run.

  He called something after her, but she ignored it.

  Go, go, go!

  She wasn’t anywhere near fast enough. Strong arms closed around her, pinning them to her sides and lifting her from the ground.

  “Stop!” His harsh tone not only demanded attention, it required obedience.

  She wasn’t going to give him the latter, and she was only giving him the former because she had no choice. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to make it the good kind of attention, either. She kicked her legs, hoping to hit something—anything—important. He just squeezed her tighter.

  “Keira!”

  She ignored the fact that he knew her name. “Let me go!”

  He ignored her, too, and backed up until they hit the stairs. He pulled her to a sitting position, his thick, muscular thighs wide around her, hugging her hips snuggly.

  Keira wanted to yell, to holler for help, but her throat was dry, and she was scared that a scream might prompt him to do something worse than whatever he was already planning.

  A little moan escaped from her lips. “Please.”

  “Keira.”

  Her name, the second time, was spoken much more softly. And finally she recognized the voice.

  “Calloway,” she whispered, her whole body sagging with relief.

  “It’s me,” he murmured into her hair.

  For a second, Keira just let herself lean against him, appreciative of his solidity. But it didn’t take long for the heat in her body to rise. It bloomed from each part of Calloway’s body that touched her. His inner thighs to her outer thighs. The bottom of his forearms on the top of hers and his chest pressed into her back. Her rear end pushed straight into his—

  With an embarrassed gasp, Keira pulled herself away.

  Clearly, all it took was the feel of his body against hers to turn her blood into lava and her mind into mush.

  Which isn’t so bad...is it?

  “What are you doing here? You said two days. You’re okay?” she made herself ask, trying to calm the blood rushing through her system and failing completely as she took in his changed appearance.

  Dr. Graham Calloway.

  The title seemed at odds with the man she’d met in the woods, but at that moment, she had no problems imagining him in the role. He’d shaved his beard, revealing a strong jaw and showcasing those amazing lips of his. The clean-cut look suited him and took years off his face. A white T-shirt hugged his thick, well-muscled body, and a pair of slightly too-big jeans hung a little low on his hips. He sat on the step above her, the extra height making him look even bigger than usual. From where Keira was, she had to tip her head up to meet his gaze.

  God, he looks good.

  He brought his hand up to push back his hair and gave her a clear view of his gray eyes. The want in them burned brightly. Keira’s pulse thrummed even harder.

  “Will a sliding scale do?” Calloway wondered out loud, and Keira had to struggle to remember what question she’d asked him in the first place.

  “Sure,” she managed to get out.

  He tipped his head to one side thoughtfully. “All right. Three out of ten for having a hard object thrown at my head. Eight out of ten for having found you alive. Two out of ten because I’m a little disappointed that you’re finally wearing pants.”

  Keira blushed, jumped to her feet and smoothed the borrowed pajama bottoms. “Are you just going to sit there?”

  “Did you have something else in mind?” he teased.

  Keira shook off the innuendo—and what it did to her—and headed straight for the kitchen without turning to see if he followed.

  * * *

  GRAHAM WATCHED KEIRA walk away, just because it was a nice view. He waited until she’d fully disappeared down the hall before he rose to follow her.

  He felt markedly different now that he knew she was okay. Almost relaxed. He knew it was a bit—okay, a lot—premature to be letting down his guard, but for some reason, he couldn’t quite help it. Seeing Keira in her own element probably had something to do with it. Even though it wasn’t her home, it was a home she was clearly comfortable in.

  Silently, she filled a kettle. She skirted the island with familiarity, rummaged through the cupboard
s, found what she was looking for, then set up two mismatched cups with chamomile tea bags. She didn’t speak as she worked, but Graham had no problem imagining her humming as she went along, pulling out some kind of loaf from the freezer, thawing it in the microwave, then setting that on the counter beside the tea.

  It was nice. Normal. Graham liked it.

  So he stayed quiet, too, waiting as she laid everything out. When she was done, he took a small sip of the tea and let the floral flavor lie on his tongue for a moment before swallowing.

  Keira climbed onto an island stool beside him, her knee almost touching his. Her delicate hands wrapped her mug, and she shot him an expectant look.

  Graham wished immediately that the meeting wasn’t about to take a serious turn. He wanted to make her blush again and laugh. He wanted to kiss those lips and drag that hair from its tight ponytail and forget that they were in any kind of danger.

  But you can’t.

  There were other far more pressing matters to deal with. He needed to ask her why Dave had brought her here instead of staying in the resort town. And why he’d left her alone. When he opened his mouth, though, something else entirely came out.

  “I’d like to turn that sliding scale into a ten out of ten.”

  “What—”

  Graham didn’t let her finish. He put one hand on the back of her head and the other on her chin. She trembled a little in her seat, but she remained glued to the spot as Graham lifted her face gently and kissed her lips. And as light as his touch was, desire surged through him.

  Slow it down, Graham cautioned himself.

  He trailed a finger down her cheek, then leaned back and smiled.

  “Eight,” he joked. “Maybe nine.”

  There was that blush.

  Damn.

  He drew her close again. He dragged his mouth down her cheek, tracing the curve of it, and the pink spread from her face to her throat. Then lower. He pulled away so he could look at her, so he could admire the arch of her brow and the swell of her breast and see that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. He wasn’t disappointed. Keira’s lids were half-closed, and what little he could see of her eyes was glossy with heat. Her chest rose and fell against his enticingly.