Mountain Shelter

“The phone fixed itself. Somebody used a signal-jamming device to disrupt your signal.”

“That’s just wrong,” she said.

“But not illegal. I’ve heard that pastors are using jammers during their sermons.”

Now that she had the cell phone, her mind jumped to practical concerns. “I might need to cancel my surgery for tomorrow morning. I should get a good night’s sleep before I operate.”

“Why so much?”

“The surgery takes five or six hours. I’m not intensely involved the whole time, but I need to be alert.”

Still, she hated to cancel. Rescheduling the staff was a hassle. A guest neurosurgeon from Barcelona would be observing. Jayne had prepared and reviewed the most recent tests, neuroimaging, PET scans and MRIs. Starting over at another time was an inconvenience for the medical personnel involved. But postponement was much worse for the patient, who had already checked into the hospital, and for his family and friends.

He asked, “What kind of surgery is it?”

“It’s not life threatening. Using implanted electrodes, I hope to stimulate the brain so the patient can regain the memory functions he lost after a stroke. The patient is actually awake through much of the procedure.”

“Cool.”

And she should be able to handle it. “I’ll wait until tomorrow to make the decision whether to postpone or not.”

“But you need more sleep,” he said. “I can start repairs on your alarm system tonight if you’re ready to go back into your house.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not ready. Not tonight.”

After she’d seen the police charge through the front door with guns drawn to search for intruders, she’d never again be able to think of her home as a sanctuary. She felt attacked, violated. Might as well close it up, burn it, sell it. Jayne was ready to call the real estate agent and hand over the keys.

Dylan brought her back to reality. “Where do you plan to sleep?”

With you. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she kept from saying them out loud. She’d done enough inappropriate blurting for one evening. “I don’t know.”

“Is there anybody you can call?”

Her cell-phone directory was filled with colleagues and acquaintances from all around the world, ranging from the president of the American Association of Neurological Surgeons to the teenager who shoveled her sidewalks in winter. But there was no one she could call to come over and take care of her. No one she could stay with at a moment’s notice.

She pushed the hair off her face and looked up at the surprisingly handsome man who stood before her. “You said you owned a security firm. Do you ever work as a bodyguard?”

“I do, TST Security.”

She rose from the swivel chair and straightened the sash on the Brian’s dark green bathrobe. “I’d like to hire you.”

“You’re on,” Dylan said without the slightest hesitation. It was almost as though he’d been waiting for her to ask.

“I’ve never had a bodyguard before.”

“Then I’m the one with experience. I’ve got only one rule—don’t go anywhere without me. For tonight, I’ll put together your suitcase and book a hotel room. Do you have a preference?”

She was so delighted to have somebody else taking care of the details that she wouldn’t dream of complaining. “Anything is fine with me.”

“Write down the clothes, including shoes and toiletries, that you want me to pack for you.”

Her excitement dimmed when she thought of him pawing through her things, but the alternative—going back to the house and doing it herself—was too awful to contemplate. “I’ll make that list right now. And there’s one more thing.”

“Name it.”

She held out a flat palm. “Whatever you use to fasten your ponytail, I want it. My messy hair is driving me crazy.”

He whipped off his baseball cap, untwined the covered-elastic band and dropped it in her hand. “For the record, I like your hair hanging long and free and shiny.”

His fingers stroked through his own mane, and she realized that his hair was lighter than she’d thought. Thick, full and naturally sun-bleached, the loose strands curled around his face and down to his shoulders. Jayne wasn’t usually a fan of men with long hair, but “the guy” pulled it off. She couldn’t imagine him any other way.

* * *

DYLAN HADN’T COME here looking for work. His intention had been a simple response to Brian’s call, helping out a friend with a crazy lady for a neighbor. But he was happy with the way things had turned out; spending time with this particular lady promised to be a challenge and a pleasure.

With that extra-large bathrobe swaddled around her, he couldn’t tell much about Jayne’s body. But he liked the bits he saw: her slender throat, her delicate hands and her neat ankles. Drooling over her ankles probably qualified him for the Pervert Hall of Fame, so he transferred his gaze to her long, thick, rich brown hair. A few strands escaped the ponytail and fell gracefully across her cheek. Never before had the word “tendril” seemed appropriate.

He didn’t even pretend to look away. It was his duty to watch her body. He murmured, “I love my job.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll enjoy getting to know you.”

Her full lips curled in a wise smile as she accepted the compliment. He’d always believed that smart women were sexier, maybe because of their intensity or creativity or strength.

Then she licked her lips.

He swallowed hard.

“Also,” he said, “your break-in is the tip of the iceberg for a very cool puzzle. Your security alarm system is one of the best on the market. Disarming it took technical finesse that’s above the talents of the average burglar. Not that I think the intent of your intruders was robbery. After they entered the house, they went directly to your bedroom.”

“How do you know that?”

“While you were writing out the list of things you need, I read your account.” He gestured to the two single-spaced sheets of paper that lay behind her on the desk.

“How could you read it? The paper is upside-down to you.”

“It’s a skill.” He shrugged. “Do you think they wanted to rob you? Do you have some hidden treasure in your house?”

“I don’t keep anything of value at the house.”

Why did they break in? Since there were two of them, it didn’t seem likely that they were stalkers or that the break-in was for sex. Not his problem. As a bodyguard, he wasn’t expected to solve the crime. “Are you ready to talk to the police?”

She held her hand level in front of her eyes. “There’s only a slight residual tremor.”

“Not enough to register on the Richter scale. Let’s move.”

Keeping a hold on Cocoa’s collar, Dylan guided her from Brian’s home office to the kitchen, where a plainclothes cop sat at the table with Brian. Dylan handed over the dog to his owner and introduced Detective Ray Cisneros, a weary-looking man with heavy-lidded eyes and a neat mustache.

After Jayne shook his hand and gave him her typed statement, she approached the uniformed lady cop. Her name, as it said on her brass nameplate, was E. Smith. Dylan had met her when he first came in.

“I need to apologize,” Jayne said. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved earlier. I was rude.”

E. Smith darted a suspicious glance to the left and the right as though looking for somebody or something to jump out at her and yell boo. “Um, that’s okay.”

“Thanks for accepting my apology.” As Jayne turned away from the cop, her moccasins tangled in the overlong hem of the robe and she stumbled. Quickly recovering, she went toward Brian. “I want to thank you for being a great neighbor. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”

Dylan didn’t know what she’d done to make everybody mad, but he respected her for facing up to her mistakes. And she wasn’t just offering phony pleas for forgiveness. Her pretty blue eyes shone with sincerity.

When she returned to the kitchen table with a glass of water, DPD Detective Cisneros looked up from the typed statement and smoothed the edges of his mustache. “You work at Roosevelt Hospital, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re a neurosurgeon. A resident?”

“I completed my residency last year.”

“Is that so?”

Dylan heard the disbelieving tone in the detective’s voice and didn’t blame him for being skeptical. She looked too young for such an important occupation. In the droopy bathrobe with her hair in a ponytail, she’d have a hard time passing for eighteen.

“It is, in fact, so.” She took a deep breath and recited her accomplishments by rote. “I completed college at age sixteen, med school at nineteen, internship at twenty and fulfilled the requirements of an eight-year residence in neurosurgery last year. Twice, I’ve won the Top Gun Award from the YNC, Young Neurosurgeons Committee.”

If his theory that smart women were sexier was correct, Dylan had hit the jackpot with Jayne. She was a genuine, kick-ass genius.

Cisneros took a minirecorder from the inner pocket of his brown leather jacket, verified with Jayne that it was okay to record her and launched into the standard questions.

“Do you have any enemies? Anyone who would wish you harm?”

“There’s professional jealousy. Some of my colleagues wouldn’t mind if I vanished off the face of the earth, but none of them are likely to hire thugs with stun guns and stage a break-in. Likewise with patients and the families of patients.”

“What about in your personal life? Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Not at the moment,” she said.

Dylan stifled a cheer.

“Any bad breakups?” Cisneros asked. “Is there anyone who won’t take no for an answer? Or women who think you stole their boyfriends?”

“My personal life is super dull.”

“In your statement,” he said, referring to her typewritten account, “you quote the intruder as saying he doesn’t want to hurt you. Did you believe him?”

“He had a stun gun,” she pointed out.

“But he didn’t use it.”

Cisneros asked half-a-dozen more questions that circled the main issue, trying to get a handle on why the intruders had staged this break-in. They had to be after something.

Jayne’s responses weren’t real helpful. Not that she was being difficult. She just didn’t know why men wearing ski masks had attacked her.

Cisneros glanced down at the account she’d written with such care. Very deliberately, he set those pages aside. His unspoken message was clear. “Maybe they don’t want to hurt you, Jayne.”

“No?”

“Tell me about your father.”

“Please don’t call him,” she said quickly. “He doesn’t need to know about this.”

Dylan heard fear in her voice.

Cisneros picked up on it, too. “Are you afraid to tell him?”

“It’s not that.” Frown lines bracketed her mouth. “It’s just... I haven’t spoken to him on the phone for a couple of months, haven’t seen him since the Christmas before last.”

“Is he local?”

“Dallas, he lives in Dallas.”

Dylan watched as the cool, sexy, smart woman transformed into a little girl with messy hair. She gazed down at her hands, pretending great interest as her slender fingers twisted into a knot on her lap. Her feet in their scuffed moccasins turned pigeon-toed.

Her father, Peter Shackleford, was rich enough to have an airport named after him. His fortune was tied to the oil-and-mining business, and he had a rep for being smart. Not as smart as his neurosurgeon daughter but savvy enough to surf the waves of business and avoid a wipeout.

Cisneros smoothed his mustache and said, “Could this have been a kidnapping attempt.”

“I just told you that I’m not close to my dad.” Without looking up, Jayne shook her head. “I can’t imagine he’d pay a ransom for my release.”

“Does your father have any enemies?”

“Yes.”

“Any enemies who might want to hurt you.”

She lifted her chin and looked directly at Dylan. “My father isn’t a bad man.”

He didn’t believe her.

Chapter Three

Dylan excused himself to go next door and pack a suitcase for Jayne. He didn’t want to listen to her heavily edited version of what a great guy her dad was, and he expected that was all Cisneros would hear from her. Though Dylan gave her points for loyalty to Peter Shackleford, he doubted that she’d score high in the honesty department. He could almost see her digging in her heels. No way would she speak ill of her father even though her mysterious intruders were very likely tied to dear old daddy.

That was Jayne’s business. Not his. He was her bodyguard, not her therapist.

Before he left Brian’s kitchen, Detective Cisneros ordered Officer E. Smith to accompany him to the crime scene. Cocoa escorted them to the back door and wagged goodbye. The dog needed to stay inside while the strangers on the DPD forensic team ferreted out clues at Jayne’s house.

Dylan glanced down at the lady cop, whose short legs had to rush in double time to match his long-legged stride. “Does the E stand for Emily?” Dylan guessed. “Or is it Eva, Ellen or Eliza?”

“Eudora,” she said. “That’s why I go by Smith.”

“Nice meeting you, Smith.”

“Same here.” She had a broad smile and big, strong teeth. Her orange-blond hair stood out from her head in spikes. “Did Jayne give you a list of things she needs?”

“In detail,” he said as he took the list from his jeans pocket. “I’m not sure how accurate it is. She’s still shaky. Her map of the upstairs of her house shows three separate bathrooms.”

“That’s true,” Smith said. “The weird floor plan is because of the renovations she’s been doing on the house since she moved in four years ago. Brian told me all about it.”

Dylan had also heard a lot about Jayne and her intense renovating. Since Brian spent a lot of time working from home, his neighbors were a source of amusement. He’d told Dylan how she’d dive in and work like mad on some project, then she’d come to a complete halt while concentrating on her career. For several months, the eaves and porch in the front of her house were painted charcoal gray while the back was sky blue.

Though the electricity at her house had been reconnected, Smith pointed the beam of her Maglite at the back door. “If you look close you can see a couple of scratches from where they picked the lock and the high-security dead bolt.”

Since the intruders had already turned off the alarm system, breaking out a window would have been a simpler way to gain access. The neatly picked locks showed a level of finesse that made him think these guys were professionals. In her written account, Jayne had described a whispery voice with a slight accent.

As he strolled through Jayne’s house with Smith nodding to the forensic team, he noticed an eclectic sense of decorating that seemed to mimic the pattern of off-and-on renovations. He believed you could tell a lot about a person from their living space. If that was true, Jayne had multiple personalities.

Her renovated kitchen was ultramodern, sleek and uncluttered. Directional lighting shimmered on polished granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances and a parquet floor. This room told him that a modern, classy woman lived here...not necessarily someone who cooked but someone who appreciated gourmet food.

Walking through the archway into the dining room and living room was like entering a different house. The chairs and tables lacked any sort of cohesive style. The walls were bland beige and empty, without artwork or photographs. The only notable feature was a dusted and polished baby grand piano. From these rooms, he might conclude that Jayne didn’t do much entertaining at home and was passionate about her piano playing. The sheet music on the stand was for Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag.”

He caught a quick glimpse of the library opposite the staircase at the front door. The big, heavy, rosewood desk and wall-to-wall bookshelves showed an old-fashioned sensibility and a reverence for tradition. Not like the kitchen at all.

Climbing the carved oak staircase, he noticed the loud creak on the third step that had alerted Jayne to the intruders. The stairs and banister had been cleaned and refinished but otherwise remained unchanged from when the house was built in the 1920s. The same held true for the carved crown molding on the upstairs landing. Again, he had the feeling that she appreciated the work of a long-ago craftsman and was perhaps old-fashioned.

Her bedroom, which had been redesigned in shades of peach and gray, looked like the sanctuary of a fairy-tale princess...a tasteful princess but super feminine with a dainty little crystal chandelier. Set aside on a chair were three stuffed animals, all cats with white fur. The kitties were worn but sparkling clean. Though he didn’t see any fresh flowers, the room smelled of roses and cinnamon.

He doubted that anybody had sex in this room. There was zero hint of testosterone apart from the forensic guy who was crawling around on the carpet, peering and poking into the fibers.

Dylan noticed the wineglass on the bedside table. In her account, Jayne mentioned spilling the wine but never said that she’d picked up the glass.

“Excuse me,” he said.

The CSI popped up. “Who are you?”

Smith said, “He’s with me. Are you about done in here? We need to get some clothes for the owner.”

“I’m wrapping it up.” Like Smith, he held a Maglite with a beam that flashed wildly when he gestured. “How come we’re making such a big deal about this break-in? Nobody got killed.”

“A weird situation,” Smith said, “what with cutting the power and disabling the alarm system and all. Have you found anything?”

“A bunch of prints, but they all belong to the lady who lives here and her employees—a maid and a cook.”

“How did you get them read so fast?” Dylan asked.

“Computer identifications, plus I’ve got one of those handheld fingerprint-readers.” As he stood, he picked his satchel up off the floor. “Everything I need to break open a crime is right in here.”

“When you arrived,” Dylan said, “was this wineglass on the floor?”

“No, sir, it was standing right where it is.”

“Have you checked it for prints?”

“I’ll be doing that right now.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I’m done with the closet and the dresser, if you need to pack.”

Dylan found Jayne’s hard yellow suitcase with spinner wheels in the back of the closet right where she said it would be. The organization of her clothing and shoes was impeccable, and he would have thought she was obsessive-compulsive but those characteristics didn’t fit with the casual messiness downstairs. He packed the three outfits that she had described precisely. One was for before the operation, then a pair of baby-blue scrubs and then another outfit for post-op.

When he opened the top drawer of her dresser, there was an outburst of colorful silk and satin. Jayne had mad, wild taste in panties and bras. He held up a black lace thong and a leopard bra. For a long moment, he stood and stared.

She baffled him. A brainy neurosurgeon who wore stripper underwear and played ragtime on her baby grand. Who was this woman? He needed to find out more about her.

The CSI made a harrumphing noise. “I’ve got two prints on this glass—a thumb and a forefinger. And they don’t look like all the others.”

“Run them,” Smith ordered. “I’ll step over here and help Dylan pick out the right undies.”

When she rapped his knuckles, he gratefully dropped the thong and said, “I’d appreciate your help.”

She lectured on why most women wouldn’t want to wear a thong in the operating room and how a sports bra was most comfortable for a long day’s work. Her anatomical details were too much information for Dylan.

The CSI had turned away and kept his focus on his handheld fingerprint-matching device while Dylan followed Smith across the landing to the incredible bathroom. With the marble and a fluffy white throw rug, this space was as feminine as the bedroom, but there was a difference. The bedroom was suitable for a princess. The bathroom was meant for a sensual queen.

Smith made quick work of packing the essentials on Jayne’s list. They were almost ready to leave when the CSI stepped into the doorway. “I’ve got a match for these prints.”

“And a name?” Dylan asked.

“You’re not going to like it.”

* * *

JAYNE APPROVED OF the downtown Denver hotel where Dylan had arranged for a suite, but she wasn’t pleased that he’d called in one of his partners to drive the car to the hotel and accompany them onto the elevator and into the room.

While Dylan stood beside her with one hand clamped around her upper arm, ready to yank her out of there at the first hint of danger, his partner, Mason Steele, drew his gun. Looking like a secret agent from an espionage movie, Mason searched the attractively furnished outer room with the sofa, chairs, table, television and kitchenette. He nodded to Dylan before entering the adjoining bedroom.

Though impressed by their professionalism, Jayne didn’t appreciate the show. She had a real life. No time for games. “Tell me again why all this is necessary.”

“Standard procedure,” he said. “When we take you to a new place, we search. It only seems overprotective because there’s nobody lurking in this room. If there was a monster hiding in the closet...”

With a start, she realized that Mason hadn’t yet looked in the closet by the entrance. A dart of fear stung her, and she stared at that door, remembering herself in the bathroom when the knob had jiggled. Don’t be scared. It’s just a door. Shivers trickled up and down her spinal column as Dylan helped her out of her heather-blue trench coat. When he opened the door, her jaw clenched.

And nothing happened. The boogeyman didn’t jump out. There was nothing to be scared of. The sooner she remembered that, the better.

After he hung up her jacket, he returned to her side. Towering over her, he pushed his glasses up on his nose with a forefinger. “You went through a scary time tonight.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you are.” Though she refused to meet his gaze, she knew he was watching her and had seen her fear. His voice was low and soothing. “Over the next couple days, you might have flashbacks or be jumpy or tense for no apparent reason. I’m sure you know all about post-traumatic stress. I mean, you’re a brain surgeon.”

“Not a behaviorist.”

“What’s that mean?”

“There are many theories about how the brain works, and I can only speak for my own opinion. The source of many emotions can be pinpointed on the naked brain, but it’s extremely difficult to control behavior.”

“Emotion isn’t your thing,” he said. “You’re into memory.”

“With my neurosurgery, I can stimulate old memories that have already formed, but I can’t implant new memories without the experience.”

“But you don’t have to experience something to recall it. I’ve learned about volcanoes but never seen one erupt.”

She hadn’t intended to meet his gaze, but she found herself looking into his cool, gray eyes and seeing the sort of deep calm associated with yogis and gurus. At the same time, she realized that her moment of panic and flashback had passed. Dylan had distracted her by luring her into lecturing him about her work.

“Very clever,” she said. “You handled me.”

He directed her to a side chair upholstered in a patterned blue silk that echoed the colors of the wallpaper, while he sat on the sofa and opened a metal suitcase on the glass-topped coffee table in front of them. After removing a laptop computer, he flicked a switch on a mechanism inside the case. A small red light went on.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It means we can talk freely in here without fear of someone listening in.”

The various dials and keyboards in his case were nowhere near as complicated as the equipment she dealt with in neurosurgery. “You can be more technical, Dylan. I’m capable of understanding.”

“I don’t doubt your smarts,” he said. “I just don’t expect you to be interested in my security tools.”