semblance of a smile. She wondered what it would be like to kiss that corner. Would it taste of whatever spice scented his skin?
Ethan turned the knife over in his hand. “Don’t go for the obvious—the knives. Too often, they can be turned on the victim and make a bad situation that much worse.” He put the knife away and she sucked in a breath of relief. “Do you have a fire extinguisher nearby?” She nodded, opening the cupboard under the sink. “Use this on him, either as a club, or spray him and run. Or, use a good ’ole frying pan.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.” He touched her shoulder, his fingertips brushing the flesh exposed there by her tank top. She felt it catch fire from his heat. “You do whatever you have to. Fight him. Your life could depend on it.”
She nodded.
His voice softened. “I know you’ve been through something like this before. I don’t know the details.” He hesitated, as if waiting for her to supply the story.
No way was she going there. Her feelings were too fragile after the past twenty-four hours.
“It could impact how you handle a crisis situation.” He paused again, but she didn’t take the bait. He shrugged and moved away, his hand gone from her skin. She felt cold where a moment ago it had been hot.
They moved into the living room, where the red-brown letters stared down at them as Ethan spent another hour showing her basic self-defense techniques. It was a review for her, but she was grateful. After Deborah’s brutal attack, she’d needed to feel in control again and the YMCA had offered a basic course that helped her regain some sense of security. In fact, she prided herself on how careful she was, both in public and at home. So she found her patience slipping as Ethan went over several home-safety issues yet again.
“Satisfied?” she asked, irritated when he’d pushed her through yet another round of questions about how often she changed her passwords, alarm code, and the light bulb on her porch.
His jaw slid to the side. “Cockiness can get you killed.”
She sobered. He was only doing his job, after all. She knew better than to bite the hand that was feeding her. “I’m all too aware of that, Mr. Townsend.”
“Call me Ethan. Can I call you Margaret?”
She laughed. “God, no. Call me Maggie.”
The husky waves of her laugh flowed over him like a stimulant and a balm all at once. It made him want to reach out and touch her again, even if only to brush back that stray wisp of hair from her forehead that kept escaping from her kerchief.
He opened his mouth to say something when the ringing of her telephone interrupted. As she turned to the kitchen to answer, he looked around the living room, his eyes tracing the harsh strokes that formed the letters over and over.
F. E. A. R.
She’d scrubbed about half the living room, but there was more to be done. The smell of bleach permeated the air, yet she didn’t risk opening a window. Did she find removing the message herself was cathartic? Or was she punishing herself for some unknown sin? Why would she put herself through it?
After seeing her level of privacy and security, he wondered if she just didn’t want anyone else crossing the threshold of her sanctuary. It was obvious she lived alone except for Sigmund, who’d stuck close during his tour of the home. Her bedroom had been decorated in shades that weren’t exactly feminine, but gave the impression of…softness. Comfort. The second bedroom was a home office. The third, which many people would have made into a guest room, stood completely empty.
He heard Maggie’s sigh and turned back to her. “No, Mom, really, I’m okay…Yes, I’m sure Agatha told you all about it.”
Unabashedly listening for clues as to her relationship with her family, Ethan stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. Her slender fingers reached to tuck away the lock of hair he’d been tempted to touch back into her kerchief. A tiny
Ethan turned the knife over in his hand. “Don’t go for the obvious—the knives. Too often, they can be turned on the victim and make a bad situation that much worse.” He put the knife away and she sucked in a breath of relief. “Do you have a fire extinguisher nearby?” She nodded, opening the cupboard under the sink. “Use this on him, either as a club, or spray him and run. Or, use a good ’ole frying pan.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.” He touched her shoulder, his fingertips brushing the flesh exposed there by her tank top. She felt it catch fire from his heat. “You do whatever you have to. Fight him. Your life could depend on it.”
She nodded.
His voice softened. “I know you’ve been through something like this before. I don’t know the details.” He hesitated, as if waiting for her to supply the story.
No way was she going there. Her feelings were too fragile after the past twenty-four hours.
“It could impact how you handle a crisis situation.” He paused again, but she didn’t take the bait. He shrugged and moved away, his hand gone from her skin. She felt cold where a moment ago it had been hot.
They moved into the living room, where the red-brown letters stared down at them as Ethan spent another hour showing her basic self-defense techniques. It was a review for her, but she was grateful. After Deborah’s brutal attack, she’d needed to feel in control again and the YMCA had offered a basic course that helped her regain some sense of security. In fact, she prided herself on how careful she was, both in public and at home. So she found her patience slipping as Ethan went over several home-safety issues yet again.
“Satisfied?” she asked, irritated when he’d pushed her through yet another round of questions about how often she changed her passwords, alarm code, and the light bulb on her porch.
His jaw slid to the side. “Cockiness can get you killed.”
She sobered. He was only doing his job, after all. She knew better than to bite the hand that was feeding her. “I’m all too aware of that, Mr. Townsend.”
“Call me Ethan. Can I call you Margaret?”
She laughed. “God, no. Call me Maggie.”
The husky waves of her laugh flowed over him like a stimulant and a balm all at once. It made him want to reach out and touch her again, even if only to brush back that stray wisp of hair from her forehead that kept escaping from her kerchief.
He opened his mouth to say something when the ringing of her telephone interrupted. As she turned to the kitchen to answer, he looked around the living room, his eyes tracing the harsh strokes that formed the letters over and over.
F. E. A. R.
She’d scrubbed about half the living room, but there was more to be done. The smell of bleach permeated the air, yet she didn’t risk opening a window. Did she find removing the message herself was cathartic? Or was she punishing herself for some unknown sin? Why would she put herself through it?
After seeing her level of privacy and security, he wondered if she just didn’t want anyone else crossing the threshold of her sanctuary. It was obvious she lived alone except for Sigmund, who’d stuck close during his tour of the home. Her bedroom had been decorated in shades that weren’t exactly feminine, but gave the impression of…softness. Comfort. The second bedroom was a home office. The third, which many people would have made into a guest room, stood completely empty.
He heard Maggie’s sigh and turned back to her. “No, Mom, really, I’m okay…Yes, I’m sure Agatha told you all about it.”
Unabashedly listening for clues as to her relationship with her family, Ethan stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. Her slender fingers reached to tuck away the lock of hair he’d been tempted to touch back into her kerchief. A tiny
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