Page 67 of Dangerous Lover

Interesting.

Deaver’d learned a lot since he’d watched a tall, handsome and elegant blond man in a cashmere coat just like the one Deaver was going to buy once he got his diamonds back walk into First Page. The woman—Caroline Lake—had greeted him as a friend. They’d talked, the woman keeping her body language neutral, then they’d started fighting and Cashmere Coat guy grabbed her and started shoving his tongue down her throat. The woman had fought but wasn’t getting anywhere.

Deaver watched as Prescott came around a corner, saw what was happening through the shop window and broke into a dead run. Cashmere Coat guy was soft.

He came out of the shop at a run and got into a black Porsche. He put it into gear and took off fast, the back sliding on the icy roads.

Deaver got the tag number. He’d be easy to track down.

Blond Cashmere Coat guy was really lucky that the woman exerted some influence on Prescott and was able to stop him, because Prescott was a mean fighter, who knew all the tricks. He also undoubtedly had a combat knife on him somewhere and Cashmere Coat guy was lucky he hadn’t been gutted.

Deaver had never seen Prescott lose a fight or back down from a fight. But all the woman had had to do to stop him was touch Prescott on the arm and say a few words and it was as if she’d waved a magic wand.

Prescott, standing down.Thatwas something Deaver had never seen.

Deaver watched Prescott and Caroline Lake disappeararound the corner and clenched his fists. The urge to get up right now, run after that fucker Prescott and shoot him dead was almost overwhelming. Deaver would make sure to kill the woman first, just to make Prescott suffer, then a double tap to the head and Prescott would be down forever.

Deaver could see it, feel it, nearly smell it and the temptation was so strong he broke out in a sweat.

But much as he’d love to nail Prescott and his woman right now, he needed his diamonds back first.

Then he could have his fun.

Chapter Fourteen

Jack nearly missed it.

He was so intent on getting Caroline safely home, relaxed and curled up before the fire, that he’d tunnel-visioned, just like in battle. All he’d seen was Caroline, all he could think about was Caroline, taking up every ounce of space in his head.

He was still battle-primed, adrenalin still coursing through his system, without a proper outlet. The proper outlet would have been to smash that fucker Sanders’ face in, then haul him into the closest police station for assault and battery.

If he lived to be a million years old, he’d never forget glancing through the big glass panes of Caroline’s book shop and seeing her struggling against a man.

He’d broken his own land-speed record getting in there and getting that man’s hands off Caroline.

She’d been in shock, though she’d come out of it withhumor and grace. Still, all he wanted was to get her bundled up and into the house as fast as possible.

Jack had excellent situational awareness. Even with one goal in mind, he paid attention to what was around him. Only Caroline could mess with his head so much that he actually had the key in the lock and was turning it before seeing the faint scratches on the lock. Scratches that hadn’t been there that morning.

In an instant his Glock was in his hand and he was rushing Caroline back to his rented SUV. He bundled her into the driver’s seat, made sure she had the keys and slammed the door shut.

“Jack!” Her voice was muffled through the closed door. Her eyes dropped to his weapon, then back to him. She looked shocked. “What’s going on?”

There wasn’t time to explain or reassure. Whoever had broken into the house could still be there and Jack had to get in there, fast.

“Stay there and don’t move!” he mouthed, tapping on the window. Caroline nodded, face white, blue gray eyes huge in her face.

Good girl.

Jack loped back to the front door and entered silently with the key, weapon out, in a stance guaranteed to cover 180° of field of fire in two seconds.

Entry, clear. Living room, clear. Kitchen, clear.

Moving fast, moving silently, he went methodically through every room in the house, basement to attic.

Out of habit, he’d left telltales in the bedroom and therewere clear signs that someone had rifled through his things, Caroline’s closet and the dresser. Someone—or several someones—had gone through their personal possessions. It was harder to tell in the rest of the house, where he hadn’t left telltales.

As far as Jack could tell, nothing had been stolen. No art work was gone from the walls, certainly nothing of his had been stolen, though there wasn’t much beyond dirty socks and underwear. Everything of value he had was in his new bank account and in the bank vault.

---