With another chuckle, I lift my mail from the box hanging on the wall beside my door. Wet. Just like my shoes and my clothes and everything I’m carrying.
I can’t wait to get inside and ditch it all for a warm shower and my cozy pajamas. It’s not cold by any definition—except a Floridian’s. Anytime the temperature drops below seventy, all the natives start shivering.
Slinging my dripping army-green messenger bag onto my shoulder, I unlock the door and let myself in before shutting it behind me. Then I toss my purse and the soggy mail on the nearby chair before yanking off my clothes. I toss my shoes, shirt, and skirt onto the tile of the adjacent kitchen, then head inside.
Damn, it’s dark. I don’t usually get home this late. And why is my place so cold? Did I inadvertently set my thermostat to meat locker before I left for work this morning?
I shiver my way down the shadowy hallway in nothing but my wet panties and clinging bra. I’ll have to grab my robe from my bedroom so I don’t freeze before I finish investigating. As soon as I turn off the burglar alarm.
Then I realize the warning chime that I have thirty seconds to disable before the police are notified isn’t pealing.
The house is utterly silent.
Did I also forget to turn the alarm on this morning before I headed out to work? No. No, I remember. I dutifully punched in the code, just like Daddy taught me. I do it before I leave. I do it when I come home. I double-check it before showering and going to bed at night. The world is full of monsters. Daddy taught me to be prepared.
Has someone been here?
My heart thuds as I glance into my living room. Residual light from the street shafts through the tiny but classy space. White walls and chandeliers, tone-on-tone décor with glass accents and flowers. I’m usually really proud of this room.
Right now, I’m scared.
The books stacked at the bottom of my two-tiered table are out of order. I didn’t do that.
Panic floods my veins and turns my breath thready as I tread down the hall and peek in my home office. The desk light is on. The top drawer is open. The shutters are closed. I didn’t do that, either.
Farther down the hall, the powder bath sink is audibly drip, drip, dripping, which only does that if I forget to turn it off completely.
Last night, it wasn’t dripping, and I didn’t use it this morning. Like all the other things out of place in my house, I had nothing to do with that slow trickle.
Someone has definitely been here.
Pressing a hand to my racing heart, I try to calm myself. I’m terrified, but I need to stop panicking and think.
After all, the intruder could still be inside the house—with me.
I need to toss on some dry clothes and get out of here, but they’re all in my bedroom…at the end of the hall. That’s also where I keep my loaded gun. Daddy insisted I have one. And he taught me how to use it.
Unfortunately, my intruder could be lying in wait for me in my room even now.
Any chance I’m being overly anxious? Or wasn’t really paying attention this morning? I was a little groggy.
But I’m rationalizing. I know I am. Everything was perfect when I left for work. It’s a habit my father instilled in me. Some people call him paranoid, but he’s got a point. If I don’t have a norm, how else will I know if someone has been in my space?
I stand in the dark hall, trying to decide what to do. Risk going into the bedroom to find something dry to wear or backtrack to my purse and grab my phone to call the police?
No contest.
I pivot, determined to tiptoe to the foyer undetected. I’ll grab my wet clothes and sneak back to my car—thank goodness it’s now dark outside—and call the police. When they’re on their way, I can wriggle back into the damp garments.
As soon as I gather my things, I wrench the door open—why was it ajar?—and wince at the squeak of the hinges. I’ve barely stepped through the threshold and onto the inky porch when I’m blocked by an obstruction that shouldn’t be there.
It’s a wall of man.
I gasp, drop everything, and try to back away from the looming black shadow. Strong masculine fingers grip my arm and jerk me back to him. I bounce off his hard chest, and he quickly binds me against him with an unyielding arm around my waist.
I’m trapped.
Terror jolts my heart. I stare at the tall intruder. What are his intentions? Under a black shirt, he has enormous shoulders and muscles for days. He’s huge. Overwhelming. Threatening. And he’s nearly inside my house. Uninvited.