Teeth chattering, I pad down the shadowy hallway in my wet panties and clinging bra to 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 silent.

  Did I forget to turn it on when I left? No. I remember. I dutifully punched in the code, just like Daddy taught me. I always do it before I leave and again 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 small 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. It wasn’t this morning.

  Someone has definitely been here.

  Pressing a hand to my racing heart, I try to calm myself. I have to stop panicking and think.

  I need dry clothes before I can 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 there even now.

  I stand in the dark hall, trying to decide what to do. Risk going into the bedroom or backtrack to my purse, grab my phone, and call the police?

  Better safe than sorry.

  I pivot, tiptoeing to the foyer. I’ll grab my wet clothes and sneak back to my car—thank goodness it’s now dark outside—and call the police.

  As I gather my things, I lunge for the door—why is it suddenly ajar?—and wrench it open, wincing at the squeak of the hinges. Before I can step onto the inky porch, I’m blocked by an obstruction that shouldn’t be there.

  It’s a wall of man.

  I gasp, drop everything, and back away from the looming black shadow. Strong masculine fingers grip my arm and jerk me against him, then wrap an unyielding arm around my waist.

  I’m trapped.

  Terror jolts me mute. Under the tall intruder’s dark shirt, he has enormous shoulders and muscles for days. He’s huge. Overwhelming. Threatening. And he’s nearly inside my house. Uninvited. Why?

  The possibilities are bone-chilling.

  I try to quell my panic and think of ways to wrest free. Will Mrs. Crafton hear me if I scream?

  Before I can, the intruder covers my mouth with his enormous palm and silences me.

  Rush

  Inside my car parked across the street from Vanessa Hartley’s little cottage, I watch her.

  Like I do every day.

  I watch her vault out of her car. I watch the rain soak her and plaster her soft cotton clothes against every curve God gave her. I watch her sprint to the porch and laugh at the rain.

  I watch with my cock throbbing.

  It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last. And it sucks.

  She’s totally unattainable. Off-limits. Forbidden. She’s a sparkling diamond I’m meant to gawk at, not one I’ll ever have the chance—or the right—to own.

  Lusting after the boss’s daughter is never a good idea, but with her, it’s downright dangerous. Acting on it could get me killed. Her father is a lethal motherfucker with power and connections. No one sane crosses him.

  I’d walk away from my unhealthy obsession, but he’s made her my responsibility. Watching over her is my purpose. Wanting her endlessly is my torment. Never having her is my punishment.

  It’s worse because, in the last seven months—no, it’s been coming for years—I fell for her.

  No matter what I do, I’m damned.

  Like every other night, I wait patiently for her to go inside, turn on the lights, make herself dinner, sit at her desk that faces the street, biting her lip and twirling a lock of hair around her finger while she finishes her homework.

  At somewhere just after ten o’clock, she turns off her laptop, disappears into her shower for eight minutes, thirteen if she washes all those long blond curls, then retires to bed to read. If she’s not enjoying the book, she’ll kill the lights within ten minutes. If she is enjoying it, the lights might not go off until midnight. If she’s really loving it, the lights will go off…then turn back on a few minutes later—after her self-induced orgasm.

  I wish like hell I could heap pleasure on her. But I know better. Look but don’t touch. Fantasize but don’t cross the line.

  I feel like a mutt choked by a too-tight collar.

  But I can’t be distracted. The men I’m protecting her from are the scourges and dregs of the criminal world. The worst of the worst. She needs me…even if she doesn’t know it. I don’t dare walk away. I can’t.

  Especially since I already know the taste of Vanessa’s sweet kiss. I’m haunted by it. And if my boss knew I was the first man to taste the innocence of his baby girl’s lips, I’d be dead.

  It’s a no-win situation.

  Tonight, Vanessa takes refuge from the storm on her porch. When it stops abruptly, she chats with her elderly neighbor, grabs her mail, and heads inside. All normal.

  I wait for the lights to come on. And I wait. Then I wait some more.

  They don’t.

  Something is wrong. I feel it in my gut. I’m still alive because I listen to my instincts. So I do the one thing I haven’t in all the months of watching her.

  I get out of my car and head for her house, looking for her through her windows. Nothing. In the gathering darkness, I draw my weapon and peer through a crack in her door. I see the vague outline of her purse on a nearby chair. There’s a pile of something—clothes?—on the kitchen floor. Her alarm isn’t whining.

  Vanessa is still nowhere in sight.

  Before I charge in, she tears around the corner. The moonlight shafting through the room tells me she’s not naked—but it’s close. Under silvery beams, I glimpse a flash of her pale hair and glowing skin. Stark shadows silhouette the rest of her, emphasizing her pouty breasts and the hard points of her nipples. The slight sway of her back is like a willow, curving gracefully into the swells of her pert ass. Her thighs are slender, her calves strong, and her feet delicate.

  One look is all it takes. I burn. I hunger. I need.

  I push desire aside when she runs to the kitchen like her very fine ass is on fire and scoops up her clothes. Then she charges in my direction, yanks her slightly squeaky front door wide open, and runs headlong into me, as if she was too afraid of what might be behind her to look straight ahead.

  She gasps. Yeah, she’s not expecting me. I don’t want to scare the hell out of her, but her trembling tells me that ship has sailed.

  What spooked her?

  I need to find the threat and neutralize it—now.

  Vanessa drops everything, eyes wide, backing away from me like I’m part of the problem, rather than the answer to it.

  If there’s danger in the house, she’s not going back inside.

  To ensure that, I wrap my my arm around her in an unyielding grip, jerk her against me, and crush her body to mine.

  Holy fuck, I’ve only once been as close to Vanessa Hartley as I am right now. And it ended with her lips on mine.

  The memory, even if it’s ancient, isn’t helping my restraint.

  When she opens her mouth to scream, I clap my hand over it and whisper, “Shh, Vanessa. Don’t be afraid.”

  Vanessa

  Don’t be afraid? I’m terrified—until the stranger’s voice penetrates my haze of fear. “Rush?”

  His grip on my arms gentle. His heat warms me. “Yeah. What’s going on?”

  As far as he knows, we’re acquaintances by virtue of working under the same roof. My horrible high school embarrassment aside—one he seems to have blessedly forgotten—we’ve rarely spoken more than a passing greeting. Why is he at my house now? How did he find out where I live? And why is he staring at me as if he knows what I look like naked?

  Then I realize that, other than my transparent bra and tiny, soaked panties, I am.

  Heat splashes across my cheeks, and I thank god for the dark. “W-what are you doing here?”

  His big fingers slide down my body to clutch my hips. He tugs me closer, his skin burning mine. Immediately, I know three things: He’s one giant slab of muscle, his heart is beating quick and strong, and his cock is steely hard between us.

  Suddenly, I can’t think.

  “That will wait until you’ve told me what’s scared you. Talk to me.”

  Normally, I’d be dying to know what could be compelling enough to make my work crush hunt me down on a Friday night, but I have a more pressing issue. “Someone’s been in my house.”

  Instantly, his demeanor changes. He tenses. Every sense goes on alert. “You’re sure? Did you see anyone?”

  “No, but—”

  “Has something been tampered with?”

  No one trashed the place or robbed me blind but… “Everything.”

  As I whisper the run-down, Rush scans our surroundings, even more watchful. I have the distinct impression he also feels me trembling, that he knows my body is covered in goose bumps. I’m sure he can tell my nipples are painfully hard, too. “That’s all I noticed.”

  “Were you changing when you realized what was happening?”

  I shake my head. “I got caught in the rainstorm, and I came in for dry clothes but…”

  “You realized your house had been breached and left. Have you given your alarm code to anyone? A friend or neighbor?”

  “No.”

  “Handyman?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Lover?”

  I don’t have one of those, either. Is he asking because he suspects someone I’m seeing is unhinged? Or because he wants to know if I’m taken?

  Stop being ridiculous. He’s head of hotel security; he’s doing what he’s trained to do.

  “No.”

  “Is your intruder still in the house?”

  “I-I’m not sure.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  I shake my head. “I was coming out to my car to do that.”

  Suddenly, he’s got a gun in his big hand. “Call now. I’ll search inside.”

  The second he nudges me aside and steps over the threshold, standing alone on the porch in the dark while mostly naked doesn’t seem wise. “I’ll go with you.”

  He hesitates. “Tell you what, I’ll search the perimeter first. You stay right behind me and call nine one one.”

  I’m not sure what he thinks he’ll find, but I feel a lot safer with him than I do exposed in my front yard by myself, so I nod and fumble around on the porch until I find my messenger bag. As I pluck my phone free, he tucks me behind his broad back and heads down the porch steps for the side yard, illuminating our surroundings with the flashlight on his phone. I manage to control my trembling fingers long enough to dial for help.

  “Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

  “There’s been a break-in at my house.”

  “Address?”

  I answer that question, along with subsequent others while following Rush around the back of the house. No, I can’t tell if the intruder is gone. No, I didn’t notice anything missing. No, I don’t know how he got into the house.

  Rush checks the last window on his circle around my cottage, then dims his phone. “There’s no obvious entry point. No forced doors or broken windows.”

  Then how would anyone have gotten in and disarmed my alarm? I’m struggling to figure that out when the dispatcher tells me the police are en route and should be there shortly.

  I end the call…and I’m still wearing next to nothing. “They’re on their way. I need to get dressed.”

  He curses under his breath. “Where are your clothes?”

  Vaguely, I gesture to the porch. It’s so dark I can barely see where I dropped my stuff. But if I use my phone for light, Rush will see everything. Why did I pick today to wear my sexiest bra?

  Whatever. Now isn’t the time to be shy. Tossing on enough clothes to talk to the police so we can get to the bottom of this break-in is way more urgent than my modesty.

  With a sigh, I engage the flashlight on my phone and grab my clothes. I try not to dwell on Rush, but being so near him me makes me achy and anxious. What can he see…and what does he think?

  As soon as I have the garments in hand, I darken the device and tug on my skirt. As I reach for my T-shirt, I hazard a glance his way. He’s scanning my side yard, his gaze aimed just over my head…but there’s no way he can’t see the outline of my breasts and their hard tips in the moonlight.

  I yank my shirt into place, then face him. “Anything out there?”

  “Not that I see. But it’s awfully still.” Finally, he fixes his stare on me. “Listen, once the police start investigating, it’s possible they’ll move things around. Do you want to breeze through the rest of the house and tell me what else has been disturbed?”

  If I don’t, I’ll never know what else my intruder touched.

  At the thought of a stranger in my house uninvited, his hands on my personal things, I feel sick and violated—and angry. But I’m also scared. “What if the intruder is still inside?”

  He holds his weapon tighter, maintaining great trigger discipline. “I’m here.”

  Maybe that shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does—not just because he’s a man with a gun but because I’ve seen him in action on the job. He knows what he’s doing. Plus, there’s this rumor going around that he spent a few years as a marine before doing some dangerous work for the government at one of the three-letter agencies. I’m not sure what made him leave, much less settle in St. Augustine and take a job at an upscale hotel. Maybe he wanted something cushy and well paid…but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to back away from a challenge.

  “Then let’s look around.”

  “We have to be quick,” he insists as he steps into the foyer. “Stay right behind me, fingers through my belt loops so you’re no more than a half step off my ass. We’ll start in the kitchen, circle back through the living room, then head down the hall and end in your bedroom.”

  “Okay.” How does he know my floor plan?

  I’ll worry about that later. For now, I nod and follow him inside, holding my breath. I don’t know what I’m expecting, maybe some deranged loon jumping out at us. But we hear silence, suddenly broken by scratching.

  He tenses.

  “That’s just Kitty Pie on her scratching post,” I whisper. “That’s normal.”

  A moment later the lamp in my living room flares on. Rush stiffens. Kitty Pie scurries away in a blur of calico fluff, her tail bushed.

  “My lights are on timers. There’s another in my bedroom, too.”

  “At the end of the hall, to the right?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I assumed since a light just popped on from there.”

  Oh, right. I have to stop being paranoid.

  He stares down the hall like he’s braced for trouble. “Show me what’s out of place.”

  Now that light filters through the open space in front of us, I see even more things that aren’t as I left them. “The shade in my kitchen window is drawn. I raise it every morning before I leave. My kettle should be on the back right burner, not the cooktop. I set it there as soon as I’m done making my morning tea.” Then I see something really alarming. “There’s a missing knife in my butcher block.”

  Rush curses as he ushers me into the living room. “Anything besides the books been moved?”

  “Those shutters have been closed, too.”

  There are a few more things that have been messed with. Little things. Nothing destructive. Nothing threatening, but creepy all the same.

  My bathroom is a similar story. The pink cami and boy shorts I wore to bed last night are missing from the hook behind the shower door. My towel has been moved, and I can almost picture someone touching it, sniffing it, thinking about me naked wrapped in it. I shudder.

  “You okay?” Rush asks.

  When I turn to him, his dark eyes hold me captive. They’re almost black. Intense. Somehow shiver-inducing and comforting at once. “As much as I can be. But my favorite scented lotion and a tube of red lipstick I sometimes wear are missing from my vanity.”

  “Damn it. Duly noted. Let’s look in here.” He pulls me through the bathroom, into my bedroom. Shadows fill the corners where the light from my nightstand isn’t bright enough to reach, so I flip on the lights overhead.

  I don’t see anyone hiding, and no one jumps out at me. But the drapes have been drawn, despite the fact I opened them this morning. They’re now flapping in the breeze.

  “Th-the slider to the backyard is open.”

  “Yep,” he growls. He’s already noticed—and he’s furious.

  “It was closed five minutes ago.”

  Rush gives me a grim nod. “Now we know when and where he exited your unit.”

  Yes, and it’s obvious that if I hadn’t been so aware of my surroundings, I would have unwittingly put myself in the intruder’s clutches. God knows what would have happened then.

  I grab Rush’s arm tighter as he slides my closet door open with his boot. At a glance, everything appears undisturbed. That’s a relief…until I look at my bed.

  Rush wraps his arm around me. “He’s been under your covers.”

  “Yes.” Clearly, someone else lay on my sheets, then inexpertly tried to make it again. The thought of a stranger in my bed, doing who knows what, makes me stumble with a wave of nausea.

  Rush’s grip tightens, as if he’s lending me his strength. It works. I feel safer, more protected. But I’m also aware that I’m small comparatively, that I can’t match someone like him in size and strength. That if Rush wasn’t beside me now, I would have been completely alone to fend off this terrible intrusion. I hate being afraid and vulnerable to a potential stalker or rapist.