FATAL TRUTH

Finishing the investigation that got her parents killed is reporter Scout McAdams’s top priority—even with someone threatening her life if she doesn’t drop it. But she’ll reluctantly accept former army ranger Nicco Santonni as her bodyguard...on one condition. He can’t try to stop her from uncovering the truth her true-crime writer mother was searching for, despite the danger. Though the pretty—and stubborn—journalist may not want a bodyguard, Nicco knows she needs one, and he aims to shadow Scout’s every move. But while Nicco may use every tactic to keep the killers at bay, when the truth proves deadlier than they ever imagined, will they live to tell the tale?

JANE M. CHOATE dreamed of writing from the time she was a small child when she entertained friends with outlandish stories complete with happily-ever-after endings. Writing for Love Inspired Suspense is a dream come true. Jane is the proud mother of five children, grandmother to seven grandchildren and the staff to one cat who believes she is of royal descent.

Also By Jane M. Choate

Keeping Watch

The Littlest Witness

Shattered Secrets

High-Risk Investigation

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

High-Risk Investigation

Jane M. Choate

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08063-7

HIGH-RISK INVESTIGATION

© 2018 Jane M. Choate

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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She was in trouble.

The firm set of Nicco’s mouth told her he was angry with her.

Scout went on the offensive. “Say something. Anything.”

“You handled yourself today. But what’s going to happen when you find yourself in a situation you can’t handle?”

A dozen retorts came to mind. She rejected all but one. “I can’t stop living my life because of some threats.”

“You could have been killed.”

And then she understood. He’d been afraid. For her.

“I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Nothing is worth your life. Nothing. Including this investigation.”

Scout wanted to protest, but she didn’t want to destroy the fragile peace that hovered between them. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to just be careful. I want you to stay alive. Because next time...”

Nicco let the words trail off. He didn’t need to speak them. The silent warning echoed in her head.

Next time the job wouldn’t go unfinished. It’d end with her death.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for joining me on another journey. I love writing about courageous men and women like Nicco and Scout. Their love path was a tortuous one as they battled enemies motivated by greed and power. In the end, love and truth won out.

Courage, like heroes, comes in all flavors. Some of the most courageous men and women I know are those who fight cancer. My mother and my sister fought ovarian cancer with humor and resolve and, most of all, faith. In spite of this, the cancer won, or at least it did on this earthly sphere. But I know it does not triumph beyond the grave. I remind myself of that when I am grieving and comfort myself with the knowledge that I am separated from them for only a brief time.

Nicco and Scout also lost loved ones. Like me, they grieved, sometimes unbearably so, and they searched for ways to continue living. When their strength faltered, they relied upon the Lord and found in Him the strength and the will to go on.

I pray that you can turn to the Lord in whatever battles you face.

With gratitude for His love,

Jane

Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

—Isaiah 41:10

To my mother, Georgia Sampson McBride, and to my sister, Carla Sue Berger, each of whom waged a valiant fight against ovarian cancer, and to all the women and those who love them who battle this disease.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

Extract

ONE

Nicco Santonni yanked at the too-tight collar of the starched white shirt. The tuxedo, a rental, felt like a straitjacket that at any moment might strangle him. He’d take a flak jacket or even the shalwar kameez—the traditional Middle Eastern baggy, pajama-like trousers paired with a long cotton tunic—over the monkey suit, but tonight’s job dictated formal wear.

He had as much use for a tuxedo as he did for the glitz and glamour of the ballroom at Savannah’s premiere hotel, but a bodyguard went where his client did and tonight that meant showing up for a charity fund-raiser.

He’d arrived early for the event. Another operative was watching the client in the hours before the gala began. Ranger to the core, he’d wanted to survey his surroundings. He didn’t like being taken by surprise. Constructing a grid pattern of the ballroom came first, followed by identifying any likely spots for a sniper attack. He didn’t expect to use his expertise in explosives or hand-to-hand combat tonight, but an operative for S&J Security/Protection never knew what he or she would be called upon to do.

Protecting a client required finesse and a boatload of other skills, but protecting one who didn’t know she was being guarded presented the distinct problem of keeping close without giving himself away. Not for the first time, Nicco wondered how he’d ended up with a job he didn’t want.

The answer was simple. Family. His brother Sal’s wife, Olivia, had asked that he protect Scout McAdams.

Olivia had stressed that her friend not know she was under S&J’s protection until it became absolutely necessary. “I know Scout. She’ll tell you to get lost. But the letters she’s been receiving are getting scarier all the time. I’m worried.”

Nicco couldn’t say no. Not to Olivia. She was family, and family was everything to the Santonnis. Family, and loyalty to the people who signed your paycheck.

Working for S&J had been the best thing to happen to him after he’d left the Rangers. Named for the founders, Shelley Rabb Judd and her brother Jake Rabb, S&J was quickly becoming a leading player in the growing protection industry with clients in both the private and public sectors.

Nicco had never regretted the decision to join the firm. Caring was the cornerstone of S&J. That, and passion for the job. He liked the work and sometimes even liked the clients. As Shelley said, “You don’t have to like the clients. You just have to protect them.”

He didn’t know whether he liked Scout McAdams as he’d never been introduced to her. He knew she was a reporter and that she had been receiving threats. His lips tightened. Whoever was threatening McAdams was just a bully, and if there was one thing Nicco was good at, it was protecting innocents from bullies. He’d encountered his share in Afghanistan—warlords who ordered death as easily as an ordinary person would order coffee.

As unobtrusively as possible, Nicco conducted a scan of the area surrounding his client. Accustomed to searing heat, blowing sand and the smells of war, he found the scents of perfume and flowers cloying. He watched as McAdams worked her way through the crowd, moving quickly with a self-assurance that belied her pint-size frame, her gold dress swirling about her ankles. There was an intensity to her that attracted attention, while the determination in her stride had people stepping aside to make way for her.

A pendant in the shape of a miniature gold pencil swayed gently as she walked. He’d noticed earlier that she occasionally touched it as one might a talisman and wondered at the significance of it.

The hair at the back of his neck prickled, and an unmistakable rush of adrenaline propelled his senses to high alert. A fraction of a moment later, he settled into a state of cool calm. His breathing slowed, steadied, as he assessed the possible risks.

Protecting the client came first. Always. He did not make a move for the Walther that he wore in a custom-fit shoulder holster. It was enough to know that it was within reach should he need it. A backup piece fit snugly at his ankle.

The weapons were a far cry from the M249 SAW, a light machine gun, and the 9 mm Berretta he’d carried as an Army Ranger, but they did the job. A half smile tipped the corners of his lips as he pictured the probable reaction of tonight’s well-heeled crowd if he’d appeared with the submachine gun cradled in his arms.

Whether in the mountains of Afghanistan or the ballroom of a glitzy hotel, preparation was key. For Nicco, that meant being ready to do whatever it took to get the job done, including using deadly force if necessary.

Violence didn’t solve problems. Too often, it created them. But to assume that the world’s wrongs could be fixed with a bunch of talk was not only naive, it was dangerous.

He moved closer to McAdams, observing the ebb and flow of people closest to his client as well as any place where a sniper might take position. A glint of metal from the balcony caught his eye. He didn’t need to see the gun to know that a shooter was taking aim.

Nicco was in the cold zone now, the state that allowed him to be part of the moment without being in the moment. Instinct and training took over.

“Everybody down.” He didn’t wait to see if people obeyed but sprang toward his client just as two shots fired in rapid succession. He knocked her down and covered her body with his own.

Screams and cries echoed throughout the cavernous room. Nicco ignored those, his concern for only the woman he’d flattened. He hoped he hadn’t injured her, but he’d had to get her out of the range of fire as quickly as possible.

Cautiously, he rolled off her, then motioned for her to crawl beneath one of the high-top tables set up in the ballroom. Though his instincts told him to go after the shooter, his first duty lay with the client.

When no other shots sounded, he climbed out from under the table, looked about, then offered his hand to Scout McAdams. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, placing her hand in his. “I think you just saved my life.”

* * *

“Rachel Scout McAdams,” she said, sticking out her hand.

“Nicco Santonni.”

“Thank you, Mr. Santonni. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me a thing.”

The brusqueness of the response startled her. Maybe, she reasoned, he was as shaken by the shots as she had been. She snuck a glance at him and dismissed that thought. The big man standing in front of her didn’t appear to be the kind to be rattled by anything or anyone.

Scout took inventory of her injuries. Throbbing hip and shoulder. Sore chest, probably bruised ribs. No doubt about it—she was going to hurt tomorrow. For now, the rush of adrenaline kept the worst of the pain at bay. Resigning herself to the nightmares the sound of gunshots would trigger, she did her best to ignore the prospect of a sleepless night.

Breathe.

She shoved aside images from the past and focused on the here and now. Delayed panic swept through the ballroom, sobs and cries punctuating the overall confusion. Sirens screeched in the distance, but the immediate danger appeared to be over. At least she hoped so.

Brushing herself off, she eyed the man who had pushed her down and covered her body with his own when the shots had pierced the buzz of party chatter. She’d hugged the floor, concentrating on breathing, not an easy task when a two-hundred-pound man had just flattened her with the force of a battering ram.

Not that she was complaining. He’d saved her life.

Only when the big man had rolled off her had she been able to move and seek protection beneath a table as he’d ordered. Her pulse had still been in overdrive, her legs shaking when she’d gotten to her feet. Annoyance at herself poured through her. She wasn’t some weak-kneed wimp who fainted at the first hint of violence. She stiffened her shoulders and took stock of her surroundings.

The rancid smells of fear and panic overrode the perfumed air of the ballroom as people scrambled for exits.

Breathe.

“It’s all right,” she murmured to a bleating woman who had collapsed in a nearby chair. “Nobody was hurt.” She prayed that was true. She stayed by the lady’s side until her husband found her and took her in his arms.

Scout turned and felt her rescuer’s gaze on her, considering.

“You’ve had a shock, but you took the time to help someone else.”

After the coldness of his tone, the warmth in the words surprised her. “She was frightened. I didn’t want her to be alone.” Scout had more reason than most to know what that felt like.

“What about you? You had to be scared.”

“I was plenty scared.” Goose bumps puckered her arms in confirmation.

She studied the man, not bothering trying to hide her interest. He looked as out of place at this yawn-fest as she felt. As a reporter, she was accustomed to expecting the unexpected. Being thrown to the ground by a man who looked as though he could have stepped right out of a romance novel definitely qualified as unexpected.

Tall, rangy, with dark good looks that hinted at Italian ancestry, he had some impressive moves. Ex-military, she guessed. Maybe special ops. He resembled the cops and soldiers she’d come across while hunting down stories: clean-cut, physically fit, with experience sharpening his gaze.

Nearly black eyes, a sharp blade of a nose and lips on the full side made for an arresting face, one too unique for mere handsomeness. The dark tux, pristine white shirt and precisely knotted tie should have detracted from the air of controlled power that he wore so easily, but the elegance had the opposite effect. He looked dangerous.

Get it together, girl. She had no business cataloging the man’s features, no matter how attractive he might be.

She’d been making her way to Leonard Crane, the man she’d been trying to interview for the last couple of weeks, when the shots had ripped through the air. Crane was the boss of Savannah’s sanitation/waste union.

Scout knew she was running a risk in continuing where her mother, a true-crime writer with eleven bestsellers to her credit, had left off in investigating murders in the labor unions. Though she couldn’t prove it, she believed her mother had been killed because of her research. Scout and her father had been collateral damage. Scout had recovered from the bullet to her shoulder, but her father had died. The police had called it a carjacking gone wrong.

Scout knew differently.

According to her mother’s notes, Crane had known the four bosses who had been murdered in the last two years. Her mother had believed that he was connected to the murders, either directly or indirectly. Scout wasn’t about to let go of the best lead she had.

Finding out that Crane was going to be present at the Homes for Everyone fund-raiser had been a bonus. It made up—almost—for shelling out a week’s pay for a dress she’d probably never wear again. Being assigned to cover the affair still rankled.

Her nose wrinkled. Give her a juicy case of corruption to investigate and she was there. She’d paid her dues in covering rubber-chicken dinners and was now slowly working her way up from the society page to the city page, from fluff to hard news. It felt like a demotion to be assigned to something like this.

The police arrived. She figured they’d surround the hotel, block exits, and forbid anyone from entering or leaving. It was too bad the gunman had probably already made his escape, rendering such procedures useless.

Scout answered the questions a detective fired at her as briefly as she could and kept her thoughts to herself. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Just because she’d gotten a few pieces of hate mail threatening her life if she didn’t back off her investigation, didn’t mean she was a target.

Scout McAdams was rarely dishonest with herself, but right now, she recognized that she was indulging in a moment of being just that.

“You’re certain you have nothing else to add, Ms. McAdams?” the detective asked for the fifth time.

Nicco Santonni hovered nearby. His presence was a comfort, and though she didn’t want to admit it, she welcomed it.

“I’m certain.” Irritation at the repetitive questions and a large dose of residual fear sharpened her voice.

“If you think of anything...”

“I know where to find you.”

The detective nodded curtly and turned his attention elsewhere.

* * *

Red-gold hair swung past her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with intelligent eyes and a full mouth. Her girl-next-door looks were far more appealing than the elaborate hair and makeup favored by many of the women present. But it wasn’t her beauty that demanded and held attention; it was the determination that sparked in her eyes.

Scout McAdams had a reputation for doing whatever it took to get a story.

Deliberately, Nicco pushed back memories of another reporter with the same tenacity and shook his head to clear the images that had taken up residence there. He had a client to protect. It was one thing to bring up a bittersweet memory, another to let it interfere with his ability to do the job.

He noticed that she was rubbing her right arm. “Did I hurt you?”

“Are you kidding? You saved my life.”

“You think the shot was meant for you?” Nicco already knew she was a target, but he was interested in her response.

Her face blanked of all expression.

“I really don’t know.”

He watched as Scout walked away, and after making sure that she was all right, he headed to the balcony, zeroed in on the detective in charge, and identified himself. “Nicco Santonni with S&J Security/Protection, assigned to Scout McAdams. She doesn’t know I was hired to protect her, and I’d just as soon keep it that way for as long as I can.”

“Gotcha.”

Whenever possible, S&J tried to play nice with law enforcement. It made things easier for both sides.

“Wagner,” the man said and ignored Nicco’s outstretched hand. He pointed to the weapon the shooter had left behind. “Probably didn’t want to take the time to break it down and carry it out of here. The number’s been filed off, though we’ve had pretty good success with raising numbers in the past using an acid wash.”

Nicco moved closer. “An M110, Knight’s Armament semiautomatic with a bipod. Effective range 800 meters.”

Wagner looked impressed. “You know your weapons.”

“You could say that. Rangers. Six years in the Stand,” Nicco said, using the military’s slang for Afghanistan.

The detective gave a low whistle. “Not too shabby.” He tapped his chest. “Marine Force Recon. Eight in Fallujah.” He gestured to his right leg. “Took a round in my thigh. Still aches in the rain.” He grimaced. “I’d give anything to be back fighting the good fight.”

Nicco felt a thaw in the air. “Know what you mean.”

The two men regarded each other with fresh respect.

“Glad to have you on board,” Wagner said and this time held out his hand.

Nicco took the detective’s hand, found it ridged with calluses. “Thanks.” He inspected the weapon further. “This bad boy’s military issue. A very nice and very expensive toy.”

“Some toy.” Wagner eyed Nicco with a shrewd gaze. “You think your client was the intended victim.”

“Had to be,” Nicco said frankly, wincing when he thought of just how close the shots had come to Scout. “She’s been receiving threats.” Curiosity over the reporter buzzed in his head like an insistent gnat.

“She neglected to tell me that.” Wagner scowled. “Reporters are a pain...” He bit off whatever he’d been about to add.

Nicco grinned. “Tell me about it.”

In perfect accord, they fixed their gazes once more on the weapon. It was the only lead they had to the shooter.

Nicco had been facetious when he’d referred to it as a toy. It was a serious weapon intended to kill with cold and ruthless efficiency.

Whoever wanted Scout McAdams dead was playing for keeps. It was up to him to make sure they didn’t succeed.

TWO

Scout woke up sick to her stomach. Her skin was clammy, her heart racing as though she’d just finished a marathon. Invisible hands tightened around her throat, constricting her ability to breathe. Salt rimmed her skin where she’d sweated through her nightshirt.

Gently, she massaged her neck, trying to loosen the bands that were closing in with every second and prevent an attack that would leave her gasping for air. The effort to breathe had turned her mouth cottony, and she swallowed in a vain attempt to rid herself of the dryness.

She’d thrashed through the night, unable to suck in sufficient air, gasping hoarsely as she fought off unseen assailants. In the end, the bad guys won.

They always did.

Not last night, she thought. The good guys, in the form of one very appealing man, had saved the day. Nicco Santonni. She tasted the words on her lips, found them intriguing and surprisingly sweet.

Enough. She had a job to do, one which didn’t include mooning over last night’s rescuer, no matter how ruggedly handsome he was.

Not even the memory of the good-looking man, however, could banish the aftereffects of the nightmare, including the sensation that she was choking. She swallowed harshly in an attempt to combat it.

It had been a month since she’d had the nightmare but it had returned last night. With a vengeance. Bitter bile rose in her throat. She willed it down.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

She repeated the breathing exercises, slowly inhaling and exhaling, until she could feel the terrifying panic subside. You’re okay. Her therapist’s voice slid into her mind.

I’m okay. She repeated the words until she started to believe them.

Scout turned to her side where she could gaze at the picture of her parents and herself on the day of her graduation from college. We were all so happy. Four years after the picture had been taken, her world had shattered into pieces and she was left alone.

The memory of the night her parents had been murdered a scant year ago pierced her heart, a lethally-tipped arrow that never failed to hit its mark. Someday, maybe, the pain would lessen, but it remained as poisonous as ever. She squeezed back tears of frustration and anger.

When was she going to be able to put the attack behind her, those toxic reminders that she wasn’t normal? They had burrowed under her skin and into her heart with a tenacity that wouldn’t be shaken. She’d dealt with them before. She’d do it again, but, oh, how she wished she didn’t have to.

Prayer was her first and best defense. Lord, I need Your help. I can’t do it on my own. I know that You and You alone have the power to heal me. I give myself into Your hands.

Within seconds, His love washed over her, and the panic slowly edged away. The Lord had not yet banished the nightmares, but He had given her the precious gift of peace when the memories threatened to overwhelm her.

Gratitude for His goodness filled her, replacing the pain with an acceptance that He worked on His timetable, not hers. Impatient by nature, she needed the occasional reminder of His eternal plan and His wisdom.

When the worst of the nausea was under control, she started to get up. Stopped. Big mistake.

She hurt all over. Being thrown to the floor by a drop-dead-gorgeous man may make for good fiction, but the reality was less fun than what romance novels made it out to be. Maybe the pain would take her mind off the nightmare and the memories it had engendered.

She took a minute, another, before trying to move again. Cautiously, she pushed herself into a sitting position, paused, lifted one leg over the side of the bed, then the other.

When the room stopped spinning, she stood. Assessed. So far, so good. Every fiber of her body ached, but at least she was moving. Sort of. She hobbled to the full-length mirror attached to the back of her bedroom door and surveyed herself.

Her second mistake of the morning.

Bruises bloomed along her shoulders and arms. Angry red now, they’d soon turn blue and purple, then a sickly green and finally a putrid yellow. It could have been worse. She could have a bullet lodged in her shoulder. Or her heart.

Thanks to the quick actions of Nicco Santonni, she was in one piece. More or less.

Her sense of humor got a toehold, nudging a smile out of hiding. Maybe she’d put in for medical leave. At least it would get her out of covering the month of events leading up to the huge ball where Patrice Newtown, the undisputed queen of Savannah society, would present the mayor with a check large enough to build a new shelter for the city’s homeless.

For reasons of her own, Newtown had requested that Scout be assigned to cover a bunch of boring social events. The order had come from the big man himself, Gerald Daniels, the paper’s publisher.

Scout was fighting her way onto the paper’s crime beat one column inch at a time, and, because of a whim of one of the city’s so-called benefactors, she was now relegated once more to the society page. She had as much interest in society doings as she did in learning how to peel an artichoke. Who cared which designer created the dress the mayor’s wife wore to the country club dance or what entrée was served with what wine?

Gingerly, she made her way to the shower, where the hot water temporarily soothed her aches and pains and allowed her to forget, for a few minutes at least, the reason for them. Though she normally skipped makeup, she applied a light dusting of blush and mascara and dabbed concealer beneath her eyes. A critical look at herself in the mirror confirmed what she already knew. She couldn’t erase the shadows under her eyes or the tiny tension lines that bracketed her mouth.

She braced her hands on the bathroom counter, then dropped her gaze to her splayed fingers, staring at them as though they held the secrets to all the world’s questions, but there were no answers there. Within a half hour, she was dressed and out the door, albeit at a slower pace than normal.

After graduating from college and starting at the paper, she promised herself she’d search for the truth. Finding that truth, wherever it lay, had been her compass for the last five years. That quest had taken on special significance with the murder of her parents a year ago. She’d vowed then to find the truth behind the murders and bring down those responsible.

At the office, she did a fast read of her emails, deleted most of them and prepared to write the piece on last night’s gala while the events were still fresh in her mind. Not the warm-fuzzy piece Newtown had probably expected, but, hey, publicity was publicity. Then she planned on tracking down Leonard Crane.

She tuned out the chatter of computers, the good-natured ribbing that went on between colleagues, and the constant grumbling about the swill that passed for coffee and concentrated on writing the piece. An hour later, she read it, decided it would do and pushed the Send key.

“McAdams, special delivery.” The office gofer handed her a large envelope with no return address. Cold brushed the back of her neck as she noted that it was identical to the other letters.

“Thanks.” Scout signed for it, slit open the envelope and looked at the message composed with words cut from a magazine and pasted on a sheet of cheap paper. Another threat. Okay. She’d dealt with threats ever since she’d earned her first byline in the paper’s city section.

This was no different.

She read the words aloud, testing them. “Mind your own business. Or we’ll mind it for you.” She pinched her lips together even as she shook her head, as though the slight movement would dispel the unwanted picture the letter etched in her mind.

Scout prided herself on her independence and self-reliance, but right now she wished she had someone to stand with her.

She’d thought she’d found that with her ex-fiancé, Bradley Middleton, but, after wooing her and even asking her to marry him, he’d left her. The experience had soured her on men for the moment. Maybe forever.

Forget Bradley and concentrate on the letter. Only, she didn’t want to think about the letters she’d received over the last month. She had never been one to stick her head in the sand, so why was she doing just that with the letters that were coming with increasing regularity? Nothing she’d done lately was like her, including wasting time thinking about Nicco Santonni.

Now that she wasn’t so shaken from nearly getting killed, she’d put it together. Nicco Santonni. Brother to Sal Santonni, her best friend Olivia’s husband.

It didn’t take much to call up a picture of her rescuer in her mind. Inky black hair a little too long for current fashion, ebony eyes hooded beneath slashing brows and sharply angled cheekbones made for an arresting face. Add to that a body that looked like it was forged from steel and you had a man whom any woman would stop and give a second...or third glance to.

She forced her thoughts away from the handsome Nicco Santonni to her self-imposed mission. Digging into union murders meant investigating the unions themselves. When her mother had begun research for her exposé of Savannah’s labor unions, she’d told Scout that graft was most often the cause of murder in unions. Ironically, that same research had resulted in the murder of both of Scout’s parents.

Six weeks ago, Scout had started going through her parents’ papers. She should have done it months earlier, but after her release from the hospital, she’d been too bogged down in grief and pain to look through their belongings. She’d started with her father’s notes for the university physics classes he taught. The clutter triggered a memory of his self-deprecatory comparison to Disney’s absentminded professor. He was a brilliant lecturer but chronically disorganized in his paperwork.

With a sigh, she’d turned her attention to her mother’s research for her latest true-crime book. It was among those notes that Scout had found information about Leonard Crane and her mother’s belief that he was involved with union murders.

For the last six weeks, Scout had been digging for proof behind her mother’s suspicions. Not for the first time, she wished she had plunged into the investigation earlier.

She’d healed from her bullet wound far more quickly than she had the crippling pain of acknowledging that her parents had been taken from her through a hideous act of violence. After leaving the hospital, she’d wandered around in a daze for months. It was only recently that she’d been able to set aside her grief to fix her attention on finding the truth.

She wadded the paper into a ball and then executed a perfect three-pointer into the trash can. Upon reflection, she stood, walked to the trash can, and retrieved the paper.

Why had this threat turned her into a Nervous Nellie? Scout forced a laugh over her uncharacteristic fears. That wasn’t who she was.

Her hometown was a beautiful city, steeped in history and tradition, but it wasn’t without its faults. She had seen firsthand the ugliness that lay beneath the beauty, the violence that destroyed lives and occasionally even took them.

The crumpled paper in her hand yanked her back to the present.

Meticulously, she smoothed the creases from the paper, and glanced at the message once more. Scout didn’t intend on giving up her investigation. Some accused her of being stubborn. She preferred to see it as determination, the same determination that had fueled her ambition to expose the dark secrets of the city since the night she’d lost her parents.

The aftereffects of the nightmare dogged her throughout the day, following her around like a shadow. Much as she tried to shake the feelings, they clung to her like a burr.

After prayer, work was her antidote against the pain.

When her cell phone chirped, she glanced at the number, saw it was blocked. More than once she’d received blocked calls which had ended up giving her valuable information. She picked it up, heard a mechanically altered voice.

“If you want to get the goods on Crane, be at the docks at three fifteen.” The voice went on to give directions as to where she should stand if she wanted to see Crane taking a bribe.

Common sense told her to ignore the tip, which could be a setup, but she couldn’t. She wished she had someone who’d go with her, and her thoughts took her back to Nicco Santonni.

Unwillingly, she acknowledged that he had stirred something in her, an attraction she hadn’t felt in too long, not since her fiancé, a reporter at a local TV station, had dumped her.

Impatient with herself, she pushed Bradley out of her thoughts. She’d already wasted enough time and tears on him. She had more important things to think about.

Like who wanted her dead.

* * *

A relief agent had taken over the detail last night when Scout McAdams had left the ballroom. Though Nicco was primary in the protection unit, no one operative could effectively guard a client twenty-four seven. Usually operatives worked in threes, eight hours on, sixteen off. Because Olivia had asked for Nicco specifically, he’d opted for twelve-hour shifts.

He’d clocked seven hours sack time and had spent the other five finishing the paperwork for which his boss and friend Shelley Judd was a stickler.

“Trying to get on my good side?” Shelley asked when he turned in the expense report she’d been nagging him about for the last two days.

Since S&J had opened an office in Savannah last year, Shelley spent a couple of days there every month. With the arrival of baby Chloe, Shelley didn’t get out in the field as often as she’d like, but she still knew every operation and every assignment.

Nicco smiled at the picture of his hard-hitting boss in her role as mother. Shelley Rabb Judd and brother Jake Rabb, co-founders of S&J, had never known a loving mother’s care. Nicco knew she gave her child everything she’d been denied, most of all love.

The once efficiently streamlined office now resembled a nursery with a bassinet and other baby items spilling over the space. Six-month-old Chloe had definitely made her appearance known.

“Always.” He bent to brush a kiss over the downy hair of the baby nestled at Shelley’s shoulder. “Motherhood suits you.”

Dimples peeked out in her pixie face. “I’m operating on three hours’ sleep. My shirt has spit-up on it. I haven’t had a decent haircut or a manicure since before Chloe was born. And I couldn’t be happier.”

“I’m glad. For you and for Caleb.”

Shelley and ex-Delta Caleb Judd had endured more than their share of hardship, but they had come out the other side stronger and more in love than ever. Nicco knew a moment of envy for what they shared.

“Thanks. When it happens for you, you’ll think you’ve been hit by a semi and then you’ll wonder how you lived without that special someone in your life for as long as you did.”

Nicco summoned a smile he was far from feeling. He’d already met the special someone Shelley spoke of and she’d died. Happily-ever-after wasn’t in the future for him. Not any longer.

Unwilling to prolong that topic, he turned the subject to his current assignment. As Shelley was friends with Scout, he knew his boss would have a special interest in the job. He filled her in on the little he knew so far.

“I know Scout’s in good hands,” Shelley said. “I also know she won’t make it easy for you to protect her.”

“I’ll make it work.”

“You always do.”

“Got to go.” He pecked Shelley’s cheek.

He had just enough time for a visit to the police station before he was back on duty. At the station, he asked for Detective Wagner and was directed to a cubbyhole of an office.

Upon seeing Nicco, Wagner stood, held out his hand. “Santonni.”

The men shook hands briefly.

“I stopped by to see if you’d learned anything from the weapon from last night,” Nicco said.

“Not from the weapon itself, but ballistics traced the trajectory of the shot and found that it was sighted on Ms. McAdams. If you hadn’t pushed her to the floor...” The detective let the rest of the sentence go unfinished.

They spent a few more minutes kicking around theories before Nicco checked his watch. He had to be back on duty in less than thirty minutes. “Thanks. If you find out anything, I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

“Same goes.”

He met another S&J operative outside Scout’s office for the handoff. The agent looked over Nicco’s shoulder. “She’s heading this way.”

Scout paused, lifting her head as though sensing something. Fortunately, Nicco knew how to blend in with a crowd, and she didn’t make him.

He’d seen Scout McAdams in a dark pantsuit when he’d followed her to the courthouse where she’d gone to cover a story two days ago. Last night, he’d seen her in an evening gown. But this was the first time he’d seen her in jeans and a white T-shirt, with her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

She looked smaller, somehow, and younger. More fragile. He doubted she’d appreciate the description. Everything he’d learned about the reporter told him that she was independent to a fault and prided herself on being able to handle anything.

Look at how she’d reacted last night: she hadn’t fallen apart when shot at, and, in fact, had tried to comfort others. The lady was pure steel, but that didn’t mean she was invincible. He settled down to the routine of making himself invisible.

The trick was to not try too hard. Fortunately, Nicco had had years of experience blending into the background, first in the mountain villages of Afghanistan for the Rangers, and now in the far more civilized streets of his hometown.

He’d protect her, whether she knew it or not.

* * *

She was being followed.

Scout felt it as surely as she felt the early afternoon sun warm the back of her neck. She didn’t turn around to see who was tailing her. Instead of heading directly to her car as she’d intended, she walked to a coffee shop, deliberately taking her time. Every few minutes, she paused, pretending to gaze into a window. No one jumped into a doorway or suddenly pulled out a newspaper to cover his face.

At the coffee shop, she ordered her coffee, black. Fancy coffee drinks baffled her. If all you wanted was a shot of sugar, there were easier—and cheaper—ways to get it. She nursed the coffee as she made her way to her car. After she climbed inside, she took advantage of adjusting her rearview mirror to scan the sidewalk behind her.

Had she imagined it? She couldn’t detect anyone tailing her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was under surveillance.

She was new to the cloak-and-dagger business. Okay. Play it cool. She kept an eye out as she drove to the docks. Either her tail was really good, or he’d peeled off.

At the docks, she parked her car and walked to the spot the caller had told her was the best vantage point to witness the goings-on of the dock in question. A quick glance around told her that she was not alone. She glanced up at workmen on scaffolding above her hiding spot as they struggled to balance a replacement panel to a warehouse that looked like it should have been condemned during the Carter administration.

The clanging of steel beams grated along her nerves; the smell—a brew of garbage and fish—had her taking shallow breaths through her mouth.

Scout remained where she was and hoped the men didn’t spot her. The grumbling and muttering coming from them told her they were fully occupied with their task and not at all concerned with her.

Still, she didn’t like the vibe she was getting. An anonymous call that Leonard Crane would be at a certain dock receiving a payoff was too good to pass up.

The docks were controlled by the mob. Organized crime had its hand in everything that passed in and out of Savannah’s port, one of the busiest in the United States. No one moved anything without it being approved by the mob bosses.

City fathers made noises about cleaning up the docks and surrounding area. Speeches were given. Raids were staged. And nothing changed. Those in charge maintained that they had done everything possible to end the corruption. And those who had their nose to the street, as Scout did, knew differently. The mob had infiltrated every area of government, from the mayor’s office to the police, making any effort to wipe out the corruption impossible.

Crane didn’t arrive at the time she’d been given. She wasn’t surprised. If he was connected to the murders, he’d be understandably cautious. The pep talk delivered, she should have felt better, but the uneasiness persisted.

The hair at the nape of her neck hackled. Warily, she looked about but didn’t see anything to cause the sensation. Despite that, she couldn’t shake the inkling of danger. Over the years, she’d learned to pay attention to such impressions.

The clank of metal against metal ratcheted up the tension building inside her as though she had a crank attached to her, tightening every nerve notch by notch.

Crane and another man showed up at that moment. From their angry gestures, they appeared to be arguing.

Abruptly, the men stopped talking and now seemed to be waiting. If she could only get closer...but she didn’t want to give away her location. A big part of a reporter’s work involved waiting and watching. In many ways, it was like a cop’s job. She had friends on the force who reported that boredom was often more deadly than any threat of gunfire.

A rumbling sound alerted her. Before she could move, muscular arms pushed her aside, and a large body fell on top of her, shielding her.

The scaffolding she’d noted earlier tumbled to the ground. If she’d been where she was only a moment ago, she’d have been crushed beneath its weight. Shock rendered her unable to function. Her mouth went dry, her limbs stiff. She couldn’t make her legs work.

Strong hands reached down to pull her to her feet. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Nicco Santonni. “You saved my life. Again.”

THREE

Nicco called the police and asked for Wagner, though he didn’t expect the detective to find anything more than he had.

Within ten minutes, Wagner showed up. After examining the scene, he shook his head. “You were right. Nothing to indicate it was anything but an accident. But you don’t think so.” He didn’t make it a question, and Nicco didn’t treat it as such.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said. “First, she’s targeted last night, then a pile of scaffolding barely misses her today. You do the math.”

“I get what you’re saying, but there’s no proof that today was anything more than an accident.” Wagner held up a hand to forestall Nicco’s objections. He turned to Scout. “What do you have to say about it, Ms. McAdams?”

“I...I don’t know.” Her eyes remained cool, her expression neutral, but Nicco noted the clenching and unclenching of her hands. Fear always found an outlet, as did adrenaline.

He felt it coursing through his bloodstream as well, his heartbeat at double-time as he processed the near miss.

“What were you doing here?” Wagner asked.

“I received a tip.”

“Care to share?”

She shook her head. “Reporter’s privilege.”

Wagner scowled but didn’t press the matter. “If you—either of you—think of anything, you know where to find me.” After slanting one last glance at Scout, he took off.

Nicco was more concerned about Scout than he’d let on. Though the day was unseasonably hot, even for a Georgia summer, she shivered. Reaction. The lady had nearly been reduced to a bug-splat on the ground beneath thousands of pounds of processed wood and metal. That came on the heels of last night’s shooting. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She brushed herself off. He watched as she pulled herself together, her shoulders squaring as though bracing for another blow. “Did you tail me here?”

He raised a brow. “What? No thank-you?”

“Sorry. My manners tend to go MIA when I’m almost killed for the second time in two days.”

He gave her kudos for a quick recovery. A lot of people would have gone into hysterics after what she’d barely escaped. “I get that.”

“Thank you.” The words weren’t fancy, but he heard the sincerity behind them. “Thank you for showing up when you did.”

Scout looked about, visibly shuddering when her gaze landed on the scaffolding, now scattered like giant pickup sticks over the ground.

Nicco took her arm and tucked her against him, her softer build fitting into the harder planes of his own. “Let’s get out of here.” They’d come back for her car when she was no longer suffering from shock.

“You don’t have to ask twice.”

He steered her to his truck. Halfway there, she shrugged off the supporting arm he’d kept around her and marched forward, as though keeping moving was the secret to maintaining control.

He gave her a boost into the truck. “You’re no bigger than a minute.”

“You know the saying. ‘Good things come in small packages.’”

“I know of a little place not far from here. I don’t know if you’re hungry, but rescuing damsels in distress tends to make me work up an appetite.”

She grinned. “I’m hungry enough to forgive that ‘damsel in distress’ remark, so you’re on.”

He shut the door and rounded the truck. After getting in and buckling his seat belt, he turned to her. “Ordinarily, I’d canvass the area, see if anybody saw anything. But this was a setup through and through. I don’t think we’re going to learn anything. Not here. Not now.”

She gave another shiver. “Frankly, the sooner we get out of here, the better.”

“You got it.”

* * *

The restaurant, barely more than an abbreviated alley in size, was packed. Diners crowded at the counter. Nicco apparently knew the owner, for a large man in an apron that might once have been white greeted them with a smile and a “Hiya, Nicco.”

“Same to you, Phil. You got room for us?”

“For you, Nicco, anything.”

He showed them to a booth. The red vinyl seats and gray Formica counter appeared to be circa 1960s.

Scout didn’t have to think about what she wanted. “A double cheeseburger. Extra-large fries. Chocolate shake. And three chocolate chip cookies.”

“And a heart-attack chaser on the side,” Nicco added with a wry smile.

“You have a problem with my order?”

“No problem. I’m just wondering how someone your size puts away all that food.” His eyebrow hiked. “Or maybe it’s just for show.”

She made a face at him. “Give me twenty minutes and then be prepared to eat your words.”

A fresh-faced waitress, who must have been all of seventeen, showed up to take their order. She never took her eyes from Nicco.

He gave their order to the girl, who giggled and batted her eyelashes at him.

When she left, Scout lifted a brow. “The famous Santonni charm. It’s an education to see it in action.” She was talking too much. Too fast. A cover for the nerves that skimmed just below the surface.

The banter felt good, a reminder that she was alive. If not for Nicco Santonni, things could have turned out differently.

She owed him. Again. “You’ve saved my life. Twice.”

Nicco didn’t say anything, only waited.

The pieces clicked into place. Scout had confided in her best friend Olivia Hammond Santonni about the threatening letters she’d been receiving. Olivia had hired Nicco, her brother-in-law, to protect Scout. It wasn’t a coincidence that Nicco had been at the right place at the right time both last night and today.

“Olivia.” There was both affection and resignation in the four syllables. Olivia was a great friend, but she fretted over Scout like a mother hen over her chicks.

Nicco nodded. “Got it in one. She’s worried about you.”

“Look, I appreciate what you’ve done, but I can take care of myself. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“No?”

“No.” She let the single word stand. “Consider yourself fired.”

“You didn’t hire me, so you can’t fire me.” His maddening logic stymied her. “Olivia would have my hide if something happened to you. According to her, you’ve been receiving some pretty nasty letters.”

At mention of the letters, bands of cold wrapped around Scout’s chest, making her wonder if she were having a heart attack. Of course, she wasn’t. If she was struggling to catch her breath, well, that was only natural under the circumstances.

A shiver danced down her arms, a delayed reaction to the near-death experience. Breathe. The silent reminder had her inhaling quietly, letting the air out slowly. Her mouth had gone so dry at the idea that someone had made a second attempt on her life in less than twenty-four hours that she couldn’t even work up enough spit to swallow.

Nicco pushed a glass of water her way. “Drink.”

She picked up the glass, held it with trembling hands, brought it to her mouth. A long sip allowed her to wet her lips.

Bars of sunlight slanted through ancient blinds. She basked in the warmth and felt some of the chill leave her.

He was talking, and she worked to listen to the low rumble of his voice. “You said a tip brought you to the docks?”

Knowing where this was going, she nodded reluctantly.

“Anonymous?”

“Yeah.”

He raised his brow, whether at her stupidity for following what was obviously a bogus tip or at her one-word answer, she didn’t know.

Another chill shivered through her as she accepted what might have happened if not for Nicco. She hoped he didn’t notice anything amiss. He’d probably never known a moment of panic in his life. He had a reassuring way about him, his calm, measured tones like the practiced strides of the soldier Olivia had told her he’d been. His presence made her feel safe, and she could really use a feeling of safety right about now.

Honesty forced her to admit that it wasn’t only the attempt on her life that had sent a rush of sensation skittering along her nerves. A tiny thrill had whispered through her when Nicco Santonni pulled her from harm’s way. It reminded her of the energy-charged air before a lightning storm struck.

She wanted to believe that the feelings were due to the heightened emotion of the moment, but that was a lie.

“I was following you.” His words confirmed her earlier suspicions. He studied her. “You’re not as cool as you’re pretending. Even hotshot reporters are allowed to have a moment after almost being crushed by a couple of tons of steel and wood.”

Unwilling to pursue the subject of her reaction to the scaffolding nearly killing her, she turned the tables on him. She made no secret of her scrutiny of him, her gaze shrewd and assessing. Last night, he’d been debonairly handsome in a tux.

Today, with cords of well-toned muscle showing to advantage in a gray T-shirt and black jeans, he was even more devastating.

Though not movie-star handsome, he possessed something more basic: raw power. A combination of roughly drawn features, muscular shoulders and a long, lean build imbued him with a presence that made him hard—make that impossible—to forget.

She tore her gaze away from his chest and lifted it to meet his. He scraped a hand over his cheek, drawing her attention to the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw.

He wasn’t as tall or as big as his brother Sal, but there was an inner strength to him, a steely resolve in his eyes. It was that determination that set him apart from other men and put him at the top of the food chain, an apex predator.

Dark eyes were filled with amusement. “You’re staring. What’s the verdict?”

“You left the military but still have a side of hero complex. You’re self-confident but not arrogant. You pride yourself on doing the right thing no matter the cost.”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad or spot on?” she challenged.

“Not bad. Take it or leave it. Tell me what you know about last night.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

She put down the menu and sat back, unwilling to share the jumble of feelings that made her stomach feel like it was coated with acid. “Right now it’s telling me that I’m hungry. I went off without breakfast and worked through lunch. You want something from me, you need to feed me first.”

The food arrived, rich and plentiful, redolent with the smells of grilled meat and fried onions.

She closed her eyes. The silent prayer over the food was both comforting and humbling.

When she looked up, it was to find Nicco watching her keenly. “You were praying, weren’t you?”

Her nod was brief. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” At one time, she’d questioned the idea of praying, even silently, in a public place, but had decided she couldn’t worry over the opinions of others. Prayer was an important part of her life. Offering gratitude to the Lord was her way of acknowledging His hand in her life.

“Don’t apologize. It was...nice.” His gaze dropped. “My family always prayed at meals when I was a kid.”

“And now?”

“My parents and sisters still do.” He paused. “And Sal.”

“And you?”

“I sort of got out of the habit.” He popped a French fry into his mouth. “It’s good that you do.”

“You can, too. God doesn’t turn away prayers.” She smiled gently. “No matter how rusty they are.”

“I’m afraid mine are more than rusty. It’s hard to pray when you no longer believe.”

“What made you stop?”

“Stuff.” He left it at that.

The roughness of his voice told her to back off. She lifted her burger, brought it to her lips, and took a large bite. The meat was grilled to perfection. “Why didn’t I know about this place? I thought I knew all the good burger joints.”

“Phil—the owner—likes to keep it under wraps. He always says that if it caught on, he’d be busier than he wants.”

“He’s right.” She took another bite and sighed her pleasure.

“How’d you come to be named Scout?”

“My mother taught English at the university before she left to start writing. She did her dissertation on Harper Lee.”

“Got it. You’re named after the little girl in To Kill a Mockingbird.”

“Right. Daddy wanted me to go by my grandmother’s name—Rachel—but Scout stuck.”

“It fits.”

She felt Nicco’s gaze on her, evaluating, like he was trying to decide whether or not to ask her something. “What’ve you gotten yourself into?”

She hesitated. Sharing a story before she had all the facts was trouble. More, it smacked of unprofessionalism.

“I’m not out to scoop you.”

“As if.” Scout did some evaluating of her own. Could she trust him? She’d honed her people-reading skills over the last years, gauging motives and intent by paying attention to body language, facial expressions, and a host of other tells.

Frustration hardened the bodyguard’s sun-weathered face, but she didn’t detect any hint of deceit in him. His gaze met hers straight on with the precision of a laser. Nicco Santonni might try to steamroll over her, but he wouldn’t lie.

When the last fry was consumed and the chocolate shake and cookies only a memory, she gestured to a trash can that was only a few feet away. “You wanted to know why someone’s trying to kill me.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“It has to do with that.”

He followed her gaze. “Trash?”

“Trash. Or, if you want to be more precise, garbage.”

Twin furrows creased his brow before he nodded in understanding. “The garbage/sanitation industry. That’s why you were trying to get to Crane last night.”

“Nailed it. Crane’s a big name in the unions and I’m investigating union murders.” Honesty forced her to add, “Unofficially.”

“If it’s unofficial, why don’t you drop it? Whoever tried to kill you is playing for keeps.”

“So am I.” She swallowed back frustration at having someone tell her to drop the investigation. “Crane’s as slippery as they come. So far he’s blocked every effort I’ve made to talk with him.” She brought her fingers together, leaving only a tiny space between them. “I was this close last night to talking with him when...”

“Someone decided to use you for target practice.”

“Yeah. That. Thanks for the meal.” She stood. “If you don’t mind, I need to get my car and head back to work.”

“Sure.”

He helped her into the truck. At his touch, a zing of awareness raced through her.

Scout turned to him as he steered the truck back to the docks. Pulses of energy flared between the two of them as their gazes connected, jangling her senses. “Seriously, thank you. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“Seriously, you’re welcome.”

Like most reporters, she was a quick study when it came to people. Nicco Santonni appealed to her on a gut-deep level, making her think of toughness and staying power. She made a decision. “If you have time, maybe you can follow me back to the office. There’s something I want to show you.”

* * *

At her office, Nicco read the letter, then reread it. His lips tightened with every word. No doubt about it, the lady was being threatened. He had no use for those who hid behind the cloak of anonymity. Cowards, the lot of them. “The creep went old school,” he said, gesturing to the words cut out from a magazine. “Cute.”

“Real cute.”

The hum of computers, the bustle of bodies on the move, and the scrape of chairs sliding across the linoleum floor filled the oversize room. Overlaying it was a sense of urgency, fed by caffeine and adrenaline. The atmosphere was one of purpose.

A television reporter had been embedded in Nicco’s last unit in Afghanistan. Against his better judgment, he’d fallen for her. In a big way. It had been a time of whispered exchanges, soft laughter, stolen kisses. They’d begun talking about the future. A home. Children. When an IED had exploded, killing her and two of his men, he’d nearly gone crazy with grief, blaming himself for failing to keep her safe. Shortly after that, he’d resigned his commission. How could he trust himself when he’d allowed the woman he loved to be killed?

Forcibly, he dragged his thoughts from the past. Scout had nothing to do with the incident that had cost the woman he’d loved her life. With that in mind, he turned his attention to how he could help. “Tell me about the other letters.”

“They weren’t bad,” she said, the reluctance in her tone telling him that there was more to come. “At least, not at first. More like a bully’s taunts.”

“Let me guess. They got worse.”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

“How many more?”

“Five.” The reluctance grew more pronounced. She dug through a drawer and pulled out the other letters. Her hand shook as she gave them to him. Her flush revealed her embarrassment at the betraying tremor.

He pretended he hadn’t noticed. “You’re right to be scared. You’d be a fool if you weren’t.”

She thrust out her chin. “I’m not scared. And I don’t run.” Her chin hitched another notch, the defiant gesture drawing his attention to the resolute set of her shoulders, the graceful contour of her neck. From there, his gaze dropped to her small but capable hands, the nails unpolished, the fingers unadorned by rings.

With hair that appeared more red than gold in the daylight, a sprinkling of cinnamon freckles and fair skin, she should have looked delicate, soft even. Instead, there was an intensity to her that caused him to forget that she stood barely over five feet and probably didn’t weigh more than a buck five. The passion in her eyes when she talked about her work made her appear bigger than she was.

“I took this job to make a difference in the world. This story is personal, but nothing else has changed. I’m still trying to make a difference.”

Hadn’t he said the same thing when he’d enlisted and again when he’d joined the Rangers? That he wanted to make a difference? Maybe he and Scout were more alike than he’d thought. He regarded her with new insight, saw the truth and sincerity that shone from her eyes.

Her straightforward approach to life was refreshing, yet there was a wariness about her, as though she was on guard against some danger he hadn’t identified, one that superseded even the threats.

“No? Then you’re not as smart as you look.” She’d seemed plenty scared last night and again at the docks today, but he had sense enough to keep that observation to himself.

He’d never thought she’d turn her back on the story, but he’d wanted to get a read on her. The lady reporter had more than her share of guts if what he sensed about her was true.

“Let’s go back to the beginning. When did the letters start?”

“Six weeks ago.” Pensively, she pinched the skin between her brows. “I didn’t pay much attention when they first started coming. Getting nasty-grams is part of the job.”

He doubted she was aware of her fingers kneading the narrow space above her nose. “Around the same time you started poking around union murders?”

“Yeah.”

“And you think they’re connected to Crane and garbage?” He lifted a brow. “Dirty business.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

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