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Current Work In Progress Excerpt from Chapter One (scene three) Jake took in the close space of the place. How in the world the woman lived in this cracker box was beyond him. It wasn't big enough to sling a cat in, and he dang sure wasn't happy about this baby-sitting-cum-bodyguard assignment. Especially for her. Especially since his hormones catapulted completely off the charts from the moment he'd walked in here. Maybe the stimulation was a holdover from the past. Yeah, maybe that was it, but there wasn't much he could do at this point. He’d tried to persuade her to go to a motel, but no, she hadn't wanted any part of that idea. She flat-out refused to leave her apartment. And who knows? Maybe a motel room might've provided a little more space than this place. Sheriff Cavetti must have planted a bug in his luggage to keep up with his movements, because Blanche had his home phone ringing as soon as he walked in. Hadn’t had a spare moment to go down to the barn, simply managed to say 'Hi' and 'Bye' in the same sentence as he passed Coop on his way out again. His gear was still beside the door, exactly where he'd dropped it when he arrived home. The sound of the bedroom door opening brought him back to the present. He rinsed his cup in the sink, grabbed the canvas bag he'd hastily stuffed with a few necessities, and went into the bathroom. He sniffed the scent. Magnolia? Gardenia? Better than the rank decaying soil odor still lingering in the living room from all the overturned plants. Plants were for the outside anyway. Guess she didn’t know. And sure, he'd vacuumed to help out, but it would take a super-charged carpet cleaner to bring it back to anything near habitable, and to get rid the awful humus smell. He eased under the hot spray. Hissed. At least she had a good showerhead. No doubt there. He stood under the satisfying sharp force of water. Surely she could afford something better than this place. A few more square feet would make all the difference. That fancy flowery scent. He inhaled it through the mist and reacted. Reacted like a depraved adolescent with raging testosterone ready to explode as his body stood at full-alert. Jake dried off with brisk strokes and pulled the work-worn jeans over his hips. Barefoot and shirtless, he moved out into the living room until he reached the sofa. It was old, but folded out, it was long enough to accommodate his long length. He roared when he stumbled against the sofa. The bedroom door flew open. She stood there in the faint glow from a streetlight, staring as if she'd never seen a man before. Well, there's a laugh. He stumbled again and muttered under his breath. “Are you okay? What happened?” she asked. “Stubbed a toe against the leg of the sofa frame.” “Why don't you turn the light on so you can see what you're doing?” “I don't need to see what I'm doing. I'm about to lie down.” The overhead light came on, blinding in its brightness. Jake shifted around. She didn't need to see the reaction his energetic hormones had turned into a vertical fence post. She coughed and placed a hand just under her breast. Don’t go there, Jake. Her hair, the color of a fine brandy mixed with sparse strands of other hues, blond and red and black, was cropped just below her earlobes. Sassy and determined. It suited her. “You aren't wearing pajamas.” “No, I'm not wearing pajamas.” “Why not?” No 'why' to it. “I don't wear pajamas," he said, struggling to keep the state of his arousal a private matter. Under the circumstances, explaining didn't seem appropriate. As for the pajamas, he couldn't remember wearing them since he was a kid. He'd found long ago they weren't necessary for sleeping, and too, if he, on occasion, slept with someone, he knew pajamas to be a damned nuisance. So why bother with them? And besides, pajamas hadn’t crossed his mind. It wasn't as if he often had orders to sleep over at a victim's home. Matter of fact, not ever. This was a first, and he wondered if the assignment he'd landed in was a good idea. But, like Cavetti, he didn't think leaving her alone was the best action, either. Jake slid onto the sofa and looked up . . . a vision straight out of a men's fantasy magazine. "Constance McKenzie, eh," he said. "When did you change your name?"
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