Number two was both patronizing and condescending. “I know exactly what you want,” he informed her, then proceeded to tell her what he’d do to the farmhouse. It was exactly what she didn’t want.
Number three was not only late for the appointment, but both he and his truck were filthy. That said a lot in her book. She could just picture hiring the man and having him show up for work when the mood suited him. He’d probably leave a mess behind every day for her to trip over, and then she’d have to hire a team of workers to clean up after him.
She’d gone to the contractors first in the hope of finding someone who would then issue subcontracts for things like plumbing and electricity. Now, having struck out, she debated calling the plumbers and electricians herself. Lord only knew she desperately needed to get the job done.
She decided to wait for Matt to return. He’d help her. And she trusted him. She’d never seen his work, but she somehow knew that any recommendations he made would be solid.
By Sunday night, she was thinking of Matt more and more, wondering when he’d be returning and what would happen then. She liked him—very, very much. She wanted to believe that his finest qualities—his gentleness, honesty and spontaneity—were indicative of the way Brad had been, too. She still wondered about Brad, still had questions for Matt to answer. But when she was with Matt she wasn’t thinking brotherly thoughts. Matt intrigued her. He excited her. He seemed to take the best of both worlds—brain and brawn—and emerge superior. He wasn’t quite like anyone she’d ever known before.
Nor did he kiss like anyone she’d ever known before. Not that she was anywhere near to being an expert on kissing. But she’d dreamed of feeling things in a kiss, and Matt had taken her far, far beyond those dreams—so much so that the restlessness she felt was no mystery.
Knowledge of the cause of a problem was not, however, a solution in itself. And since the solution was for the present out of reach, Lauren did the next best thing. Leaving a light burning in the living room, which had become a habit, she headed upstairs to treat herself to a long, soothing shower.
“Treat” was the operative word. As with most everything else pertaining to the farmhouse, the hot-water heater was small and outmoded. Even with its thermostat set on high, the “hot” was negligible. She’d quickly learned that she couldn’t take a shower and then expect there to be enough hot water for the laundry. But she wasn’t doing laundry that night, and she fully intended to indulge herself until the water ran cold.
Tossing her clothes into the hamper, she took a fresh nightgown from her drawer and went into the bathroom. The shower was little more than a head rigged high in the bathtub, but it served the purpose. She turned on the water, drew the curtain, waited until steam rose above it, then stepped inside.
Heaven. Just what the doctor ordered. Eyes closed, she tipped back her head and let the warmth flow over her hair, shoulders, back and legs. Soap in hand, she lathered her body, then turned, inch by inch, to rinse off. Relaxation seeped through her. She rocked slowly to the pulse of the water.
Then she heard a noise. Her head shot up and her eyes flew open. The slam of a door? Or was it her imagination? She lingered beneath the spray, listening closely. She thought she felt vibrations.
Without pausing to decide whether the vibrations were footsteps or her own thudding heart, she reached back and quickly turned off the water. Then she grabbed her towel and, with jerky movements, began to dry off. Under the circumstances, she did a commendable job, though her nightgown didn’t realize that. It stuck so perversely to the damp spots she’d left that she was all but screaming in frustration by the time she finally managed to get it on properly.
Holding her breath, she peered around the bathroom door into the bedroom. When she didn’t see anyone there, she dashed out to her closet and grabbed the first weapon she could find. The heavy, workhorse of a Nikon camera, which she hadn’t used in years, would certainly serve as a makeshift club, particularly when heaved from its strap.
She tiptoed to the wall by the open bedroom door, flattened herself against it and listened. And listened. Nothing.
She took a deep breath, then yelled as forcefully as she could, “I’ve already connected with the police department and they’re on their way! Better get out while you can!”
Silence.
Of course, she hadn’t connected with the police department. They’d think she was a fool. Old houses made noises all the time, and she wasn’t sure she’d lived long enough in this one to be able to identify all its characteristic moans and groans. No, she wasn’t convinced there was an intruder.
On the other hand, she wasn’t convinced there wasn’t one, either.
Figuring that she’d need every precious moment if someone should storm in, she reached for the light switch and threw the room into a darkness that was broken only by a faint glow from the bathroom. Then, moving as silently as she could, given that she was more than a little unsteady on her feet, she wedged herself behind the bedroom door and peered through the crack, waiting for someone to creep up the stairs or emerge from one of the other two bedrooms.
No one did.
Noiselessly, Lauren sank to the floor, her gaze never once leaving the narrow slit of a peephole. She waited and watched and listened, growing stiff with tension but not daring to move. Five minutes passed, and there was nothing. Ten minutes passed, and she continued to wait, her temple now pressed wearily to the wall. By the time fifteen minutes had elapsed, she had to admit that she’d very possibly jumped to conclusions.
She wasn’t convinced enough to leave herself unprotected, though. To that measure, she carefully closed the bedroom door, carried over a chair and propped it beneath the knob. Then, with the strap of the camera still wound around her hand, she climbed into bed and lay stiffly, listening, waiting. The only thing she was sure about as the hours crept by was that she very definitely would have a burglar alarm system installed when the house was sufficiently readied for it. Nights like this she didn’t need.
Unless, of course, she had that bodyguard.
Chapter Five
When the phone rang early the next morning, Lauren jumped. She was in the kitchen, trying to force down a breakfast she didn’t really want, and the unexpected sound jarred her already taut nerves. Snatching up the receiver after the first ring, she gasped a breathless “Hello?”
“Lauren? It’s Matt.”
Hand over her heart, she let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that she’d actually expected someone menacing to be on the other end of the line but, rather, that the sound of Matt’s voice was an instant and incredible comfort. “Matt,” she murmured. “I’m so glad….”
There was a slight pause. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no. Just me and my imagination.” She put her hand on the top of her head and found herself spilling it all. “I had the worst time last night. I was in the shower and thought I heard a noise. It turned out to be nothing, but the weirdest things have been happening lately, Matt. You wouldn’t believe it. After I left you the night of the concert, some car tailed me all the way home. Well, not all the way, but almost. And before that the garage door had missed me by inches, and the dog had attacked me, and the car had swerved into the sidewalk—”
“Whoa, sweetheart. Slow up a bit. It doesn’t sound like it’s all been your imagination.”
