Oh God. What now?
The man who stood on her porch had been staring at the house across the street. He turned and took off aviator sunglasses to reveal piercing blue eyes. Fiercely intelligent eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue police uniform, with—oh my gosh—body armor. And about a ton of hardware on his belt, some of which looked suspiciously like weaponry. And a big side holster strapped to his thigh carrying a big black gun that definitely was weaponry.
She opened the door.
He wasn’t much taller than she was, but she’d never seen shoulders as broad as his. Everything about him was broad and strong and unyielding.
“Are you Nicole Pearce?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, I am. Is there something wrong, Officer?”
“No, ma’am, not at all. My name is Mike Keillor, with the San Diego PD. I was asked by a mutual friend of ours, Sam Reston, to stop by. Make my presence felt.” He stopped, looking at her so intently it was as if he were walking around inside her head.
The mention of Sam’s name jolted her, threw her off her stride so much she barely heard the rest of his sentence. She hit rewind and heard what he’d said all over again, puzzling over it.
Sam had said?—
“Oh!” Of course! Sam had sent over his policeman friend, the man who was like a brother to him, to intimidate the creeps across the street. Though the entire effect was wasted if they weren’t home. “Yes, thank you so much.” He wasn’t answering, just standing there, looking at her. Nicole resisted the urge to wring her hands. She’d been trained from childhood to deal with unexpected, even awkward encounters, but all her savoir-faire deserted her.
Just the mention of Sam Reston flustered her so much that manners went straight out the window.
She backed up, holding the door open. “Please come in, Officer. Or would that be Sergeant?” A lifetime in the diplomatic corps had taught her the importance of getting titles right.
“That would be Sergeant, yes ma’am. But please just call me Mike.”
“Okay, Mike. Would you like to come into the living room?”
He ducked his head. “Thank you, ma’am. But first, I’m going to walk back to the patrol car and get my long gun. I’m going to do it slowly, so whoever’s watching across the street will realize I mean business.”
“Sam—” God, it was hard just to say his name. “Sam said that these two men who are…who are bothering me will be deterred by you. I hope so. I also hope they’re watching right now, or else it’s an exercise in futility.”
“They’re watching, all right.” Mike’s voice was grim. “Second floor, third window from the right.”
Nicole’s eyes flew to the window in question. She blinked. There were closed grungy-looking Venetian blinds over the window. And—yes—a tiny peephole created by someone holding the slats slightly open. You had to look carefully to see it.
He turned and walked slowly back to the patrol car. Across that extra-wide bodybuilder’s blue back were stenciled big white letters. SWAT.
He reached into the car and brought out a rifle. A big, bad-looking weapon that looked like cool, deadly business. Once he’d closed the car door, he just stood with his back to her, staring across at the house of her nemeses. Holding that big gun with complete familiarity, like a mother holds a child.
Finally, he turned around and walked back up to the house, following her in. Once the door was closed, he stored the gun, upright, in a corner, said, “It’s not loaded, ma’am. But they won’t know that,” and stood at rest, impossibly wide shoulders back, hands folded neatly over his crotch.
She’d seen a thousand Marine guards in embassies all over the world assume that stance. Sam had mentioned that Mike had been a Marine, but even if he hadn’t, it was unmistakeable.
“Were you in the Marines, Sergeant Keillor? Mike?”
He looked startled. “Yes, ma’am. Six years.”
She smiled faintly. She’d loved the embassy Marines, always so polite and no-nonsense and utterly, completely competent. Unlike most of the political officers.
“Can you stay for a cup of coffee, Ser—Mike?”
He fixed her with a ferocious light blue gaze. “Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am. I need to stay long enough to establish that we’re friends, that you’ve got a police officer looking after you.”
She called the housekeeper. Manuela appeared in the doorway, smiling, wiping her hands on her apron. “Manuela, could we have coffee served in the living room, please?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned to Mike. “Come into the living room, then, and we’ll have our coffee.”
