From the Heart

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    The house is full of silver and small, portable valuables, he reflected. A burglar’s paradise—and she seals it off with dime-store locks. A credit card and a hairpin, Slade decided as he examined the rear kitchen door. He’d have to see that Jessica installed something less flimsy before he left.
    In a mound of white fur, Ulysses slept on the cool tile floor, snoring lightly. He never stirred as Slade stepped over him. Testing, Slade rattled the knob on the back door. Ulysses’ rhythm never altered.
    “Wake up, you good-for-nothing mutt.”
    At the command, the dog opened one glazed eye, thumped his tail twice, then went back to sleep.
    Rubbing the back of his neck, Slade reminded himself thata run-of-the-mill burglar wasn’t the immediate problem. He stepped over the dog again and left him snoring.
    Cautiously, he moved through the servants’ wing. There was a pale light under one door and the muffled laughter of a late-night talk show. The rest were silent. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just past midnight. Slade went back to the parlor to wait.
    He sat in a wingback chair, lost in the shadows. Watch and wait. There was little more he could do. And he was itching to do something—anything to move the investigation along. Maybe the commissioner picked the wrong man after all, he mused. This time Slade wanted to look for trouble—and he wanted to find it. Whoever had hired the man in the grove was going to pay, he had little doubt of that. But he wanted to collect personally.
    The woman upstairs in his bed was all that mattered. The diamonds were incidental—they were just rocks, after all, with a market value. Jessica was priceless. With a silent laugh, he stretched out his legs. Dodson could hardly have foreseen that his hand-picked bodyguard would fall in love with his assignment. Slade knew his own reputation: thorough, precise, and cool.
    Well, he thought, he’d lost his cool almost from the instant he’d seen the little blond whirlwind with the Viking cheekbones. He wasn’t thinking like a cop but like a man—a man who wanted revenge. And that was dangerous. As long as he remained on the force, he had to play by the rules. The first rule was no personal involvement.
    Slade nearly laughed aloud at that. Rule one down the tubes, he decided as he dragged a hand through his hair. How could he be more personally involved? He was already in love with her, already her lover. If they were any more personal they’d be married and having children.
    That thought stopped him cold. He couldn’t permit his mind to run in that direction. He wasn’t for her. They’d drift apart once the investigation was over. Naturally that’s what he wanted, Slade told himself, but the frown remained in his eyes. He had his own life to deal with—the demands of his profession, his responsibilities, his writing. Even if there was room in his life for a woman, their paths ran in oppositedirections. They weren’t about to cross again. It was only chance that had brought them together this time, circumstances that had brought about an intimacy that had led to emotional attachment. He’d get over her. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The hell he would.
    Wasn’t a man allowed a few dreams? he demanded of himself, when he sat alone in the dark in a room that smelled of lemon wax and fall flowers. Wasn’t he allowed to weave some sort of future when a woman lay soft and warm in his bed? He was entitled to some basic selfishness, wasn’t he? With a half sigh, Slade settled against the back of the chair. Maybe the man was, but the cop wasn’t. And, he reminded himself, Jessica needed the cop more whether she believed it or not.
    Blanking out his mind, Slade waited in the dark for just under three hours. Instinct told him he was wasting his time. Some sleep was essential if he was to be alert enough to keep her safe and occupied during the daylight hours. Stiff from sitting, he absently worked out the kinks as he headed back to the stairs. Another day, he mused, two at the most—if Agent Brewster was as close as he’d led Slade to believe.
    Fatigue settled over him the moment he allowed his muscles to relax. Four hours’ sleep would recharge his system—he’d gotten by on less. Quietly, he turned the knob of his bedroom door.
    Jessica was sitting in the middle of the bed, curled into a tight ball. She took the deep, tearing breaths of a drowning woman fighting for