A Time to Die

“Huh?”

“Which car is yours?”

“The white Subaru SUV.”

She snapped open her purse, rummaged inside and pulled out the keys. He took them from her, marched her to the passenger’s side, unlocked the vehicle and held open the door for her.

“Are you driving?” she asked. “Since I know where we’re going, wouldn’t it be simpler if I—”

“I’ll drive.” No discussion. No compromising.

She nodded.

“Do you need assistance?” He eyed her cane.

She shook her head, grasped the door, propped her cane against the console, then heaved herself up and into the SUV. Once she was inside, he closed her door, walked to the back, opened the hatch and tossed his duffel bag inside.

After he opened the driver’s-side door and got behind the wheel, he asked, “Where do you live?”

“If I were driving, I could take us directly there instead of navigating you through rush-hour traffic.”

“And if you were driving and someone tried to force us off the road, would you know what to do?”

His question surprised her. The thought had never entered her head. “Oh. I’d never thought of that. Is that the reason…?”

“I told you, there will be a reason for everything I do.” He started the engine. “It will make things easier if you simply accept that fact instead of questioning my actions.”

“I’m sorry, but I find it difficult to not ask questions. I’ve always been very inquisitive. I want to know who, what, when, where and why.” Her words held a glimmer of humor; her objective was to lighten the mood. “I used to be a reporter in my former life.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t smile. Instead his big hands tightened around the steering wheel. Apparently the man didn’t have a sense of humor.

“I don’t live far,” she told him. “It’ll take maybe ten minutes at most. I live in a loft apartment that Bedell, Inc. owned and Cara sold to me dirt cheap when I moved to Chattanooga a couple of years ago.”

He pulled the SUV out of the parking lot to the side street. “Right or left?”

“Take a right.” She gave him her address, then rattled off the directions to her home, assuming she would have to remind him when and where to turn, which streets to take and exactly which building was hers. But without her repeating anything, he drove them directly to her apartment, never having said a word the entire way.

“Where do you park?” he asked as he pulled up in front of the address she’d given him.

“In back,” she replied. “See that narrow street?” She pointed at the just-wide-enough-for-one-vehicle road. “It’s one-way. I drive in there and the lot’s halfway along. It goes straight through to the street on the other side, and I have to go out that way.”

“Is there a back entrance?” he asked.

“To the building? Yes.”

“What type of security does the building have?”

“The tenants have to have a key to enter either the front or the back door.”

“What about your apartment? Do you have a security system?”

“Yes, actually, I do.”

“Good. What’s your code?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What’s your code?” he asked again. “We’ll want to change it. And you won’t give the new code to anyone. Only you and I will know it.”

“Is that necessary?”

“You’re questioning me again.”

She heaved a deep, slightly aggravated sigh. “Sorry.”

He parked the car, got out, retrieved his duffel bag and was at the passenger’s door before the tip of her cane hit the pavement.

When he reached out to help her, she jerked away and gave him a negative glare. He put his hands up, palms out, in the universal hands-off signal, apparently understanding that she didn’t want or need his assistance.

He stepped back and allowed her to maneuver herself out of the vehicle and onto both feet. “There’s a service elevator that I use,” she told him as she headed toward the back door.

He followed her, and when they reached the back door, he held up her keys. “It’s that one.” She reached out and touched the correct key.

He inserted it in the lock and opened the back door. Once inside the dimly lit back hall, he grunted. “A good hard shove and that back door would come open, locked or unlocked.”

“In the two years I’ve lived here, there’s never been a break-in.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Are you always so negative?” She punched the up button on the old service elevator. It was the only operable elevator in the building. The other tenants used the staircase most of the time; only she and Mr. Rafferty, the elderly gentleman who lived on the fourth floor of the five-story building, used the elevator on a regular basis.

Deke didn’t respond to her question and remained silent as they ascended to the top floor of the 1920s structure. The fifth level of the building was a loft that had been used for storage in years gone by. Before she moved to Chattanooga, Bedell, Inc. had purchased the building and renovated it, turning it into a small condo complex, with one condo on each level. When she’d moved in two years ago, the loft had been a wide-open space, a blank canvas for her to decorate as she wished.

“The door key is the shiny brass one next to the back-door key,” Lexie told him. “The security keypad is on the right-hand side as you enter. My code is thirty-four, thirty-four.”

He frowned.

“Before you tell me that it’s stupid to repeat numbers in a code—don’t. I change my code every year on my birthday. I’m thirty-four years old, so—”

“I’ll change it tonight,” he said, then unlocked the door, entered the apartment and disarmed the security system.

Feeling slightly disoriented because she was unaccustomed to having anyone else in control of her life in any way, Lexie crossed the threshold. Since she had ended her physical therapy sessions five years ago, she had prided herself on taking care of all her own needs and being dependent on no one. How could she explain to this man—this high-priced security agent—that his presence in her life disturbed her on more than one level? First and foremost, she hated that she needed him to protect her. Second, she didn’t like being sexually attracted to a man she didn’t even know.

DEKE WASN’T SURE what he’d been expecting. He’d been in numerous loft apartments over the years, and although each had been different, the basic style had been the same. Modern and minimalist. But there was nothing modern or bare bones about the sight that met him upon entering the vast expanse of Lexie’s place. He dropped his duffel bag on the wooden floor, which had mellowed with age to a dark patina and glistened with the sheen of fresh polish. The huge open room encompassed the kitchen—bright, white and airy, with stainless-steel appliances; a living room in varying shades of beige, brown and taupe and boasting a black baby grand piano near one of three sets of French doors; and last but not least, a formal dining room with a crystal chandelier and a mahogany table that seated six.

“Impressive,” Deke said. “It must have cost a fortune to decorate.”

“Most of the furniture was my grandmother’s. I was her only grandchild, and she left an entire houseful of furniture to me,” Lexie told him. “As for the cost of fixing this place up—I have a small fortune. Nothing to compare to Cara Bedell’s, but more than I’ll ever need.”