Mistaken for the Mob

Weird, since she hadn’t wanted to face his—was it anger?—again.

To be honest, she had to admit that the puzzling J.Z. Prophet had sparked her interest—in a crazy, scary sort of way. He’d kicked up her curiosity, and he’d even revved something inside her. Excitement? Maybe. Inquisitiveness? Definitely.

Maryanne sat behind her desk and braced her forehead on the heels of her hands. “Argh!”

She had to be partway to certifiable. No sane woman would be interested in some stranger who’d looked at her funny. A sane woman wouldn’t try to figure out why he’d done it.

It didn’t make sense—she didn’t make sense.

So was Trudy right? Had she imagined J.Z.’s instant dislike?

Now that the Uni-Comp men had left and she was alone, Maryanne began to question her earlier take on the incident. A stranger would have no reason for anger, not toward her.

Oh, well. Trudy probably was right. It wouldn’t be the first time Maryanne let her imagination run wild.

After all, J.Z. Prophet was an attractive man, of the rugged, dark and brooding sort. He would catch her eye, no matter what—any woman’s at that. But of course he wasn’t the kind of man she’d want to get to know. He was not her type at all. Still, no seeing woman would call him nondescript.

Steel-colored eyes above angular cheekbones pierced deep. And the dark hair that tumbled over his forehead revealed a lack of self-absorption. Although J.Z. Prophet’s hair shone with health and cleanliness, as did his pristine white shirt and faded jeans, he wasn’t the blow-dried, manicured, crease-pressed new-jean type, a trend she found disconcerting.

If he hadn’t fixed those stormy eyes on her, she might have been attracted to him.

“Good grief, Maryanne,” she muttered as her computer booted up. “There you go again. No sooner do you decide the guy couldn’t possibly have given you an angry look, than you make a U-turn and think the opposite one more time.”

She sighed. It was time to get back to work. Time to put the enigmatic J.Z. Prophet out of her mind.

The next two hours proved productive. At around three o’clock, when Maryanne felt the urge for her usual cup of tea, she stood, walked around her desk and crossed the room.

At the doorway, she stopped.

A weird feeling crept up her back—hair-raising was the only way to describe it. Someone was watching her.

Maryanne looked up and down the hall, but saw no one, found nothing unusual. Then the door across the hall came to a complete close with a soft, automatic swish.

She stared. The men’s room. Had someone been watching her?

Had that someone—the one she was sure had watched her—just gone in there?

Had J.Z. Prophet spooked her so much that she saw boogeymen all around? Had some innocent guy done nothing more than walk by her office door to use the restroom instead? And she’d let herself freak out.

Or had he been watching her? J.Z’s face materialized in her mind. Why? Why would he want to watch her?

Maryanne’s knees gave. She fell back against her office door. She began to shiver, but refused to give in to fear. She closed her eyes and turned to God.

Why, why, why was she so shaken?

“Your strength is sufficient for me,” she prayed. Over and over again, she whispered the words until the tremors subsided.

But no matter how long she prayed, and no matter how hard she worked, Maryanne failed to erase the memory of J.Z.’s stare.

Trudy was right about at least one thing. Should Maryanne ever see him again, she wouldn’t hesitate to call the cops. Although she preferred to avoid clichеs, she felt she was living one right then.

If looks could kill….

The rest of the afternoon crawled by in a blur of stress. By the time five o’clock rolled around, Maryanne’s shoulders had frozen rigid and her temples pounded a vicious beat. She’d accomplished precious little in that time, since no matter how hard she tried, the image of J.Z. Prophet slammed into her thoughts every few minutes.

She couldn’t concentrate on anything she read, and hadn’t been able to type up her notes for the report due next Tuesday. Her fingers shook like leaves in a gale. Even simple filing became a challenge of inordinate proportion.

Ibuprofen did nothing to alleviate her headache—she doubted anything would until the memory of J.Z. Prophet’s intensity melted away on its own. She hoped she never had to set eyes on him again.

In the library parking lot, she waved goodbye to Trudy and Sarah Myers, who worked with the rare collections. Then, because she’d fed Shakespeare the last of his food and the kitty litter was also running low, she drove straight to the grocery store. The ride served to soothe her raw nerves. Her favorite radio station had on a Darlene Zschech special. Maryanne liked the Aussie’s contemporary style of worship music.

At the store, she grabbed feline supplies, romaine lettuce, fresh chicken breasts and an Idaho potato the size of the state where it grew. Dinner would be a simple matter of shredding greens and nuking stuff—about all she could face today.

At the register, Joe Moore, a retiree who augmented his social security with part-time cashier duty, smiled when he saw her. “How’s old Stan doing these days?”

Maryanne arched an eyebrow. “Old? Dad’s two years younger than you.”

The scanner beeped as Joe ran her purchases before the screen. “Age is just a matter of the mind, honey bun.”

“Oh, and Dad’s matured beyond his mischievous adolescent mental age in the last twenty-four hours?”

“A man can always hope.”

They shared a good-natured chuckle, and the pounding in Maryanne’s head began to ease.

“How’s Amelia?” she asked.

“Sore and crotchety, but the doc says the hip replacement went even better than he’d expected—thank the Lord.”

“You two have been married how long?”

Joe puffed out his chest. “Fifty-three years and still going strong, honey bun. You oughta try it, you know.”

Maryanne grabbed the bag of groceries and made for the door. “Don’t you get started. It’s bad enough with Dad and Trudy and a couple of others badgering me right and left. You know how I feel. If God’s got a man for me, well then, it’s up to Him to find me the guy.”

“And how’re you going to see this gift from heaven if all you do is hide behind books at the library or hang out with the oldsters at the retirement home?”

“I’m not hiding,” Maryanne said, her chin tipped a hair higher. “I’m serving where the Lord’s planted me. I’m sure He’ll lead me where He wants me if He wants me to go elsewhere.”

“Whoa, girl! That’s a mouthful there.” Joe shook his head and scanned his next customer’s laundry detergent. “Strikes me you’re a mite defensive on the subject. I suggest you pray a little on it, and see if I’m not right.”

Maryanne sighed. As if she didn’t already pray her way through each and every day. “I’ll do that, Joe. Give my love to Amelia, will you?”

“Of course, honey bun. And you tell that crazy daddy of yours to stay out of trouble at that country club place where he lives nowadays.”

“I will. Why don’t you stop by and see him sometime soon? He’ll get a kick out of it.”

With a nod and a wink, Joe turned his full attention to the young mother of three little girls under the age of six. Maryanne left the store, and then popped open her Escort’s trunk. She balanced the groceries against the bag of sand she always stored there for just in case. When she shut the trunk, a car crawled down the row behind her.