Private Security

He swallowed hard and lifted the binoculars to the blue sling that cradled her left arm and hindered her movements. What had happened to her? Three days ago on Monday, when he'd finally spotted her checking the post office box, she'd been fine.

She awkwardly tugged her skirt down, and he lowered the glasses. He hadn't had time to stare at her on Monday. Now he checked out the whole package.

Tall, lithe, knockout legs and finger-tangling black hair. When she bent to pull out three plastic grocery bags, he raised the glasses again. He adjusted the focus for an excellent view of her excellent backside.

Then he noticed something at her waist. Something that glinted in the afternoon sunlight. He adjusted the focus. Under the trim jacket she wore, tucked into her skirt, was a handgun. She was carrying.

"Damn," he muttered. Juliana Caprese was a dealer at the Black Jack Casino in Biloxi. What the hell was she doing with a gun? His gaze lit on the blue sling again. Maybe it had something to do with how she'd injured her arm.

He shrugged and laid the binoculars on the passenger seat beside him. Only one way to find out. He got out of the car and sauntered down the sidewalk, timing his approach so that he'd be in her way when she headed for the stairs to her apartment building.

She hooked all three grocery bags over her right wrist and dug into her jacket pocket. The bags swung back and forth, and even from his distance, Dawson could see the way the plastic handles bit into the skin of her forearm. She wasn't going to make it without dropping something. He sped up slightly.

Juliana Caprese grimaced as the plastic bags dug into her flesh. She fumbled for the bills she'd stuck in her pocket to give the taxi driver. With her left arm out of commission, even the smallest task was a pain. She finally snagged the bills with two fingers and tugged. As she did, she felt one of the plastic straps tear. Her arm jerked as the strap broke and a bag hit the sidewalk. She heard the unmistakable crunch of eggshells breaking.

"Damn it!" she snapped, glaring at the taxi driver, but her effort was wasted. He lounged complacently behind the wheel talking on his microphone in a language she couldn't place.

Before she could lift her right arm to hand the lazy thug his fare, a man stepped right in front of her.

Startled, her instinctive reaction was to run. The last time someone had taken her by surprise she'd ended up with a bruised face, a banged-up knee and a dislocated shoulder.

But there was nowhere for her to go. She was blocked in by the taxi, the man and the spilled groceries.

Then she saw what the man was doing. He thrust two twenties into the driver's face. "I've got your cab number," he said mildly. "Your boss will hear about your lazy butt."

The driver muttered something in a foreign language and sped away.

Juliana crouched to pick up her bag of broken eggs. The man crouched at the same time.

"I got it," he said.

She held out the crumpled bills. "Here."

But he snagged the bag and stood, leaving her at eye level with the front of his jeans.

Oh, boy, she thought, her mouth going dry. The sight of leanly muscled thighs straining against worn denim took her breath away. For an instant, she just stared.

"Need help?" he asked, a definite hint of amusement in his voice. He held out his hand.

She ignored it and rose, wincing when her knee threatened to buckle. "Take this," she snapped, thrusting the money toward him again.

But he didn't even look at it. "Let me help you with those," he said, deftly hooking a finger around the straining plastic straps on her wrist.

"No," she said immediately. "I'm fine."

But he already had them. Apprehension took hold of her again. "Please give me back my groceries."

"I don't think this bag qualifies as groceries any longer," he responded in that same amused voice. "I think your eggs have graduated from groceries to garbage."

Juliana bit her cheek to stop herself from chuckling. She raised her gaze to his and frowned at the look in his very bright blue eyes. He was watching her with a disturbing intensity. "I'll check them when I get upstairs," she said shortly, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

She glanced around. Where had he come from? When the taxi had stopped, there was no one on the street. She knew, because ever since she'd been attacked two days ago, she'd been hypervigilant. And she'd started carrying her gun. She was not about to be caught with no means of self-defense again. Ever.

The man's eyes narrowed and his brows lowered dangerously. "What happened to you?" he asked gruffly.

"What?"

"Your face. Your arm."

"Accident," she tossed out. "May I have my bags now?"

"You live here?"

He was starting to scare her. She backed away toward the steps to her building. She glared at him again, avoiding those laser eyes, looking at his mouth instead. But that turned out to be a mistake. His mouth was wide and straight, with a lower lip that she was sure wouldStop it, the little voice inside her head said. You don't know where that mouth has been.

She glanced over her shoulder and took another step backward. She was nearly at the steps to her building.

"Whoa, hang on," the man said quickly. "You're Juliana Caprese, right?"

Her heart lurched. He knew her name. She half turned, ready to run up the steps. She didn't need those groceries that badly.

"Wait, please. My name's Dawson," he offered. "I guess I'm not handling this well. I don't mean to frighten you. I just want to ask you a question or two. Did you get the business card I left at Kaplan Wright?"

That surprised her. So this was the John Dawson who'd left the card at the architect's office. She paused, but she moved her hand to her side, ready to grab her weapon.

"Hey, I'm not going to hurt you. Like I said, I just want to ask you some questions."

She narrowed her gaze. "Ask me some questions? Well, you're right. You aren't handling it well. Accosting me in the street is not a good way to start." She let her hand drift backward again, wondering how long it would take her to grab her gun.

Too long, the little voice answered.

"Ms. Caprese," he said quickly, "there's no reason for you to be afraid of me. I'm on your side."

"My side?" That shocked her. She clamped her jaw and lifted her chin. She didn't relax her hand. "My side of what?" she asked harshly.

"The collapse of the Sky Walk."

Her heart, already racing, took a header against her chest wall and stole her breath. She sucked in air greedily. Her heel hit the bottom step and she almost stumbled.

"Look Mr.Dawson," she grated. "I'm" What was she about to tell him? That she was armed? There was no way she could get her hand on her Smith & Wesson 3913 before he stopped her. He was six inches taller and outweighed her by at least seventy pounds. He could disarm her without breaking an egg, if there were any left whole.

Even so, she was curious. "What do you mean you're on my side?"

The man named John Dawson, whose card was sitting on her desk upstairs, gave her a hint of a smile. "I'm looking into the collapse of the Sky Walk, just like you. We could both benefit from working together."

"Are you a cop?" she snapped, just as the rest of the printing on the card rose in her mind. It said D&D Services, Inc. By Appointment Only.

He allowed his mouth to stretch into a smile that revealed an unexpected dimple in his cheek. "Nope. I'm just a private citizen, looking into this on my own, same as you, but I've got better equipment." He stopped and let his gaze drift over her.

"Well, some of it's better," he amended. She bristled at the double entendre. She didn't like him. He was too cocky, too friendlytoo good-looking. And she had the feeling he hadn't shown up here on a whim. He wasn't the type to act on impulsehis eyes were too sharp, too calculating. She was sure he'd learned everything he could about her before he'd ever decided to approach her.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Why are you interested in the Sky Walk?"

His smile didn't fade, but those blue eyes took on a smoky hue. He shook his head. "Let's just say I have a need to know what happened, too. Look, Julianamay I call you Juliana?"

"No, you may not. I don't need any help. I'm doing just fine. Now please, give me my bags."

He held them out. One of them was dripping raw, slimy egg. She grabbed on to the straps, touching his hand. She jerked away, but not fast enough to miss that it was warm and large and strong, with long fingers and calluses on his palms. She peered up at his face. He had the looks and the build of an actor or a model, but his hands told her he'd done manual labor. Interesting.

No. No. No. Not interesting. "I have to go. I'm not interested in working with youor anyone else," she said frostily. She started toward the steps to her apartment building, then looked back.

"Thank you for" She lifted the hand carrying the bags. As she started to climb the first step, he spoke.

"Juliana, who attacked you?"

She whirled. His brows were lowered again in that dangerous expression. She pressed her lips together. For an instant, she felt an overwhelming urge to tell him what had happened. With that fierce glare and those strong, beautiful workman's hands, he could keep her safe from all harm. She was sure of that.

But what if he was lying? What if he worked for the people who wanted to stop her from looking into her father's death? The people who'd attacked her?

She turned back to the stairs and felt raw egg dripping onto her foot.