Page 3

CHAPTER 3

The police stayed until they’d thoroughly searched her house and around her damaged car for any evidence they could find to identify the culprit.

They’d asked her to stand out of the way out on the porch.

Sachie frowned. “Okay, but first, I’d like to get dressed in something...more substantial. Could I go to my bedroom long enough to do that?”

Officer Layne nodded.

“I’m going with Ms. Moore,” Teller Osgood said and moved up to stand beside her.

Her cheeks heated. “I think I’m capable of finding my way to my own room.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “But I’d like to clear the room before you go in, just in case your attacker circled around and re-entered the house while no one was looking.”

Officer Layne snorted. “With police officers all over this property? He’d have to be insane.”

Osgood met and held the officer’s gaze, his jaw firm. “Either I clear the room, or one of you officers can.”

Layne shook his head. “Go ahead. Just don’t disturb any evidence.”

When Sachie stepped past the man, he caught her arm in a loose grip, his touch sending a surprise jolt of electricity through her.

She stared down at his hand on her arm, then up into moss-green eyes, a little dazed and confused. Probably from everything that had happened. “Right. You go first.”

He led the way into the cottage.

Sachie followed, studying the man while he wasn’t looking.

The man was tall, with a headful of dark brown hair and shoulders so broad he could be a weightlifter or a star in one of those superhero movies. A trim waist led to firm buttocks encased in dark jeans. As a protector, the man had missed his calling. He definitely should have auditioned for a superhero movie. He had the build and carried himself like one.

She stood outside her bedroom while he made a quick sweep of the closet, under the bed and behind the door. When he finished, he gave her a nod. “It’s all yours, ma’am.”

Sachie frowned. “Don’t call me, ma’am. It makes me feel old.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, stood back and waved her into the room.

“Sachie,” she corrected. “Call me Sachie.”

“Yes, ma’am?—”

She glared at him.

“Sachie,” he corrected, his lips twitching on the corners.

The hint of a smile made her heart race. To cover her reaction, she assumed her best formal voice, the one she reserved for reporters and society snobs. “Is my room cleared to your satisfaction, Mr. Osgood?”

“Teller,” he said. “And yes. You can go in. Just stay away from the windows.”

“Thank you, Mr. Osgood,” she said as she walked past him.

“Call me Teller,” he said. “Mr. Osgood was my father.”

Sachie hid a smile as she entered her room, and he left, pulling the door closed behind him.

Alone for the first time since she’d erupted from her closet, ready to stab her attacker with a butcher knife, she shivered, the events of the night rushing back at her like a tsunami of images in her mind, crushing the air from her lungs. Her heart beat so fast it burned inside her chest, and she couldn’t breathe.

As a counselor, she knew she wasn’t suffocating. If she passed out, her autonomic nervous system would kick in to keep her heart beating and restore her lungs to their usual efficiency. It was just a panic attack, just like all the panic attacks she’d had since that horrible afternoon in her office back in Honolulu.

No matter how many times she’d told herself she wasn’t going to die, she couldn’t reason her way out of the rush of terror. She found that when she was afflicted with such an attack, if she got out of room, house or building she was in, out into the open air, she could breathe better.

Sachie ran to her dresser and pulled out a bra. As she hurried for the closet, she dragged off the T-shirt she usually slept in, put on her bra and grabbed a button-down blouse from a hanger. She slipped her arms into the blouse and left it hanging open as she tugged a pair of jeans up over her hips, buttoned and zipped. While she buttoned her blouse, she shoved her feet in a pair of running shoes and headed for the door, her chest tight, her head light as if she’d held her breath the entire two minutes she’d been in the room .

She flung open the door and raced into the hallway, slamming face-first into a solid wall.

Hands gripped her elbows, steadying her. “What’s wrong?” a deep voice asked.

Sachie looked up into Teller Osgood’s green eyes, unable to catch her breath. “Out,” she managed to push the word past constricted vocal cords.

“Are you okay?” Teller asked.

She shook her head, broke free of his grasp and ran for the front door.

Footsteps sounded behind her, but Sachie didn’t slow until she burst through the door into the front yard.

Teller came up behind her and rested a hand against her back. He leaned close and whispered, “Breathe.”

Outside in the cooler night air, with the wide-open sky full of stars shining down on her, Sachie drew a deep breath and let it out a little at a time.

“Another,” Teller urged.

She inhaled again, her heartbeat already slowing.

Officer Layne looked over from where he stood beside her damaged car. “Everything all right, Ms. Moore?”

Sachie nodded, unable to respond in words. She raised her arms and laced her hands behind her head as if that would help her to better fill her lungs .

“Panic attack?” Teller asked softly.

She nodded, hating to admit to her weakness. She was a counselor, for heaven’s sake. Her arms fell to her sides. Would she ever get past this? Would her life ever return to normal?

“Walk it off,” Teller said.

When she didn’t move, he took her hand. “It’s okay. I’ll be with you.” In silence, he led her across the short distance of her front yard and back for several laps.

By the time Officer Layne approached her, Sachie’s pulse and breathing had returned to normal. When she tried to pull her hand out of Teller’s, his fingers tightened slightly, not enough she couldn’t free it, but enough to make her realize she didn’t want to let go. For whatever reason, this stranger grounded her when her mind spiraled uncontrollably.

“Ms. Moore, I can take your statement now, or you can come by the station later in the morning and give it,” Layne said.

“I’d rather get it over with now,” she said.

He nodded and pulled a pen and pad from his pocket. “You said you saw a face of a person in your window. Could you describe that face?”

The panic she’d felt moments before swelled inside her .

Teller’s hand tightened around hers, and the swelling subsided.

Sachie drew a deep breath, closed her eyes and forced her mind to review the memory. “It was dark,” she said. “I only got an impression of dark hair and a thin face.” She shrugged, unwilling to tell them what had been nagging at her since the face had appeared. The face had been familiar, but she couldn’t quite put a finger on who it reminded her of. Or her mind didn’t want her to figure it out.

Layne asked her a barrage of other questions that all seemed to run together in her exhausted brain. She answered as best she could. She hadn’t seen the man in the window bust her car windshield, and she’d been hiding in her closet when he’d broken through her front door and the door to her bedroom. “I’m not much help, am I?”

“You did the right thing by hiding and calling for help,” Officer Layne said and turned to Teller with some of the same questions.

Sachie listened to the deep, smooth tone of his voice as he described the assailant.

“I didn’t get a look at his face as he was running away from me. He was tallish, lanky and his hair was a little shaggy, not too long, but like he’d missed a haircut or two.”

Officer Layne wrote down Sachie’s and Teller’s contact information. “We’ll be in touch with whatever information we discover about this case. In the meantime, you’ll need to get that doorframe repaired, and you might consider installing a security system.”

The gray light of dawn crept across the sky as the Hawaii Police officers drove away from Sachie’s cottage, leaving her standing on the front porch with Teller and no idea what to do next.

Teller turned to her. “If you want to sleep, I can stand watch.”

She laughed, the sound a bit on the hysterical side. “I’m tired, but I couldn’t sleep if I tried.”

“How about I make you a cup of coffee?” he said. “I could use one.”

“Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee?” she said, leading the way back into the cottage. “That way, I can stay busy.”

“Sounds good,” he said as he followed her to the kitchen at the back of the house. “And maybe we can figure out who followed you here.”

She stopped so suddenly he ran into her.

Her cheeks heated, and her hands clenched at her sides, her body tensing. “What do you know?”

“Only that you moved to the Big Island to get away from a stalker on Oahu after suffering from a traumatic incident.” He touched her arm. “Look, you can tell me as much or as little as you feel comfortable with. The more I know, the better I can anticipate trouble. But I get it. I’m a stranger. It’s hard to spill your guts with someone you’ve just met.” He nudged her elbow. “Let’s start with coffee. If all we talk about is what’s the best brand of coffee, that’s enough. I’m here until you don’t need me anymore. Now. Breathe.”

Sachie drew in a deep breath and continued into the kitchen. After cleaning up the broken glass and spilled juice, she went through the routine of filling the coffeemaker with water, scooping the dark crystals into a filter and turning the machine on. As the air filled with the rich aroma, she set two mugs on the counter, finally turning to face the stranger leaning against the counter in her kitchen. “Cream and sugar?”

He shook his head. “Black.” His green eyes studied her as if he could see every thought flitting through her head.

“I like milk and sugar in my coffee.” Sachie spun toward the refrigerator, yanked it open and grabbed the jug of milk from inside the door. When she returned to the coffeemaker, it had quit dripping. She yanked the pot out, sloshing hot coffee over her hand.

“Damn!” she muttered and shoved the pot back into the machine.

Teller was beside her in a second. He took the hand she’d burned with the hot liquid, led her to the sink and ran cold water over the burn.

All the while, he held her hand, and her pulse raced, her stomach fluttered and thoughts spun in her head. If she just moved away from him, she could rein all that confusion in and get her head on straight.

But she didn’t move away. She let him hold her hand, trying not to like it so much. She had enough problems; she didn’t need to add hero worship to them.

So, he was easy on the eye. Really easy on the eye. Sachie had dated good-looking guys before. They tended to be more into themselves than the person seated across the table. Besides, she wasn’t looking to start anything with anyone, especially not with a man hired to protect her. And not while she was still suffering classic PTSD symptoms that, on many occasions, literally brought her to her knees.

As a counselor versed in all manners of trauma, she knew it took time to work through PTSD. Some didn’t ever get over it. They just learned how to live with it and got on with life as best they could.

With a stalker bent on making her life hell, she didn’t have time to seek the help of a therapist, so the trauma would continue. Her first goal needed to be to stop the stalker.

Teller turned off the water, grabbed the dishtowel draped over the oven door handle and gently patted her skin dry. “Better?” he asked.

She nodded, unable to say anything coherent with him standing so close and her breathing once again erratic.

“You sit.” He released her hand and turned her toward the kitchen table. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

Sachie crossed the short distance to the table and sank onto one of the seats. “I’m not usually so clumsy,” she murmured.

“And I imagine you’re not used to having your home broken into.” He cast a smiling glance over his shoulder toward her.

“No, I’m not.” She propped her chin on her fist and watched as Teller, who stood half-turned to her, poured coffee into the two mugs. “You live here in Hilo?”

“I have an apartment in town.” Teller faced her with the two steaming mugs in his hands. He carried them to the table and set one in front of her and the other across the table from where she sat. As soon as he’d deposited the cups, he returned to the counter for the milk. “Sugar?”

“In the cabinet over the coffeemaker,” she said.

He found the sugar and brought it, the milk and a spoon to the table.

While Teller sipped his black coffee, Sachie doctored hers with the milk and sugar, stirring longer than necessary as an awkward silence stretched between them.

“So, let me understand,” she said, needing to fill the vacuum, “Hawk sent you to protect me. How does that work?”

He set his mug on the table. “Where you go, I go until the stalker is caught.”

She frowned. “What if it takes weeks?”

Teller shrugged. “Then I’m with you for weeks.”

Her frown deepened. “‘With me,’ what does that mean?”

“I need to be where I can see you twenty-four-seven.”

Sachie raised her eyebrows. “You don’t intend to stay in my house, do you? Let’s be clear: I have no intention of sleeping with you or you sleeping in the same room with me. And there’s no way you’re going into the bathroom with me.”

“Sleeping with me is not part of my job description.” His lips quirked. “It’s completely optional. As for following you into the bathroom, as long as I clear it first, you’ll have your privacy.”

“And what about my work? I counsel minors. I can’t have you in the room while working with a patient. It violates client-patient confidentiality. ”

“You can see your patients privately...after I’ve searched them for weapons.”

Sachie’s eyes widened. “You can’t treat them like criminals. They come to me for help, not to be harassed. And I’m not sure I want you to stay in my house. This is my space where I come for peace.”

Teller’s gaze went to the holes in the wall where the police officers had dug the bullets out of the sheetrock. “How’s that working for you?”

His words hit her in the chest and sank to the bottom of her belly.

“If I’m to protect you, I must be close enough to do my job effectively.” He leaned toward her. “Like I was in the backyard.”

“Oh my God. I completely forgot.” Sachie leaped to her feet. “You were shot. Shouldn’t we be taking you to the hospital or something?”

He shrugged. “I’d forgotten about it. It can’t be all that bad. It doesn’t hurt much, and I have a full range of motion.” He lifted his left arm over his head and winced. “It just stings a little.”

“Let me see.” Sachie rounded the table and stood behind him.

His dark T-shirt practically hid the fact he had blood all over his shoulder.

Sachie plucked at the fabric, trying to catch a glimpse of the wound beneath, but the shirt was glued to his shoulder in dried blood. “I have a first aid kit in the pantry. Can you get out of that shirt?”

He pulled the hem out of the waistband of his jeans and dragged it up his torso and over his head. The blood sticking his shirt to his back stopped him with his hands in the air.

“Wait,” she said. “Let me ease it off so you don’t?—”

He gave the shirt a sharp jerk, freeing his shoulder of the shirt and the caked blood.

“—start bleeding again,” Sachie finished, her words fading as she dove for the pantry and her first aid kit. She plunked it on the table and ran to her dishtowel drawer for a clean towel and washcloth. Quickly soaking the cloth under the sink faucet, she returned to Teller as a long line of blood dripped down his arm.

He twisted in his seat and held out his hand. “I can take care of it.”

She raised her eyebrows in challenge. “Do you have eyes in the back of your head?”

He grinned. “No, ma’am.”

“Sachie,” she corrected. “Ma’am?—”

“—makes you feel old.”

“Right. Now, turn around and let me clean the wound. You might need stitches.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she shot back as she pressed the damp washcloth to his shoulder and gently washed away the fresh blood along with the dried. Once the wound was clean, she studied it carefully and quickly before blood started flowing again. “You’re in luck. The bullet nicked you rather than embedding in the muscle.

“Like I said...flesh wound. No need for a three-hour wait in the ER to be told the same.” He turned his T-shirt around from inside out and started to put it back on.

“Just a minute, Mr. Osgood. You’ll need a bandage on that wound. It’s still bleeding.”

“Teller,” he corrected. “And it wouldn’t have started bleeding again if I hadn’t taken off my shirt.”

“Your shirt isn’t a bandage,” she muttered, picking through the kit to find a bandage the right size to cover the wound. “And you need some antibiotic ointment on it.”

“It’s really not necessary.” He raised the shirt over his head.

“Seriously, you’re going to argue about this?” She snatched his shirt from his hands and tossed it onto the counter out of his reach. “Now, be still until I’m finished. If you’re a good boy, I’ll give you a sucker.”

Teller chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sachie snorted. “Call me Sachie.”

“Only if you call me Teller. ”

“I will if you quit arguing over dumb shit,” she said and slathered ointment over the injury.

“It’s a deal,” he said and added, “Sachie.”

“Better.” She peeled the paper away from a bandage and stretched it across the wound and ointment. “And you’re all fixed up, Teller.”

He rose from his chair and held out his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Moore. Now, if I could have my shirt...”

She frowned. “Let me see if I have another T-shirt that doesn’t have a bullet hole and blood on it.”

“I kind of like my T-shirt. Don’t you think it makes me look like a badass?” He grinned and reached around her for the garment.

“Oh no, you don’t. A T-shirt is the least I can offer you after you saved my life.” She shifted to block him, managing to bump into his bare chest in the process.

He caught her elbows to steady her.

Sachie’s breath stalled in her lungs as she realized her hands rested against the solid wall of muscles. Her pulse quickened, and heat rushed up her neck into her cheeks. “Uh, well...” she stammered. “I’ll just be a minute.” She backed out of his grasp, turned and ran toward her bedroom. “Don’t touch that old T-shirt!”

His chuckle followed her from the room and gave her a warm feeling all the way down the hall. All the arguing and banter had made her forget, for a few moments, that her house had been broken into and someone had almost killed them.

As she entered her bedroom, she had to pass the split wood of the doorframe, and the gravity of what could have happened hit her square in the chest. She ran to her dresser and pulled out the biggest T-shirt she could find, another she used as a nightgown that normally swamped her and came down just shy of her knees. She laughed at the faded image of a hula dancers on the front. Oh, well, it was a shirt and the biggest one she had.

While in the room, she grabbed a suitcase from beneath the bed and shoved enough clothes for a couple of days, including her toiletries and shoes. She hadn’t been sleeping well with the nightmares of what had happened in Honolulu. Sleep would be impossible in the house, knowing someone had been able to break in and had almost made it to her.

She shivered, zipped the suitcase and rolled it out of the room with the hula girl T-shirt slung over her shoulder.

Sun streamed through the windows in all its early-morning glory, and a rooster crowed nearby. Teller stood at the back door, peering out at the yard, his broad, naked shoulders nearly as wide as the doorframe.

She left the suitcase in the hallway. “Hard to think that such a pretty garden is where a man tried to kill us, isn’t it?” she said as she crossed the floor to him.

He continued to stare out at the yard. “It always amazes me that no matter what crazy and horrible things happen, nature keeps going. The sun comes up, birds sing.”

Outside, the rooster crowed again.

Sachie smiled. “Or, in this case, the rooster crows.”

“And the flowers keep blooming.”

She came to stand beside him and glanced out the window, seeing what he was seeing. A yard filled with the lush tropical plants and flowers that flourished on the island. “I’d like to take credit for the abundance of bougainvillea and hibiscus, but they were there when I moved in a week ago.” She held out the T-shirt. “Sorry about the hula dancer, but it’s the biggest T-shirt I have.”

He took the offering. “It’s okay. I’ll wear it proudly.”

“I also packed a bag. I can’t stay here.”

He nodded. “I get it. Your home has been violated. You don’t feel safe even with me here.”

She nodded. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He pulled on the T-shirt, and the fabric that fit like a tent on Sachie stretched tightly over Teller’s muscular frame. “If we can swing by my apartment sometime today, I can grab a shirt of my own.”

“We can manage that. Especially since you’ll have to drive me.” Her lips twisted. “Which reminds me. I’ll need to call someone to replace the windshield and repair the doors.”

Teller held up his cell phone. “I had a text from Kalea. She said not to worry about the car. She has someone lined up to come by this morning to take care of it.” He slipped the phone into his pocket.

“I feel bad.” Sachie turned to look out at the garden. “Instead of escaping the problems I had on Oahu, I brought them with me. Now, it’s impacting the people who’ve helped me most. And you took a bullet that was meant for me.” She waved her hand toward his shoulder. “You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t. And I’m glad I was here to help.” Teller’s voice softened. “You didn’t pull the trigger. It’s not your fault.”

“Then why do I feel like it is?” Her thoughts flashed back to her office in Honolulu. To the one she couldn’t help. She’d failed him.

The sound of a cell phone ringing pulled Sachie out of her pity party.

Teller patted his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and shook his head. “Not mine. ”

She glanced around the room, looking for the source.

“It’s not in this room,” Teller said.

Then Sachie remembered she’d laid her cell phone on the floor of the closet before she’d burst out to attack her intruder. She hurried back to her bedroom. By the time she found her cell phone where it had slid behind a pair of shoes, it had stopped ringing.

She checked her missed calls and didn’t recognize the number. “Spam call,” she said and lowered her hand.

A beep sounded, indicating whoever had called had left a voice message.

Pressing the number to hear the message, Sachie half-listened, fully expecting the caller to be someone trying to sell her a timeshare or siding for a house she didn’t own.

“Ms. Moore,” a familiar male voice said into her ear. In a flash, she was back in her office, standing in front of a tall, gangly, troubled seventeen-year-old.

Sachie stopped breathing, and her blood ran cold.

“You failed me,” he said. “Now, you must pay.”