Under His Skin (Ranger Security Book 1) Read online

  This wasn’t a fence devised to keep things in—it was erected to keep things out.

  He frowned, staring at it, and wondered who or what had frightened her to the point that she felt like she needed it. Who or what was she afraid of? Because one didn’t go to the trouble and expense to build something like this without good reason.

  He’d come here looking for answers and so far he only had more questions. A cursory glance revealed that any trees or limbs close to the fence had been cut away, obviously to prevent someone from finding a way over. The only thing that stood in his favor was his training, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to clear it without a ladder.

  Thirty feet inside he encountered another fence— barbed-wired—which he’d completely missed in the darkness. He toppled end over ass, felt the metal bite into his skin and tear his clothes and landed flat on his back with an undignified grunt. Stunned, he laid there for a minute, in what he gloomily suspected was goat shit, and felt a laugh swell in his chest.

  Unbelievable, he thought, wheezing quietly as his shoulder shook. Could he possibly Barney Fyfe this anymore?

  He feared the answer to that question.

  With a small grunt, still in his tux, he stood and dusted himself off, then dropped into a crouch and made his way into the low valley below her house, which sat on a small knob overlooking a pond. He could hear the occasional bleat of a goat, the rustle of feathers. Lights burned from the front porch and several windows downstairs, casting a decent glow across the front yard.

  Lots of flowers bloomed from various planters around the yard, and whimsical whirly-things made out of multicolored metals dangled from the bare tree branches and swirled in the breeze. Obviously a fan of metal artwork, a red pig with a pink snout and blue wings stood next to her front door. He smiled and shook his head. Before he could move any closer, an unexpected noise registered and he immediately froze.

  Oh, hell.

  Jeb didn’t need extensive Army training to recognize the tell-tale, dreaded sound that emerged roughly ten feet behind him. He was Southern, after all, and any born-and-bred Georgia boy worth his salt would recognize the distinct metallic click and slide of the cock of a twelve gauge shotgun. And given the decided assuredness and rapidity of the action, he knew whoever had him in their sights was familiar with the gun and knew how to use it.

  “On your feet and hands where I can see them,” she ordered.

  He had to hand it to her. Sophie O’Brien was cool as a cucumber. Her voice was smooth and steady, not betraying the slightest bit of fear. Which, irrationally, irritated him. He was a strange man trespassing on her property—she ought to be afraid, dammit. Granted, he didn’t wish her any harm, but how was she to know that? Why hadn’t she stayed in the house and called 911 like a normal woman would have done?

  Oh, right, he thought sarcastically. Because she wasn’t a normal woman. When compared to other women he’d met, anyway. She was kind and confident, fiendishly clever and sexy as hell.

  Mother Earth and Rosie the Riveter all wrapped up in a lushly curved ’50s pin-up era body.

  He wanted her.

  And the hell of it? Aside from the conflict of interest and tiny matter of her name at the top of his suspect list?

  She didn’t like him. Or didn’t want to like him. All arrogance aside, that was novel. And galling.

  “Move,” she said again, her voice firmer. “I’d rather not shoot you—my ice cream is melting— but I will if you don’t do as I say.”

  Beautiful, Jeb thought, feeling extraordinarily stupid. He’d been an Army Ranger, one of the fiercest soldiers among Uncle Sam’s finest...and he’d been bested by a goat farmer with an Annie Oakley complex. One that, to add insult to injury, was more

  concerned with her melting ice cream than finding a man lurking in the bushes outside her house.

  With a sigh dredged from the depths of his soul, he did as she asked and flashed a grin at her. “Evening, Sophie. Your shrubs need mulching.”

  She gasped, betraying the first bit of surprise. It was ridiculous how much that pleased him. “You?” she breathed, her eyes wide. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  He pasted a reassuring look on his face and gestured to the gun still aimed at his chest. “Would you mind lowering your weapon? It’s a bit unnerving.”

  She did as he asked, bringing the barrel down until it was aimed directly at his groin. “There,” she said, a smirk in her voice. “Feel better?”

  “Not particularly, no.” She was still in her evening wear, but had obviously taken off her shoes because a pair of purple and black muck boots had replaced her strappy pumps. Between the shotgun, the dress and the boots, she looked like a beauty queen gone rogue. The thought startled a chuckle out of him.

  “You think it’s funny that I’ve got a loaded gun pointed at you?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t think it’s funny at all—I used to get shot at for a living.” He shrugged, his gaze tangling with hers. “But when you’ve been a target for as long as I have it loses the power to scare you.”

  Some of the starch left her spine and she swallowed, the delicate muscles in her throat working.

  He glanced pointedly at her feet. “I was laughing at your shoes. They don’t exactly match the dress.”

  She started, blinked and then a smile bloomed over her lips and she lowered the gun. “They were by the door. I didn’t have time to color coordinate.”

  He shoved his bleeding hands into his pockets, looked out across the pond, watched the water ripple in the moonlight. “All right,” he said, because he had to know. “What gave me away?”

  Satisfaction clung to her grin and she cocked her head toward the edge of the property. “There are height sensors near the inside of the primary fence. I don’t have anything here taller than I am, so anything above six feet trips an alarm.”

  He nodded consideringly. Smart and sophisticated. Given the breadth of the fence he should have anticipated something like that. “Any particular reason you’ve erected a fortress around your house?” he asked lightly. “Or why there’s another fence inside of that one?”

  A shadow shifted fleetingly behind her gaze, but she merely lifted an unconcerned shoulder, then turned and walked toward the house. “To keep people out, obviously,” she said, her voice droll. “Come on. I’m looking forward to hearing why you were skulking in my shrubs.”

  As an enemy captured behind the lines, as it were, he’d expected an interrogation, but he had a few questions of his own he wanted answered first. “In my line of work we don’t call it skulking, Ms.

  O’Brien. We call it surveillance.” He mounted the steps. “And I’ll be happy to tell you why I’m monitoring your behavior as soon as you tell me what you were looking for in Marjorie Whitehall’s office tonight.”

  ###

  Sophie felt her eyes round and bit back a curse. He’d seen her? But how? Why? Surveillance, he’d said. Dread ballooned in her belly. Had she been under surveillance this whole time? Was that why he’d been conveniently popping up everywhere she went? Why she hadn’t been able to make a move without practically running into him? Why he’d been...so attentive? Flirty, even?

  Ah... Her chest squeezed. Of course, it had. And she’d been so blinded by her uncustomary, ridiculously potent attraction to him that she’d missed it.

  Right.

  And to think she’d been relieved when it had been him she’d caught. For a moment she’d been terrified that one of her so-called family members had gone crazy enough to risk going to jail.

  Feeling like she’d been kicked in the gut, Sophie squared her shoulders and pushed through the door. Her kitty, Boo—named for Boo Radley, of course—yowled and wound around her legs. He cast a haughty look at Jeb, his yellow eyes unblinking, then rather than bow up and hiss like he’d done upon meeting Luke, he strolled over to Jeb and sniffed tentatively at his leg.

  Traitor, Sophie thought, scowling at her beloved pet.

  “Ah,”
Jeb said, seemingly delighted. “Who’s this?”

  Sophie toed off her boots and returned the gun to the cabinet. “Boo. He’s had diarrhea lately, so I’d be careful if I were you.”

  Predictably, Jeb grimaced. “Oh. Bad luck. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “It’s not.” Because it was a lie. Her patience at an end, her nerves frayed to near-breaking, she turned and crossed her arms over her chest. “Listen, this is my house, so we’re going to have this conversation on my terms. Any questions you have for me are optional. The ones I have for you are not. Why the hell have you been following me and what the hell are you doing trespassing on my land?”

  He’d scared the hell out of her. She’d always lived by the adage better safe than sorry, so she was prepared for anything, but she’d grown so tired of looking constantly looking over her shoulder, that she’d been trying not to do it anymore. Being afraid had felt too much like a victory for them, a loss for her. She wanted the power back.

  But she’d realized tonight that she was much more frightened than she’d ever realized. It was unnerving.

  In the process of shrugging out of his coat— clearly he’d meant to stay awhile—Jeb paused and shot her a wary look. She didn’t know how she knew it was wary—naturally, nothing about his expression shifted, but she could feel the difference, almost like an atmospheric change.

  Suddenly Heathcliffe cried from the front porch and Jeb’s eyes widened in shock. He jumped as though something had bitten him, and whirled around. “Bloody hell,” he breathed. “What was thatV

  Sophie was too busy convulsing with laughter to tell him. Watching GI Joe meets James Bond spin Matrix-style around her living room looking for the boogey-man because of a bird was simply... priceless. Eyes streaming, her sides heaved and she couldn’t catch her breath.

  Jeb glared at her. To her delight, his cheeks actually turned pink. She’d be willing to bet that didn’t happen often.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it was funny. You didn’t run for your gun, Annie Oakley,” he drawled. “So I can assume we’re not in any immediate danger.” Still chuckling, she shook her head and wiped her eyes. “Ah, wow. I needed that,” she said. Poetic justice.

  He shrugged a mouthwatering shoulder, his expression droll. “I live to entertain.”

  “It’s good to have goals.”

  Seemingly weary, he dropped onto her couch and started loosening his tie. It was such a man thing to do, she found herself momentarily dumbstruck.

  “Are you going to tell me what that was or not?”

  Have a seat, Jeb. Make yourself at home, Jeb.

  Take off your shirt, Jeb. Wait, no... She gave herself a shake. It was then that she noticed the state of him. His coat was covered with dirt and debris and tiny tears rent his shirt. Blood oozed through the linen from a couple of cuts on his chest and visible gashes marred his hands.

  She frowned, seized with the irrational urge to nurse those minor injuries. “What happened to you?”

  “Fence number two. Stupid me, I left my night-vision goggles at home.” He lifted his hand, inspected the damage, then grimaced as though it didn’t signify. “It’s nothing. The noise?” he prodded.

  “It was Heathcliffe, one of my peacocks.” She arched a brow. “You’ve never heard one cry before?”

  The corner of his sulky mouth twitched with a grin and he cut a look at her with that bright blue gaze. “Obviously not.”

  “It takes some getting used to.”

  He snorted. “It’s creepy as hell.”

  That, too, but she’d grown to like it. She snagged her ice cream from the table and settled into her chair. “Your tux is ruined.”

  He laughed softly, watched her spoon a bite of ice cream into her mouth. “So is my pride, but I’ll recover.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I don’t want anything to drink, thanks.”

  She smiled unrepentantly. “I’m only polite to invited guests.”

  He tsked. “What would Emily Post have to say about that?”

  “Nothing I’d care to hear, I’m sure. Please tell me what you’re doing here.”

  He sighed softly, the sound seasoned with dread, then he looked up at her, that bright blue gaze pinning her once more. “Were you looking for me when you came back to the ball?”

  Sophie opened her mouth, closed it. What an odd question. Why would he want to know that? What difference did it make to anything? She licked her lips. “I... Does it matter?”

  He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his hands dangling between them. He studied her carpet, then gave a little resigned laugh, as though the answer surprised him. “It does.”

  She couldn’t imagine why, but rather than dance around half-truths and lies, it was time for a little honesty. She’d give it with the hope that he’d reciprocate.

  She released a small breath. “I was,” she admitted. “I’d told you that I would come back, and I happen to appreciate that old antiquated notion that people should do what they say they will. But by the time I’d gotten back, you’d already left.” She purposely avoided looking at him, swirling the melted ice cream around the bottom of her bowl. “So I left, too.”

  “But why did you leave to start with?” he asked. “Why did you go to Marjorie’s office?”

  Oh, no. She’d answered a question. Now it was his turn. She set her bowl aside, then looked up. “Why have you been following me? Either you tell me or you leave. The choice is yours.”

  “It’s part of my job,” he said.

  She felt her forehead wrinkle and renewed fear washed through her. “You’re being paid to follow me? Who hired you?” Surely to God her father hadn’t— Or her mother— But why? What could they possibly want? Beyond making her miserable? She absently rubbed her arm, struggling to control the irrational panic. She was an adult. She was protected. She didn’t have to be afraid. She could take care of herself, dammit.

  Evidently something in her expression caught his attention. Concern lined his otherwise smooth brow, reflected almost tenderly in his gaze. “Sophie? Are you all right? Nobody hired me to follow you, specifically,” he said, still staring at her. “You just got swept up in the net of my investigation, that’s all.”

  Swept up in the net? His investigation? What did that mean? She nodded, the rush of adrenaline spent, making her insides tremble. Geez. She couldn’t take much more of this.

  “Right,” she said, trying to sort it out amid the mess in her head. “But you obviously suspect me of something, or you wouldn’t have been following me, you wouldn’t have danced with me, and you wouldn’t have come over my fence,” she persisted. She arched a brow and might have whimpered. “Could you please just stop talking in cryptic circles and tell me what’s going on?”

  He released a heavy breath. “Okay, let’s get something straight. I haven’t followed you anywhere until tonight, after I caught you skulking around Marjorie’s office. Up to that point, I have been conducting an investigation, which like it or not, you’ve been a part of. Because I don’t think you’re the person I’m looking for and because you are so well-liked and trusted in the village, I’d planned on asking for your help. Tonight. At the Fall Ball. Then you left and didn’t come back and you broke into Marjorie’s office and, well—” He laughed darkly. “—for obvious reasons, that sort of changed things.”

  “If by ‘changed things,’ you mean ‘moved to the top of your list,’ right?” Wonderful. Just brilliant. Several things suddenly clicked into place. “Listen, I know damned well that you aren’t who you say you are—Foy doesn’t have any children, so a grandson is pretty much out of the question. You’ve spent more time wandering around the village, visiting with other people than you have spent with your so-called grandfather, so it’s obvious to me that you are investigating something or someone related to Twilight Acres. Here’s a thought,” she said, sarcasm rising right along with her temper. “Why don’t you just ask me if I’ve done what you think I’ve done? Just ask me, Sherlock, and I’ll tell
you the truth. I won’t lie.”

  He shrugged, then shot her a sardonic grin. “That simple, eh?”

  “You’re the one making it complicated.”

  “How am I supposed to know whether or not you’re lying?”

  She lifted her chin. “If you were following me so that you could eliminate me as a suspect and then ask for my help, then you’re already half-convinced that I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

  His gaze searched hers and that Petri dish sensation commenced again. She resisted the urge to squirm beneath that probing stare, that singularly intense, unwavering regard.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “In a show of good faith, I will tell you what I was doing in Marjorie’s office first, then you can decide whether or not you want my help.”

  He blinked, seemingly surprised. “That’s.. .generous. You had me on the ropes. Why are you backing down?”

  She chuckled low. “Oh, I’m not backing down. I’m showing mercy. Sometimes that takes more courage, wouldn’t you say?”

  Jeb grinned, the dimple appearing in his cheek. Seemingly impressed, his gaze drifted across her mouth, making her lips tingle. “All right. Show me what you’ve got, badass.”

  Mercy. If he looked at her again like that, more than her lips were going to be tingling.

  Time to put up or shut up. She released a slow breath. “Over the past couple of years, several of our residents have supposedly misplaced some of their valuable items. Four that I’m aware of. Losing things is common enough among the residents of Twilight Acres. It comes with the territory.” She hesitated, bit her lip. “But losing stuff from their safes isn’t. Two of the four who have supposedly ‘lost’ their valuables had them go missing from their in-home safes. I believe someone is stealing from them, taking advantage of them,” she said, her voice hardening with anger. “And I want to know who.”