Under Pressure (Body Armor #1)(52)

“Go on,” she said, shooing him away. “I’m sure Miles and I will be fine. Isn’t that right, Miles?”

For a split second, Leese wasn’t sure. Would she really throw herself at Miles as payback because he insisted on going, or was it an idle threat, a show meant to annoy him?

He trusted Miles. Hell, he trusted Cat—even when she was in a vindictive mood.

But just to be sure, he went to her, tipped up her chin and said again, “Behave.” Before she could reply he took her mouth, doing his best to singe her—and ensuring Miles understood the lay of the land.

*

ON THE LONG drive to her house, Leese thought a dozen times about what she and Miles might be doing. He’d warned Miles that they were both to stay put. No phone calls. No visitors. No surfing the web.

Cat had replied that she’d find plenty for them to do, but Miles had only laughed.

Right before he’d walked out, she’d asked how long he’d be.

When he’d admitted he wouldn’t be back until the evening, he’d seen another flash of fear in her vivid blue eyes, but she’d quickly hidden it beneath attitude.

She had bravado in spades.

She was also the most vulnerable woman he’d ever known.

Leese parked two blocks from her address then walked the rest of the way, constantly keeping watch. He saw kids playing, dogs barking, but no one suspicious.

To alter his usual current appearance, he’d dressed down in sloppy jogging pants, a hooded sweatshirt, high-top sneakers and a ball cap, with sports sunglasses to hide his eyes. The different look, reminiscent of his fighting days when he’d jogged for hours, should keep him from being easily recognized.

The neighborhood surprised him, being one of those communities where the houses sat close together with postage stamp-sized yards filled with enormous trees. Nothing about it said privilege or wealth.

Her house, a small brick ranch, looked quiet, but the walk had been shoveled, and someone had tromped across the yard—kids, the one who’d done the shoveling, or her father’s cronies?

Acting as if he belonged, hoping none of her neighbors would notice him, Leese went up the walk with a whistle, quickly picked the lock on the front door, then went inside and listened.

Nothing.

It took him a mere minute to go through the house—three bedrooms, one bath, an eat-in kitchen and a small living room. He was truly alone. After that quick survey, he ensured both doors and all windows were locked. He didn’t want to risk anyone busting in on him without notice.

With all that done, he looked around with a critical eye.

Oddly, only a small amount of mail littered the floor from the mail chute. He checked the postmarks and saw they were all from the past week.

Had her stepfather been by to get the mail? Perhaps he’d even spoken with the neighbors so they didn’t get too nosy? That’d make sense. He could have also asked them to let him know if she showed up.

She’d had a few plants, now dead. So someone had shoveled the walk, collected the mail, but hadn’t bothered watering the plants?

Good thing she didn’t own a cat.

At every window the drapes were drawn.

Still in protective mode, he used a special device to sweep for electronic bugs and mini cams. He found only one tiny audio mic, no video, tucked inside a lampshade.

Furious that anyone had tried to spy on her, Leese crushed it under his heel, then put the demolished pieces in his pocket to dispose of in a Dumpster on the drive back.

Finally taking a relaxed breath, he felt free to notice more about the house—the plump sofa and chair, the paintings on the walls, the books on her bookshelf.

Everything was colorful, bright, coordinated. Organized, but not overly so. She’d arranged the furniture for function, filling up the limited space of the living room.

Going through each room, he took note of her decorating tastes, saw artwork he knew to be her own, some from other painters. Her bedroom was tidy, but with an unmade bed. Had she left in a hurry her last morning here?

The guest bedroom had a futon, a rocking chair, a bookcase and small TV. She’d turned the third bedroom into sort of an office. Standing racks held art supplies. School papers and stacked folders nearly buried a desk painted bright red.

In the kitchen, on the front of the refrigerator, she’d secured several childish drawings, no doubt from her students.

It was easy to see how much they liked her.

Not wanting to push his luck, he decided against lingering any longer. With every minute he remained he ran the risk of a neighbor getting nosy.

Tucked inside a pantry, he found a large grocery tote and went back to the office. He couldn’t take it all; he’d look far too obvious leaving her house and walking back to his car with an overflowing floral tote. Being selective, he chose a moderately sized sketch pad, a box of paints, brushes and pencils. Back in the living room he took several DVDs from her shelf, then also selected a few books and the iPod he saw on the end table.

Now for some clothes.

The closet was ajar, a nightstand drawer slightly open and the covers tossed to the foot of her bed.

First things first, he straightened the covers to provide a spot for sorting things. From her closet, he picked out warm clothes and stacked them on the bed. A sweatshirt, two sweaters, dress slacks. On the floor of the closet he found ankle boots, sneakers and snow boots.

Could he manage to take it all?