Revised
Was he stalking her? Kate stepped back from the truck window and studied Sawyer Hayes. He didn't look like a bad guy. She'd already established that he was gorgeous, and up close, her first impression was confirmed. Tiny white lines radiated from the corners of his eyes as he smiled into her face, testifying that he spent a lot of time in the outdoors. As did his sun-kissed, tawny hair. Kate pursed her lips, reminding herself that Ted Bundy had been a good-looking man, too.
"Are you stalking me?" she blurted, fingering the alarm button on her car key fob. He burst out laughing that deep laugh she'd admired on the beach, and then he sobered.
"Not at all. I live. Right. Next. Door." He pointed at the apartment beside hers while he enunciated each word, and Kate barely concealed her growl of exasperation. She found him way too attractive to have to run into him on a daily basis. He could seriously derail her resolution to steer clear of relationships, even casual ones, until her head was above water. But at least this was the explanation for his continual presence today. He wasn't a serial killer. Probably.
"Now that we're neighbors, will you cut the suspense and tell me who you are?"
Kate glanced at her wristwatch. If she didn't leave within the next five minutes, she'd be late. Mr. Cabrera valued her punctuality, and she didn't want to ruin her record.
"I need to go. Please move."
"What if I get your mail by mistake? What if you win Publishers Clearinghouse and the notification comes in the mail, and because I don't know your name, I put the envelope on top of the mailbox and someone else picks it up and gets all that money? That's right. I can see your mind going over that very real possibility."
His expression was so puppy dog earnest Kate couldn't control herself. The giggle percolated up from deep inside her chest and erupted at the end of his outrageous statement. Good grief, his sense of humor was as appealing as his looks. And, here she was, once again enjoying the light-hearted banter her life had been without for so long.
She shook her head in frustrated capitulation. "Fine, you win. My name is Kate Munroe, I live next door to you and this is my car. I need to leave right now or I will be late for my job and if I am I will be fired, and then I won't be able to live here. Do you want to be the reason I become homeless?"
His smile widened while his gaze flowed over her face, warming as it tracked across her features. She felt it like a gentle caress, and her own grin faded. She took another step away from his truck. She needed distance from his potent sex appeal.
"That wasn't so hard, was it? Glad to finally meet you, Kate Munroe. I look forward to getting to know you."
"Hmph," was all she could reply, though she looked over his huge, dirty truck pointedly. He continued to smile into her face, until she shrugged. "Well? I can't be late. I've met you, you've met me. I need to leave. Now."
"Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry. I could get lost in your eyes. I can't tell what color they are in this light. Guess I'll just have to run into you again real soon." He reached for his gear shift, and Kate roused from the hypnotic state his words had put her in. Get lost in her eyes? What guy said that nowadays? In any day, for that matter, except in historical romance novels.
He put the truck in reverse, and glanced at her again. She swallowed hard and straightened her shoulders. She would not turn into a puddle because he'd used a sexy turn of phrase. She was made of stronger stuff than that.
As he began to back up, he gave her a salute with his left hand. "Drive safely, Kate Munroe. I don't want this first meeting to be our last. Good night."
She stared stupidly after him as he reversed out of her way and then just sat, waiting. She realized he still wanted to park in front of his place, so she moved to her car, opened the driver's door and hopped in. In seconds she'd pulled out of her slot and was headed on her way, though she couldn't resist looking in her rearview mirror, where she saw him return to his parking stall.
She cursed herself for her weakness. She needed to work every minute of her day, either as a nanny or as a freelance designer, if she was ever going to get her previous life back. Daydreaming about a hunky neighbor was not part of her come-back plan. She shoved him from her consciousness.
The drive to the Cabrera residence was not far, just down the highway to a more exclusive gated community that boasted views of both the California and Mexican coastline. She could attest to those sweeping views, though her friend's apartment satisfied her need for the sea.
Soon she was admitted past the gatehouse on the permanent pass Mr. Cabrera had provided her with, and wound along the residential road lined with beachfront palaces. The Cabrera home was near the end of a single-loaded cul-de-sac, and Kate pulled into the tandem driveway with three minutes to spare.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she hopped out and bounded to the stone front porch, where a fountain gurgled in front of the picture window to the left. Palm trees rustled above, and the shiny coach lights around the door and garages looked inviting.
It was Fernando Cabrera himself who answered the chime of the doorbell. Tall, yet not as tall as Sawyer Hayes, Mr. Cabrera wore his hair in a shaggy cut that most women found irresistible but which Kate considered messy, and his face sported thick stubble growing into a beard. Tonight he had on one of his designer suits that shined in the porch lamplight. He flung her a distracted smile as greeting.
"Come in, come in, Ms. Munroe," he said in his accented English, stepping back to allow her entry. He seemed to be waiting to say something more to her, hovering in the entry as he was, so she pushed the heavy wood door closed and faced him. He began speaking as soon as he had her attention.
"Did you know that Bobby sits on the bench most of the time during his Little League games?"
Yes, I did, Kate thought as she met Cabrera's gaze. And you would too, if you took time to listen to your son. Or, better yet, go to his games once in a while. However, to his face she said in a neutral tone, "Um, yes, he's told me so at various times."
She watched her boss swing away and stride further into the cavernous house. He spun around, fisting a hand on one hip as he practically glared at her.
"That's unacceptable. I told him he should choose fútbol over baseball. I was good in my day. I could have gone pro if I hadn't twisted my knee. But he wanted to play the American sport. And now all he does is sit on the bench." His voice faded off on muffled curses.
Kate wished she could tell him to spend ten minutes a day with his son playing catch, that that was all he needed to do to boost Bobby's self-confidence and help him hit and catch better. But Mr. Cabrera wasn't the type of person to speak that openly to. Mr. Cabrera believed he knew the most when it came to...anything, now that she thought about it.
Just then, the thunder of sock feet on the Berber-carpeted stairs announced his son's, Bobby's, approach. Bobby was a miniature version of his father, right down to the thick, unruly hair and expressive brown eyes. Small for an eight-year-old, he nevertheless made up for his stature in exuberance. Like now. Before he'd even come to a stop, he started talking.
"Miss Kate, Miss Kate, I told Papá about how I never get to play in my games, and he said that it wasn't right and that he would take care of it."
Kate watched as the starved-for-attention boy careened into his father's side before righting himself. She allowed Bobby to call her Kate when it was just the two of them, but his father preferred him to use the proper title as a sign of respect. She'd learned while in his employ that Fernando Cabrera was big on respect.
At the moment he frowned at Bobby's display of excitement, but then began speaking to her. She noticed that he didn't put his arm around Bobby like most fathers would, since the child was glued to his side. Her heart went out to the eight-year-old. Would it kill his father to show a little affection? The motherless boy was desperate for some.
"I'd like you to go to his next game, or practice, Miss Munroe, and speak to his coach."
"Oh, Mr. Cabrera, I don't think so," she began. What was he thinking, sending the nanny to tell the baseball coach he wasn't being fair? That was so not in her job description. And she would tell him so. But nicely, so he wouldn't fire her. Because she still needed this job.
However, before she could do so, he added, "I'd like you to tell the coach that I will pay him to instruct Bobby in batting and catching outside of regular practices."
"But, Papá, I wanted to practice with you." The word "you" elongated into a whine.
Kate's heart crumbled at Bobby's request. It came from his heart, and she already knew his father wouldn't hear it. Fernando Cabrera was one of those men to whom everything came easily: looks, money, women, sports, and it was beneath him to waste his time throwing a ball around when he could be swinging his next big deal. So, he would hire some other man to do his parental job, and then expect his son to pick up the necessary skills quickly. It burned Kate up.
At last, Cabrera knelt and squeezed his son's shoulders. "You know I have work, mijo. How else will I pay for these lessons? Besides, your coach will be the proper person to teach you." After giving Bobby a pat on the back, his father stood. "And, I'll pay you extra for your time, Miss Munroe, as well. Thank you."
He turned toward the rear of the house without waiting for her reply. Kate sighed, as Bobby tumbled after his father, still seeking that man's affection. It wouldn't have mattered if she had answered. Cabrera wouldn't have heard her, either.
***
I could get lost in your eyes. Had he really just said that romance novel gibberish? Sawyer sat in the idling truck and stared into the darkening sky without seeing it after Kate Munroe drove off, surprised at his romantic turn of phrase. He was not a romantic guy. He had plenty of past girlfriends to attest to that.
With every one of his hookups he made sure there was mutual satisfaction, maybe even a little fun, but they all ended with a kiss good-bye and a see ya next time. He was too busy chasing the scum of the earth to spend his down time playing Romeo. He needed to be free to pick up and leave at a moment's notice, and relationships needed more work than he was willing to give.
So, being dreamy about the widest, deepest eyes he'd ever seen (he thought they were blue but they'd also looked violet) was not part of his M.O., and Sawyer curled his lip while picking up his phone. He speed-dialed his team, who was in a motel not far from here. Billy picked up.
"She's at Cabrera's, so I'm going in." Sawyer spoke without preamble, another of his habits. Billy was used to him, and went with the flow.
"Do you want me to watch your six?"
Sawyer glanced around the deserted parking lot and shook his head. "No. I got this. I'll let you know when I'm out." He cut the connection and swung down from the truck, jogging to his own place to gather the fingernail-size cameras and bugs he would need for Kate Munroe's apartment.
After that debacle in El Paso that almost cost Guerrero his life, Sawyer's captain had sought and been awarded a three-month, court-ordered warrant to surveille anyone suspected of involvement with Armando Ortiz. That included his private pilot, Fernando Cabrera, as well as Cabrera's sexy nanny, Kate Munroe. They were free to bug and video without their suspects' knowledge for that short window of time, and Sawyer wasn't about to waste a minute of it.
Once he'd pulled on crime scene gloves, he felt only a twinge of guilt slipping over her patio wall and jiggling loose the slider. He always prided himself on his upfront attitude with people, so the subterfuge required in his job often gave his conscience grief. But he'd learned to ignore it over the years. Especially when the people he hid things from were often guilty of drug trafficking, or worse.
Kate Munroe was a trusting sort, he mused as he stepped deeper into the apartment without turning on any lights. He'd figured she would lock the front door, and he'd been right. He'd also figured that she'd be lazy with the patio door, and he'd scored another positive.
Taking his penlight flashlight out of his shorts pockets, Sawyer shined its bright beam around the room. He almost jumped out of his sneakers when a giraffe statue, nearly as tall as him, loomed to his left in the dinette area.
"Jesus," he breathed, eyeballing the critter. He allowed his gaze to cruise the room, taking in the other African animal statues lounging on various pieces of furniture, as well as the numerous black and white photos of jungle wildlife hanging on the walls.
The place was messy. He was a self-proclaimed neat-freak. Everything had its place, making his nomadic lifestyle easier to maintain. Here there were stacks of files at three places of the rectangular dinette table. He figured Kate ate at the empty fourth spot. Piles of travel magazines lined the credenza along the back wall of the eating area, and a charcoal drawing of a baboon grinned back at him from above the magazines.
He shook his head, glancing into the kitchen on his way toward the bedrooms. And then he did a double take. The tiny kitchen was spotless. No dishes in the sink, no dish drainer on the counter. Just a bowl of fruit and a coffee machine with its little pods displayed neatly beside it.
He glanced at the hoarder piles in the dinette, and then back at the pristine kitchen. The two rooms didn't mesh. They belonged in different houses, to different people. Like Kate Munroe and her photographer friend.
On a whim he opened the fridge, figuring the kitchen was so anally neat because Ms. Munroe didn't cook. Once more he was wrong. A couple of home-baked chicken breasts sat wrapped on a plate, with the fixings for a salad beside them. His mouth watered, and he wondered how badly he'd screw up this case if he ate her leftovers. Of course he wouldn't do it. His life up to this point was invested in bringing down the Mexican cartel. But just for a moment he would've liked to have seen her face if he had. Goldilocks, anyone?
Feeling a misplaced relief that Kate Munroe was as neat as him (like, where would that go, really?), Sawyer headed down the hall, past a shiny little bathroom as starkly immaculate as the kitchen. The first door beyond the bathroom was closed. Suspicion kicked in, and he dropped to a crouch before taking hold of the knob and turning it, easing the door open by increments.
Silence. No gunfire or flying knives. No ninjas jumping out of the dark, or scantily clad women beckoning him in. Allowing a humorless smile to cross his face, Sawyer crab-walked into the room, which was dimly lit by a luminous digital clock on the wall.
Satisfied that he was alone, he stood slowly and shone his flashlight around the space. It was a homemade darkroom. In this digital age? Clotheslines with photos hanging on them lined the perimeter. The smell should have alerted him, but he'd been so focused on not having dangerous company that he'd shoved all other sensory clues to the side. Moving to the photos, he glanced over them, noted the skill of the photographer, and shrugged. He wasn't here for the absentee owner. He was here for Kate Munroe.
He left the room the way he found it, shutting the door soundlessly before heading across the hall to an open doorway. Bingo. With one look around he knew he had found his quarry's stronghold. It was too well-ordered to be anyone else's room but Kate's. Just to be sure, he peeked into the master and was met with total disarray. He headed back into Munroe's bedroom.
A double bed covered in a pink floral spread dominated the space. It was flanked by mismatched end tables. Across from it was a 32-inch flat screen sitting upon a six-drawer dresser. The bedroom curtains hung open, revealing the same view he had from his bedroom: the ocean. The window was closed, but he could still hear the waves. They kept him awake at night, since he was from land-locked El Paso, but he imagined they were soothing to most people.
Before he settled in to search through her things, he placed a listening bug inside the vase of fake flowers on the nightstand. The film on the artificial blooms testified to Kate Munroe's kryptonite: she didn't like to dust. He smiled at the knowledge. There would be no cameras in here or in the bathroom. Some guys would have no compunction in doing that, figuring it helped pass surveillance time more agreeably, but he wasn't one of those men.
He rose and bugged the bathroom, and placed a tiny camera facing the kitchen and another into the living space before returning to Kate's room. And then he set about systematically rifling through all her belongings.
A/N: This book is to be published by Entangled Publishing, and by contract, I can't share more than 7,500 words of the book. If you like what you've read so far, please buy the book when it is published. Stay tuned for when that will be!