LITMIR.BIZ

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side of her head. Using both hands, she reached up and snatched Rogan’s palm away.

       “Quiet,” he warned in a deceptively soft voice.

       She used temper to beat down fear. “What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”

       She kept the question to a hiss, but even that must have been too loud, because he covered her mouth again. “Look out the window, Jasmine.”

       Her gaze shot to the rain-washed glass. Lightning forked down somewhere in the vicinity of Witch House. The trees were listing, and… Her eyes widened. The neighbors’ lights were on!

       A shiver skated along her spine. Her blood ran cold, but she didn’t move, wouldn’t let herself react.

       “No sound.” Rogan’s breath was warm and undeniably sensual in her ear.

       Eyes fixed on the lights, Jasmine nodded.

       He removed his hand, but kept her close. Beside them, Boris stood absolutely still.

       Jasmine waited, breath held. Until her vision began to blur, then she let it out. Slowly, deliberately and with Daniel’s words repeating in her head.

      Something bad’s going on…

      Did Rogan agree? Stupid question. He was here. And Rogan never did anything without a very good reason.

       Of course knowing that wasn’t exactly reassuring. Neither was the silence that vibrated beneath the storm.

       Thunder rolled again. Rogan motioned for Boris to move. Since he’d trained the dog, Boris responded instantly. Although, Jasmine noted, he never actually left her side.

       “Worked your magic on him, too, huh?” In the barely there light, she caught the gleam of amusement in Rogan’s eyes—a split second before they shifted to a distant window.

       He nudged her toward the kitchen island, handed her a gun. “I’m going to trust you haven’t forgotten how to use it.”

       She would have responded if there’d been any point. Or time. Because he was gone with the last word.

       Alert and ready to protect, Boris assumed a ferocious stance between his mistress and the tall pane of glass.

       Her heart was hammering, Jasmine realized, almost louder than the thunder. But she had to think past her fear, reason it out.

       Daniel said people were dying. People connected to Malcolm Wainwright’s trial.

       Was it possible Wainwright had survived that helicopter crash three months ago? Or was someone within his tattered organization championing his cause? Whatever the case, Daniel had been unnerved enough to break the rules and contact her, Rogan was hunting a shadow on her side porch—and all hell was going to break loose again, she just knew it.

       Braced for the worst, she adjusted her grip on the gun. A moment later, she heard a commotion outside. It ended with a thump on the back wall. There was a yelp—not Rogan—followed by a second thump.

       Lightning illuminated two men through the window. One of them booted the door with his foot.

       “Open up, Jasmine,” Rogan told her.

       She hesitated, couldn’t help it.

       “Jasmine.”

       Lowering the gun, she stood, crossed the floor and twisted the lock.

       A square-built man in a soggy raincoat stumbled in, with Rogan close behind.

       Bending slightly, she peered up into a familiar face. “Gunther?”

       “Ya, it’s me.”

       She recognized his German accent at once.

       “You’re the shadow?” Her gaze moved to Rogan. “He’s the shadow?”

       “So it would seem.”

       “Uh…hmm.”

       “My sentiments exactly.” He pushed the man ahead so he could clear and close the door. “I found him prowling around your cut power line.”

       A baffled Gunther appealed to Jasmine. “My mother sent me over to check on you. All your lights went out at the same time, and then she saw someone near your side wall. I went where she said and found your line had been cut.”

       “You wouldn’t think I’d be surprised at this point.” Giving her neighbor’s shoulder an encouraging pat, Jasmine straightened. “Rogan, Gunther planted my front garden for me. He shovels my sidewalk and driveway every time it snows, and he took care of Boris while I was in San Diego six weeks ago. He didn’t cut the power.”

       Rogan studied the man by emergency light. “Can you describe the person your mother saw?”

       Gunther moved a thick shoulder. “She said he walked like a man.” He slanted his interrogator a doubtful look. “He was wearing black.”

       “Do you have beer?” Rogan asked Jasmine.

       “Heineken.” She offered him a bland smile. “It’s Gunther’s favorite. In the fridge, second shelf. You can have one, too.”

       He said nothing, but didn’t take his eyes off Gunther as he opened the refrigerator door.

       Boris’s thumping tail seemed like a positive sign, so while Rogan tossed Gunther a beer and undertook the required question-and-answer session, she located a pair of battery lamps. Less than five minutes later, Gunther and his beer were gone, a headache was brewing in her temples and her mind was swinging like an overwound pendulum.

       She didn’t hear him approach, but knew as she had earlier when Rogan came to stand behind her.

       She relaxed her muscles and didn’t respond to the hand he ran along her arm. “You look good, love.”

       There was no way to read his tone or his mood. But his eyes—now, those occasionally told a tale.

       Blanking her expression, she turned. And immediately wanted to sigh. He had such a devastating half grin. No wonder she’d fallen into the clichéd trap and had sex with him after Ballard’s funeral.

       Hot, crazed sex, she amended, fingering the thin silver chain around her neck.

       “Pretty sure I look the same as I did at the memorial service.”

       “You looked sad then.” His gaze lowered and rose in a single seductive sweep. “You don’t now.”

       “Good to know I still wear terror well.”

       The touch of his fingers and thumb on her chin cautioned her to put some distance between them—as she should have done six weeks ago. Instead, she trapped his wrist. “Daniel called me tonight. We were cut off, but he’s in trouble.”

       “I know.”

       Did he now? Her elevated brows posed the obvious question.

       The half smile lingered. “Your ex-husband’s not the only one who sees and hears. People are dying. Wainwright’s the common denominator.”

       “Wainwright’s dead. Ballard was convinced of it.”

       “So was I, until…” He slid his thumb along the curve of her jaw. “Dead or alive’s not the point. Finding the person responsible for the homicides is. And to answer your next question, yes, everyone who’s died was murdered.”

       “That’s reassuring.”

       “You want lies?”

       “What I want seems to be something I can’t have.”

       “And what would that be?”

       Was his mouth moving closer? As it tended to around him, curiosity chased away good sense. She ran her own finger down the side of his throat to the shadowy hollow at the base. “Pulse rate’s up a little, Rogan.”

       “I’d be

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