Jayne would have reacted to “the guy” with more hostility, but she’d used up her quota of snarkiness for the day. Besides, Cocoa seemed to trust this person. With much tail wagging, the chocolate Lab bounced toward the stranger, who reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.
She cleared her throat and pushed her messy hair off her face. “What guy?”
“The one who can repair your security system.”
She vaguely recalled a two-minute conversation with Brian. When she told him that her home alarm system had been compromised and her cell phone wouldn’t turn on, Brian might have said something like I know a guy who can fix that. And she might have said that she wanted an appointment with that guy.
“I didn’t expect you tonight,” she said.
“Fine with me. I like being unexpected.”
“How so?”
“Since I’m buds with Brian who’s an IT specialist and I know how to repair your system, you might think I’m all about computers. You’d be surprised to learn that I’m also the part owner of a security firm with a license to carry a concealed Glock 17.”
To prove his claim, he pivoted and flipped up the tail of his plaid flannel shirt to show a holster attached to his belt. He turned to face her, pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose, grinned and said, “Ta-da!”
In spite of her fear, she had to grin back at him. “Did they send you in here to bring me out?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have much luck at rock-paper-scissors.”
Her initial impression was NERD in capital letters. He certainly wore the uniform: glasses, baggy plaid flannel, jeans rolled up at the cuff and a purple baseball cap on backward.
Then she took a second look—a lingering assessment from head to toe. She tilted her head, and her hair rippled all the way down her back. Though she was seated and not able to judge his height accurately, she estimated that he was well over six feet tall. The wide shoulders under that flannel shirt were impressive but he wasn’t bulky. His body was long and lean. His wrists were muscular, and he wore an expensive dive watch. Behind those dorky horn-rims, his eyes were a smoldering shade of gray.
Unexpectedly, very unexpectedly, she was attracted to him. Tickity-tick-tick-tick. Maybe he was her early Christmas present. “Do you have a name?”
“Dylan Timmons.” He held his hand toward her and then curled the fingers inward for a fist bump.
She tapped her knuckles against his. “Jayne Shackleford.”
“I thought you might prefer a bump. Being a neurosurgeon, you have to take good care of those hands.”
“I’m not that much of a prima donna.” She frowned, thinking of the way she’d behaved with the police. “At least, I try not to be.”
He placed her cell phone in her hand. “They said I could give this to you.”
The screen flashed on, and she felt a glimmer of hope. “You fixed it.”
“The phone fixed itself. Somebody used a signal-jamming device to disrupt your signal.”
“That’s just wrong,” she said.
“But not illegal. I’ve heard that pastors are using jammers during their sermons.”
Now that she had the cell phone, her mind jumped to practical concerns. “I might need to cancel my surgery for tomorrow morning. I should get a good night’s sleep before I operate.”
“Why so much?”
“The surgery takes five or six hours. I’m not intensely involved the whole time, but I need to be alert.”
Still, she hated to cancel. Rescheduling the staff was a hassle. A guest neurosurgeon from Barcelona would be observing. Jayne had prepared and reviewed the most recent tests, neuroimaging, PET scans and MRIs. Starting over at another time was an inconvenience for the medical personnel involved. But postponement was much worse for the patient, who had already checked into the hospital, and for his family and friends.
He asked, “What kind of surgery is it?”
“It’s not life threatening. Using implanted electrodes, I hope to stimulate the brain so the patient can regain the memory functions he lost after a stroke. The patient is actually awake through much of the procedure.”
“Cool.”
And she should be able to handle it. “I’ll wait until tomorrow to make the decision whether to postpone or not.”
“But you need more sleep,” he said. “I can start repairs on your alarm system tonight if you’re ready to go back into your house.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not ready. Not tonight.”
After she’d seen the police charge through the front door with guns drawn to search for intruders, she’d never again be able to think of her home as a sanctuary. She felt attacked, violated. Might as well close it up, burn it, sell it. Jayne was ready to call the real estate agent and hand over the keys.
Dylan brought her back to reality. “Where do you plan to sleep?”
With you. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she kept from saying them out loud. She’d done enough inappropriate blurting for one evening. “I don’t know.”
“Is there anybody you can call?”
Her cell-phone directory was filled with colleagues and acquaintances from all around the world, ranging from the president of the American Association of Neurological Surgeons to the teenager who shoveled her sidewalks in winter. But there was no one she could call to come over and take care of her. No one she could stay with at a moment’s notice.
She pushed the hair off her face and looked up at the surprisingly handsome man who stood before her. “You said you owned a security firm. Do you ever work as a bodyguard?”
“I do, TST Security.”
She rose from the swivel chair and straightened the sash on the Brian’s dark green bathrobe. “I’d like to hire you.”
“You’re on,” Dylan said without the slightest hesitation. It was almost as though he’d been waiting for her to ask.
“I’ve never had a bodyguard before.”
“Then I’m the one with experience. I’ve got only one rule—don’t go anywhere without me. For tonight, I’ll put together your suitcase and book a hotel room. Do you have a preference?”
She was so delighted to have somebody else taking care of the details that she wouldn’t dream of complaining. “Anything is fine with me.”
“Write down the clothes, including shoes and toiletries, that you want me to pack for you.”
Her excitement dimmed when she thought of him pawing through her things, but the alternative—going back to the house and doing it herself—was too awful to contemplate. “I’ll make that list right now. And there’s one more thing.”
“Name it.”
She held out a flat palm. “Whatever you use to fasten your ponytail, I want it. My messy hair is driving me crazy.”
He whipped off his baseball cap, untwined the covered-elastic band and dropped it in her hand. “For the record, I like your hair hanging long and free and shiny.”
His fingers stroked through his own mane, and she realized that his hair was lighter than she’d thought. Thick, full