Behind Closed Doors. Tara Quinn Taylor

him off-balance.

      “What the—”

      Dragging the body out by the feet, he dove on top of it, planning to hold the man down until the cops arrived.

      He had one of them.

      And because of that they’d damn well catch the other.

      “Get off me!”

      It took Harry a full thirty seconds to realize that the voice was female, and so was the body beneath his.

      Careful to hold on to the intruder’s wrists, he rolled off her.

      “Who are you?”

      “Maggie Boucher. I live on the other side of the wall. I moved in a couple of weeks ago.”

      The woman was about his age with short brown hair and a plain face that showed quite clearly the myriad emotions she was feeling, from consternation and concern to a healthy dose of fear.

      Harry wanted to believe her. But…

      “What were doing sliding around behind my bushes?” he asked as she sat up, her wrists still in his grasp.

      “I was trying to coax my cat to come home,” she said, holding out a slab of fish. “He’s declawed and it’s not safe for him to be outside. He followed me out with the trash and got scared and took off over here.”

      As the woman spoke, a light-colored, long-haired funny-faced feline came slinking out from behind the bushes, gaze intent on the piece of fish in his owner’s hand.

      It had grown completely dark, but he could see the woman’s face in the light shining from his patio. Laura must have turned the light on.

      Which probably meant she was watching them.

      “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” he asked, sitting on the grass in the slacks he’d worn to work.

      “No, thanks,” Maggie said, cat in her arms as she stood. “I…need to take a shower.” She looked down at the stains and scrapes she’d sustained at his hands.

      “I’m really sorry. Let me at least see you home.”

      “That’s all right. I’m not afraid. I take a walk around the neighborhood every evening. I’m sorry I trespassed.”

      For the first time in his life, a woman appeared to be afraid of him. Harry felt dirty.

      And helpless to do anything to change what he was becoming. Because if he had the evening to do over again, he’d make exactly the same choices.

      This time, it had been Maggie. The week before it hadn’t. Tomorrow it might not be.

      “You shouldn’t do that,” he said now, as the woman started across his backyard to the gate she wouldn’t be able to open. He’d put a dead bolt on it over the weekend.

      “What?”

      “Walk alone at night.”

      She hugged her cat. “I’ve been doing it for years.”

      “My wife was raped last week,” Harry blurted, as though that explained everything. His actions. His words. His warning.

      Maggie stopped in her tracks, eyes wide, mouth open.

      “In this neighborhood?”

      “In our house.” He was scaring her. But that was good. Necessary. If a little fear could prevent what Laura had suffered…

      “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.” Horror had replaced the disbelief. Maggie looked up, focusing on something over Harry’s shoulder, and he saw Laura standing on the inside of the sliding glass door.

      He waved. Smiled. She waved back, eyeing the woman with the cat.

      “Please let me walk you around the block to your house,” Harry said. “We’ll just have to wait until the police get here, so we can explain that this was a false alarm.”

      With one last glance at Laura, the woman nodded.

      On Thursday night, Harry’s foot touched Laura’s leg in bed—waking her instantly. Heart pumping, Laura tried to go back to sleep before full consciousness took hold. And counted her heartbeats instead, her nerves like shards of glass beneath her skin.

      Slowly, gently, she moved over to the edge of the bed. Harry hadn’t been sleeping much and she didn’t want to wake him. He didn’t have to get up for an hour and a half.

      But she couldn’t lie there being touched, either.

      Tonight made it a week since it had happened.

      Hugging the side of the guest bed, she kept still, eyes wide open, and stared at the carpet, looking for comfort.

      There was none to be found. Not in the carpet that she’d chosen after weeks of studying books filled with options. Not in her mother’s voice.

      Or her husband’s touch.

      “Why aren’t you getting pregnant?”

      Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the bedroom ceiling, hardly recognizing the short dark hair that was once long and amber, she slid her hand down to cover David’s groin.

      “You said you thought it was the stress.” In truth, it was the two abortions she’d had in the twelve months she’d been living with this man. Those were the only two times she’d left the apartment without his approval or knowledge. Free clinics were easy to find near college campuses and the staff asked no questions. David’s lust for her, combined with her proven ability to give birth, was keeping her alive. Birthing another child for the brotherhood would kill her.