Rub It In. Kira Sinclair

handy.

      The island was dark as he walked along the pebbled path toward the employee cottages at the back of the property. The bar was closed, without the lights, music and laughing guests that usually spilled out of the rustic structure. The soles of his shoes crunched along the path and the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end.

      Oh, what he could do with a scene like this. Someone walking alone at night along the edge of the jungle …

      One of the hazards of his job was an overactive imagination. It was something he’d always had—especially as a child. His mother had explained over and over that there were no monsters under the bed, in the closet, behind the bathroom door or lurking outside his window just waiting for the moment he closed his eyes.

      He no longer believed in monsters—at least of the make-believe kind. But he’d done enough research on serial killers, rapists, child molesters and the general dregs of society for him to believe wholeheartedly in the twisted, psychopathic possibilities of the human mind. There were monsters in the world, all right, but they didn’t live under the bed. They walked among the rest of humanity, going largely ignored and unnoticed.

      Shaking off the eerie sensation, Simon rounded the corner to Marcy’s bungalow. Warm lights burned into the night, welcoming. Stepping up onto the small porch that lined the front of her cottage, he couldn’t stop himself from peeking inside the large picture window … just to get an idea of what he might be up against.

      But what he saw was far from what he expected.

      Marcy, in a pair of small gray shorts and a bright blue tank top, was dancing around her small space. The furniture was fairly standard for the island. A large four-poster bed made of rich, warm wood. A small dining table with two chairs set against the far wall of the tiny open kitchen. And a plush sofa in a bright red color that surprised him.

      The cord connecting her earbuds to the iPod clipped at her waist jerked in time to her movements as she twisted and turned around the entire place. Simon sucked in a breath when she closed her eyes and nearly slammed into the side of the coffee table. But she somehow managed to miss it.

      Her hair was down, her skin flushed from exertion. The tight muscles in her calves and thighs flexed as she bounced around the cottage. Her back arched. The round swell of her breasts swayed beneath the worn cotton of her shirt. She didn’t have a bra on.

      And suddenly Simon couldn’t swallow.

      He’d never seen her like this … unfettered, alive, glowing. He should move. Knock on the door. Logically, he realized that. But his feet wouldn’t budge. He just stayed there, glued to the worn boards of her front porch, and stared.

      Until she spun in front of him. Her eyes popped open and connected with his through the clear glass between them.