Conceal, Protect - By Carol Ericson Page 0,15

didn’t have a more unusual name. She dumped the water into the sink and turned off the light in the kitchen.

If she didn’t trust J.D., she could always ask him to leave. But he’d helped her out of a jam—twice. She didn’t care if the stranger had something to hide as long as it didn’t impact her.

She flicked off a few more lights on her way to the bedroom, and then she hit the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. She’d wanted that guesthouse as a studio, but maybe J.D. could fix the basics in there before she removed the furniture and installed a skylight.

She turned down the bed and placed her slippers side by side at the foot of the bed. She straightened the alarm clock, lining up the edge along the grain of wood.

She caught her breath. Closing her eyes, she folded her hands and exhaled through her nostrils. It was the stress. She didn’t need medication. She’d force herself to relax.

She climbed into bed, sliding between the fresh sheets. She reached for the lamp on the nightstand, and her gaze snagged on the picture on the wall across the room. The right corner tilted higher than the left.

Leave it.

She punched the light switch on the base of the lamp. Her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, and she picked out the edge of the picture in the darkness. She squeezed her lids shut.

“Okay, this is it. The last time.” She turned the light back on and threw back her covers.

She stalked toward the picture, gritting her teeth. She grabbed the frame with both hands and inched up the left side. As she slid her fingers off the glass, the pad of her thumb stumbled over a dab of something on the frame.

She ran her fingers across the area again and felt the nodule on the glass. Drawing her brows over her nose, she leaned in for a closer look.

A tiny eye stared back at her.

Chapter Six

J.D. pulled the clean sheets up to his chest and inhaled the smell of grass and sunshine on a cold winter night. It smelled as if the linen had been hung out to dry in the spring and the scent had clung to the folds of the cotton through the dead of winter. How had Noelle done that? Or was he just imagining the smell?

He rolled to his side, anticipating sleep to steal over his limbs, heavy with exhaustion. Instead, a bang on the front door had him bolting upright in the bed, all thoughts of spring evaporating.

At the second bang, he kicked off the covers and stumbled to the front door. A quick glance out the window revealed Noelle parked on the porch, her fists raised for another assault.

He yanked open the door, and she almost fell into his arms. And he would’ve welcomed it.

One look at her wide eyes in her pale face and his heart slammed against his chest. “What’s wrong?”

She held out her thumb and index finger pinched together, trembling. “I—I found something in my bedroom.”

Was she afraid of a little bug? He extended his palm. “What is it?”

She released her fingers, dropping a black button into his hand. He brought it close to his face. Then he crushed it in his fist.

A camera.

“It’s some kind of camera, isn’t it?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Now he knew it hadn’t been druggies who had broken into her house. The spy camera bit into his flesh. “Where did you find this? How?”

“It was stuck on a picture frame in my bedroom.” She hunched her shoulders, tightening the grip on her arms. “I felt it first.”

He didn’t ask why she’d been feeling a picture frame in the middle of the night. He dropped the disabled device on the table. “Why would someone be spying on you?”

“I have no idea.”

He did.

Should he tell her now? Would she be in greater danger knowing about the threat against her? If he told her, would she run? He’d gotten orders from Prospero to keep Noelle in the dark until they could assess how much she knew, but why was she keeping him in the dark?

He’d been waiting for her to tell him about the D.C. break-in ever since someone had pulled the same trick at the ranch. She hadn’t said a word to him about it.

Clasping her shoulders through the thick terry cloth of her bathrobe, he said, “Is someone after you? Bad divorce? Dumped boyfriend?”

She wriggled out of his