Star Witness - By Mallory Kane Page 0,4

the safety. Just as the silhouetted man lifted a hand to knock again, she snapped, “Who is it?”

The hand stopped in midair.

“Get away from my door!” she yelled in a loud, commanding voice. “Now!”

“Dani, it’s Harte. Just checking on you.”

Her pulse slowed as relief coursed through her. It was Harte Delancey. Great. She rolled her eyes. Thanks, Mahoney. She should have known he’d call the prosecutor who’d been assigned Yeoman’s case three months ago. “Go away. I’m fine,” she said irritably. “Go study your briefs or something.”

The shadow shifted and she saw his head shake. “Yeah, ha-ha. I never heard that one before.” He spread his hands, palms out. “Come on, Dani. Open up. I’m not armed.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “Well, I am,” she retorted. “Now go away. I’m not dressed.”

“Sure you are,” he said. “I can see your outline through the glass.”

Muttering some unladylike words, Dani slid the bolt and unlocked the back door. As she turned the knob, she braced herself for the sight of him. As much as he irritated her, she couldn’t deny that he was easy on the eyes, which made her very uneasy all over.

But when she swung the door wide, she was stunned. The Harte Delancey she was used to seeing was slickly handsome, from his perfect dark hair and expensive suit to his blindingly polished shoes.

But this was no slick prosecutor who stood in front of her now. His hair was tousled and flopped over his forehead. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Dani did a double take.

The T-shirt was a worn and much-washed New Orleans Jazz Festival shirt from several years ago. The fabric stretched across his chest and shoulders and draped loosely over faded, very nicely fitting jeans.

She swallowed. Suits did not do Harte Delancey justice.

Harte cleared his throat and Dani realized she was staring at his—jeans. Her gaze snapped to his, her face burning with embarrassment. And there in his expression was the polished prosecutor she was used to seeing. His dark eyes were filled with mischief, and a familiar, knowing smile curved his lips.

She glared at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, letting her gaze sweep downward and back up.

He pushed his fingers through his hair, dislodging droplets of rain. “Can I come in?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure. Why not? After you went to all the trouble to sneak around my house.”

“Sneaking? I wasn’t sneaking. I couldn’t very well come to the front door like civilized folks.” He assessed her. “Are you all right?”

She shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, suddenly feeling a lump growing at the back of her throat. Swallowing hard, she straightened. “I was just—thinking about my granddad.”

Harte’s brow furrowed and his snapping dark eyes softened. He started to speak, but Dani cut him off.

“I guess Mahoney told you what happened.”

“Where did you get that gun?” he asked. “You shouldn’t—”

He stopped when she lifted her chin. Then she realized she was still holding the weapon. She clicked on the safety and set it down on the counter. “I have a license,” she said defensively.

He visibly relaxed. “Seriously, Dani. Did the EMTs check you out? Make sure you didn’t break something?”

“I didn’t break anything. The driver broke my porch.” She had to suppress the urge to press her palm against her tightening chest. She just wanted to go to bed and pull the covers over her head. “What’s the matter, Mr. Prosecutor? Afraid you’re going to lose your star witness? I can guarantee you I will be there to testify. These accidents are nothing more than an inconvenience.”

He shook his head, and his smile faded. “I’m positive I won’t lose my witness.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans and held it up between two long, sturdy fingers.

Her stomach sank to her toes. “Oh no. No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head. “You didn’t,” she grated through clenched teeth. “Come on, Harte. Tell me that’s not—” She reached for it, but he held it over his head. If she’d had on her four-inch platform heels, she might have been able to snag it, but she was barefoot, and therefore at least six inches shorter than he.

“It’s an order of protection—” he started.

“No!” she broke in. “You are not sticking me in some airless bedbug-ridden hovel for weeks.”

“It won’t be weeks, and hopefully it won’t be bedbug-ridden or airless.” There was a definite tone of amusement in