He didn't know what she was holding back--what she wasn't trusting him with--but he knew enough to know there was real fear backing her silence.
And he knew that she'd already trusted him more in just a few days than Vanessa had in the entire time they'd been together.
Feeling calmer, he turned right into the driveway for his bungalow. It was small--only twelve hundred square feet--but he'd fallen in love with the clean lines and nineteen-thirties design. The neighborhood was only a few miles from where he'd been born. From where he'd escaped. And it felt good to come back with the money to buy. To refurbish. To live in a neighborhood that was coming to life again, this time without gangs filling the neighboring houses and drug deals happening on the corners.
And one of these days, maybe he'd actually finish renovating the place.
He grinned to himself as he turned off the car. When that happened, he might have to move. Because he had to admit, the work was one of his greatest pleasures. Manual labor to relieve stress.
Glancing sideways at Taylor, now asleep in the passenger seat, he felt a pleasant tightness curl inside him. There were other ways to relieve stress. And though she looked incredibly relaxed right now, he had a feeling that after the day she'd had, a glass of wine and some between the sheets stress relief might be exactly the way she'd want to spend the evening.
Gently, he brushed her cheek. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. We're here."
She stirred, then opened her eyes. For a split second, confusion colored her face, but it was quickly replaced with pleasure. And, he thought, relief.
"You're here." Her smile lit up his heart.
"Where else would I be?"
She shook her head, as if shaking off a thought. "Dream," she said. "I'm still groggy. Is this your place?" She'd turned to look out the window at the facade of his little blue house with the white porch railing and colorful hanging pots of flowers, none of which he could remember the names of, but he'd snagged them at Home Depot simply because they seemed cheerful.
The St. Augustine grass in the front yard was mowed, and a huge pecan tree shaded the driveway. Directly in front of his car was a detached garage, but it was a ramshackle building that he used only as a workshop.
"It's small," he said. "But it's mine."
"It's absolutely charming." She turned to face him. "Can I see inside?"
He laughed. "That's why we're here. Come on."
He circled the car and opened the door for her, then led her up the porch steps. He unlocked and opened the door, then immediately stepped in front of her even as he pulled his weapon.
Son-of-a-bitch!
The side window was smashed, and red liquid was spread all over the newly buffed and restored hardwood floors. Paint, he realized from the smell, and felt a quick shock of relief that it wasn't blood.
And right there in the middle of the paint, he saw the message, drawn with the end of his broom that had been tossed aside at the edge of the spill: She's Mine.
* * *
She's Mine.
The words rang through Taylor, filling her head, making her dizzy. She wanted to sink to the floor, but Landon ordered her to stay behind him as he checked every room, every closet, every nook and cranny of his house.
It was a darling house, too. Charming and comfortable.
And now it was violated. All because of her.
When they finished checking the place, he sat her at the kitchen table and made her a cup of cocoa. She held the mug in two hands and sipped. It didn't make her feel better. Right then, she didn't feel anything.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You didn't do this," he countered, taking a seat across from her. "And in a way this is good."
She laughed at that, the sound almost hysterical. "Yeah, it's super terrific."
He took her hand, and she held on tight, needing that connection. "It means he's watching. And if he's watching, we can find him. We just have to be looking in the right direction."
"Are we?"