A Secret Life by Barbara Dunlop

he could take care of himself, but Heather wasn’t trusting him with Joan’s life.
    Suddenly, there was a loud bang from inside the cottage.
    Heather froze, a chill of fear working its way up her spine. She remembered Alain Boudreaux had secured the front door last night. Would the police have come back this early?
    She glanced up and down the street. But there were no cruisers to be seen, no help of any kind, for that matter. The lane was empty as far as she could see.
    She took a shaky step backward. Whoever was in there, she wasn’t about to confront them alone. But then a dark figure appeared in the doorway, and she lost the feeling in her legs.
    “Heather?”
    It was Samuel.
    Samuel.
    Her breath rushed out of her along with her strength. She was safe.
    He started down the stairs.
    Wait a minute.
    What was Samuel doing here? Could he have been the one who broke into the cottage yesterday? He had cause to be angry with Joan. Did that give him a reason to take her computer? Had his plan all along been to go to the press?
    “Heather?” he repeated when she didn’t answer. He reached the bottom of the stairs and started down the walkway.
    She swallowed her suspicions, not afraid of him. Not really. “Hello, Samuel.”
    He closed the distance between them. “What are you doing here?” He stopped in front of her, a six-foot-four wall of muscle.
    “I’m out walking.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
    “I couldn’t sleep.”
    He stared at her in silence, while she tried to decipher his expression. Was he angry? Nervous? Did he mean her harm?
    Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. “And what are you doing…here?”
    “Returning to the scene of the crime.”
    She took a step back. “Oh.”
    His mouth crooked into a half smile, his teeth white and straight against his dark complexion. “Relax, Heather. It wasn’t my crime.”
    “Never thought it was.
    “You are such an easy mark.”
    “I am not.”
    “You presumed I was guilty. Again.”
    She shook her head in denial, even though it was true. There was something about Samuel that made it easy to believe he could be on the wrong side of the law.
    “Alain called me because somebody broke into my house, too.”
    That surprised her. “Really?”
    “Yes, really. Disappointed that I’m not a thief?”
    “Of course not.”
    “You look a little disappointed.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    He waggled his eyebrows. “You’ve got a bad-boy fetish.”
    She glared up at him. “You wish.”
    “No, I know.”
    “I don’t have a fetish of any kind.”
    “Everybody’s got a fetish.”
    She shook her head emphatically. “Not me.”
    “Let me guess,” he drawled. “The missionary position.”
    She squared her shoulders. “That is none of your business.” She couldn’t believe he’d even asked.
    “In the dark.”
    “I am not answering that question.”
    “I’ll take that as a yes.”
    “I don’t care what you take it as.” Quite frankly, there was nothing wrong with the missionary position. And there was nothing wrong with having sex in the dark. The dark was soft and romantic, it camouflaged flaws and allowed a person to focus on sensation.
    “You really need to get out more,” he drawled.
    “I live in Boston.” How dare a backwoods Indigo carpenter insinuate she wasn’t worldly.
    He shrugged. “Too bad they don’t have good sex in Boston.”
    Heather flattened her lips and warmed up for a scathing diatribe. But then she saw the laughter lurking behind his eyes. Oh no, he wasn’t going to win this one.
    “Why don’t we talk about your sex life for a while?” she suggested smoothly.
    “I don’t talk about my sex life.” His dark eyes glowed with raw sensuality, while his voice dropped to a throbbing bass. “But I’d be happy to give you a free demonstration.”
    A hot rush flared from the pit of her stomach. “I can’t believe you said that.”
    “And I can’t believe you blushed.”
    “That’s shock and