Deadline by Sandra Brown

swear I’m no threat.”
    “Like hell you’re not.”
    With her free hand, she gestured to the table behind her where the incriminating evidence was on display.
    Shit!
    Scattered across the table were dozens of photos of her and her sons playing on the beach. He’d taken the shots with his cell phone, enlarged them on his laptop, and printed them out. Standing on the windowsill were the binoculars through which he’d been watching them.
    The pictures he’d taken of her alone made him particularly culpable. In some she looked reflective and a bit sad. In others she was laughing over her sons’ antics, her loose hair like a fiery halo in the sunlight as the three of them capered on the beach.
    He’d also captured a private moment of her standing at the waterline in her swimsuit, one hand anchoring her floppy-brimmed straw hat to her head. With the sun behind her, the swimsuit was absorbed into the dark silhouette, and her shape, in profile, was clearly delineated.
    She was more modestly clothed now in the familiar caftan, a two-piece swimsuit beneath it. Sand clung to her bare feet, so she must have come directly from the beach. Her hat had obviously been left behind when she decided to storm the house next door to hers, the one that he’d rented two days ago.
    He felt like a voyeur and couldn’t fault her for being angry. But that anger was mixed with fear. The hand clutching the canister of pepper spray wasn’t all that steady.
    “Who are you?”
    “My name is Dawson Scott. Middle name Andrew. See for yourself. My wallet is right there.” He motioned toward the table.
    Keeping her eyes on him, she picked up the wallet and flipped it open. Inside it were his Virginia driver’s license. And the damning press-corps ID card.
    Her hand dropped to her side as though the wallet was as heavy as an anvil. “You’re a lousy reporter.”
    He gave a weak grin. “Actually I’m pretty good.”
    She tossed the wallet back onto the table, then wiped her hand on the gauzy material of her caftan as if she’d touched something foul. The pepper spray was still aimed at him.
    He tilted his head toward it. “Are you going to squirt me?”
    “I haven’t decided yet.”
    *  *  *
     
    He probably thought she was being facetious. She wasn’t. His being a journalist was only slightly better than his being a pervert who took snapshots of potential victims. They weren’t mutually exclusive, either. “Whom do you work for? Or are you a freelance hacker who sells to the highest bidder?”
    “I’m going to lower my hands, okay?” He did so. “I think it’s apparent that I’m unarmed.”
    Unarmed and disconcerting, dressed only in a pair of cargo shorts, the fly of which was still partially unzipped. They were riding dangerously low on his hips. He was the one half-dressed, which made her wonder why she felt exposed.
    She took a tighter grip on the canister and thumbed the sprayer. “Answer my question.”
    “I forgot it.”
    “Whom do you work for?”
    “I’m a staff writer for NewsFront .”
    She was relieved and grudgingly impressed. She’d imagined him affiliated with a publication much more lowbrow, a tabloid possibly, not a serious-minded, hard-news magazine. From his long blond hair to his bare feet, she gave him a once-over and arrived at an uncomplimentary opinion. “You don’t look that respectable.”
    “Well, you don’t look like a museum curator.” He grinned. “Not that I’m complaining.”
    She was about to snap, Don’t be cute , but she didn’t want to play into the mild flirtation even to that extent. She was still as mad as hell, and also as creeped-out as she’d been when she found her wristwatch and realized that someone had to have been spying on her.
    After discovering her watch, she’d gone down to the beach and helped fly the kite until Bernie cried uncle and returned to his house to rest, promising to join them for supper that night. Then she and the boys played in the water while