But when she cocked her thumb and aimed her finger at the door, her gun hand shook uncontrollably. Guess obtaining a real gun wouldn’t work. Besides, her elderly postman would have a heart attack if bullets peppered the front stoop. It was probably him at the door now.

The knocking reverberated through her room, sounding a bit annoyed. The old guy had quite a fist on him.

Wiping the sweat from her face, Linda rose. “Coming.” Her voice didn’t reach past the end of the couch. “Coming!” After a few steps, her knees firmed up. She smoothed her sleeveless shirt and capris, attempted a smile, and opened the door.

No one was there.

She stepped outside to see a man in front of her house. “Sam?”

It really was him, in person, as if her dreams had conjured him out of thin air. The sunlight glinted off the gray strands in his collar-length hair. When he glanced at her, his pale eyes gleamed like light through clear blue glass.

He turned his attention back to the newest graffiti. BITCH OF SATAN. “Least the words are spelled right. Nice change from most,” he said mildly and winked.

The half joke wasn’t funny, yet it eased the fearful tenseness she’d had since discovering the ugly words. In fact, just his presence carried a sense of security with it. How did he do that?

As he walked closer, his shrewd gaze assessed her. “You look like hell, girl. Let’s talk.”

“But…”

“I don’t do business on a doorstep.” He grasped her upper arms, moved her so he could enter, and closed the door behind him. “Got something to drink? Water or tea or soda?”

“Of course.” She was halfway to the kitchen before stopping. Boy, talk about automatic obedience. “Excuse me, but I don’t recall inviting you here. How did you get my address?” Her hands tried to rub the chill from her arms. Had she found another kind of a stalker?

“Looked it up on the Internet.” Her discomfort lightened when he sat down in an armchair, extended his long legs, and made himself at home. He obviously wasn’t planning to jump on her. “Raoul couldn’t come. I was available.”

“I told Kim I didn’t need help.”

“And she told you she was sending help.” He gave her a level stare. “Girl, you’ve been through enough grief. Let me help.”

“But…” She scowled. If the cases had been reversed, she’d have sent someone to Kim. And from the tilt of Sam’s jaw, arguing wouldn’t get her anywhere. “Fine. Diet cola, Mountain Dew, or root beer?”

“Dew, thanks.”

When she returned with his drink and a root beer for herself, he was studying her living room with the same intensity as he normally watched her. In jeans, worn brown boots, and a short-sleeved, button-up work shirt, he didn’t seem as if interior decor would interest him.

She tilted her head. “What’s so fascinating?”

“The colors. Brown, beige, off-white. Like you—warm but subdued.” He took his drink from her and gestured toward the high windows. “Blinds up, lots of light. Not hiding.” He pointed at the bright floral pillows and ran a finger over the silk-covered one at his feet, then patted the chair. “You like beauty but want comfort with it.”

“Well.” He was disconcertingly accurate.

The two acoustic guitars in the corner got an interested look. “Any chance you like country-western?”

“Among other things.”

“We’ll have to try plucking out a few tunes.”

Since Charles moved out, she hadn’t had anyone at home with whom to share music. She took a step toward the guitars and caught herself. Don’t be insane. He hadn’t driven to Foggy Shores to strum a guitar. “So you’re here to help me?”

“One spray painting is a prank. More is a problem. You need some backup.”

Just the word—backup—sent relief welling inside her. As tears prickled in her eyes, she busied herself with opening her root beer.

When she finally looked up, his hard blue eyes had softened. She hadn’t hidden a thing. Odd how even the nastiest customers never realized what she thought of their behavior. But this man read her as accurately as if he had an instruction manual titled How to Understand Linda.

And he’d driven here to help her. “You…you don’t have to. We’re not even—” She stopped, realizing how rude that would sound.

He finished for her. “Friends. I know. I screwed up at the auction and made things more difficult for you. I owe you.” Blunt. Rough. Devastatingly honest.

However, the past wasn’t something he could fix. Not like this. She searched for a polite response. Settled on, “You were trying to help.” And actually, he had. Otherwise, a real buyer would have whipped her. Hurt her. If only he’d stopped before…touching…her. Her face warmed, and she sipped against the uncomfortable twisting in her stomach. The mild bite of carbonation anchored her.

He looked as if he wanted to say something. Instead, he drank, swallow after swallow, his Adam’s apple moving up and down, drawing her attention to his tanned, corded neck. The small hollow at the base was surrounded by muscles. She remembered the press of his body, a solid warm wall of flesh, and the room heated to match her face. What in the world was wrong with her?

“When does this happen? At night?”

She could almost feel a bed under her before realizing he was referring to the graffiti. She gave an involuntary snort. How could she possibly have lewd thoughts about this intimidating man? “Uh-huh.”

“Anything else going on?” He glanced at the pile of newspapers on an end table. “Did you make the paper again today?”

“It’s not important.”

“Hogwash. Show me, Linda.”

“Fine.” Why did she feel as if she was going to cry? She walked across the room to where she’d put the ripped-out page on a bookshelf with the first, unable to destroy them, unable to look at them. “Here.”

He took the paper. When he pulled a pair of reading glasses from his work-shirt pocket, she blinked. The glasses made him look…different. As if the jeans and rough behavior were a cover for the intelligent person beneath. After reading the article, he set the paper aside, and a tremor ran through her at the cold anger in his face.

“The reporter should be horsewhipped.”

She took the paper from his lap and tossed it into the wastebasket. “It doesn’t really matter. There’s nothing you can do about it. I think you’d better go home.”

He sipped his drink and watched her pace across the room.

She stopped. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard.” He wasn’t moving.

“Go home, Sam.”

When she glared at him, he actually looked pleased. “Not much I can do about the reporter. Legally. But maybe your spray painter will show up tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder at the hallway. “Got a place for me to sleep?”

She had to wonder if he raised cattle, because, oh boy, his expression was definitely a bullheaded one.

* * * *

Half an hour later, as Sam scrubbed and scraped the black paint off Linda’s house, fury lashed his insides like a hailstorm. What kind of bastard picked on a woman—any woman—let alone one who had already suffered so much? He looked forward to getting his hands on the man. Be a pleasure to dispense a short, hard lesson in manners.

“Sam.” She wore midcalf-length shorts—whatever they were called—and flip-flops. Her full breasts strained against her green top as she pulled her heavy red hair into a short tail. If her hair was a bit longer, he could wrap it around his fist. Less clothing would be good too. But no matter what she wore, she’d probably still warm his blood.

Scraper in hand, she joined him. “You really don’t have to do this.”

“’Course I do.” The places where bare wood showed had obviously been written on before.

“Well, I appreciate it.” She vigorously scrubbed at the black paint, and he noticed her freckled arms looked well toned.

Checking, he ran his hand over her upper arm and felt muscle beneath the soft padding.

She froze, staring up at him. “What are you doing?”

Why did he feel a magnetic pull every time he looked down into her big brown eyes? “You’ve put some muscle on. Been working out?” He kept his hand on her, feeling the slight quiver. Seeing nervousness replace fear.

“I-I was at my sister’s house. In California.” She pulled from his grasp and examined her arm as if she hadn’t seen it before. “She has a huge garden.”

“Gardens are good for mending.”

She slanted him a disbelieving look. “Did you ever have anything to mend?”

His mouth tightened. But he’d finally got her talking. Backing away would silence her again. “’Nam.”

“But…” She studied him. “You were old enough to be in Vietnam?”

“My recruiter cousin fudged the papers for me.” Because his cuz had known about his stepfather’s heavy hand. Pa had been a good man, but Ma hadn’t chosen so well the second time.

“Dear God.” She looked at him as if seeing the tall, lanky kid he’d been. Seeing him with a mother’s eyes. “That wasn’t right.”