Excerpt

Emma Gray looked like a landlord’s worst nightmare with her leather-gloved fist stopped midway in its path to his door. Rouged lips, nose piercings, and smoky, kohl-lined eyes intensified the glare she gave him. Purple streaks in her hair hung long and straight over her ears. Her black, skull-and-crossbones tank top bared trails of lurid floral tattoos running across her collarbone and down her upper arms. A wide, metal-studded black leather belt cinched her waist above an incongruous schoolgirl plaid pleated skirt. Her slim legs encased in fishnet hose, disappeared into unlaced industrial strength black boots.

She looked seriously aggrieved that he’d opened his door wearing only a pair of black silk boxers.

“Don’t you ever wear clothes?”

“Not in bed.” Her gaze dropped. He might have made her blush. Hard to tell under that Swedish Death Metal band look. At least she lowered her fist. “What’s the problem—Sink? Refrigerator? Shower?”

Her gaze dropped again. It was a mistake to think shower. The very word triggered images his brain ought not to entertain about his tenant, his prickly, independent, don’t-touch-me-ever, single-mom tenant, whose rent he needed. He might be at low tide, but not that low.

Seven years earlier with money from his now vanished trust, he had purchased a brown stucco duplex four blocks from the beach in a little town south of the L.A. airport. When he bought the place, he never expected to live there or to be landlord to this particular tenant whose urgent knock had roused him at noon from a dreamless sleep.

They stood looking at each other in the common second floor entry under the breast of Venus overhead lamp fixture while he waited for whatever she intended to say. He had time to imagine several intriguing possibilities before she finally got the words out.

“I need your help.”

He did not move. He did not betray by so much as a flicker of a glance the satisfaction it gave him to hear those four words from the girl who did everything herself. “Do you?”

She glanced back over she shoulder at her unit. That meant she was thinking of her son Max, a tow-headed six-year-old. “Yes.”

“What can I do for you?”

“My babysitter didn’t show and hasn’t called, and I’m due at work in fifteen.”

He noted what she could and could not say. “You want me to watch Max?”

“He can take care of himself, really. He has toys and snacks. He’ll just play while you …whatever. You just have to check on him once in a while and call me if there’s blood, vomiting, unconsciousness, or visible bones.”

“Define ‘once in a while.’ Like every five minutes, or every half hour?” He should not have her on, but the temptation was too strong.

She blew out a short, sharp breath. “If it gets too quiet, you know, you should check.”

“So you want me to keep the music down and keep my door open.”

“Can you do it?”

It was instinctive for her to doubt his capabilities. To ask for his help she had to be desperate. He straightened and stopped his teasing. “Listen, let Max know the plan. I’ll put on some clothes and take him to the park, or something. How long will you be gone?”

“Six.” She turned away. “Thank you.”

He left the door open and drifted back into his bedroom to find some shorts and flip flops and contemplate how to take advantage of his minor victory.