Free Them Bones by Carolyn Haines Page A

the steps to peer in the front windows. Eight feet in height, the windows had been designed to open from floor level to allow the Delta breezes to blow through the house during the hot summers.
    Through the lacy patterns of the sheers, I could make out a few details of the interior, but the gauzy panels and approaching darkness made it hard to see inside clearly.
    I moved along the front porch, satisfying my nosiness without pretense. I was snooping. But then that was what I was getting paid to do. I rather liked this job. I moved back to the glass panes on either side of the front door, surprised to see a suitcase beside the stairs. It should have alerted me, but instead my gaze went directly to a unique sculpture at the foot of the staircase. In clear and frosted glass, the woman stood against a stiff wind, her hair blowing and her hand attached to a tree trunk laced with vines. The statue caught the fading light, and her glass skin glowed pink. I was transfixed by the sight of her, until a motion halfway up the stairs caught my eye. In contrast to the statue, the man standing on the curving sweep of stairs seemed made of metal. Where she was filled by and reflected the light, he seemed to drink it in. He stepped slowly down the stairs, his gaze pinning me. Unable to look away, I felt as if an electric current bonded us. He began to move faster.
    I heard his feet pounding toward me. The front door flew open and I turned, my body already shifting toward the edge of the porch. I could jump to the ground without injury. It was only three or four feet. Escape was the only sensible action.
    I made it three steps before I felt his hand on my shoulder. The fingers were savage, gripping hard through muscle and clamping on bone. The pain made me stagger, and I went down on one knee, finally looking up to see the devil that gripped me in his talons.
    The face that stared down at me was wild with fury. Dark hair curled around a face contorted with anger. Green eyes burned with fevered emotion and his grip tightened, forcing me to cry out as my body curled into itself and away from the pain.
    "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Who sent you?"
    He must have realized that his grip precluded any verbal response because he relaxed most of the pressure, retaining only enough to lift me to my feet.
    My first impulse was to knee him in the groin as hard as I could. I probably wouldn't get away, but it would provide a slight payback. But then, revenge wasn't worth feeling his strong fingers clench around my neck. I settled for slapping his hand away from my shoulder. "You're hurting me!"
    "Once again, who are you?" he asked, releasing me.
    There was a hint of accent, something not definable. I took a breath and looked up at him. Rage had been replaced by caution. The change in his features was remarkable. The man who stood before me was handsome. Tinkie's phrase, "a dark man," slipped into my mind. There was no better description, physical or emotional. Blood suffused his olive complexion, and the generous lips of his mouth were straight with challenge. He was not a man to tamper with. I knew that instantly, even as I became fully aware of his broad chest, the large hands clenched at his side, the leanness of hip and thigh that spoke of physical strength.
    There was impatience in green eyes that also held a warning. He was a dangerous man, and I had better have the right answers to his questions. The thrill was delicious.
    "My name is Sarah Booth Delaney, of Dahlia House. And who are you?" Tit for tat. A powerful man is much like a horse--never show them fear.
    "Why are you trespassing on my property?"
    I had enough sense to hear the operative pronoun in his question. So this was Hamilton Garrett the Fifth. In the flesh. I had to come up with a story, and fast.
    "I had hoped to find you or someone from your staff at home," I said. "Cece Dee Falcon asked me to do a story on the Christmas season parties for this area. Since you've returned