Free Sighs Matter by Marianne Stillings

closet in the foyer, stop and look in the office, then go up the stairs to the bedrooms.
    Her bedroom was first, he’d go in, open the closet to find the pile of underwear to be laundered she’d left on the floor. But he wouldn’t notice that, would he? Then into her bathroom. She cringed again. She’d hand washed two bras and left them hanging over the shower stall door to dry. But he wouldn’t notice those either. Probably.
    He’d move down the hall to Aunt Sadie’s room. Hitch would be in his cage. He’d blink and probably say something inane. Hitch, not Taylor.
    Hmm. Then again . . .
    After he’d finished with Aunt Sadie’s closet, he’d move into the hallway and check the other two rooms. Then back to the hall, and down the stairs to the kitchen to the door and . . .
    As she thought it, Taylor pushed the screen door open and stepped onto the porch. The door squeaked as it eased shut.
    Her breath whooshed out of her lungs and tears stung her eyes. He was all right. No shots fired, no officer down. And whoever the guy was who’d broken into her house was gone.
    Flicking the locks, she shoved the door and jumped out, hurrying to stand beside him on the porch.
    She swallowed. “Everything okay?”
    He nodded. A strange light shone in his eyes.
    “What?” she choked. Was there a dead body in the parlor?
    “Pretty underpants.” He waggled his brows.
    She made a gushing sound with her throat. “Pervert.”
    He shrugged. “A man’s got to take his pleasures where he finds them.”
    Glancing around the yard and up the drive, he blew out a long breath. “The gravel won’t show any tire tread or shoeprints, even though I doubt he drove right up to your door. Nice of him, though, to put the key back under the mat.” His blue eyes bored into hers. Meaningfully. “Your prints on it probably obliterated his, if he left any.”
    Taylor extended his hand, palm up, and she placed his cell phone in it. Punching in a number, he put the phone to his ear. As he waited for the call to ring through, she said, “Are you calling for a CSI team?”
    “I’ve got everything I need in the truck.”
    “Just you? Doesn’t Seattle have a unit?”
    “Sure, but we only use it on homicides or violent assaults. It appears any wounds to your purse are only superficial. So all you get . . . is me.”
    His words rumbled inside her skull as she tried to ignore their double meaning.
    While Taylor reported the incident to the PHPD, she watched him as he stood, legs braced, head down, focused. Her own personal knight gallant.
    Would that be so bad? she asked herself. Men like Taylor McKennitt didn’t come along every day. But then, her Nagging Little Voice chimed in, men like her father and brother didn’t come along every day, either, and look what had happened to them.
    The lightweight leather jacket Taylor wore emphasized the breadth of his shoulders; his faded denims, the lean line of his hips. His dark hair was cut short, yet there was enough there to run her fingers through. It looked soft to the touch, and she knew for a fact that it was.
    Taylor McKennitt was a very masculine man. The way he walked, his sexy baritone voice, the sharp look in his eye, his obvious strength, athleticism, and confidence all combined to make a woman feel safe, protected.
    It was nature’s design that a female respond to a male who displayed all the manly virtues. She was simply reacting to feminine programming, but that didn’t make him any easier to ignore.
    But you will , warned that Nagging Little Voice.
    He finished the call, closed the cell phone, and shoved it into his pocket, but before he could say anything, the sound of squealing tires in the driveway made them both turn to see a silver Mercedes SLR McLaren roar down the driveway and slide to a stop behind Taylor’s truck.
    Immediately putting himself between her and the newcomer, Taylor shoved Claire behind him.
    “Anybody you know?” he growled.
    She looked around his shoulder as