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for so many reasons. It had been over a year since the night he was murdered, but every time she had to talk to the D.A.’s office, the police or a judge, all the wounds opened up again.
    Now Harte was putting her into protective custody until after the trial. She was the one being threatened and targeted. It wasn’t fair that she had to be the one locked up while the murderers were free to go where they pleased.
    Under the hot soothing spray of the shower, she felt the weight of sadness and worry, heavier than ever. To her dismay, her eyes stung.
    “Stop it,” she told herself. She never cried. To cry meant to lose control, and she did not like feeling out of control.
    Turning off the taps, she dried off, then wrapped up in a short terry-cloth robe and squeezed the last of the water out of her shoulder-length hair.
    In the kitchen she put on a pot of coffee. As she waited for it to perk, she couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday and her near miss. It had been almost dark when she’d gotten home. As she’d walked from the driveway to the mailbox, she’d heard a car engine rev.
    By the time she’d realized the car was coming straight at her, it was almost too late. Somehow, instinct had kicked in and she’d managed to leap onto the porch. The car ripped through the wooden steps and then swerved back onto the street and took off.
    It had been a close call. Too close. She shuddered, her shoulders drawing up. With a long sigh intended to help her relax, she poured herself a mug of chicory coffee. She added cream and sugar and stirred briskly, then took that almost unbelievably delicious first sip of the morning. It was so good it gave her goose bumps.
    A few more sips and she felt her courage begin to rise. Coffee made so many things better. Consciously relaxing the tense muscles between her shoulder blades, she headed toward the front porch to see what kind of damage had been done. She stepped outside and breathed deeply of the cool morning air. March temperatures in south Louisiana could be as hot as July, but they could also be fresh and springlike. This morning was leaning toward spring. But she quickly forgot about the weather as she surveyed the damage. The car had taken a huge bite out of the front-porch floor. The steps were nothing but splinters, and if she hadn’t managed to clear the edge of the porch with that desperate leap, she might be just as smashed and scattered as the wood.
    Shuddering at that thought, she eased closer to the porch’s edge. Had the car damaged the four-by-fours that supported the front end of the porch? She took another couple of steps toward the edge.
    “Dani! No!”
    The sharp words shattered the quiet. Dani jerked and spilled coffee down the front of her robe. She whirled toward the voice, her heart racing with shock.
    It was him! She’d been so concentrated on the damage to the porch that she’d completely forgotten about his promise to sleep in the driveway. “Stop!” he shouted.
    Fury burned the shock right out of her. “You!” she cried indignantly, flicking drops of sticky coffee off her fingers.
    “Don’t move!” He held up his hands in a stop gesture.
    But she had no intention of budging. He was approaching fast and she was four feet above him on the porch in nothing but a bathrobe that came to midthigh—maybe. No underwear. Oh, brother. Her face grew warm.
    “Don’t come any closer!” she cried out. When he didn’t stop, she screeched, “Don’t!”
    He stopped, looking bewildered. “What’s wrong?”
    “Go around back,” she said, gesturing with her head. She didn’t dare move anything else. Her left hand pressed the front hem of the robe against her thighs. “Go.”
    Harte cocked his head quizzically, then shrugged. “I will, but not until you back up carefully toward the door. The front of the porch is sagging.”
    “No! You first,” she insisted. Her ears burned, she was so embarrassed. “Please,” she begged.
    His brows raised and that