Red Lily by Nora Roberts Page B

those long legs around him, as he sank into her. Into that heat, into those soft blue eyes.
    The crash woke him, and his dreaming mind heard the joyful crack of ball on bat. He thought home run even as he sat up, shaking his head to toss off sleep.
    Jesus! He rubbed his hands over his face. Weird, very weird, even if it did combine two of his favorite activities. Sports and sex. Amused at himself, he started to toss the book aside.
    The second crash from downstairs was like a bullet shot, and no dream.
    He was on his feet in a fingersnap and grabbing the Louisville Slugger he’d had since his twelfth birthday as he rushed out of the room.
    His first thought was that Bryce Clerk, his mother’s ex-husband, had gotten out of jail and was back to cause more trouble. He’d be sorry for it, Harper thought grimly as he gripped the bat. His blood was up as he charged toward the fury of crashing and banging.
    He slapped on the lights in time to see a plate come winging toward him. Instinct had him swinging for the fences. The plate shattered, shooting out shards.
    Then there was utter silence.
    The room he’d washed up before going upstairs looked as though it had been set upon by a particularly destructive gang of vandals. Broken dishes littered the floor along with spilled beer and the jagged remains of the bottles it had come from. His refrigerator door hung open, with all the contents pulled out. His counters and walls were covered with what looked like a nasty mix of ketchup and mustard.

    There was no one there but himself. And he could see his own breath in the chill that had yet to fade out of the air.
    “Son of a bitch.” He scooped a hand through his hair. “Son of a goddamn bitch.”
    She’d used ketchup—at least he hoped it was that benign condiment rather than the blood it resembled—to write her message on the wall.
I will not rest
    He studied the mess. “You’re not the only one.”

six
    M ITCH ADJUSTED HIS glasses and looked more closely at the photographs. Harper had been thorough, he thought, getting pictures from every angle, taking close-ups and wide angles.
    The boy had a steady hand and a cool head.
    But . . .
    “You should’ve called us when this happened.”
    “It was one in the morning. What was the point? This is what it looked like.”
    “What it looks like is you pissed her off. Any ideas?”
    “No.”
    Mitch spread the photos out, adjusting their order, while David looked over his shoulder. “You clean that shit up?” David asked Harper.
    “Yeah.” Temper seemed to vibrate off the blades of his tensed shoulders. “She got every damn dish in the place.”

    “No great loss there. They were ugly anyway. What are those?” David snatched one of the pictures up. “Twinkies? What are you, twelve? Harper.” His face a picture of pity, David shook his head. “I worry about you.”
    “I happen to like Twinkies.”
    Mitch held up a hand. “Snack choices aside—”
    “Twinkies are bombs of sugar and fat and preservatives.” Interrupting Mitch, David tried for a pinch at Harper’s waist.
    “Cut it out.” But the move, as designed, pushed a little humor through the wall of Harper’s temper.
    “Girls,” Mitch said mildly. “To get back to the matter at hand. This is another change of pattern. She’s never, to your knowledge, come into the carriage house, or caused you any particular trouble.” He looked to Harper for confirmation.
    “No.” A glance at the photos he’d taken brought back the shock, the fury, and the time it had taken to deal with the destruction. “And this is a hell of a debut.”
    “Your mother’s going to have to know about this.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” Still steaming, Harper paced to the back door, scowled out at the morning haze. He’d waited, deliberately, until he’d seen his mother head out for her morning run. “I value my life, don’t I? But I wanted us to go over this first, before we bring her into it.” He glanced up at the ceiling, where