CLARA'S POV

"Wake up, mummy." Tiny hands clutched at my nightshirt, shaking with all their might. My eyes flew open, and my heart hitched in my chest. Terrified blue eyes speared me through the dusk of the morning. The little girl must have had another nightmare. "Jane, sweetheart, what?"

"They're coming. They're coming now, the bad men. We have to run." Her breath came in sharp gasps before she let out a high-pitched sob.

I shook my head, reaching out to enfold my daughter in a hug. I slowed my own breath, the need to comfort my child overwhelming me. Poor Jane. Not another nightmare. I reached for my reading glasses on the table only to realize I had fallen asleep with them on. Again. The newest edition of Botanical Magazine hadn't been the barn-burner I had expected.

I smoothed Jane's hair down while silence echoed around us. Now more than ever, I wished Paul had lived, maybe he could have soothed our daughter's fears. I flipped on the antique pink Depression glass lamp. "It's okay, sweetheart. I'm sure it was just a bad drea—"

A loud crash came from the other room and I yelped. The sound of splintering wood propelled me to action. I leapt from the bed, yanked Jane into my arms, and sprinted for the master bath, barely missing the potted fern in the corner. My heart slamming against my ribs, I locked the door and rushed toward the small window. I failed to unlock it before the thin door burst open behind me.

A broad hand stopped the door from clanging against the wall. At least six and a half feet of muscle-packed male filled the doorway.

With a cry, I dropped Jane to her feet and dodged in front of the four-year-old. The air caught in my throat and my ears started to ring as adrenaline spiked through my blood. This was not happening. I yanked my head to the side and forced myself to accept the situation. Accept that I needed to fight. I dragged oxygen into my tight lungs and searched the tiled counter for a weapon—my tweezers probably wouldn't harm anybody.

I pushed Jane back against the wall. Retreating a step, I held one hand out to ward off the threat. His size made me gulp. Brown eyes raked me from his hard cut face, and raven black hair reached his collar with a freedom that disavowed any ties to the military—although he wore the requisite flack boots and dark jeans under a bulletproof vest. I had seen the gear on a Discovery Channel special about soldiers.

The energy emanating from him stole my breath.

"Get out," I said, shielding my child. Trying to shield myself from the feelings he threw at me. Anger, passion, and urgency all swirled together, mixing with my own panic and making me light-headed. My knees wobbled, and my head began to ache. I usually blocked better than this. Or maybe his emotions were just that strong.

"We need to go." His tone was water over sharp rocks, as if he was trying to gentle a naturally rough voice. Then his eyes dropped to my faded nightshirt to see the image of Einstein surrounded by shopping bags—"Quantum Shopping." His top lip quirked up and a dimple winked. My heartbeat slowed in response. Then he stalked a step closer, his hands at his sides, and my gaze flew to the gun on his hip, to the several knives secured in his vest.

My heart leapt back into action. "You have the wrong house." I glared up at his implacable face—a face cut from granite with a jaw made to take a punch. I'd have to jump to even come close.

The scent of spiced pine and male infused the room.

He shook his head. A pit the size of a large rock settled in my stomach as adrenaline slammed the room into sharp focus. My breath came in short pants, and my scientific mind sought an answer. A way to take his massive frame down. I stamped down on the rising panic when nothing came to mind, and again searched for a weapon, spotting the tiny Fittonia "White Anne" in the terra-cotta planter. I couldn't throw Annie at the man; the plant would never survive.

The intruder took another step to peer over my shoulder. "It will be okay. We have to go." His large hand encircled my bicep before dragging me into the bedroom. Fear seized my vocal cords for a moment, and my mind scattered. Should I tell Jane to run? Could I slow him down long enough? These questions ran through my mind.

Then, with a muffled curse, he dropped my arm. A low growl emanated from him as he peered at his hand. He wiped it on his pant leg and grabbed me again. What had been on my shirt? I thought.

The phone near the bed caught my eye, and I lunged for it. He jerked me back, his hand warm and firm on my arm. I dug my feet into the carpet but their forward momentum didn't slow, so I tried to yank away as he pulled me toward a basket of clothes at the foot of the bed.

"Jane, follow us," he tossed over his shoulder.

I coughed out air. He knew Jane's name. This wasn't random. Fear choked me again. "How do you know her name?" I asked out of fear.

He pivoted until I smacked flush against him. Heat filled me, surrounded me. His hands settled on my arms, and his determination and intent beat at me. Damn it. I couldn't block him—I sucked as an empath. Then he lowered his head.

"I know both of your names, Clara. Listen. My name is Taki Kayes, and I won't hurt you. I'm here to help." Determined eyes captured me while he gave me a moment. "Take a deep breath. I can feel your power. You can find the truth here. You know I won't hurt you." His voice rumbled low. Soothing.

My body softened from his tone even as my mind rebelled. My breathing evened out. Danger radiated out of the man, but I could sense no intention to harm me. Or Jane.

Jane tugged on my waist. "It's okay, mummy. We have to go. They're coming."

I stepped to the side and nodded. "Fine. We'll leave. We can follow you." If I could just get Jane to the car—

He grinned, flashing even white teeth. "You can't lie worth spit. You have one minute to throw on clothes." The sound of his rough voice shot nerve endings alive through my skin. But not from fear. He turned toward the door.

"No." I again tried to wrench away while my body tingled where it met his.

"Then you go in your pajamas." He grabbed the basket of clothes in his other arm while he towed me into the hallway. "Keep up, Jane." The little girl stumbled behind, keeping her hands glued to my waist.

"Wait, no, mummy," Jane cried out, pulling on me. "I need Mr. Muller." Her voice rose to a shrill sob.

Taki whirled around and squinted over my shoulder. "Mr. Muller?" He eyed the living room entrance and then focused on the little girl.