“I’m taking you home with me,” she told Ben.
He pulled back and frowned. “I…” His brows drew together and after a second, he said, “Bronx is at home. Can’t leave him all night. He’ll need to go out.”
“Then we’ll go to your house.”
* * * *
The dog knocked Anne back a step as Ben let her in the warehouse door.
“Hi, Bronx.” Smiling, she knelt to snuggle the retriever. His fur was soft against her face, and his tail whipped her arm with his delight. “You’re such a sweetheart.”
“Ready to go out, buddy?” Ben asked.
Obviously recognizing the question, Bronx trotted past him while Ben stood in the doorway. Filled with old brick industrial buildings, the streets in the area were evolving into the city’s “artsy” district. But this late at night, Bronx would have the street to himself.
As Ben watched his dog, Anne watched the man. Yes, he was back in his skin and functioning well again. He’d be all right.
She walked into the center of the small warehouse and turned in a circle. In the back half, the second floor formed an open loft. The entire front of the building was all windows, clear to the roof. The wood floors were sanded smooth and so well coated that she knew why Bronx had slid into her when they’d arrived.
To her left was an unwalled office space with computer equipment and oversized monitors as well as drafting tables. Green and flowering plants filled the corners and perched on available surfaces, adding a lush element to the industrial ambiance.
And then she saw the pictures. Six feet tall, lining the back wall.
In one, dark thunderclouds brooded over a traditional beach sunset. Evil reddish light angled down to silhouette two innocent children building a sand castle.
Goose bumps rose on Anne’s arms.
Another photo showcased a great blue heron in the twilight, its head tilted as it stared back at the viewer.
An alligator basked on a sunny log, seemingly at ease, except for its cold, predatory gaze.
A sunrise photo revealed a very familiar place—Z’s personal garden.
Stunned, she bent and read the scrawling signature on the mat. BL Haugen. The very famous BL Haugen, whose photographs of the war in Iraq had won numerous awards. Who was now renowned as a Florida photographer.
Her gaze lingered on a photograph taken in the Everglades. Ben carried a chainsaw in his Jeep. “I’m in the wilderness a lot,” he’d said.
“You took these pictures.” Her words came out almost accusatory.
“Mmmhmm.” Ben closed the door behind Bronx. “I’m taking him upstairs to feed him.”
“Right,” she said absently.
She’d thought he was a nice, normal security guard. Okay, sure she’d figured out he was far, far deeper, but he had a whole career she hadn’t known about. What kind of an idiot was she?
After she’d looked her fill, she turned and saw that the wall past the stairs held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Ben must read. A lot.
Did the man have to keep getting more attractive? As she climbed the stairs to the loft, she surveyed the titles. Lots of mysteries, a smattering of horror, some philosophy and ethics. Books about Florida history and biology.
Halfway up, her legs turned rubbery and she slowed. God, she was tired. A heavy scene left both participants exhausted. After she checked to be sure Ben would be all right, she’d get herself home.
The stairs ended in an open kitchen, dining, and living space. The doors to the rear probably led to a bedroom and bath. A massive plant—an umbrella tree—filled one corner. African violets lined the kitchen island. The man went for greenery. Maybe they helped drive away memories of a desert war?
Ben set down a bowl of dog food for Bronx before smiling at her. “I have water and sodas in the fridge.”
“That sounds wonderful.” She rummaged inside and found a strawberry sparkling water.
As Ben rinsed out the dog food can and tossed it into recycling, Anne regarded him. He still looked more like a stereotypical street thug than a renowned photographer. “You might have mentioned you take pictures for a living. Why are you a guard at the Shadowlands?”
“Photography is solitary. When I was discharged, my only friends were a couple of vets.” He ruffled Bronx’s ruff. “Z wanted me to meet people who weren’t connected with war. He”—Ben’s mouth quirked—“ordered me to get a part-time position that put me around people. He didn’t care where, even McDonalds, but when I didn’t start job hunting, he dumped me on the desk at the club.”
This man had gone through hell and staggered out the other side. Battered, mentally and physically, but on his feet. And a few years later, was one of the most confident, caring, amazing men she’d ever known. “I take it Z’s unique brand of therapy worked?”