After two years, it was about damn time.

She’d been afraid accepting the job would be a mistake. That she wasn’t ready. Or capable. A myriad of fears had festered in the last twenty-four months, sly fingers of torment that clawed through every ounce of confidence. She hadn’t conquered all the fears, but she’d conquered the addiction that fed them, and she wanted-needed-to step forward. This had been the step she’d chosen.

The memory card on her digital camera had been full by the time she arrived, and it was those images she sorted through now, already considering a possible organizational format for the book.

Sting was pleading with Roxanne as Delaney peered more closely at the screen. Since her hips were firmly planted in the chair, she moved her shoulders in rhythm to the music as she selected and docked photos. Pursing her lips, she was considering whether to trash a photo with poor light quality when she found herself in the dark. Literally.

Force of habit had her pressing the save command on the computer, heaving a sigh of relief when it did so successfully. Obviously the electricity wasn’t off. Maybe the overhead bulb needed to be replaced. She pushed her chair back and rose, half turning toward the door. Then jumped back, her heart slamming into her throat.

Looming in the doorway of her makeshift office was the shadow of a man. Big. Broad. Powerful. Her mind made the observations in short staccato succession. But it was the gun nestled beneath one muscled bicep that held her attention.

Oh, God. She ripped off the headphones, stumbling a little as she backed away, stopped short by the desk. Her hands searched the surface behind her as she tried to recall if she’d unpacked anything that could be used as a weapon. With a sinking feeling she realized just as quickly that she’d focused on getting her computer and equipment up and running. Her cameras unloaded. Although a knife or pickax would come in handy right now, the most lethal thing on her desk was a bundle of unsharpened pencils.