FRIEND, LOVER, PROTECTOR Page 2

  At the next crossroads she turned again. Once more the car followed. Her attention became focused on the car behind her as much as the road in front. Surely the car wasn't really following them. Surely this was some stupid coincidence.

  It didn't feel like a coincidence.

  It felt menacingly deliberate.

  Contrary to her assertion that she trusted only what she knew, she couldn't bring herself to pull to the side of the road to let the car pass. She couldn't have said why she was certain the car would stop, too. Then what? she wondered. Distressing images of murder and mayhem filled her mind. "You've been watching too much television, Jensen," she muttered.

  "Pardon?" Jack asked.

  "Just talking to myself." She turned at the next intersection, then watched for the car to appear behind her. From the corner of her eye she could see that Jack was also looking behind them, harsh lines bracketing his mouth.

  The car whizzed through the crossroads without turning. Shaking, and more relieved than she cared to admit, Dahlia slowed the van. The car continued on its way, a rooster tail of dust tracking its progress long after she could no longer see it.

  "You okay?" Jack asked.

  Dahlia straightened. "Yes."

  "You're shaking," he commented.

  That he had noticed unsettled her even more. She had been in the field with students hundreds of times. Storms were sometimes dangerous. Nothing else. Not ever. "Like I said, I've been watching too much television."

  "I think you should consider calling it a day." When she scowled, he tacked on, "Maybe."

  She tore her gaze away from his and wrapped her hands around the steering wheel. "I've never let flights of imagination determine my work schedule." She put the car into gear, pulled back into the road and finally returned her attention to the storm. She pressed her foot harder on the accelerator. "And I'm not about to start today."

  "Then let me drive," he said. "You just ran a stop sign."

  "I know where we're going."

  "So do I," he countered, motioning toward the storm directly overhead. "We're following your storm."

  "I'll drive," she said, feeling as though she was repeating herself. "I asked you before if you were new in town."

  "I am. Actually you asked if I was new to CMU."

  "Are you?" She took her eyes off the road to look at him.

  "I'd have to be if I'm new here, wouldn't I?" He smiled. "You wanted the answer. Feel any better?"

  "No." She massaged her hand across her forehead. This wasn't the first or second or thirty-fifth time she had people ride with her she didn't know. "This is nuts."

  "Agreed." He sighed. Taking off the sunglasses to rub the bridge of his nose, he met her gaze, his eyes a brilliant turquoise blue that seemed to settle right into her. "You know, we haven't gotten off to a very good start here," he said.

  "That's true."

  "What do I have to do to make it better?"

  "Be honest with me. Did you sign up because you wanted the thrill of seeing a tornado?"

  He laughed and shook his head. "Not…" The laugh dissolved as though he had changed his mind about what he intended to say. "Chances are we could chase storms all summer without seeing a single twister."

  "That's right," she stated flatly, motioning toward the flat landscape ahead of them. "This is about as thrilling as it gets most days. If you signed up to see tornadoes, you'll be disappointed."

  "That's not high on my list of priorities." He put the glasses back on, his attention again roving over the scenery.

  "That's good because what we're interested in is lightning."

  "Lightning?" He motioned toward the equipment in the back of the van. "All this is to study lightning?"

  As if to punctuate his statement, the cloud overhead flickered and thunder rumbled.

  "Why did you sign up to be one of my assistants?" she asked.

  "I…" His voice faded away, while his attention fell on a car which was stopped at the crossroads they just went through. When they passed it, he turned around and looked at the vehicle.

  "Is that the same car?" she asked.

  "Could be," he said, his voice tight.

  "Are you sure you don't know them?" She studied the vehicle that turned onto the road behind them, hoping he was wrong, having the awful feeling he was right.

  "Positive."

  "This is stupid," she muttered. "Nobody is following me. Nobody has reason to follow me." Mentally reviewing all the legitimate reasons a car had for being on this same stretch of high plains road, she slowed the van and steered toward the right shoulder, giving the other vehicle plenty of opportunity to pass.

  For a moment it followed, then pulled up alongside the van. Good, she thought. It was going to pass. She had intended to let it go by without glancing over, but she had to look, had to reassure herself.

  The only person in the car was the man driving it. He met her gaze, then pointed a gun at her. A big gun.

  Dumbly she stared at the weapon, her mind blank.

  "Holy crap," Jack snapped. "Step on it! Drive. Go!"

  His abrupt command shocked her out of the stupor. She floored the accelerator, and the van shot forward.

  From the corner of her eye she watched Jack unzip his pack, his expression taut. A lethal-looking gun appeared in his hand.

  "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God," she muttered, her foot easing on the accelerator.

  "Don't slow down," he commanded.

  She drove faster. "You have a gun." The shakes were back, worse, much worse than they had been before. And the car behind them was close. Too close.

  She didn't know people who carried guns. She didn't want to know people who carried guns.

  She pressed harder on the gas pedal. The van shimmied as it clattered over the washboard of the graveled road. The steering wheel became slick beneath her sweaty palms.

  A reverberating ping echoed through the van, sounding like a single huge hailstone striking a hollow can. Boo yelped.

  "Oh, God, they just shot at us, didn't they?"

  "Damn straight."

  "Boo—she's okay?"

  He reached down to pat the dog, who had wedged herself in between the two seats. "She's fine."

  "Who is that guy?" she asked, then shook her head, her attention riveted on the weapon. "Forget that, who the hell are you?"

  "Your bodyguard."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  "My bodyguard?" she echoed, her voice squeaking. "A bodyguard? That's ridiculous!"

  Jack couldn't have agreed more. The whole situation was deadly and getting worse by the second. Unless they got damn lucky damn fast, they were in big trouble.

  Her eyes narrowed. "Why ever would I need a bodyguard?"

  Jack looked behind them. The car wasn't gaining, but they weren't getting any farther away, either. "I'll tell you anything you want to know. Later. Just step on it, will you?"

  "Step on it," she muttered. "Yes, sir." She floored the accelerator. The van shot forward.

  A stop sign marked an upcoming intersection. Dahlia must have had the same thought he did, because she showed no sign of stopping—and fortunately no other cars could be seen on the other roads. At the next crossroads, she braked to slow, ignored the stop sign and turned left onto a paved road. Tires squealed and the van swerved, but she managed to keep it on the road.

  "Good girl," Jack said.

  "Up yours."

  She drove the way he would have, her handling of the van suggesting that she'd probably had training in evasive maneuvers and chase. He began to hope they'd get out of this in one piece. The car behind them didn't make the turn as cleanly, and it fell a little farther behind.

  He relaxed a little and looked over at the surprising Dahlia Jensen, Ph.D. Where he'd been expecting mousy, starched and boring, she was vibrant and alluring, despite her baggy clothes. She was clearly angry, pink suffusing the flawless skin of her cheeks. Her blond hair was caught in some kind of intricate
loose braid that revealed the shell of her ear and the length of her neck and added to her femininity.

  She pinned him with a glare from her dark eyes—brown, he realized, intrigued by the contrast to her fair skin and hair.

  "Stop staring at me and keep an eye on that jerk behind us."

  "You've had high-speed training," he said, ignoring her comment while keeping one eye on the car following them. "This is some souped-up van you've got."

  "I chase thunderstorms," she said, looking at him from the corner of her eye. "You think I'd take off in a vehicle without any speed and without knowing what I'm doing?"

  Jack glanced at the speedometer. Ninety miles per hour was a little faster than his preferred land speed, but he had to hand it to her. She knew how to handle the vehicle.

  She didn't show any sign of slowing even after they headed west and crossed back over I-25. Soon the traffic began to get heavier, and she reduced her speed. The car following them began to gain. It still looked more country than city when they passed the first of the signs that stated they were entering the city limits. Abruptly farms gave way to housing developments and office buildings.

  Ahead a flashing light for a railroad crossing came on. The approaching train blared its whistle. Dahlia glanced briefly in the rearview mirror, and her mouth firmed into a straight line. The van gained speed.

  Jack shuddered as he realized her intention. There wasn't enough room to stop before the tracks. She was crazy. He glanced behind them. The car chasing them hadn't given up, either.

  The train was close. Too close.

  The train whistled, long and loud and sounded to Jack like a death knell. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  "Come on, baby," Dahlia muttered under her breath, leaning forward as if doing so would make the van go even faster.

  The whistle blared again.

  The van clattered across the tracks.

  The train whizzed past, so close he could feel the compression of air between the train and the van.

  "Thank God," she whispered.

  "You're nuts! Nobody plays chicken with a train."

  She didn't reply, which was just as well. If looks could kill, he was a goner.

  Jack turned to look behind them. The car chasing them had come to a halt on the other side of the train. If luck was with them, the train would be a long one. A very long one.

  It was. Each of the cars filled with coal. The train moved much slower than he had imagined.

  He let out a sigh and glanced at Dahlia. He had never been with a more magnificent woman. Not just because she drew him physically but because of her courage and determination. Without exception the women he knew would have resorted to tears or hysteria by now. Thank God Dahlia wasn't one of those. When she flashed him another glance with her surprisingly dark eyes, he admitted to himself that he liked her even if she had scared a decade off his life. And liking her … that hadn't been part of the deal.

  Three blocks later Dahlia abruptly turned right, and a half block later brought the van to a skidding halt. "Out," she commanded.

  Jack stared numbly at her. "What?"

  "You heard me. Out."

  "But, I'm—"

  "I don't want to hear any cockamamie story about bodyguards or anything else. For all I know that guy is after you. Not me. And one way to tell is get rid of you. Out."

  "You don't understand."

  "I understand perfectly," she said. "You're a crazy person."

  "I'm crazy?" he shouted. "You're certifiable. You could have gotten us killed."

  "Like we wouldn't have been if we'd been stuck on the same side of the tracks as that guy. Get out. Right now." She held up her HAM radio. "Or I'm calling the cops."

  "That's the first sensible thing you've said." He opened the door and stepped onto the pavement. "Call the cops, Dahlia Jensen, or better yet, go see them 'cause you're gonna need them. And do it soon." He slammed the door, and she sped away.

  Frustration and fear for her vied equally with a reluctant admiration. He could only hope that she was going to the cops as she had said. Since he'd deliberately left his pack in the van, he had the opening he needed to look her up as soon as he identified the car following them. Not that he needed an excuse. His best friend had asked him to keep the lady out of harm's way, and he would, with or without her cooperation.

  At the moment, though, he wished he was with his platoon. The intelligence that had come down over the month had them all believing that they'd be deployed for a recon mission. There he knew what to expect, and he had trained for it. Even though he was on medical leave, he was carrying a pager. If the mission went down, he would be called back to be part of the support team.

  This business with Dahlia Jensen, Ph.D.—correction, blond bombshell—had him feeling as nervous as he had the first time he'd trained under live fire.

  * * *

  Five minutes later Dahlia pushed open the doors of the police station and marched over to the desk, where a receptionist watched her approach. She had been expecting a crusty desk sergeant like the ones usually seen on television.

  "Can I help you?" the young woman asked.

  "I'd like to report a crime." That sounded pretty mundane compared to the fright that raced through her veins.

  "Let me get an officer to take your report."

  She called someone named Bob on the phone, and Dahlia stood for the next two minutes drumming her fingers against the counter and refusing an offer of coffee. That was all she needed—more acid in her stomach.

  A door slammed, and she watched an officer amble toward her, reminding her of Jack's deceptively slow walk this morning. The officer, like the receptionist, looked young enough to be a student at the university.

  He smiled. "Officer Bob Jones. Can I help you?"

  "I was fired at this morning. With a gun," she added, just in case he didn't understand.

  His eyebrows shot up, and Dahlia sensed she had his attention as she hadn't before.

  "Please. This way." He led her down the hall, and two minutes later she sat at a table across from him and a concerned-looking sergeant.

  Succinctly Dahlia related what had happened and did her best to answer their questions. No, she didn't know the man shooting at her. When she was asked for a description, she drew a blank—all she remembered was the gun, which looked like any other to her. As for the car, it was beige or light brown or white. Dirty. She couldn't answer the questions about whether it had two doors or four, its make or model or any other useful details about it, not even if it had Colorado plates.

  The two policemen looked at each other and finally Jones said, "You haven't given us much to work with here."

  Dahlia didn't like admitting they were right. "I want protection."

  "You think this was personal, then? You have an ex giving you trouble?"

  "No." She shook her head. "No. I don't know this guy." She snapped her fingers. "A bullet hit my van. I heard it ping. So there's gotta be a dent, right, maybe even a hole?"

  The two officers followed her out to her van. After a scant minute of looking, she realized this was going to be futile. She had been caught in several hail storms, so the van was damaged from that. Plus, she usually traveled on gravel roads, and that probably accounted for some of the other damage. Identifying a single small dent made by a bullet from all the others wasn't going to work. No hole, which meant there wouldn't be a bullet

  Officer Jones shrugged, then said, "What probably happened here, ma'am, is the fellow was looking for an easy victim to rob. There's nothing to indicate that you need protection."

  Jones pulled a card from his pocket and passed it to her. "Anything else comes up … you call me."

  It was only after she began driving away that she realized she'd failed to mention Jack Trahern at all. Odd, especially as she had been thinking about him the whole time.

  * * *

  Jack watched Dahlia's van speed away as he shoved his revolver into the waistband of his jeans and pulle
d the tail of his shirt out to cover it. Then he calmly walked back to the main thoroughfare and stepped behind an enormous cottonwood tree to wait for traffic to resume after the train went by. At the very least he'd have a license plate number.

  This was far different from his normal stakeout as a sniper with the Army Rangers. The last time he had been on surveillance, he had been hidden in a tree in a South American jungle, doing his best to ignore the mosquitoes and covering his team through a sniper's scope attached to his rifle. Hostages from the American diplomatic corps had been rescued in a mission that would be classified for some time.

  The landscape in front of him today was so ordinary it was difficult to imagine that danger lurked on the other side of the long coal train, which rolled past for another six minutes.

  The plates turned out to be temporary ones, the paper variety taped to the inside of the filthy window, only the word Colorado legible. He watched the off-white car continue on, committing to memory everything about it. The vehicle was remarkable only in that it was completely unremarkable. The driver, though—Jack would remember him. Thin face and a long thin nose.

  A second later a city bus stopped in front of Jack, and a couple of people got off. He fished some coins out of his pocket and boarded the bus.

  As he'd done more than once since his buddy Ian had called yesterday afternoon, Jack reviewed what he knew about the situation—the key to keeping ahead of and out-thinking his adversary. Dahlia's sister, code name Linda, had witnessed an execution-style murder and had been placed into custody after the defendant—a businessman with organized crime connections—began making threats on her. His buddy Ian had taken the woman's child to Alaska to be with Dahlia's other sister, code name Rachel. Only, their cover had been blown, and they had been forced into hiding. A guy with connections back to the defendant in the murder case had assaulted Dahlia's parents, and they now had police protection.

  Ian had called Jack after he'd been unable to convince the local police that she needed protection, figuring that Dahlia could be a target.

  "This whole thing has blown up in the past twenty-four hours. Rosie and her folks didn't know anything about all of this until I got here," Ian had said. "Rosie doesn't know I'm calling you, and I want to keep it that way. She's got enough on her mind."