Portrait of a Girl Page 7

  “Don’t be an idiot.” His voice vibrated through her. “The shooter may still be out there.”

  “Maybe it was a hunter.”

  “Nothing is in season. And graveyards are not the usual spot for poachers.”

  “I’m sure—”

  He placed his finger on her lips and stared into her eyes, his gaze so intense she couldn’t look away even if she wanted to. “My car is about five hundred yards to the west, to the left of the gate. Keep low and we’ll make it. By low, I mean crawl. Got it?”

  Who was this man? Shooters? Exact measurements and compass directions?

  Shit.

  “I think you’re overreacting.” She gave his chest a shove, which proved as immovable as a mountain. “Please get off me. I’m getting wet.”

  “No can do. When I give the word, move to the next stone in this row. Keep low, preferably on your stomach.”

  He used his telephoto lens once more to scan the area, then moved off her. “It’s now or never, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

  Sweetheart? Did he call all women that, or had he felt that tingling connection, too?

  Oh man, her brain was twisted if she was thinking sexy thoughts with guns going off.

  She watched as he pulled himself along with his arms, barely lifting above the surface. Like she’d seen on wartime documentaries, when the soldiers squeezed under barbed wire.

  He certainly was a fine specimen.

  Heather tried the same maneuver, but couldn’t move an inch.

  The heck with this.

  She rose to her knees, then her feet, scampering to the next stone. And was rewarded with another pop, this one taking a chunk out of the oak tree.

  Tony landed on her in a flying tackle, forcing the air from her lungs and driving her face into the snow. The next instant he rolled off her, the back of her coat clenched in his fist. He dragged her toward the lane, not giving her a moment to wipe the snow from her chin.

  Finally able to suck in a full breath, she squirmed, trying to get free, or at least to slow him down.

  “Cripes, let me catch my breath. I’m sure it’s only a hunter or some kid doing target practice.”

  He broke into a run once they reached the cleared path, and she was unable to talk. Heck, she barely kept her feet under her.

  He all but tossed her into the passenger seat of his car, then raced to the driver’s side. He had the car in gear before it had fully started, and churned up slush and gravel as he pulled away.

  “For Christ’s sake, get your head down,” he yelled, taking a corner so fast she was surprised all four wheels stayed on the ground.

  This was insane. She must have fallen asleep at the cemetery, somehow, and this was a crazy dream.

  Except it wasn’t. The car was real, the speed was real, and the urge to start screaming was real.

  “What the hell are you doing?” She clung to the door handle, silently willing the car to stay out of the ditch.

  He didn’t respond, but turned onto the road leading to the highway.

  She couldn’t believe this was happening. What was next, a horde of mobsters jumping out of the bushes? Or a contingent of aliens?

  “Damn. Hold on, sweetheart,” Tony said, stomping his foot on the accelerator.

  The blow from behind snapped her head back against the headrest, and caused the car to swerve.

  “Oh my God!” She tried to look behind, but he grabbed her shoulder and pushed her head down between her knees.

  “You ever been in a plane?”

  What was he talking about now? Was this really the time for chitchat?

  “Well, of course I have, you mor—”

  “Then I suggest you assume the crash position and hope we can outrun them.”

  Outrun them?

  This wasn’t funny anymore. It had stopped being funny when the first shot was fired.

  Her heart seemed to want out of her chest. Maybe it knew she was doomed.

  She hugged her knees and turned her head, watching Tony as he maintained control of the car. No way was he just a photographer. Unless he regularly went on safaris, or rafted down the Amazon, outrunning the cannibals, if there still were such things. He drove like a professional, taking the corners of the narrow, twisting road at full speed. His face was set in grim concentration, and his hands gripped the wheel hard enough to drive the blood from his knuckles.

  Thankful to be holding on to something, she clamped her arms around her thighs. The car swerved through a sharp turn, and she could tell by the change in sound they had reached the paved road. The car surged forward and she poked her head up, peering over the seat. A large black SUV with tinted windows hovered just behind them, and seemed to be gaining, inch by inch.

  “Who are they?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  Please, oh please let this end happily.

  Someone had shot at them, trying to kill them. Or one of them. And now they were trying to run them off the road, no doubt so they could finish the job.

  But which one of them was the target?

  A knot of sick lodged in her throat.

  “Tony, what’s going on? Who are these people? Who the hell are you?”

  He didn’t answer, his gaze shifting from the roadway to the rearview mirror. They turned a bend in the road and he let out a huge sigh. “Thank you, Lord.”

  A funeral procession approached, led by a police car with its lights flashing. A quick glance behind showed the SUV slowing radically, before pulling off the road and making a U-turn.

  “Flash your lights at the cops.” She grabbed his arm. “Maybe they can arrest those maniacs.” Giddy with relief, she slumped against his shoulder. His strong, manly shoulder. She took a deep breath, fighting the urge to giggle. Wait until she told the folks at the bakery about this!

  She closed her eyes, absorbing the heat and strength from the man she clung to. Her hero. He’d saved their lives, just like James Bond would do.

  The Sean Connery version, of course.

  The car slowed, but he continued to check the rearview mirror. “It would be a waste of everyone’s time. I’m sure it was just some punks out for a joyride, wanting to cause some trouble.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She pushed away from the stubborn ass, not believing her ears. “They shot at us and then tried to run us off the road. We need to call the cops.” She turned in her seat, watching the police car disappear around the curve, hope of assistance disappearing with it.

  He slowed for the on-ramp, then merged onto the interstate. “I still say it would be a waste of time. But go ahead and call if it’ll make you feel better.”

  Darn right she’d call. She’d call in the army if she knew their number.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket. Her hands shook so badly she messed up entering her password. She took a deep breath and clasped her hands in her lap.

  Now would be a good time to start a diary, because this would make for one thrilling entry.

  “What are you going to tell the police?” He seemed to have relaxed, but still checked his mirrors frequently.

  Her gaze wandered over his face, wanting to trust him to be who, and what, he claimed. Maybe he’d worked as a photographer in a war zone. That would explain a lot of his actions and maneuvers. “I’ll say that we were shot at, twice, while in the graveyard, and then a large SUV chased us down the road, until a funeral drove by.”

  “What’s your proof?”

  She clenched her hands to keep from hitting him. She didn’t want to cause an accident. “Proof? You want proof? You were there. You have a cut on your cheek from the chipped gravestone, for heaven’s sake. I’m sure there are marks on the rear bumper from those goons ramming your car.”

  “Sure, you and I have this story, but maybe we’re up to something. Maybe I backed into a parked car, and maybe you gave me this cut.”

  “You’re crazy. Why wouldn’t they believe us?” Was she in the car with a lunatic? Carrying around a fancy camera didn’t automat
ically prove he was a photographer.

  Too many things were not adding up. This hesitancy over calling the police was awfully fishy.

  “I’m just saying we don’t have much evidence. Even if they believe us, what can they do? Do you know how many of those black SUV’s there are on the road? Did you notice the make? The license number?”

  “No.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “If you’d stopped when I said, maybe the cops could have done something.”

  She shoved the phone back into her pocket and leaned against the door, drained of every bit of energy. The whole world was just too darn confusing. She wanted to go home and crawl under a blanket. Forget about her dad, forget about the house that needed a huge cash infusion, forget about Tony who excited her one minute and scared her the next.

  A tense silence filled the car.

  …

  Tony kept checking his mirrors as they headed for home. He hated to deceive Heather like this, but he had to remain professional, keep some evidence back. Sure, she’d seemed shocked by the events in the graveyard, but she might know something. Loyalty to her father was a strong motive, strong enough to cloud her judgment.

  Tracking her with the GPS on her phone had allowed him to watch her for several minutes to make sure she wasn’t meeting someone. She’d been sitting on her dad’s gravestone talking to herself, making snowballs, looking lost.

  He gave himself a mental shake. Now was not the time to have feelings for a witness, even if keeping her safe was all he could think about. He consciously relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. That was too close. If she’d been shot—no, not going there.

  He checked the rearview mirror again. All clear. He could only assume the guys in the SUV were part of Jeffers’s crew. He’d memorized the plate number and would run a check, for all the good it would do.

  What the hell were the bad guys trying to accomplish by wiping out their only link to James?

  Unless Jeffers was giving up on this avenue of whatever the hell he was doing, and wanted to eliminate possible witnesses before leaving the country.

  He glanced at her, huddled against the door. She hadn’t said a word in several minutes. Unusual for her. If her eyes weren’t open, he’d swear she was asleep. Maybe this was some sort of meditation to go along with the yoga. Getting in touch with her inner goddess, or similar crap.

  He exited the highway and headed for their part of town. Still no one suspicious on their tail. He wondered if anyone reported shots fired. There were a few houses near the cemetery; someone must have heard the noise. He’d call Sam and let him deal with any interference from local law enforcement.

  Professional assassins would have used a silencer and a laser scope. The lack of those high-tech weapons led him to believe he wasn’t dealing with pros. Perhaps Jeffers was running short of money so he couldn’t afford talent. Amateurs were more dangerous, more likely to let their emotions come into play. He’d have to step up surveillance on the gatehouse to keep an eye on Heather.

  The empty driveway came into view and his body unclenched. The only tracks in the snow were from his car. He stopped by her front door, but left the engine running.

  He had to get to his computer and check a few things. The digital photos on his camera might show a clue. He also had to send a report to Sam and Chas. This might be the start of an escalation, and they needed to be warned.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asked, turning slightly in his seat.

  She came out of her trance with a start and looked around, as if not believing she was home so soon.

  “Um, yeah, I’ll be fine.” Her laugh was shaky, but at least there was a bit more color in her cheeks. “I didn’t realize a cemetery was a high-crime area.”

  The urge to tell her everything had him biting his tongue. At this point, the less she knew, the better.

  “Let me see your cell phone.” He held out his hand.

  She frowned, keyed in her password, and passed the phone over. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m programming in my cell number. If you need me, call. If you hear or see anything suspicious, call.” He handed back her phone. “I’m in contacts under the Ts.”

  He climbed out, walked around to her side, and opened her door. Reaching in, he took her hand and helped her from the car. Heather stumbled and fell against him, soft and feminine. A gasp escaped her lips, drawing his gaze to her mouth.

  What the hell.

  He lowered his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss. Before he gave in to the urge to take it beyond gentle, he stepped back.

  “Let’s make sure Samson’s okay.”

  She unlocked her front door, but he went in first, every instinct on alert. The cat was asleep in his bed under the kitchen table, so chances were good there was no one else in the house. But he checked each room carefully, making sure all the windows were locked.

  “Looks good,” he said, returning to Heather, who stood near the open door. “I’m sure the excitement is over. Will you be okay?”

  She blew out a breath. “Oh, yeah, this is just another day in the life of a bakery worker. When we’re not kneading dough, we’re dodging bullets.”

  He knew her humor was forced, but he was relieved nonetheless. Her getting hysterical would not make his job any easier.

  “I’ve got work to do, otherwise—”

  “No, I’m okay, really. I think I’ll make a cup of tea and read some baking blogs.”

  He brushed a kiss on her forehead, because he had to touch her again, but if he’d kissed her mouth, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

  “I’ll see you later.” He got back in the car and put it in gear, waiting for her to shut her door. The fact that he lived within sight did little to ease his jitters. An intruder would have enough time to do a lot of damage before he could get there.

  He continued up the drive and parked by the back door, well out of sight of the road. No sense advertising his presence, if it kept the bad guys away. Now was the time to sit back and see what happened after the failed attempt. He hated the idea of using Heather as bait, exposing her to increased risk, but he had a job to do.

  He would keep thinking that, whether he believed it or not.

  Chapter Eight

  Heather grabbed a paint can and roller and trudged up the driveway. Her body ached like she had gone a round with Muhammad Ali’s daughter. She wasn’t used to running from gunmen and being thrown to the ground.

  Who’d have thought something like that would happen to me?

  The icing on the cake was the headache growing behind her left eye. But she wanted to get started on the house. Slap a fresh coat of paint on the interior walls to cover some of the flaws.

  Right now the house was just a huge pain in the butt. The sooner she put it on the market, the sooner she could leave and put this part of her life behind her. Start over.

  Except now she was seriously thinking of staying in Portland. She loved her job, and the city had a good vibe. But she needed to find a small apartment that didn’t use up her whole paycheck for heat.

  In a different part of town, with no bad memories.

  Tony’s face popped into her mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Her body warmed at the memory of their kiss.

  His BMW stood near the back door. There was a small dent in the back bumper, but other than that it looked fresh from the dealer’s lot. She hadn’t noticed on the crazy drive that morning, but now she saw not a speck of dust on the dash, nor a crumpled take-out wrapper on the floor. Maybe it was a new car and he hadn’t had a chance to break it in.

  She knocked on the door of the house, and when there was no answer, went around to the front and knocked again. Setting the paint can down, she fished in her pocket. Her key slid into the lock, and the mechanism turned effortlessly.

  Huh…he must have oiled the lock.

  She pushed the door open with her butt and walked into the front hall.

  After a moment of stunned observance, she had to ask herself a few important que
stions. Where were the dust bunnies and dog-hair balls? She knew he wore socks, so where were the dirty ones? Why didn’t it resemble the apartments of every guy she’d ever dated? It looked more like the home of a maiden aunt.

  She wandered into the front parlor and saw the newspaper neatly folded on the couch. A new fire was laid in the grate simply awaiting a match. She dropped the can and roller and moved toward the kitchen. The dishes had been washed and were drying in the rack. No empty pizza boxes on the counter.

  Dang, he was a better housekeeper than her. She wondered if she had crossed into another dimension. As much as he became more mysterious with every passing day, he was awfully cute.

  She shrugged out of her jacket, threw it onto a chair, and opened the fridge. All neat and tidy and surprisingly healthy. Where were the frozen Snickers, the cheese spread, and the plastic containers of mystery leftovers? This looked nothing like her own fridge.

  Slamming the door shut, she went back to the parlor. It was official. This guy was strange.

  She picked up her paint can and was about to start up the stairs when the closed door on the other side of the hall called her name. Knowing full well that she shouldn’t go anywhere near that room, that it was off-limits and would be a huge invasion of privacy, she eased open Tony’s bedroom door.

  The curtains were partially closed, leaving the room in a hazy light. At least this room was a little messy, a couple of shirts lying on a chair. The bed was rumpled. It appeared that the occupant had passed a restless night. Unless he’d had company. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined him naked, tangled with a lover. She approached the bed and could tell that only one person had slept in it the night before, the other side still neat, the other pillow undented.

  She fingered the sheets, ran her hand over the blankets. All good quality and expensive. She grabbed his pillow and held it to her face. Breathing deeply, she inhaled his scent of lemon. She lay on her back on the thick, firm mattress, still hugging the pillow, and stared at the ceiling.

  A fresh water stain caught her eye, and she groaned. What was she doing lying here fantasizing about a man she was doing her damnedest to not be interested in, when this house was falling down around her ears?