Читать книгу Someone To Protect Her - Patricia Rosemoor - Страница 13

Wondering if she would be alive to see the sunrise, C.J. was amazed when a man hurtled past her and tackled the busker so hard the force almost ripped her arm from its socket before the knave finally freed her.

A panting, hurting, horribly frightened C.J. tried to make out the identity of her rescuer, but it was nearly dark now. All she could see was a tangle of limbs as the men did a bizarre dance away from her seemingly in slow motion. Punches were traded, though in such close quarters, she suspected neither man had enough leverage to do harm. Suddenly, her attacker forced the other man away from him, kicked out and connected with the man’s knee, then ran, so the incident was over nearly as quickly as it had begun.

Her rescuer caught himself and appeared ready to follow the blackguard, but then he stopped and limped back to where she still sat in a dazed puddle.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes—at least I think so.” Testing her limbs, she winced when she stretched out her abused arm. “Bruises and strains, I suspect, but I shall live. Thanks to you.”

“Let me help you up.”

The touch of his strong hands at her waist shot a foreign sensation through C.J. He helped her to her feet and continued to steady her. Inches from her attractive dark-haired savior—she could see that much, at least—she felt her throat clog. That darned tongue of hers must have swollen to twice its size as it often did around interesting men. And when he reached out to right her glasses, which sat crookedly on her nose, her knees weakened.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Glad for the excuse to put some distance between them, she nodded her head and demonstrated. The joints wobbled but worked. Well, perhaps it was more of a teeter than a true walk, but she managed.

When a few yards separated them, she choked out, “You see? All better.”

“But I can’t just leave you here.” He looked past her. “Think you can make another half block?” He indicated the hotel ahead. “I can get you there, make sure you’re safe until someone can come for you.”

She nodded, not bothering to protest that there would be no one to fetch her. No husband. No suitor. Not even a female friend, since she hadn’t been in the country long enough to bond with anyone. But a respite in soothing surroundings was the very thing, she decided. He took her arm in a gentlemanly fashion and let her set the pace.

Realizing that he was still limping slightly, she said, “Perhaps it’s you who is hurt.”

“Nah, just an old war injury kicking up.”

Humor? she wondered. At a time like this? How curious. As they approached the old hotel that had been restored to its former elegance, his stride evened out, so she didn’t think more of it.

C.J. loved Hotel Boulderado with its domed, stained-glass skylight, cantilevered oak staircase and lovely period furniture. In addition to eating in the hotel’s restaurant, she often wandered through the place and sat in the lobby as if waiting for a friend, when all she wanted was to experience the pleasure of being in someplace civilized.

Upon entering, she found a chair in a corner, “Oh, yes, this is better.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “You’re a Brit. Odd…”

“Yes, I’m surprised to find myself in your Wild West, as well,” she agreed, a sense of euphoria filling her. The aftermath of the adrenaline rush of being attacked, she was certain.

“No, it’s just that I was looking for this British scientist when I saw that guy dragging you off.”

Scientist? C.J. gaped. How many British scientists could be working in Boulder, Colorado?

The man sat in a chair that brought their knees close, making her shift in her seat away from him.

“We really should report this incident to the police.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I need to find this guy tonight.”

“I believe you have. C. J. Birch here.” She extended her hand.

His piercing blue eyes widened on her. “You’re…?”

“Exactly. And you?”

He gave her hand a vitally American shake.

“Frank Connolly, Montana Confidential. I’m flying you out of here tomorrow.”

Noting that he hadn’t let go of her hand, C.J. murmured, “How bizarre.”

“What?”

She slipped from his grasp and stared at her fingers for a moment. Then she blinked and looked at him. “Why, the way you found me, of course.”

“I was told you would be having a dinner meeting at the Brickwalk Café. But when I got there…one of your colleagues told me you’d just set off.”

“Perfect timing, then.” As if fate had taken a hand and stepped in to protect her. Making C.J. feel a bit better about her coming circumstances. “Well, I’m settled down inside now, so perhaps we should make that report to the authorities.”

“No!” Frank followed the loud retort by scanning the lobby.

C.J. followed suit. No one seemed to have noticed.

“No authorities?” she asked. “Why not?”

“Considering who you are…who I am…it complicates matters.”

Her turn to go wide-eyed. “You think the attack had something to do with my work?”

Frank continued peering around the lobby, as if he were now looking for suspects. “Possibly.”

That thought had never entered her mind. “Then the local authorities—”

“Might delay your departure. We can’t afford that.”

“No, we can’t.” C.J. had been brought up to speed about the urgency of finding the antidote to D-5. “But what if…if the attacker indeed was after me. If he could find me on Pearl Street—”

“He’d know where you live,” Frank finished for her. “I booked a hotel room for the night, but considering what just happened, I’ll be staying at your place. Don’t worry, I won’t let you out of my sight until I get you to the Quinlan Research Institute.”

“I do hope you don’t mean that literally,” C.J. said, allowing the starch in her voice to thicken. “I do need a good night’s rest. You’ll find the couch in the next room close enough.”

TOO CLOSE, C.J. AMENDED once she was alone with Frank Connolly. He’d fetched his rental car and had driven her from the hotel to her flat near the university, a one-bedroom in a modest complex filled mostly with grad students who were considerate types. Luckily for her, the place had come furnished, so she hadn’t had to hunt for nonexistent domestic skills; rather, she’d moved right in and had gotten down to her work at the lab immediately.

Gripping the bedding for the couch to her chest, she entered the living room, thinking how odd a man’s presence in her place seemed.

“I really couldn’t tell what he looked like under all that paint, Daniel,” Frank was telling his supervisor. “He was a fraction taller than me—probably an even six feet. And he was more muscular.”

C.J. gave Frank a surprised once-over. Clothed only in a pair of jeans and a soft, sleeveless white T-shirt, he appeared muscular enough. As a matter of fact, she considered him to be quite perfect.

“Yeah, all right. Tomorrow, then.”

Flushing at her uncalled-for thoughts, C.J. quickly turned away and spread a bottom sheet over the couch cushions as Frank hung up. Before she knew what he was about, he was far too close.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, keeping focused on the sheet rather than the man. “You’re a hero. You deserve a civilized bed…even if it’s not really a bed.”

“Trust me, I’ve slept in worse. Much worse.”

She wondered what “worse” meant. A seedy motel, perhaps?

“Here, let me do that.”

He took the top sheet from her hands. At the unexpected touch, she sprang back and watched him work. His precise movements. The strength apparent in the contracting muscles of his arms. The way the trim cut of his short dark brown hair threaded with silver perfectly suited his high forehead and broad cheekbones. He reminded her a little of that actor—George Clooney—only sexier.

“Daniel’s putting out feelers on your attacker.”

He took the blanket from her and snapped it open over the couch. “Gonna try to ID him.”

“But without a true description,” C.J. mused, “where would he even begin?”

“The MO—uh, modus operandi. This guy was a pro, but pros normally try to blend in, a little hard to do covered in bronze paint. So this one’s somewhat unique. Might be easier to tag him than if he’d played it like Joe Regular.”

“I see what you mean.” She dropped the pillows at one end. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I’ll be fine. Get some rest. We’ll be up at the crack of dawn.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She started for her bedroom door, then hesitated. She turned to find him staring at her. Something about his expression made her falter. Then she moistened her lips and said, “I mean that, Frank Connolly. The ‘thank you’ part. You really are a hero.”

With that she slipped into her bedroom, closed the door, then leaned against the wall, trembling. She lived such a quiet, ordinary life. The last few hours—being attacked and rescued, having a man more handsome than George Clooney not only in her apartment but sleeping on her couch—were sure to stand out in her mind forever.

Quickly she stripped out of the trousers and summer sweater that required a trip to the cleaners. Not until she returned to Boulder, whenever that might be. She passed her already packed medium-size suitcase and shoulder bag on the way to the bathroom.

Standing under the shower longer than she normally would, C.J. hoped the pounding hot water would relieve some of the ache of being dragged by her arm, of having her hip make more contact with the ground than was comfortable. She also hoped the water would relax her enough so that she could fall asleep.

But freshly scrubbed and encased in her favorite satiny pajamas, she still found sleep to be an elusive creature. Thoughts continued to roil through her head as she lay in the silent dark.

The burden of finding an antidote before a water supply could be contaminated with D-5.

The horror of having been attacked.

The discomfort of having her too appealing rescuer mere feet away, separated from her merely by a flimsy—and unlocked—door.

HE WAS HIT.

“Get out! Get out!”

No time to think…eject.

A plume of smoke surrounded him, choking him. The crippled jet veered off, nose down, spinning, its death scream sounding in his head.

Explosion…his ears imploded.

He flew down, wingless, through a momentarily silent world.

A world of jagged peaks and valleys coming closer fast.

The chute shot open behind him. He jerked back. Stomach lurched. Then all righted.

He was coming down…but to what?

The ravaged earth met his feet. The stink of fire burned his nostrils. Folds of material enveloped him, taking him prisoner.

He fought, knowing his very life depended on it….

THUMPING…POUNDING…groaning…

Terrifying noises awakened C.J. from an already restless sleep. Heart lurching, pulse pounding, she sat straight up in bed. An intruder? She groped for the telephone, had the slender receiver in hand before remembering.

Frank Connolly.

Her heart thudded. What was going on in her living room? Was Frank fighting off the intruder once more? Half asleep, he would be vulnerable. He could be dead by the time the authorities arrived.

Dropping the phone and grabbing an empty vase, she flung open the door. Barely able to make out thrashing on the couch in the dark, she yelled, “Stop that!” and flew across the room.

“Huh? What’s going on?”

The deep-throated grumble replaced the more threatening noises and stopped C.J. dead in her tracks. Closer now, she realized Frank was alone. And asleep. At least he had been until she’d come charging in.

A lamp clicked on. C.J. blinked at the magnificent display of Frank’s naked torso, cast in gold from the lamplight. The very breath caught in her throat as she allowed her gaze to explore the planes and angles, the muscular perfection that begged to be touched….

“I must have been dreaming,” he mumbled, shifting on the couch so that the sheet dropped lower.

Not seeing a band of white—or any other color—along his hip, she wasn’t certain he wore anything beneath.

“Or h-having a n-nightmare.” The very thought of a naked man on her couch—especially this man—was disconcerting. “I, uh, thought you were in trouble.”

“And you were going to save me?”

Frank stared at her somewhat in wonder, as if he were really seeing her for the first time. His expression changed subtly. Heat creeping up her neck, C.J. set the vase on a table and shoved her hands behind her back.

“Tea,” she offered in desperation as he continued to pin her with his intense gaze. “I have a calming herbal if you would like to try it.”

“Sure. That would be great.”

Relieved for the respite from the odd tension he caused in her, she fled to the kitchen.

FRANK HAD PULLED ON a T-shirt and his jeans by the time C.J. returned to the living room.

“This should settle you down,” she murmured, placing a tray heavy with a porcelain teapot and cups and saucers on the table before the couch.

“I’m fine.”

Not appearing to believe him, she sat down on a chair opposite.

Frank watched closely as she poured the tea. Her hands were graceful, her ringless fingers long, her short nails glossy as if she’d just buffed them. She held out a cup on a saucer, and he suddenly realized the delicate set decorated with flowers and dragons was the only really personal item he’d seen in her apartment.

Even that vase she’d commandeered as an impromptu weapon was colorless, like the rest of the apartment. A furnished rental unit, no doubt. Bland, but easy. Still, he wondered why she’d done nothing to make the place her own. It was devoid of the little things he usually noticed in a woman’s place.

“Thanks,” he said, adding more sugar than was good for him—at least if he wanted to sleep.

She didn’t comment, merely raised one pale eyebrow.

“If you need someone to talk to, I’m available.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” she murmured, her voice as soothing as she’d promised the tea would be. She took a sip. “But sometimes talking helps.”

“Talking can’t change anything, can’t bring someone back!” Frank said heatedly before catching himself. “Okay, so what’s the giveaway?”

“Other than you scaring me half to death in your sleep? Your eyes. You try to hide it, Frank, but when you’re not vigilant, they tell me that you’re troubled…haunted by your past.”

Certain she didn’t know about his background—how could she when she hadn’t even known who was coming for her—he said, “Perceptive as well as intelligent and beautiful, huh?”

She blinked at him and he could see that she was thrown. “I’m not beautiful—I’m a scientist.”

Frank started. Maybe she didn’t get many compliments of that sort, considering she hid behind lab coats and glasses and an unflattering hairstyle. But without the glasses, her hair tousled and brushing her shoulders, C.J. indeed appeared beautiful, if in a starched, stiff-upper-lip kind of way. Her body wasn’t encased in a lab coat now. Rather, satiny material drowned her curves. The peach-and-cream stripes of her pajamas complemented her honey-gold hair and flawless ivory complexion.

But again, she seemed to be hiding.

And Frank couldn’t help but wonder what he might find under the baggy garments.

Cup halfway to her mouth, C.J. hesitated. Their gazes locked for a moment, and Frank felt as if he’d just caught a doe in his headlights. He watched the subtle change in her expression before she hid that, too.

She took a quick sip of her tea, then rose, snatching up her saucer. “Since you’re not inclined to talk, anyway, I’ll just finish this in my room.”

“Something I didn’t say?”

But if his comment amused her, she hid it well.

Spine stiff, C.J. retreated to her bedroom.

“I’d rather not fly with an exhausted pilot, so try to let that tea work its magic on you,” she murmured, just before she closed the door.

And locked it. Frank was certain he heard the bolt slide into place.

To lock him out? he wondered.

Or herself in?

He swigged down the tea and set down the cup, too delicate for his big hands. But it was perfect for hers, he thought. He could see her cradling the fine porcelain, even after he turned out the light and closed his eyes.

For once it wasn’t Bosnia that kept him awake halfway through the night.

THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN streaked the sky over Boulder Municipal Airport. Gilad had been lying in wait for nearly an hour. As always, he was patient.

And he really was more clever than the bungled attempt on the Pearl Street Mall indicated. He was still burning at that temporary setback.

He disliked failure. Disliked looking like a fool even more.

For that, he would require special payment.

Gilad knew all about Frank Connolly, ex-military pilot. His contacts were fast and thorough. Yes, indeed, he could easily imagine the bastard’s worst fears.

As he checked his watch yet again, just as he had been doing every few minutes, an addendum to his plan was already forming. Something that would give him infinite pleasure. A very special way to test his enemy’s true mettle…

Thinking about Connolly flying without benefit of either plane or parachute brought a smile to his lips.

But his fanciful musings were cut off at the sound of footfalls along the tarmac. Time to get down to work. He stepped out in clear view of the approaching man, who was stocky, of medium height and with burnished skin tone. His mustache was neat, as were his navy slacks, white short-sleeved shirt and tie. A laminated ID swung from his pocket protector.

“Vasquez?”

“Right. You Connolly?”

Gilad nodded.

“So where’s the horse van?”

“Not here yet.”

“Then why did you insist I get here an hour earlier than planned?”

“We have something to take care of.”

“What’s that?”

Gilad slipped the cold object from his pocket, saying, “Let me show you.”