Читать книгу Friend, Lover, Protector - Sharon Mignerey - Страница 8

“C’mon, Jack Trahern,” Dahlia Jensen muttered beneath her breath when the Daniel E. Baker Building that housed the College of Physical Sciences disgorged a flow of students. She didn’t know which one was hers, but he was late.

Opportunity was vanishing at the same pace as the thunderstorm moving northeast at a good clip. It had the perfect profile for her lightning study, and she was anxious to follow it. Everything she had been working toward these past two years hinged on the data she collected during the next two months: funding for her own grant; a promotion to associate professor.

All she had to do was stay away from her supervisor, Doreen Layard. The tension between them had been escalating for months. If the woman couldn’t find anything obvious to take issue with, she dug until she found something. Dahlia reminded herself that her focus was to do her job to the best of her ability.

With or without today’s student assistant. She glanced again at her watch.

The students either hurried by without giving her a second glance or stopped in groups of two or three to chat. Dahlia wondered which one was Jack Trahern.

She wished she recognized the name. He hadn’t taken any of her classes, which made him either new to the atmospheric science program or a storm chaser wannabe. Too many of the latter had cropped up after last year’s block-buster movie. She had hoped for a student assistant who was competent—at the moment she would settle for one who was prompt.

This was midterm week, and none of her regular students were available. Jack Trahern’s name was at the bottom of the list of undergraduates who wanted to be involved with the program next year—and the only volunteer available today.

One last time Dahlia glanced around the parking lot and grounds in front of the building. She fished her keys from her pocket and looked around again, hoping to see some pimply faced eighteen-year-old looking for her. No such luck.

Instead, a tall athletically built man came out of the building, paused at the top of the steps and gazed out over the parking lot as he put on a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. Dahlia gave him the second look his well-built physique deserved, then opened the door to the van.

“Scoot over, Boo,” she said, to the dog sitting in the driver’s seat of her car after she opened the door. She patted the blond Cocker Spaniel on the head and, tail wagging, Boo dutifully moved to the passenger seat.

Dahlia climbed into the van, unclipped the HAM radio from her belt that kept her in touch with the National Weather Service and set it on the dash, her attention immediately focused on the storm. She rolled down the window the rest of the way. A cool gust of wind swept through the car—outflow from the storm. Yes! This was the time of year she lived for—the volatile season of thunderstorms that began in late April and continued into midsummer.

She started the van, then put it into gear and, looking into the rearview mirror, eased backward out of her parking spot.

The man in the aviator sunglasses appeared behind her. She slammed on the brakes. He stared at her, though the reflective lenses of his glasses made it impossible to tell for sure.

He came up the side of the car toward her.

“Dr. Jensen?” he said, leaning down slightly so he could look at her through the open window.

“Dahlia,” she automatically corrected. She deliberately used her first name to cultivate rapport with her field students.

The guy looked even better up close. His dark hair was cut military short, and his clean-shaven square jaw already showed the shadow of a beard. This was no kid, but a man in his prime.

He took off his sunglasses, revealing deep-set, brilliant blue eyes, beneath thick, nearly black eyebrows. Bracing a hand on the car door, he said, “I’m Jack Trahern.”

This man was far removed from the eighteen-year-old she had been expecting. Kids she could deal with. Kids she could coerce into doing what she wanted. Kids…were one thing, and this man was no kid.

“Jack Trahern?” she echoed finally, and could have kicked herself for her breathless tone. Firming her voice, she said, “You’re late.”

“Sorry. I got hung up.”

“Great,” she muttered, casting an eye toward the heavens. She didn’t have time for this. Not for a tardy student—no matter how gorgeous—certainly not for a man whose mere presence snapped her lonely hormones to attention. “Get in the car.”

He put the shades back on and ambled around the hood of the car as though he had all the time in the world. Even as she mentally cursed him for taking his time, she couldn’t help but admire how he looked. He was tall, six-three or four and he carried himself with an easy, loose-limbed grace. A small black backpack was slung over one shoulder—the omnipresent book bag of college kids and the only thing about him that struck her as remotely studentlike. She was positive she hadn’t seen him around campus before. She would have remembered.

What she did remember, vividly, was swearing off men. If her womanizing ex-husband hadn’t proven to her that she had rotten taste in men, the ex-fiancé who followed him would have—a man who had chosen a drug habit over her. Two long years, and she was finally on her feet again. Finding Jack Trahern in her path was undoubtedly a cosmic joke to find out how serious her intentions really were.

He opened the passenger door, and Boo sat there, wagging her stubby tail.

“Hello there, you beauty,” Jack said, smiling. Boo sat up straighter, her little body wriggling in anticipation.

“Back seat, girl,” Dahlia said, motioning toward the back of the van.

By then Jack had set the pack down and was scratching Boo’s ears, massaging them close to her head, something she loved only slightly more than cookies. The dog looked as though she might dissolve into a puddle. An unexpected longing to be touched—with as much affection—feathered through Dahlia.

“Boo, back seat,” she repeated, her voice more stern.

Boo cast her a decidedly disgusted glance, jumped into the open space between the two bucket seats and plopped herself onto the floor.

“Nice dog,” Jack slid into the seat. “Her name is Boo?”

Dahlia nodded. “When she was a puppy, she was scared of her own shadow.”

“She’s not much of a watchdog, I take it.”

Remembering Boo’s restless prowl around the perimeter of the yard with her nose to the ground just this morning, Dahlia said, “She’s no rottweiler, but she’ll do.”

He chuckled, the accompanying smile revealing a dimple. Gorgeous and a dimple. There was no justice.

She was intensely aware of him, from the breadth of his shoulders and beautifully shaped hands to the button-down fly of his jeans. Dahlia could have sworn the temperature climbed fifty degrees. She flipped on the air conditioner and turned up the fan.

The instant he buckled the seat belt, she put the car into gear, determined to reclaim her usual focus. Even so, the silence stretched, thick and awkward, as she eased into traffic and headed east. It was the time she would have normally reviewed—with her rider—the objectives for their day, defined her expectations and answered questions.

It was a routine she had been through dozens of times, but darned if she could remember where to even start. Each time she opened her mouth to speak, her thoughts vanished. Finally she clamped her lips together, sure that she must look like a fish.

She had the feeling he was watching her behind those reflective sunglasses. Despite her best efforts to choose clothes that minimized the size of her breasts, most guys looked. Usually she took that in stride, though this student—this man—made her feel off balance. She briefly glanced down at herself, relieved that the button-down shirt she had layered over a T-shirt concealed rather than revealed.

“Sorry I’m late,” he finally said.

“No problem,” she automatically answered. No problem? Hah. Jensen, get a grip. The guy was late, and you would have left without him.

“Thanks for waiting, anyway.”

“You’re welcome.” Oh, brother. Dahlia cleared her throat. “I don’t remember seeing your name on the roster for my classes.”

“I haven’t taken any of your classes,” he said.

He didn’t add anything further, which made her glance over at him. His attention had shifted to the mirror outside the passenger door. Curious about what he saw, she glanced in the rearview mirror. The usual assortment of vehicles were on the road, including a police car in the center lane that kept the traffic at an aggravating two miles per hour under the speed limit.

“So why did you sign up for my field crew?”

“I’m thinking about changing majors.”

His answer was ordinary enough, but he acted as though the storm they chased was barely noticeable. No matter how shy, her students seemed as interested in the thunderheads as she did, their focus inevitably on whether they would see tornadoes. Some, in fact, were downright manic about the possibility.

Keeping an eye on the traffic, she riffled though a group of papers in a box between the two seats, at last finding a map. She handed it to Jack.

“We need to take one of the intersecting roads on the other side of I-25,” she said. “I want to get about five miles in front of the storm.”

Navigating the straight county roads of the high plains of Colorado was a simple task but one that usually told her a lot about her would-be assistants. A surprising number couldn’t have guided her off the campus. Jack opened the map up one fold and turned it around when he realized it was upside down. He glanced briefly at the street sign for the upcoming intersection, then continued to handle the map with the ease and dexterity of someone who used maps all the time.

“Your storm’s heading a little north from where it was,” he said. “And it looks to me like it’s picked up a little speed.”

Dahlia mentally gave him points for both observations. Even so, they were beneath the storm to the point she could sense the ozone in the air. Her anticipation increased.

Five minutes after they crossed over I-25, he directed her north onto the graveled road that she would have chosen, and they were making good progress on getting ahead of the storm.

“Are you new at CMU?” she asked.

“You could say that,” he responded.

The laconic reply annoyed her. “And what would you say?”

She glanced at him and found that his attention was once again focused on the side mirror. She looked in the rearview mirror. A car followed them, close enough to be catching the worst of the dust left in their wake.

A moment later Jack said, “What I’d say is that car has been following us since we left the campus.”

She glanced again in the mirror. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” He looked over at her, and she took her eyes off the straight road long enough to meet his glance—hidden behind the reflective sunglasses.

“Do you know them?” she asked. Apprehension slithered through her. She had been with dozens of students that she didn’t know, so riding with a stranger wasn’t new. But this feeling of impending doom was. A feeling that wasn’t supported by a single, substantiated fact.

“Whoever is back there?” He shook his head. “No.”

Reminding herself that tardiness and being good-looking weren’t valid reasons to distrust the man, she gave the other car another careful glance. It was white or beige or tan and looked like a thousand other cars. “I don’t know them, either.”

She lived by empirical evidence, what she could observe and what she could prove. To determine if the car really was following them, she made a left turn at the next intersection. A moment later the car appeared again in her rearview mirror.

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.”