Jack dragged her to the muddy embankment, tilted back her head and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He literally gave her what little breath he had left.
Her eyes fluttered open. She coughed. And Jack said a very sincere prayer of thanks.
“We got lucky,” he gasped.
She opened her mouth, but didn’t speak. Her starkblue eyes widened, and the sound she made was one of raw agony.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Jack asked.
She didn’t answer. She fought with her coat, shoving it open and clamping her hands over her belly.
Jack saw then that she was pregnant. She had to be in her last trimester.
“Help me. I’m in trouble.” She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with tears, her face twisted in pain. “Please. Don’t let my baby die.”
Her words slammed into him. They’d dodged one bullet, but another was headed right at them.
Jack scooped her into his arms and ran like hell toward his truck.
Chapter One
Eight months later
Alana Davis checked the rearview mirror again. The dark-colored car was still following her. “Oh, God,” she mumbled.
It couldn’t be the security guard. It just couldn’t be. Because if he’d managed to catch up with her, Alana figured this time he would kill her.
She couldn’t stop, not even to find a pay phone and call the police. Not that there’d been a pay phone any where along the way from the secluded house in the woods where she’d been held captive. Nor was there one along the highway that had taken her nearly an hour to find. Luckily, the car she’d stolen from the front of the house had nearly a full tank of gas.
And thankfully, she’d seen the sign to the town of Willow Ridge.
The guard and a nurse had force-fed her a partial dose of sedatives only hours earlier, so it’d taken Alana a while to fight through dizziness and make the connection. Willow Ridge was just one of those floating memories that she couldn’t immediately link to anything or anyone. But then she remembered Jack Whitley, the town’s sheriff. He’d helped her.
She couldn’t remember what he’d done exactly, but she instinctively knew she could trust him.
Alana couldn’t say that about anyone else.
She certainly couldn’t trust the guard or nurse. Or her brother. In fact, one of them must have been responsible for her captivity.
But which one?
And why?
She didn’t know the answer to either question, but Jack Whitley would be able to find out.
Lightning rifled through the night sky. A few seconds later, thunder came, a thick rumbling groan. Shivering, she made the final turn that would take her to Willow Ridge. Even with the rain and her spotty vision, she could see the other vehicle make the turn right along behind her. He stayed close. Too close.
Alana added some pressure to the accelerator and sped through deep puddles that had already collected on the road. The car’s wipers slashed over the windshield, smearing the rain on the glass so it was even harder for her to see. Her pulse raced out of control.
She maneuvered the car around a sharp curve. The tires squealed in protest at the excessive speed, and she checked the mirror again. The other vehicle stayed right with her, the high-beam headlights glaring into her eyes.
It certainly wasn’t safe to race through a raging summer storm at ten o’clock at night, but she didn’t want to face that guard on this deserted road. She had no weapon, no way to defend herself. Worse, she was exhausted and wondered if she’d be able to stand, much less fight.
Ahead of her, she finally saw the town lights. Welcome signs of civilization and help.
Going even faster, she sped toward Main Street, flanked on both sides with shops, a diner, even a white church with a steeple. Letting some vague, fuzzy memories guide her, she drove toward the center of the tiny town and spotted the sheriff’s office.
Alana braked to a stop, glanced behind her and saw nothing. No car. No headlights.
No one.
Relief flooded through her. Maybe the guard had gotten scared and driven away. Still, she didn’t just sit there. He might be lurking on a side street, waiting to grab her and take her back to that house in the woods.
Rain pelted her when she got out of the car. She was already cold and shivering, and the wetness didn’t help. Alana ran toward the glass-front door of the sheriff’s office. Each step was an effort. Her muscles were stiff, her hands throbbed from where she’d gripped the steering wheel and the dizziness was worse than it had been during her escape.
Why did everything seem out of focus? And wrong. Something was wrong. But what?
She threw open the door, and the burst of air from the AC spilled over her. It was dark in the front section of the building, but there was a light on in a room at the middle of a short narrow hall.
“Sheriff Whitley?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
She saw something move in the shadows, and a moment later, a man stepped out. Alana got just a glimpse of him before another stab of lightning flashed in the sky and the lights went out.
Oh, mercy. Had the guard done this? Was he coming after her?
“Calm down,” the man said. It was Jack Whitley’s voice. “If you keep breathing like that, you’ll hyperventilate and I’m fresh out of paper bags.” She heard his footsteps come closer. “You afraid of the dark?”
“No.” Her voice still had little sound.
“Well, not to worry,” Jack said as if he didn’t believe her. “The storm must have knocked out the town’s transformer, but we have a generator. It’ll kick on in a minute or two.”
He came closer still, and she caught his scent. He smelled like coffee and chocolate cake. “Did your car break down?”
Alana’s teeth started to chatter. And she glanced back at the door to make sure the guard wasn’t there. “Someone was following me.”
Even though she couldn’t see his reaction, she could feel it. He tensed and hurried past her to go to the door. “I don’t see anyone,” he said, looking out. “Is that your car parked out front?”
“No.”
She was about to explain, but something else about him changed. The silence was heavy, making it easier to hear him draw his gun.
“I’m pretty sure the license plate matches a vehicle that was reported stolen just about an hour ago,” he informed her. “The owner said the person who stole it—a woman—should be considered
