He would, would he? Her relief at knowing she wasn’t alone and her irritation at having a man—any man—suddenly announce that he was in charge and all would be well if she just did what he said battled somewhere deep inside her core. Yes, he was a cop. Yes, there was something undeniably and extremely reassuring about the feel of him there. But she’d survived her whole entire life on her own, without ever being rescued by anyone and wasn’t about to just fall into anyone’s arms now.
Especially not if that someone was Detective Jacob Henry.
Her eyes closed for a moment as the background file she kept on Jacob filled her mind. He’d done more to save lives, rescue others and stop killers than anyone she’d ever known. Not that they’d ever actually met. She’d heard his voice before, usually saying no comment and telling her to get off his crime scene before he had her arrested. As for his face, she knew it had a handsome and rugged quality that was a bit rough around the edges, like a former movie star that had retired to build custom motorcycles. But right now, he was holding her too close for her to turn around and see it. She definitely had never let herself imagine what it would be like to be held like this in his arms. Well, at least not in a situation like this.
Jacob Henry had a knack for being the primary detective on practically every major crime scene she’d raced to, especially the worst and more grisly ones. Some veteran detectives—like the immensely charming Warren Scott who’d been supremely friendly since transferring to the Toronto division a few months back—were known to toss reporters like her at least a few scraps of information before politely sending them on their way. But Jacob never had. If anything, he’d avoided even looking at her, let alone making direct eye contact, as if something about her mere existence made him uncomfortable. And maybe it did. Reporters and cops did tend to eye each other warily despite the fact that, as she saw it, they were all on the same team, wanting to see truth win out and bad guys get locked away. She didn’t want to know how much worse it would be if he knew she was the daughter of a dirty cop who’d killed a fellow officer.
Of all the cops who could’ve dropped out of nowhere to rescue her, why oh, why did it have to be him?
In fact, just last week, when she’d heard that her boss’s sister, Detective Chloe Brant, was getting married this weekend to Jacob’s fellow detective, and brother, Trent, she’d sent Jacob an email, hoping that one point of connection would be enough to thaw the ice between them, enough to grab a friendly and professional off-the-record coffee. Not a date. She definitely hadn’t asked him out on a date. Just to grab coffee sometime to see if they could set up a better, less adversarial mode of communication. Instead, he’d ignored her.
Well, he could hardly ignore her now.
And if he didn’t get his hand off her mouth pronto, she just might bite him.
He leaned so close she could feel his breath on her face. He smelled like coffee and wood smoke. It was a scent that somehow seemed to match both the toughness and warmth of his voice.
“Hand me the gun,” he whispered.
She shook her head. He sighed and twisted it from her grasp so deftly that she had no choice but to let go. He slid it into his ankle holster with one hand and pulled his pant leg down over it. Then his hand was back on her wrist so quickly it almost impressed her.
“Now I’m going to peel my hand away from your mouth,” he said. “But I need you to promise not to scream.”
Who did this man think she was? No, of course, she wasn’t going to scream or start caterwauling with a serial killer lurking nearby. He did know about Cutter, right? That had to be why he was here. Jacob seemed to be waiting for a response, so she nodded definitively and firmly. He eased his hand from her mouth, but the other stayed firm on hers with his fingers brushing just against the inside of her wrist. Yeah, not distracting at all.
“Now,” he whispered, “I need you to—”
“Give me my gun back.”
Even with her back to him, it was like she could feel his whole body blink.
“Who are you?” His voice sharpened. “Are you law enforcement?”
“I’m Grace Finch, lead crime reporter, Torchlight News.” She wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she was expecting. But it wasn’t the stony and awkward silence that filled the space around them. “We’ve met before. You’ve ordered me off your crime scenes and ignored my phone calls. I sent you an email about coffee just last week you never responded to.”
Okay, so maybe that was a bit testier than she’d intended, but she’d never been one to beat around the bush.
“So you’re not law enforcement or the military?” His whisper came back swift and sharp. “Do you have a license to carry a handgun?”
The questions felt rhetorical.
“No, but I’ve passed the Canadian Firearms Safety—”
“Then it’s illegal for you to be carrying a handgun, and you’re not getting it back—”
Like she didn’t know Canadian gun law. “There’s an escaped convict in the woods!”
“Actually, there are three—”
“Three?” She fought and failed to keep her whisper from rising. Did that mean Cutter hadn’t lied and her father really had escaped prison? Enough of this. She spun around and turned toward him. Jacob let her go, and then she was facing him, standing so closely she was practically pressed against his chest. She looked up at him in the dying light. His green eyes were serious. His chestnut hair was tousled and spiky with sweat. His face radiated a sense of protection that she didn’t even know how to begin to process. “Who are the three convicts?”
“Who did you see?” He deflected her other question with one of his own.
Fine. Sometimes a person had to give information to get information.
“I was attacked by Barry Cutter,” she said. “The serial killer. He tried to force me to take him to my car, which is over six hours away by canoe from here. I fought him off and ran.”
Jacob let out a long breath and stepped back as far as the narrow space would allow. His voice softened. “How did you possibly get away?”
“I zapped him with a Taser and then took his gun.”
He blinked. “That would be the gun I just took from you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Where’s the Taser now?”
“In my pocket.”
“And did you take that off him too?” Jacob asked.
“No, it’s mine.”
A faint smile turned at the corner of his mouth. She wondered if he was debating pointing out it was also illegal for her to carry a stun gun.
“He also took my wallet,” she added. “And I assume it isn’t actually his gun—”
“No, I imagine he took it off a guard.” His face turned grim. “About four hours ago, three prisoners overpowered the prison guards
