off his lap and stood, looking uncertainly around her. But he could no longer point out the two swimming men, since they’d made it around the point. Or the tire tracks that the waves had washed away.
She spied his black leather jacket, his boots, then his motorcycle, and took several steps back, her eyes narrowed with the wariness of a cornered cat.
“You don’t remember the accident at all?”
“Must be the bump on my head.”
“Okay, let’s backtrack. Did you notice the blue sedan following you from your house?”
“I don’t remember.” Her bottom lip, slightly purple with cold, quivered again, but she fought back the tears with a valiant sigh.
“Hey, don’t let it upset you. You obviously got whacked upside the head. Maybe that made you forget. But even if the head injury didn’t cause your memory loss, unless they’re trained to notice, most citizens won’t pick up a tail.”
The information didn’t seem to reassure her. If anything, his words made her even more vigilant as she curled her fingers into fists. She shivered and looked at him as if he were a crab that had crawled out from beneath a rock.
“Citizen? What are you, some kind of military—”
“I work in an office on a computer,” he told her. If there was one thing Clay hated, it was lies. Yet the truth would frighten her and make her trust him less than she already did.
“Then how do you know about tails?”
He shrugged, slipped on his boots, picked up his jacket and walked toward her, holding the jacket extended as a peace offering, intending to wrap her in its dry warmth. “I watch TV like everybody else.”
Teeth chattering, she backed up, staying out of reach, even though she obviously needed his jacket. Her lips were definitely bluish purple and goose bumps rose on her flesh. “How do I know you weren’t the one who forced my car into the water?”
“On a motorcycle?”
Car tires had left imprints all over the beach but there was no way to prove which tracks belonged to which vehicles. Waves had washed away the critical ones that led directly to the water. “You’ll have to take my word, Melinda.”
As he said her name, she retreated again, her teeth chattering. “Just how do you know my name?”
Damn! He didn’t want to lie to her. It went against the grain. But if he told her he’d been sent by the CIA’s director of operations to protect her, he’d be breaking his orders not to reveal his cover. Yet he needed her to trust him. Enough to let him look at the documents her brother had sent her.
“You told me your name when I pulled you out of the car.”
“Liar!” She took another step back, spun on her heel and raced away from him as if her life depended on eluding him.
She’d called him a liar, and his jaw dropped in astonishment. How had she known he’d lied? She hadn’t been conscious and couldn’t know she hadn’t mumbled to him. Why was she looking at him as if he were a criminal with violence on his mind?
He let her run, knowing he could easily catch her on his bike. But then he realized chasing her down with his Harley would frighten her even more.
And while he stood there second-guessing himself, the woman had a damn good head start. With a muffled oath, he took off after her, wondering how one small brunette could cause so much trouble. He should have ridden the Harley. Maybe if he scared her enough, she’d be more cooperative.
He wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. As he pounded down the beach in his leather boots that weren’t made for running any more than they were made for swimming, he thought once again that the director had made a mistake in choosing him for this assignment. He simply didn’t have the experience to provide good protection. Didn’t have the kind of practice necessary to handle Ms. Melinda Murphy.
With her tears and her sobs and her angry defiance, she’d twisted him around inside. She was manipulating him in a way he found impossible to fight. Because she didn’t fight fair. She used those feminine weapons that did a man in every time. But he couldn’t let her big tawny eyes stop him from doing his job.
She ran like the gusting wind and straight into the thundering storm, her lean legs eating up the distance with remarkable speed. It took longer than he’d have guessed to catch her. Then, after he’d almost caught up, she put on a burst of speed and dashed straight toward the water.
“Oh no you don’t.”
He’d had enough swimming thank you very much. Lunging, he tackled her and they both fell, rolling in the sand. He landed on his back with her on his chest, snuggled between his thighs. For a moment those soft curves pressed to his body kindled a primitive response.
And then her knee lifted, aiming for his groin.
“Lady, I swear if you kick me in the balls, I’ll deck you,” he threatened, knowing he wouldn’t and hoping she wouldn’t realize it. Due to an oversize workload, Clay had gotten less than ten hours of sleep in the last five nights. Twenty-three-hour days of nonstop pressure were starting to catch up with him, fraying his temper, increasing his irritability. This assignment had pulled him off an important job—one that could make a difference in setting U.S. diplomatic policy for a decade. His reactions and temper reflected a measure of his frustration. He twisted to the side, rolling them until he ended up on top, with her on her back beneath him, her black hair splayed across the sand like an exotic fan.
Before she could scratch the flesh off his face, kick him in the groin or chin, he pinned her wrists. She shook a stray lock of hair out of her way, her eyes burning coals of outrage. “Let me go, you biker bully.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
She rolled her eyes at the raining sky. “Oh, sure. Like I’m really going to believe you.”
Thunder roared overhead, pounding over them in flashing echoes. He paid no attention, focusing on the storm brewing beneath him. “Why shouldn’t you believe me? I saved your life, lady.”
“So you say.”
“You should be grateful.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said with saccharine sweetness and mockery. “Now that I’ve thanked you, you’ll let me go, right?”
He ignored her question. “Why did you run from me?”
She heaved a sigh of frustration and tried to shift him off by bucking her hips. He let her struggle, knowing she’d soon come to the conclusion that he was bigger and stronger, and she wasn’t escaping until he got his answer and freed her of his own accord.
“Look, mister biker-dude.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She arched a haughty eyebrow. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“I believe I did. It’s Clay. Clay Rogan.”
“Fine, Mr. Clay Rogan. I don’t know you. I have no memory of you before opening my eyes
