divorce. And considering it had been Halloween in Canaan, she had still been among the conservative faction of the town’s population.
For months, she had bitten her tongue, ignored desires, walked calmly away instead of rushing head-first into the flames. It hadn’t mattered. Michael James had made her realize what she’d feared deep down all along was true. She was not safe.
She shook her head to clear the man’s image from her mind, releasing a sigh of relief at her close call. The man was a criminal, for goodness sake, reaffirming her belief she couldn’t trust her own faculties of attraction. Desire clouded the mind, sent logic and common sense scurrying.
She took a deep breath, hands steady on the wheel, and moved the car forward at a reasonable speed. Her composed world had been threatened, but it wouldn’t be toppled by one smiling stiff. Last night was already on its way to becoming an anecdote for Grey’s colleagues. According to the police, Michael James was probably heading to the border. And she was on her way home to take a long, hot shower, crawl into bed with the latest Mary Higgins Clark novel and dismiss the brief, disturbing appearance of Michael James in her life.
She reached for the radio’s buttons, the quiet she usually sought seeming unnaturally still. As she clicked the radio’s on button, she heard a voice, but it did not come from the speakers. It came from directly behind her. A voice she’d heard before. A voice she’d never expected to hear again.
“Beautiful day to be alive, isn’t it, darling?” Michael James observed from the car’s backseat.
Chapter Three
The hell with control. Bitsy screamed so loud the windows vibrated.
In the rearview mirror, the man winced. “Is that necessary?”
She screamed again, louder and longer.
The man rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s not really helping matters.”
She slammed on the brakes and grabbed the door handle. At the same time, the man’s broad hand snaked from behind the seat and snapped down the lock button.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
She twisted her head, meeting the man’s eyes.
“I’m one of the good guys,” he said. His lips parted in a thin smile, the mouth sensual with a touch of cruelness.
Her fear intensified. “Not according to your APB.”
His smile faded, leaving his features gray and drawn. “Just drive,” he ordered.
She faced front. Her hands gripped the steering wheel as if it were a life preserver. He was scared, too, she realized. A tiny bit of her fear slipped away, making room for rational thought. After her marriage, she had bought a weight bench and a set of weights, and lifted every other day. She’d taken self-defense seminars and had gotten up to a green belt in tae kwon do until a torn hamstring had set her back. She had promised herself she would never be a victim again.
She would keep that promise.
She looked through the windshield, hopeful for any sign of life in this small square of the City of Death. All was quiet.
“Where do you want to go?” She asked. Better, she thought. Controlled. Calm. She had to stay cool. If she gave in to the panic coursing through her, the man would win. And she could lose her life.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw his gaze nonchalantly lift to hers. She could taste her fear. Like bile, it rose in her throat. She looked away. Damn him.
He leaned in close behind her until she could see the sharply drawn lines of his features in her peripheral vision. His fingers rested on the side of the seat right near her shoulder. One inch closer and those at-ease fingers could wrap about her throat; those nails with their pale half moons could line up like little soldiers along her jugular.
“To your house,” he whispered. A bolt of ice darted up her spine.
The man sat back, the pressure along her seat relenting. Still, his hand remained, deceptively lifeless, on the side of the seat. She slid her foot off the brake to the gas pedal. She released the clutch, not realizing the car was still in third gear. The engine seized. The car bucked. The man swore as he was thrown into the back of her seat. Bitsy was slammed into the steering wheel. She straightened, her hands clutching the wheel as if in spasm.
“Okay, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt on that one. Never did meet a woman who could handle a stick.”
She wrapped her hand around the black knob of the shifter, its hardness beneath her palm. No give, no take. She shifted into first, eased up on the clutch and gently pressed down on the gas. The car moved forward as smoothly as hot fudge melting on French vanilla ice cream. Control.
The street was empty. People were sleeping. Dream now, she told them, as the car passed house after silent house. Dream sweet, illicit dreams.
The police station was in the opposite direction the car had been heading. If she could keep the man preoccupied while taking a series of lefts and rights, he might not notice they were turning around.
“How’d you avoid the police?” she asked. She sounded good. Efficient, in charge.
When he didn’t answer her, she glanced up to the mirror and saw his fingers rake through his hair, a gesture that was becoming too familiar.
“There was an APB issued—” she began again.
The man leaned forward. Bitsy stiffened.
“That was a mistake.”
The breath of his words moved past her. She knew he’d seen her body tense.
“That’s what every criminal says.”
“Criminal?”
She couldn’t believe the man actually sounded disgusted. “You’re a wanted man.”
“I’m the good guy.” She heard the bitterness in his tone.
As she slowed the car to turn left, she glanced in the rearview mirror. The man had taken the sheet from the funeral home, wrapped it around his waist and slung one end over his shoulder toga-style. Only now he had pants on, at least.
“You slipped out, put the sheet over your head and joined last night’s Halloween festivities?” she guessed, trying to keep his attention.
The man was looking out the window. “Nah, I crawled into a casket. Took a little nap.”
She glanced up and saw the man’s easy grin. Not exactly her idea of a cold-blooded criminal. Then again, her character antennae had been whacked out since her first adolescent hormonal rush.
She took another left. “So, if you’re the good guy, Mr. James, why are you being chased by the SFPD?”
“Call me Mick.”
“Okay, what’d you do to upset San Francisco’s finest, not to mention our local boys in blue, Mick?” She bit down on the hard K. “Nothing?”
His
