She’d turned and faced him then. Better to see the flash of gunfire and take it head-on than be hit in the back while running away.
The drug dealer unexpectedly laughed and dropped his weapon. “Some friends you got there. You ain’t no coward, I give you that.” His arm had lowered to his side. His features had hardened. “Get out of here,” he’d growled. “And don’t ever forget this is my turf.”
She didn’t forget. Not the dealer, nor the partners who’d left her an easy target.
Faster than she’d ever believe possible with a bum leg, Charlotte flew out of the cabin and onto the porch, duffel bag clunking across the wooden floorboards.
The truck engine rumbled in Park. James wasn’t leaving without her. She climbed in the king cab, throwing the bag into the back seat, where it landed next to the gallon jug of sassafras tea he must have grabbed from the fridge.
“You tricked me,” she commented. But her words held no bite.
James shifted the truck into Drive. “I don’t know about the big city, but around here, we try and protect women.”
“I’m a cop, not a woman.”
His brow quirked.
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“I’m well aware you’re a woman,” he said drily.
The air was charged with something other than danger this time—the space between them sparked. Charlotte cleared her dry throat. “And a cop,” she insisted. “Don’t forget that part.”
The truck jostled along the dirt driveway. “Uh-huh, right,” he muttered.
“Wait. I’m not thinking clearly.” She dug into her jeans pocket for her keys. “I can drive my own truck and then exchange it for a new one in the morning. Take me back.”
James pulled onto the county road. “We’ll worry about your truck in the morning when we come back. For now, I think it’s best we leave it.”
“Okay, then. I can’t argue against your logic there.” Charlotte stuffed the key in her pocket.
Heat blasted from the vents, and she held her hands up against the warm air.
“Cold?” James asked.
She shrugged. “My hands are always cold.”
“No gloves?”
“Somewhere in my bag. I’ll dig them out later.”
James opened the console and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves. “Here.”
“Thanks, but that’s not nec—”
“Go on. No sense suffering.” He laid them in her lap.
Charlotte slipped on the overlarge gloves. They were lined with fleece and felt comfy and toasty against her skin.
The truck sped through the night, and they were in town in ten minutes. Charlotte rubbed the passenger window, scrubbing away the condensation to peer at the street. “What motel do you recommend?”
“Neither of them. There’s only two.”
He turned the wheel sharply, and the lights of the Dixie Diner blazed in front of her. “Why are we stopping here?” she asked.
“I’m starving. I’ll pick us up a couple plates to go.”
She frowned. He could have got his own meal after he dropped her off, but the rumble in her stomach couldn’t argue with the need for food. Real food. Eating nothing but crackers and apples and granola bars for two days had gotten old. Charlotte followed him in, and her knees went weak at the smell of fried chicken. James ordered a meat-and-three plate for each of them, and her mouth salivated. She couldn’t wait to check into her room, eat and then enjoy a long bath with no fear of intruders.
Back in the truck, James turned sideways in the seat and didn’t start the motor. “This Jenny you’re looking for—was she caught up in some kind of pornography ring?”
“You could say that.”
“How about being a little more specific?”
It might have been framed as a question, but she knew it was a demand. Hell, if he knew this much, he might as well know the rest.
“A human trafficking ring. She’s one of many girls who have been caught in its trap.”
James nodded, but he didn’t say a word as he started the truck and backed out of the parking space. He retraced his route and kept driving until downtown was visible only in the rearview mirror. They were far from anyone, on a lonely backroad where anything could happen.
A small frisson of fear chased down her spine. Stop, just stop, she chided herself. If he were one of the bad guys, he would hardly have stopped for fried chicken before doing her in. Or loaned her his gloves. Still, her hand sought the passenger door handle. “Where are we going?”
“My place.”
“Now, wait a minute,” she protested. “If you think—”
James held up a hand. “I have a spare bedroom. It’s just a precaution.”
She studied him—the hard planes of his face and his aura of calm command. Okay, she would feel safer staying with him. But he could have at least asked before assuming she’d follow along.
“I can’t read you,” she admitted. “Half the time you act like there are other explanations for the shootings, and the other half, you’re extremely cautious.”
“Blame my army training. I imagine all possible scenarios and then prepare for the worst.”
Curiosity sparked to learn more about James. “What was it like in Afghanistan?”
His fingers drummed the dashboard as he considered his answer. “Lot of extremes. Hot during the day, cold at night. Periods of boredom followed by bursts of danger.”
“I understand the boredom–danger thing. Lots of that with undercover work.” Charlotte wondered if the experience had left him scarred. “What did you do in the army?”
“IED patrol.”
She gave a low whistle. The man had put his life on the line with every mission. Lucky for him, he’d returned home in one piece. “Must have been tough. Do the memories ever bother you, now that you’re home?” Charlotte bit her lip. This was none of her business. “Never mind. I have no right to ask. I thank you for your service.”
He was silent for so long, she didn’t think he was going to respond, and she stretched her right leg, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt.
“It only bothers me sometimes at night,” James said quietly. “Insomnia’s a bitch.”
* * *
JAMES
