She bristled. “Are you insinuating I didn’t tell the police everything?”
“God, you’re a prickly thing. I was just wondering if you held back. Sometimes there are things we think sound silly or unimportant.”
Her stiff spine eased. “You’re trying to help and I should be grateful. This whole thing just has me wound tight. I’m used to worrying on the job, but damn it, I treasured the safe haven of home to recharge between missions and now this stalker has encroached on that.”
“Burnout bites, too, doesn’t it?”
Burnout? He had his wires crossed there, but she wasn’t going to argue with the man. Better to change the subject. “I’m going to say this one last time. The second I asked you to move in, I regretted it. These are my problems and I won’t be able to live with myself if something happens to you because of me.”
“Well, like I said before, seems as if we’re stuck with each other. So if you don’t mind a stubborn, bum leg bodyguard, I’m ready to sign on for the job. God knows I’d like to get out of this place and the last thing I want is one of the prison warden nurses watching over me 24-7.”
“So you think I’m a pushover?”
“Hmm. I guess I don’t really know you, do I?”
She swallowed hard against the memory of the things they did know about each other, intimate things that heated the air like the lotion he’d rubbed all over her body the second day they’d made love because one night hadn’t been near enough. Leaving him had been more than difficult. She’d wanted more, so much more, but time had run out for her.
Now here they were again. What was he saying? She needed to keep sharp around him or her mind would muddle up and she would do something impulsive like ask him to move in with her.
“I may not know you, but I have decent instincts, and I believe you’ll be fair. Plus, you have a day job that will give me some breathing room.”
“Breathing room is important to you.”
She seemed to give him claustrophobia, because his gaze finally broke with hers, away, out the window to the sky he no longer sailed through, only him and his parachute. She imagined the clouds called to him. That she could well understand because the sky called to her as a pilot. She couldn’t imagine having her wings clipped.
Finally, he looked back. “Breathing room is critical. Call it my cave time.”
“A man who admits to Cro-Magnon traits?” She stuck a finger in her ear and twisted. “I can’t have heard right.”
“What can I say? My ex made sure I understood myself well.”
There he went mentioning the ex again. How recent was the divorce? Did it have anything to do with his injuries? He hadn’t been wearing a ring five years ago. Okay, she was thinking way too much about his personal life. “This whole moving in together sounds good, but…”
“You’re having second thoughts about my coming to Charleston with you.”
“I have some kind of maniac trying to blow me up and the last thing I want is to put somebody else in danger. Damn it. I should have thought this through.”
“I’ve already told you, lady, you can’t shake me loose now. If you won’t let me in your house, I’ll be sleeping in a tent in your yard, and believe me, the cold air and humidity will play hell on the rods in my legs.”
In spite of his humor, he was set on a path as steely as the metal in his legs. She could tell he wasn’t going to back off. She would just have to hope and pray the police protection around her house would be enough to keep them both safe.
Rick had helped her before, and while it had only taken a couple of days, she couldn’t walk away from him while he was in need even if it took longer to help him through his recovery.
As much as she chafed at the idea of playing to the he-man syndrome, she also walked in that world daily. She understood how much more it must chafe at him to have the props kicked out from under him.
Men didn’t seem to get the fact their strength came from so much more than catapulting out of airplanes.
All a moot point. Apparently he’d decided his redemption lay in protecting her. And he did need her, too. She owed him for that weekend five years ago. She might not have made it through without the confidence he gave her. So much of her survival depended on the mental.
Something she could give him now.
“All right, roomie. How fast can we spring you from this joint?”
Through the café window, he watched the smoldering remains of her car in the lot, firefighters waiting, their foam caking and crackling like an over-baked meringue. Cops were long gone, having already finished their note taking and investigation.
They never even saw him from his perch in the nearby greasy spoon where he inhaled the scent of frying hamburgers and humanity.
If he wanted Nola Seabrook dead now, she would be six feet under. But he liked the hunt.
She always used her remote starter for her car, so he’d known she would thumb the button rather than turn the key. The look of shock, the fear on her face when her car exploded had been well worth the risk of planting the device in open daylight. Of course the thrill, the rush, that’s what this was all about.
Recapturing what he’d lost.
She would die—eventually. He had his timetable, but it would be his. He was in control of his life again. He didn’t need his youthful body. He’d learned to dominate with his mind, his brain. Working his way onto the military hospital parking lot had been a rush.
His street-smart wits combined with his warrior-honed skills made him indomitable.
The fun was in the cat-and-mouse game. She owed him for the humiliation she’d caused. She wouldn’t get away from him this time.
He started to leave, but reconsidered. He needed to eat after all. What better way to savor this victory than with a meal while he regrouped for the next stage of his battle plan?
Apparently he wasn’t the only one watching the rehabilitation center with such interest long past what the burning vehicle warranted. A teenage girl stared at the medical building—the windows, not the SUV. She clutched her cellular phone in her hand, her too-tight jeans slung low on her hips with too many holes in them to be accidental. Why did these youths want to appear poor? He’d been poverty-stricken and it was not fun or trendy.
She pocketed her cellular phone and sidled up to the linoleum counter. “I’d like an application for a waitress job.”
The woman behind the cash register shook her head. “We’re not looking for any more after-school help.”
The girl shoved her hands in her back pockets. “Please, I work really hard and it says right there you need help.”
“Don’t want no troublemaking teenagers.” The woman—Jo Nell, her tag read—folded her arms underneath her well-harnessed breasts.
“I
