car, half expecting to see that a bear or a wolf had taken an interest in her belongings. But aside from her familiar car, the ditch was as empty as it had been a moment earlier.
Then she clued in.
She closed her eyes and listened. The growl became a rumble, which grew louder and closer. And more familiar.
Slowly—not wanting to let herself give in to false hope—Alessandra opened her eyes and focused her attention toward the end of the road. Not really aware that she was doing it, she squeezed her fingers into fists and bounced a little on the balls of her feet.
Please, please, let it be him.
And suddenly, there he was. Or there his truck was, anyway. Barreling toward her at full, furious speed. Almost as if the fact that he was headed her way made the driver angry.
For a second, Alessandra’s feet stayed rooted to the spot, puzzlement outweighing worry. Why would he come back if it was just going to make him mad? As the truck got closer, dirt flying up hard, Alessandra’s brain gave her a little tap, and she realized that if she didn’t move, there was a good chance she might be mowed down. But she no sooner started to jump out of the way than the blue truck came to a grinding halt, and the driver’s-side door came flying open with a force that matched the speed at which the vehicle had approached. Quick and fired up. It was enough to freeze her again. It was also enough to send a sharp zap of curiosity through her. And the curiosity only deepened as the driver jumped out.
Alessandra watched as he planted his steel-toe boots firmly in the dirt and spread his dark-denim-clad legs hip distance apart, then just stood there, unmoving. She had the impression that he was assessing the situation. And maybe her, too. It was disconcerting, and an inexplicable sweat broke out on her upper lip. But she couldn’t seem to speak. So she just took advantage of the silent, still moment to look him over as thoroughly as he was looking over her.
He was lean, but not skinny. In fact, he had corded muscles on the lower half of his inked arms—just visible because he had his long-sleeved charcoal-gray T-shirt pushed halfway to his elbows. As she stared at the bit of exposed ink, a prickling heat built just under the surface of Alessandra’s skin. For a moment, the warmth threw her off. But it didn’t take long to realize the source. She—or her body, anyway—found him attractive.
She sucked in a breath, tried to calm her suddenly racing heart and forced her eyes to his face. He still wore the dark reflective glasses, and he had a ball cap emblazoned with a truck logo pulled down over his forehead. Even though his cheeks and chin were dusted with a salt-and-pepper beard, what she could see of his skin was smooth and at least as young as her own. The contrast, which created a slightly enigmatic look, did nothing to ease the quick thrum of her Alessandra’s pulse.
But then she spotted something that flew straight at her like a bucket of icy water.
One of the truck driver’s hands hung loosely at his thigh, fingers flexing. The other hand was poised over—but not quite touching—a shiny metal gun.
Rush saw the pretty redhead catch sight of his weapon. He noted the way her eyes widened nervously, and how—when she tipped her gaze back up—they stayed that way. Not like a deer in headlights. She was startled, but there was no hint in naivete in her gaze. There was intelligence. Some kind of understanding. And an undercurrent of fear, which made Rush feel surprisingly guilty. Though even acknowledging all of that still didn’t prepare him for what happened next.
She jumped at him. So quickly and so unexpectedly that he didn’t have a chance to react the way he should have. The way he was trained to. Instead, he kind of stumbled backward, flailing his arms a little. He actually had to catch himself on the still-open door of his Lada.
The whole thing only stunned him more. No one ever got the drop on him. Not the police coming up against him when he was undercover, and not the guys he turned in at the end of each case. For the sun-kissed redhead to do it now...it was almost unfathomable.
He expected her to continue with her leap. To knock him to the ground and disarm him. So it was another surprise when she simply used her advantage to turn and run. Her flip-flops smacked against the ground in an almost comical way. She cast a final, heartbeat-long look over her shoulder, then leaped over the ditch and darted into the woods.
“What the hell just happened?” Rush growled, staring at the space where the redhead had just disappeared.
Before he could come up with a logical explanation for the way she’d run off rather than taking the clear advantage, a distinctly feminine, distinctly terrified scream carried out of the foliage. The scream did for Rush what seeing the woman waving at him from the side the road hadn’t; it sent his protective instincts into overdrive.
Without a second thought, he set off at a run. His long legs brought him to the ditch, then over it. They carried him through the low brush, then into the trees. There, just inside the first patch of shade, he paused and whipped his head back and forth.
“Hey!” he called, then paused as he realized he didn’t have a name to call. “Uh. Red? You out here?”
He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to scream again, or not. On the one hand, it would sure as hell help him locate her. Let him know she was alive as well. On the other hand, he didn’t have much desire to hear the ear-piercing shriek a second time, and he didn’t want her to have to go through whatever it was that caused it again, either.
“Red!” he yelled a little louder.
A faint reply—words, but not ones he could hear enough to understand—floated up from somewhere just ahead. They had a strange, echoey quality he couldn’t quite place. So he took a few steps forward, then paused again.
“You there, Red?”
There was a few seconds of silence before he heard her voice again, a mutter that made Rush wonder if she was really answering him at all.
“I don’t know if—” She cut herself off, then added another string of incomplete sentences. “God. What if...no. I just—no.”
“Red?” he replied, puzzled this time. “You okay?”
“You know...” said her disembodied voice. “Some of us gingers find that nickname offensive.”
For no good reason at all, Rush felt the need to ask, “Are you one of those gingers?”
She didn’t reply immediately, and he could perfectly picture her face—a face he didn’t even know, for crying out loud—puckering up as she thought about what to say. He could easily imagine her arched brows buckling together in a frown. Even though it was completely impossible in reality, he swore he could practically hear a sigh escaping from her full lips.
“No,” she finally called.
“Okay, then, Red,” Rush replied. “Keep talking so I can get to you.”
The request was met with more silence.
“Now would be good,” he prodded.
She did answer this time, but her tone was somehow muted. “Are you going to shoot
