by Maggie Price
Thinking of him.
Chapter 3
Josh woke the following morning with a picture in his head of Regan Ford standing at her French doors, gripping a knife. Not your normal small town response when greeting a visitor.
Of course, he had no clue if the woman who’d looked willing to wield that knife hailed from the country or a big city. No idea of where she’d come from. What, or who was in her past.
No idea yet.
Deciding to get his morning run over with before the heat set in, he pulled on shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves torn out, then snagged a pair of crew socks and his running shoes from the duffel bag he’d yet to unpack. Halfway down the broad oak staircase a rich, heady scent greeted him. Thankful he’d taken time last night to program the coffeemaker, he headed for the kitchen.
The room was big and cluttered and, despite the gleam of snazzy appliances and shiny tiles, homey. Tossing his socks and shoes beside the granite-topped cooking island, he pulled a mug from a cabinet. While pouring coffee, his thoughts returned to Regan. Since he couldn’t shake her, he bowed to the inevitable and took a shot at analyzing what it was about the enigmatic bartender that had her clinging like a burr to his brain.
His mouth formed a cynical arch. Her sexy, slim-as-a-reed build had a lot to do with it. Females with nifty little bodies had always drawn him like…well, a cop to a crime scene.
He toasted a bagel before heading out of the kitchen. Steam billowed from his mug as he walked along the paneled hallway lined with a pictorial history of the McCall family. There’d be new photos soon, he thought. His three sisters had recently married. His oldest brother had reconciled with his wife and they’d renewed their vows. His parents had taken a boatload of pictures during the Valentine’s Day quadruple wedding ceremony.
Josh stepped out onto the front porch, narrowing his eyes against the already intense morning sunlight. With his thoughts centered on the dark-eyed bartender, he was only vaguely aware of the sweet scent of the yellow roses spilling out of the clay pots lining the porch rail.
Regan Ford had more attributes than just a body built to star in his fantasies, he conceded. There was that fox-sharp face, made even more compelling by a frame of thick, midnight-black hair he wouldn’t mind plunging his fingers into. And those auburn-flecked eyes. Watchful. Waiting. Intriguing.
On a physical level, she wasn’t a woman he could easily rid his mind of.
Then there was the challenge she presented. Last night at her apartment she’d been a package full of nerves and hostility. The nerves she tried to hide. She hadn’t bothered with the hostility.
No problem—as a cop he was used to being where he wasn’t wanted. As a man, he savored the prospect of digging through whatever layers made up Regan Ford.
Granted, it was her right not to tell him where she was from. And keep her last name to herself. A woman tending bar was smart to withhold information while engaged in a conversation with a stranger. People had all sorts of reasons for holding back personal information. One being privacy. Another, they had something to hide. Problem was, secrets sometimes held a nefarious edge, causing innocent people to get hurt.
Finishing off his bagel, he strolled to the end of the porch. Etta’s blue two-story house sat bathed in sunlight, its white shutters gleaming.
Like most cops, he believed in being thorough and covering every base. He had learned in both his personal and professional lives never to take anything or anyone at face value. Which was what Etta had done when she hired a stray off the street without checking her out.
A stray who was damn prickly about questions.
He did a mental replay of Regan’s small apartment. There’d been no photographs, letters or other personal items in sight. A lone vase of daisies was the only indication the woman who’d lived there half a year had done anything to transform the apartment into a home. The woman who’d answered the door looking pale as chalk, and gripping a knife. During his years on the force, he’d never met an abused woman who hadn’t been systematically isolated from friends and alienated from family. Was Regan Ford hiding from an abuser?
Josh sipped his coffee. That was just one of many questions his gut told him needed answers, for Etta’s protection. And to satisfy his own curiosity, which he conceded had transformed overnight from idle to intense.
The whispering slap of footsteps against pavement brought his chin up. Turning, he caught movement on the road. Raven-black hair bobbed in a ponytail as Regan, looking wasp slim in a black crop top, gray shorts and running shoes, jogged by at an impressive clip.
“Speak of the devil,” he murmured then dumped the remainder of his coffee onto the lawn. No time like the present to start working on satisfying his curiosity, he decided as he swung back into the house to grab his shoes and socks.
Ten minutes later, he jogged around a curve on the patchy asphalt road and had Regan in his sights. His gaze slid over the black crop top, down a long feline arch of spine to a small, shapely bottom in snug shorts.
One hell of an inspiring view.
Even this early, heat and humidity turned the air thick as syrup, forcing his lungs to work like a bellows. Sweat pooled on his flesh, soaked into his clothes as he focused on his target. She kept her speed steady. Her pace disciplined.
Up to this point he had held back his own speed, letting the muscles he hadn’t taken time to stretch soften and warm. Now he quickened his pace, lengthened his stride as a mindless rhythm orchestrated his movements.
He watched as Regan reached the turnoff for the marina. Traffic on the road had picked up so she had to pause and jog in place while a pickup pulling a boat on a trailer took the turn, grit popping beneath its tires. When she dashed off, she took the fork rimming the lake, heading in the direction of the tavern. He knew from previous runs that Truelove’s was five miles from his family’s house. Ten miles, round trip. If Regan made a habit of jogging from her apartment to Etta’s and back each day, she had to be in great shape.
His gaze slid from her waist down to her trim bottom, then to her tanned, coltish legs. Amazing legs. Yeah, that sexy little body was in primo shape.
After waiting at the turnoff for a break in traffic, he increased his speed. Since Regan gave no indication she was aware of his presence, he figured the heavy traffic muted the sound of his footsteps. By the time he closed in on her, all he could hear was the drum of his own pulse echoing in his ears.
He reached out, touched her elbow. “How’s it going?”
The next instant she rounded on the balls of her feet. Her arm swept up. He saw the Mace canister just in time to lock a hand on her wrist, twist her arm behind her back and turn her into the solid restraint of his body.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear. “You need to work on your friendship skills.”
With her locked against him he felt the outrage—and something more—shoot through her stiffened frame. Then his words must have penetrated and she began to squirm.
“Let go!”
He took a moment to savor the warm, salty smell of woman. Another to acknowledge that the tightening in his gut was raw and purely sexual. Then he dropped the arm he’d locked around her waist, but kept his hand clenched on her wrist. She instantly whirled to face him while trying to jerk from his hold.
“Let me go.” Her voice sounded far away. Hollow.
He pried the cylinder from her grasp, then gave her a long, speculative look. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. “Do you Mace every jogger you meet?”
Regan’s heart slammed against her rib cage; she took choppy breaths, trying to control the adrenaline rushing through her system. “You snuck up on me. Put your hand on me. What the hell did you expect?”
“A friendly hello?”
Cars whizzed past while she glared up at him. The hand gripping her wrist was hard and strong. Like his face, his voice. “Just…let…go.”
“If I do, you going to try to Mace me again?”
She clenched her jaw. “
That would be hard to do, since you’re holding the canister.”
“Good point.” He released his hold, studying her with those dark eyes that seemed to see everything at once. “I didn’t sneak up on you. Not intentionally.” He used his forearm to swipe sweat off his brow. “The traffic’s heavy—the sound of it must have kept you from hearing me come up from behind.”
“Right. Okay.” Panting, she walked in small circles to keep her muscles from locking up. “I…overreacted.”
“You’re prepared, I’ll give you that.” He held out the canister. “For a tiny thing, you pack a punch.”
Cursing herself inwardly, she grabbed the Mace from his hand and shoved it into her pocket. She’d barely heard his voice over the sound of traffic and her pounding pulse. Had known only that it was male, that the fingers on her elbow were rock hard and filled with strength. The mix of paranoia and fear that shot through her mind told her it was Creath who’d come up behind her.
The man staring at her with open curiosity was almost as bad.
For the first time, she allowed herself to take a good look at him. He looked sweaty and incredibly sexy in tattered gray shorts that revealed long, firmly muscled tanned legs. His white T-shirt was wrinkled, ragged and sleeveless. Shoulders, she thought. The man had amazing shoulders.
And, dear Lord, when she’d been locked against him his body had felt like solid muscle. When she realized it was McCall, not Creath, who controlled her struggles, fear had rocketed into searing need. It was as if her body had been starved for a man’s hardness, the hunger buried beneath her grief. And now the feel of McCall’s body had unleashed that hunger.
Her heart hammered painfully against her breastbone as she shoved an unsteady hand at the damp tendrils escaping her ponytail. “Well, see you around, McCall.”
He stepped into her path. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“We’re headed in the same direction. Why not run together?”
Her mouth was so dry it was hard to speak. “I prefer to jog alone.”
The grin he sent her was quick and careless. “You’re from a big city, right? A big Southern city?”
Her fingers curled into her palms. “What makes you think so?”
“You answer your door armed with a knife. You just told me to get lost. Not the usual mindset of someone who hails from a small town.”
“Look, I came out this morning to run. Not get analyzed.”
“Just making an observation. And issuing a friendly invitation. We’re headed in the same direction so we might as well jog together. You ready to go?”
She swiped her hand across her damp throat while she felt her raw nerves stretch razor-sharp. Instinct told her the more she protested, the harder he would push. And dig. The sooner she cooperated, the faster she’d get away from him.
“Try to keep up,” she said, then sprinted off.
He caught up, matched the cadence of his pace with hers. “You run every day?” he asked between breaths.
“Yes.” A prophetic question, she thought, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “You?”
“I try never to miss.”
They continued for several minutes in silence, then he said, “How about heading into town for breakfast at the café?”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Lunch then.”
“Can’t.”
Her warmed muscles moved as fluidly as oiled gears by the time Regan topped the next rise. She caught sight of the narrow wooden bridge that spanned a small stream snaking off the lake. A few yards past the bridge, the road bent like a crooked finger, then narrowed into Wipeout Curve. One mile to go, and she’d be back at her apartment over the tavern. Then she could sort out her thoughts. Work to tighten her hold on her self-control even though she could feel it crumbling beneath her.
“You can’t, or you don’t eat lunch?” he persisted.
“I take lunch to Etta every day.” Her words came out in a staccato that matched the rhythm of her run. “I eat with her.”
“Dinner, then?”
“I work nights.”
“Not every night.”
“Most.”
“I get the feeling I shouldn’t plan on sharing a meal with you.”
“Trust your feelings.”
“You’re hell on a man’s ego, Regan.”
“Plenty of women at the tavern last night gave you the eye. Ask one of them to dinner.”
He shot her a smile, a quick flash of teeth that was unexpectedly charming. “Should I be flattered you paid me so much attention?”
God, he was smooth. Too smooth. “I noticed only because Deni was one of those women. More than once I had to tell her to keep her mind off you and on her job.”
“Another bruise to my pride.”
“I’m sure you’ll recover.”
Her words were nearly drowned out by the engine roar of a green Chevy with heavy metal pumping from its radio. The car shot past them, the bridge’s wooden planks clattering in the wake of speeding tires. Regan caught a glimpse of the driver—a male teenager with dark hair and an insolent grin. A laughing teenage girl with flowing blond hair leaned out the passenger window, a beer can clutched in one hand.
“Beer this early in the morning,” Regan commented. A sick feeling welled in her stomach as the car careened out of sight. “There’s an accident waiting to happen.”
“No kidding,” Josh said as he sidestepped a pothole. “Signs are posted, warning about the narrow bridge and the curve ahead. Does that kid have the sense to slow down? Not when ninety-five percent of his brainpower is in his pants.”
Regan opened her mouth to agree, her thoughts spinning off as she heard the high squeal of brakes and rubber against pavement. She and Josh had already picked up speed when the crash of glass and horrendous rending of metal exploded through the air.
Above the roaring of her heart Regan heard the pounding of her feet against the bridge’s wooden slats as she and Josh raced toward the sound of the crash. Yards past the bridge, the road transformed into the treacherous curve.
Halfway through the curve, she got a whiff of burning rubber. Fresh skid marks veered off onto the shoulder, tearing ridges into ground already rutted like a washboard. From there, the green Chevy had hurdled into a clearing rimmed with massive oaks. From what she could tell at this distance, it had crashed head-on into a thick tree trunk. The car’s hood was buckled; smoke spewed from the engine. Half of the back window was gone. The remaining glass was cracked, resembling a massive spiderweb that glinted like diamonds in the sun.
Dread settled in the pit of Regan’s stomach as she and Josh dashed toward the car. She knew from experience speed was a major predictor of severity of crash injuries. The sedan had shot across the bridge like a bullet, probably taken the curve at the same speed. Chances were, both teens were gravely injured, if not dead.
“The impact knocked out the engine,” Josh said as they neared the car. “At least we don’t have to worry about a fire.”
“Probably the only thing.”
“Yeah.”
In her peripheral vision, Regan spotted a black van skid to a stop. Its doors flew open. A bald man and a woman with a blond beehive piled out and started toward the carnage.
Metal scraped against metal as the driver’s door on the wrecked car slowly opened. The teenage boy angled his legs into view, then pushed himself unsteadily up. Blood poured out of his nose, streamed down his chin. Already, the front of his white T-shirt was stained crimson.
As if the last twelve months had never happened, Regan slid seamlessly into the paramedic she’d been in another lifetime. She felt the familiar adrenaline spike that came with knowing lives might be at stake.
What she was about to do carried consequences, but she couldn’t let them matter right now. What mattered were the two teenagers in the car.
She flicked Josh a look. “Do you know anything about emergency medicine?”
“What I’ve picked u
p working traffic accidents and crime scenes.” His gaze sharpened. “You have some training?”
Years of it. “I know what needs to be done.”
He gave her a curt nod. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Gripping the top of the car’s open door, the teen raised his head. His eyes were saucer wide and had a feral look. “Help us.” He staggered forward. “Help. Please, help.”
Josh snagged one of his arms, Regan the other, her mind going cold, analytical. “Don’t move,” she ordered, wrapping her hand around his wrist. His pulse was jumping, his heart rate off the chart. He was talking, breathing, which omitted the possibility of an airway obstruction. “What’s your name?”
“I… Easton.” Josh held him in place when he made a feeble attempt to turn back toward the car. “Amelia’s hurt. Bad.” He used his shoulder to wipe at the blood streaming from his nose. “She’s hurt. Please…”
“We’re going to help her,” Regan said, then looked up when the bald man and blond woman reached them. The man was sweating profusely and the woman’s face was chalk-white. She hoped to hell neither of them passed out. “Do you have a phone?”
“I do.” The man dug his cell phone out of his shirt pocket.
“Call 911 and give the dispatcher our location,” she ordered, then looked at Josh. “I don’t know Oklahoma codes. They need to be advised this is life threatening and to use lights and sirens en route.”
“Tell dispatch this is a Code 4,” Josh instructed the man.
“Have the dispatcher connect you to the nearest EMT,” Regan added. “I need you to stay on the line with the EMT so I can relay conditions of the victims.”
“Got it,” the man said.
Regan looked back at the injured boy. “Easton, I want you to lie down. Slowly.”
“No. Gotta help ’Melia.” He was sobbing. Tears mixed with the blood on his face, dripped in rivulets onto his T-shirt. The adrenaline shooting through his veins had him straining, fighting against their hold. “Let me go. Gotta help—”
“We’re going to help her.” Regan tightened her grip on his arm. An air bag had probably protected him, but he could still have spinal injuries. His head needed to be immobilized.
