Most Wanted Woman. Maggie Price
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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,