The Christmas Target. Charlotte Douglas
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swallowed hard against the terror rising in her throat and prayed silently that no one would try to be a hero. The crazed Saint Nicholas looked capable of blowing them all away without a qualm.
Behind the counter, a terrified young female teller was stuffing packets of bills into a bag as fast as her shaking hands would allow. Even under duress, Jessica’s efficient and encyclopedic brain fed her information, reminding her that bank tellers were trained to hand over their money without resistance—and to insert a stack of bills with a dye pack that would explode once the robbers left the bank. She recalled that small-town banks were considered soft targets for thieves, with buildings that were less secure and escape routes that were more accessible and less likely to be heavily patrolled by law enforcement.
For an instant, Jessica, locked in the iron grasp of the cowboy’s arms, wondered if the man who held her was the robber’s accomplice and had grabbed her as a hostage. Then she noted the path the shotgun pellets had taken to the outside window and realized with a shock that the cowboy had probably saved her life. Lost in her mental review of her upcoming interview, she hadn’t heard the robber’s first warning to remain still, and he’d opened fire on her. Only the swift intervention of her rescuer, who had jerked her out of the buckshot’s path, had saved her from being blasted to kingdom come, just like the bank’s front window.
Her knees buckled at the could-have-been, and if the cowboy hadn’t held her, she would have collapsed onto the desert-toned carpet.
“Steady.” His low voice, rich and smooth as cubano espresso, filled her left ear. “Stay calm.”
“Shut up,” the pseudo-Santa yelled, “or I’ll shoot you both.”
Jessica dragged in a deep breath of the chilly air pouring through the shattered window, and with it, the tantalizing fragrance of leather, saddle soap, open spaces and the unmistakable provocative male scent emanating from her rescuer. He had molded his body against her back and buttocks with an intimacy usually reserved for lovers, and his heat seeped through the triple layers of her coat, suit and lingerie. His contact reassured and, at the same time, flustered her, but she didn’t have long to dwell on the contradiction.
“Hurry up!” the robber screamed at the young teller. At the strain in his voice and the knowledge that he’d already shot to kill once, Jessica shuddered. Everyone in the room faced imminent danger.
The distraught teller shoved the last of the bills into the bag and flung it atop the counter.
The biting north wind carried the wail of an approaching siren through the demolished window. Someone must have triggered the silent alarm, Jessica thought. Hearing the siren, Santa grabbed the money-filled sack and swung it over his shoulder.
And laying his finger aside of his nose… Jessica choked back a hysterical giggle as the line from the traditional Christmas poem popped into her head.
With no chimney for his escape, Santa backed toward the front of the lobby. Swinging his shotgun in an arc that covered every person in the room, he warned, “You follow me, you’re dead meat.”
He lifted a dirty black boot over the low sill, stepped out onto the shards of glass that covered the sidewalk and disappeared at a trot down the practically deserted main street of Swenson.
Jessica sagged in relief against the stranger who held her, and chaos erupted in the lobby with everyone talking at once. A sheriff’s car, blue emergency lights flashing, sped past the window in the direction the robber had taken.
The cowboy who’d rescued her grabbed her shoulders and swiveled her to face him. He was so tall, she found herself confronting the broad expanse of his chest.
“What’s the matter with you?” Anger tainted the rich smoothness of his voice. “Are you deaf? Or just suicidal?”
Before she could reply, he turned from her and shouted across the lobby, “Nobody move or touch anything until I give the okay.”
Still stinging from his rebuke, Jessica felt a flush of embarrassment mixed with irritation rising to her cheeks. Prepared to explain her behavior, she lifted her gaze from the open collar of his denim shirt to the man’s face. Her excuse died on her lips, and her knees threatened to go weak again.
The cowboy mystique was alive and well in Swenson, Montana.
Gazing down from a lofty height of well over six foot four with a body as big and sturdy as a Humvee and eyes as deep brown as the mineral-stained waters of the Everglades, the intriguing man took her breath away. His face was too rugged to call handsome with its square jaw and high cheekbones, but attractive enough to make her pulse stutter. At the corners of his eyes and mouth, fine laugh lines crinkled skin as warm and golden as South Beach sands, and his wide, appealing mouth and strong chin had a determined set.
What was the matter with her?
She was gawking at her rescuer like a moonstruck teenager, expecting to hear the opening strains from The Magnificent Seven any second. Her close brush with death had addled her brain.
Hands that felt strong enough to snap her in two shook her gently, and his eyes filled with alarm. “Hell’s bells, lady, don’t faint on me.”
His plea broke the spell, and she shook off his grasp. “I’ve never fainted in my life,” she insisted with righteous indignation.
“There’s always a first time.”
Before she could protest further, he scooped her into his arms.
“Put me down. I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
“No, you’re not. And you’re in no position to be giving orders.”
Surprise took her breath away, stifling any more protests. He carried her across the lobby into Hayes’s empty office and deposited her on a sofa.
“I’m okay—” She struggled to rise, but he pushed her back onto the sofa with a firm hand.
“Stay put.” His tone left no room for argument. He pivoted on his heel and headed toward the lobby.
“Wait!”
He turned at her call, and she was struck again by the man’s magnetic charm. Accustomed to addressing conference rooms filled with international captains of industry, Jessica found herself suddenly tongue-tied in front of one incredibly attractive cowboy.
His wide mouth lifted in a slow, bone-melting grin, and amusement lit his eyes at her extended silence. “Well?”
“I… Thank you. You saved my life.”
“Just doing my job.” With a look that made her stomach flip-flop, he touched his fingers to the brim of his hat and stepped out the door.
Jessica propped herself on her elbows and watched him stride into the lobby, where the other customers and tellers had gathered. As her heartbeat returned to normal after revving at the stranger’s sexy smile, her previous irritation at her current assignment rose to new heights. She hadn’t been in Montana more than a few hours, and already she’d been shot at and man-handled. Max would have to cough up more than three weeks in St. Thomas to compensate for this.
She struggled upright, swung her feet to the floor and started to stand, but her knees wouldn’t cooperate. More shaken by her close brush with death than she cared to admit, she collapsed onto the sofa with a soft grunt.
She was where she’d intended to be, in John Hayes’s office. She might as well wait.
ROSS MCGARRETT left the woman in John Hayes’s office and returned to the lobby. He was a man slow to anger, but at this moment he felt like Mount St. Helens ready to blow. The robber had not only come within a hairbreadth of killing a young woman, he had stolen hardworking people’s money and scared a sweet old lady half to death.
Holding his temper in check, Ross waded into the midst of the frightened group in the bank’s lobby and strode straight to the information desk where Miss Minnie Perkins was trembling like a leaf in a gale-force wind.
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