Rocky Mountain Rescue. Cindi MyersЧитать онлайн книгу.
“I won’t do anything I think will endanger Carlo. Why don’t you go into the bathroom and clean the rest of the blood off your face while I make the call.”
She glared at him, but stood and did as he asked. While she was out of the room, he’d talk to his supervisors about getting her into WITSEC right away—before the people who’d come after Carlo decided to come after her, too.
* * *
STACY STARED AT herself in the hotel bathroom mirror. She looked horrible—no makeup, blood matting her hair, an ugly bruise forming above her left eye. But what did it matter, with Carlo gone? Who would have taken him? Some enemy of the Giardinos, intent on revenge? Someone after money? She closed her eyes against the pounding in her head and tried to think, but her mind offered up no answers.
She debated eavesdropping on Marshal Thompson’s phone call, but she didn’t really want to hear what he had to say. And she needed to stay on his good side—he was the only one who could help her find Carlo. He’d seen the men who’d taken her boy, and he had weapons and a car and she presumed some training in tracking people. She wasn’t going to do better right now.
She told herself she ought to be angry he’d followed her to Durango, but if he hadn’t, she’d really be stuck with no one to turn to. And he’d been a decent enough guy. He’d listened to what she’d had to say and hadn’t tried to order her around as if he automatically knew what was best. That was a change from the men she was used to dealing with.
Not that he wasn’t all man. A woman would have to be half-dead not to notice those broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was taller and bigger than any of the Giardino men; she felt like a shrimp next to him. But that was okay. Being around him made her feel...safe. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
He knocked on the door as she was washing the last of the blood out of her hair. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her head, turban fashion, and opened the door. “What did they say?” she asked.
“They agreed we shouldn’t involve the local police. It might endanger the boy and it could jeopardize our investigation.”
“What investigation? You keep using that word, but what are you investigating—me?”
“Not you. In fact, I want to move you into WITSEC right away. When we find Carlo, we’ll bring him to you.”
“No.”
“I know you don’t like the idea, but it’s the best way to protect you and—”
“No. I’m not going anywhere until we know what happened to Carlo. When you find him, I’m going to be there.”
“I can’t track criminals with you in tow.”
“I’m not going to get in your way, and I can help.”
“How can you help?”
“I know how to shoot. I know how to keep quiet and stay out of the way and most of all—I know my child. In a tense situation, he’ll come to me and I can keep him calm.”
His mouth remained set in that stubborn line, his gaze boring into her, but she refused to let him intimidate her. She was through with men who tried to boss her around. “I won’t go into WITSEC,” she said. “If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll search for Carlo on my own.” With no car, no gun and not even a clear picture of where she was, searching on her own wasn’t a choice she wanted to make, but she could steal a car, buy a gun and read a map if she had to. She’d do whatever it took to find her boy.
“My first job is to protect you.”
“Then you can do that by taking me with you to look for Carlo. Now come on. We’re wasting time talking about it. We need to go after them.”
She tried to push past him, but he stopped her, one hand on her shoulder. “You can’t go out with wet hair. You’ll freeze.”
She pulled the towel from her head. “I don’t care about my hair. It can dry in the car.”
“You won’t be any good to Carlo, or to me, if you catch pneumonia.”
“Fine.” She turned and grabbed the hair dryer that hung by the sink. “But as soon as my hair is dry, we leave.”
She expected him to leave her to the task, but he remained in the doorway, reflected in the mirror, his gaze fixed on her. She tried to ignore him, but that was impossible; even if the mirror hadn’t been there, she could feel his eyes on her, sense his big, brooding presence just over her shoulder. Why had he said that, about her not being any good to him if she got sick? Did he really think she was such as important witness in his mysterious “investigation”? He certainly didn’t need her any other way.
Except maybe in the way men always seemed to need women, a traitorous voice in her head whispered. She shifted against an uncomfortable tightness in her lower abdomen, an awareness of herself not as mother, wife or daughter, but as a young, desirable woman. She’d buried that side of herself when she married Sammy Giardino—that it should resurface now astounded her. She’d heard of people who reacted to stress in inappropriate ways, for instance, by laughing at funerals. Was her response to tragedy and peril going to be this odd state of semiarousal? She couldn’t think of anything less appropriate, especially if she was getting turned on by some big brute of a cop.
She switched off the hair dryer and whirled to face him. “What are you staring at?” she asked.
She expected him to say something about her looks—to tell her she was pretty or sexy or a similar come-on. It was the sort of thing men always said, especially when they wanted to talk you into their bed. Instead, he straightened and uncrossed his arms. “I was thinking how wrong the Giardinos were to take you for granted,” he said, then, not waiting for an answer, he turned away.
She stared after him, confusion and pleasure warring in her. What some cop thought of her shouldn’t matter, but she wasn’t used to compliments—if, indeed, he’d meant the comment to be flattering. The fact that he saw past her physical presence to something in her character left her feeling off balance. She was used to people taking her for granted—not mattering to others was a kind of camouflage. It kept you safe. For this man to really see who she was past her skin felt daring and dangerous.
“Are you coming?” he called.
“Yes!” She grabbed up her coat and purse and followed him across the parking lot to his car—a black SUV that looked like something a rich tourist would drive, not a federal agent. If Carlo’s kidnappers saw this vehicle behind them, they wouldn’t be suspicious.
“Don’t get your hopes up that this is going to work,” he said as she buckled her seat belt. “If these guys are pros, they’ve already switched cars and headed out of town.”
“But maybe they didn’t,” she said. “There isn’t much traffic this time of night. Maybe we’ll see them. They don’t expect anyone to come after them, so maybe they’ll be careless.”
“That’s a lot of maybes.” He started the engine and put the vehicle in gear. “But criminals have done dumber things.”
They turned onto the dark, deserted street and headed toward the highway. Streetlights shone on dirty snowbanks pushed up on the side of the road. They passed few cars; Stacy studied each one closely, but none contained anyone who looked like the man who had attacked her and taken Carlo.
They drove to the edge of town, then turned back and headed in the opposite direction. Patrick turned into a motel parking lot. “Look for a black sedan with mud on the plates,” he said. “It’s a long shot, but they may have holed up somewhere close.”
Scarcely daring to breathe, she leaned close to the window and studied each vehicle they passed: old trucks, new SUVs, brightly colored sports cars. But no black sedan.
They checked four more motels with the same results. Patrick cruised through a silent shopping center. “I think they’ve