A Soldier's Devotion. Cheryl WyattЧитать онлайн книгу.
any guy would be nuts not to notice. Even an injured one. He jerked away his gaze like the rip cord on a screaming parachute and ground his teeth. He wanted nothing whatsoever about her to be appealing.
He’d been headed to the drop-zone facility following an emergency page from Joel. But, on impact, his cell phone had bounced across the road and broken into particles.
Frustration surged. He became even more irked that he’d been placed in the position of having to use his assailant’s phone for help.
Vince refused to restrain the disapproval from his voice as he recited the number of Refuge’s DZ. The guys were probably convening there prior to being flown to their insertion point.
Without him.
Not only had this bad-driving woman risked his life, she’d rendered his team one man short.
Slender fingers punched the keypad. “It’s ringing.” She held the phone to his ear.
“Yeah, Chance? Lemme talk to Joel.” Vince huffed a breath. Ribs sore. Hurt to talk.
She must have sensed it because she moved the phone from his ear to hers. “Who am I talking to?” she asked Vince in a take-charge voice that he would have appreciated any other time.
The last thing he wanted was to feel anything remotely positive toward the enemy—who was, at the moment, namely her. And the terrorists who’d shot down the pilot he couldn’t go help save.
His anger hit boiling point again. And he let her know it with a lethal look. Didn’t faze or rattle her. Must be one mortar-tough chick.
“Ask for Montgomery. Tell him I’m in a fender bender and won’t make the lift.”
“Mr. Montgomery?” she said into the phone. “Yes, I’m here with…Excuse me a moment.” She covered the mouthpiece and leaned in to Vince. “What’s your name?”
“Reardon.”
“I’m here with…Reardon. I—he’s been in a substantial accident. On his bike, yes.” She swallowed. Hard. Okay, maybe not so tough.
Vince scowled at her for giving TMI but she ignored him just like she’d disobeyed the traffic signal that caused this wreck.
“Yes, he’s alert and coherent, but I think it hurts him to talk. The ambulance is on its way. Yes. Thank you. And I’m very sorry. Well, because I’m the one who caused the wreck.” Her lips trembled at the words and no doubt Joel was offering soothing words to her. Traitor.
Connor Stallings, a Refuge police officer, finished taking statements from witnesses and approached. He dipped his head toward the phone. “Is that Montgomery?”
“Yes.”
“Let me talk with him.” Stallings took the cell she handed him then he stepped out of Vince’s earshot.
Another raging hole burned through Vince. He hated to be coddled and babied. Most of all pitied. And Stallings’ face had been full of it when he’d initially rushed over to Vince upon arriving on the accident scene.
After talking with Vince’s leader and saying who knows what that could further worry them needlessly, Stallings knelt beside him. Compassionate eyes rested on Vince, which ticked him off even more. Anger surged like his headache. Did everyone have to feel sorry for him?
Vince clenched his jaw at the unwanted attention. He didn’t want anyone to see him weak or broken. He vehemently ignored the rubberneckers in cars and concerned bystanders in the periphery and focused on Officer Stallings.
“I guess I don’t have to ask how you’re doing, Sergeant Reardon.”
Vince eyed one of the few men he’d met who matched his six-foot-six stature and who sometimes skydived at Refuge Drop Zone. “I’ve been better.” He slashed a sharp look at the woman.
Although he was scraped up and in mind-blasting pain, his sense of pride and dignity were wounded above all.
Stallings’ blue-silver gaze cooled as it rested on the woman. “Were you the other driver?”
“Y-yes. I was at fault.” Her lips trembled.
Vince looked away, not wanting to soften toward her.
“That your car?” Stallings jotted notes.
She nodded.
“Name?”
“Val…Valentina Russo.” She spelled it out in breathless syllables. Something inside Vince tried to bend in mercy.
Until he conjured images of his brother’s face as he’d presented the bike to Vince on a prison-visitation weekend. The one prior to the riot that had taken his life. To make matters worse, his brother had been cleared posthumously of charges incurred by a six-man jury trial tainted by a money-hungry, truth-botching lawyer who cared more about retainer fees than ratting out false informants.
Vince hadn’t been able to free his brother or save his life, but he was determined to clear his brother’s name. Just as determined as his brother had been to work toward good behavior that had allowed him to do supervised shop work in order to finish the bike he’d started for Vince.
The very bike this senseless driver had just smashed to smithereens in a preventable accident.
Stallings scribbled on his clipboard then eyed the woman. “Where were you headed in such a hurry?”
“I was on my way to the courthouse near the square.”
“For?”
“Court. I’m an attorney.”
Chapter Two
How could a horrid day have gotten worse?
Val brushed damp hair from her eyes and drew calming breaths as paramedics lifted the man she’d injured into the waiting ambulance. “I h-hope he’s going to be okay,” she murmured. And poor Aunt Elsie!
Val glanced at her watch then at her silent phone. Why hadn’t the ER doctor called back with word on Elsie’s condition?
“Vince is tough, he’ll survive.” The officer beside her tore off a citation and handed it to her. “I’m ticketing you for disobeying a traffic signal.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I understand.”
How embarrassing this would be—paying the fine at the courthouse she went to on a weekly basis as a prosecutor.
But she rightfully deserved the ticket.
And at least he’d only issued her one citation.
Or not.
He’d started scribbling on his pad again.
“According to the skid marks, you weren’t speeding above posted limits. But you were driving too fast for conditions, which I’m issuing you a warning for.” He tore off another ticket and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” Thanks? Who says thanks to a ticket?
Elsie’s fall and this wreck had really rattled her.
“What made you run the red light?”
“On my way to court, I received a call from the hospital that my aunt toppled down her basement stairs on a medical scooter.”
Officer Stallings looked up in an abrupt motion.
“I’m new to town and unfamiliar with this intersection. I saw the light too late,” Val finished, wishing her hands and voice would stop quaking. She’d never in her life been this nervous; not even in court before the most cantankerous and imposing judge.
“You were on the phone?” Stallings policed her with a harsh, discerning look.
Val stepped closer to Stallings. “I didn’t want to explain my emergency in front of Mr. Reardon because I didn’t want to