Patricia Rosemoor: Someone To Protect Her

Upon entering, she found a chair in a corner, “Oh, yes, this is better.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “You’re a Brit. Odd…”

“Yes, I’m surprised to find myself in your Wild West, as well,” she agreed, a sense of euphoria filling her. The aftermath of the adrenaline rush of being attacked, she was certain.

“No, it’s just that I was looking for this British scientist when I saw that guy dragging you off.”

Scientist? C.J. gaped. How many British scientists could be working in Boulder, Colorado?

The man sat in a chair that brought their knees close, making her shift in her seat away from him.

“We really should report this incident to the police.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I need to find this guy tonight.”

“I believe you have. C. J. Birch here.” She extended her hand.

His piercing blue eyes widened on her. “You’re…?”

“Exactly. And you?”

He gave her hand a vitally American shake.

“Frank Connolly, Montana Confidential. I’m flying you out of here tomorrow.”

Noting that he hadn’t let go of her hand, C.J. murmured, “How bizarre.”

“What?”

She slipped from his grasp and stared at her fingers for a moment. Then she blinked and looked at him. “Why, the way you found me, of course.”

“I was told you would be having a dinner meeting at the Brickwalk Café. But when I got there…one of your colleagues told me you’d just set off.”

“Perfect timing, then.” As if fate had taken a hand and stepped in to protect her. Making C.J. feel a bit better about her coming circumstances. “Well, I’m settled down inside now, so perhaps we should make that report to the authorities.”

“No!” Frank followed the loud retort by scanning the lobby.

C.J. followed suit. No one seemed to have noticed.

“No authorities?” she asked. “Why not?”

“Considering who you are…who I am…it complicates matters.”

Her turn to go wide-eyed. “You think the attack had something to do with my work?”

Frank continued peering around the lobby, as if he were now looking for suspects. “Possibly.”

That thought had never entered her mind. “Then the local authorities—”

“Might delay your departure. We can’t afford that.”

“No, we can’t.” C.J. had been brought up to speed about the urgency of finding the antidote to D-5. “But what if…if the attacker indeed was after me. If he could find me on Pearl Street—”

“He’d know where you live,” Frank finished for her. “I booked a hotel room for the night, but considering what just happened, I’ll be staying at your place. Don’t worry, I won’t let you out of my sight until I get you to the Quinlan Research Institute.”

“I do hope you don’t mean that literally,” C.J. said, allowing the starch in her voice to thicken. “I do need a good night’s rest. You’ll find the couch in the next room close enough.”

TOO CLOSE, C.J. AMENDED once she was alone with Frank Connolly. He’d fetched his rental car and had driven her from the hotel to her flat near the university, a one-bedroom in a modest complex filled mostly with grad students who were considerate types. Luckily for her, the place had come furnished, so she hadn’t had to hunt for nonexistent domestic skills; rather, she’d moved right in and had gotten down to her work at the lab immediately.

Gripping the bedding for the couch to her chest, she entered the living room, thinking how odd a man’s presence in her place seemed.

“I really couldn’t tell what he looked like under all that paint, Daniel,” Frank was telling his supervisor. “He was a fraction taller than me—probably an even six feet. And he was more muscular.”

C.J. gave Frank a surprised once-over. Clothed only in a pair of jeans and a soft, sleeveless white T-shirt, he appeared muscular enough. As a matter of fact, she considered him to be quite perfect.

“Yeah, all right. Tomorrow, then.”

Flushing at her uncalled-for thoughts, C.J. quickly turned away and spread a bottom sheet over the couch cushions as Frank hung up. Before she knew what he was about, he was far too close.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, keeping focused on the sheet rather than the man. “You’re a hero. You deserve a civilized bed…even if it’s not really a bed.”

“Trust me, I’ve slept in worse. Much worse.”

She wondered what “worse” meant. A seedy motel, perhaps?

“Here, let me do that.”

He took the top sheet from her hands. At the unexpected touch, she sprang back and watched him work. His precise movements. The strength apparent in the contracting muscles of his arms. The way the trim cut of his short dark brown hair threaded with silver perfectly suited his high forehead and broad cheekbones. He reminded her a little of that actor—George Clooney—only sexier.

“Daniel’s putting out feelers on your attacker.”

He took the blanket from her and snapped it open over the couch. “Gonna try to ID him.”

“But without a true description,” C.J. mused, “where would he even begin?”

“The MO—uh, modus operandi. This guy was a pro, but pros normally try to blend in, a little hard to do covered in bronze paint. So this one’s somewhat unique. Might be easier to tag him than if he’d played it like Joe Regular.”

“I see what you mean.” She dropped the pillows at one end. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I’ll be fine. Get some rest. We’ll be up at the crack of dawn.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She started for her bedroom door, then hesitated. She turned to find him staring at her. Something about his expression made her falter. Then she moistened her lips and said, “I mean that, Frank Connolly. The ‘thank you’ part. You really are a hero.”

With that she slipped into her bedroom, closed the door, then leaned against the wall, trembling. She lived such a quiet, ordinary life. The last few hours—being attacked and rescued, having a man more handsome than George Clooney not only in her apartment but sleeping on her couch—were sure to stand out in her mind forever.

Quickly she stripped out of the trousers and summer sweater that required a trip to the cleaners. Not until she returned to Boulder, whenever that might be. She passed her already packed medium-size suitcase and shoulder bag on the way to the bathroom.

Standing under the shower longer than she normally would, C.J. hoped the pounding hot water would relieve some of the ache of being dragged by her arm, of having her hip make more contact with the ground than was comfortable. She also hoped the water would relax her enough so that she could fall asleep.

But freshly scrubbed and encased in her favorite satiny pajamas, she still found sleep to be an elusive creature. Thoughts continued to roil through her head as she lay in the silent dark.

The burden of finding an antidote before a water supply could be contaminated with D-5.

The horror of having been attacked.

The discomfort of having her too appealing rescuer mere feet away, separated from her merely by a flimsy—and unlocked—door.

HE WAS HIT.

“Get out! Get out!”

No time to think…eject.

A plume of smoke surrounded him, choking him. The crippled jet veered off, nose down, spinning, its death scream sounding in his head.

Explosion…his ears imploded.

He flew down, wingless, through a momentarily silent world.

A world of jagged peaks and valleys coming closer fast.

The chute shot open behind him. He jerked back. Stomach lurched. Then all righted.

He was coming down…but to what?

The ravaged earth met his feet. The stink of fire burned his nostrils. Folds of material enveloped him, taking him prisoner.