Lisa Childs - Watching Over Her

But the gruesomely masked gunman hadn’t waited for her to leave the hospital. He had walked right into the emergency department and dragged her from her bed.

If one of those masked gunmen were inside the motel room, he wouldn’t wait long for her to come out. He would break down the door to get to her.

To kill her? What else could they want with her?

She had no money to offer them. But after all the banks they had robbed, they shouldn’t need any more money. Some people, however, never thought they had enough. So maybe they wanted to keep robbing banks and for some reason thought she had the knowledge to stop them...

So they wanted to stop her from talking. They wanted to kill her.

As if her fearful thoughts had conjured up one of the men, the door rattled as someone tried to turn the knob. The chair legs squeaked against the vinyl floor, moving as someone wrenched harder on the knob—determined to get to her.

Could she convince them that she knew nothing? That she had no idea who they were?

It was the only chance she had. But she would be able to pull it off only if they still wore the masks. What if they didn’t? Then she couldn’t look at them—because they would kill her for sure.

The door rattled harder—metal hinges creaking, wood cracking. In case they came in firing, she climbed into the bathtub. She put her face down on her knees and wrapped her arms around the back of her head. Her stance wouldn’t protect her or the baby from bullets. But she had no other way to protect herself...

The chair toppled over against the sink, and the door flew open with such force that the wood cracked against the side of the bathtub. Someone must have kicked it in.

But she didn’t dare look up. She didn’t want to be able to identify any of the robbers. She wanted the danger to end. She actually wanted Blaine Campbell and his protection. But he was too far away to protect her.

“Please leave me alone,” she begged. “You don’t have to hurt me. I don’t know anything about the robberies. And I don’t care...”

All she cared about was her baby. She actually hadn’t been thrilled when she’d found out she was pregnant. But then Andy had died and she’d been relieved that she hadn’t lost him completely.

But now she wasn’t just going to lose that last piece of Andy—she was going to lose her own life, too.

Chapter Eight

Guilt had Blaine’s shoulder slumping slightly. Or maybe he’d hurt it when he had broken down the bathroom door. “Maggie, it’s me,” he said.

But she kept her arms locked around her head, her body trembling inside the bathtub. Curled up the way she was, she looked so small—so fragile—so frightened.

He hadn’t dared to say who he was as he broke down the door...because he hadn’t known what he would find inside. Maggie might not have been alone. One of the gunmen might have gotten to her and barricaded them both inside the bathroom when he’d arrived. Or it might have only been one of the gunmen inside the bathroom and Maggie might have already been gone.

Blaine hadn’t arrived quite in time. The officer outside the door had been shot. Maybe mortally...

Sirens wailed outside the motel as more emergency vehicles careened into the lot. Hopefully an ambulance was among them—with help for the young cop and for Maggie.

Maybe she needed medical attention, too. Had any of the shots fired at the officer struck her? Blaine looked into the tub again, but he noticed no blood on the white porcelain—only Maggie’s dark curls spread across the cold surface.

“Maggie!” He reached out for her.

But she swung her hands then, striking out at him. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

He caught her wrists and then lifted her wriggling body from the tub and into his arms. “Maggie! It’s me—it’s Blaine!”

Finally she looked up, her dark eyes wide as she stared at him in wonder. “Blaine!” Then she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him.

And his guilt increased. He never should have left her to the protection of anyone else. The young officer had been shot, and Maggie might have been taken if he hadn’t gotten there in time. The wounded officer had held off the gunmen until Blaine had arrived.

Then Blaine had fired on them, too. He didn’t think that he’d hit any of them, though. And tires had squealed as a van had sped out of the parking lot.

For a long, horrible moment he’d thought that Maggie might have been in that van. That he had been too late to save her. Then he had found the bathroom door locked inside the room, and he’d hoped that she’d hidden away. But Blaine had been doing this job too long to be optimistic. So he had expected the worst—that one of the gunmen had been left behind and barricaded himself alone or, worse yet, inside the bathroom with Maggie.

In a ragged sigh of relief, her breath shuddered out against his throat. She had undoubtedly expected the worst when he’d broken open the door.

He wrapped his arms tightly around Maggie, holding her close. She trembled against him—as if she couldn’t stop shaking. She was probably in shock.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

But he had to pull away and leave her again—only because he had to make sure that help had arrived for the young officer and for Maggie. He wanted a doctor to check her out again.

He wanted to make sure that she was all right.

How much fear could she and her baby handle?

There was only one way that Blaine would truly be able to protect her, the way Sarge had wanted and died trying to do. And that was to find out who was so determined to grab her or kill her.

Who were the bank robbers?

* * *

ONE OF THE paramedics assured Maggie and Agent Campbell that she was fine. Apparently she couldn’t die from fear.

What about embarrassment?

She had embarrassed herself when she cried out his name and clung to him. She had acted like a girlfriend when he considered her a robbery suspect.

Or had he changed his mind about that?

Then he took her to his home—although home was stretching it. The bungalow obviously belonged to a single man. There were no pictures on the walls. No knickknacks on the built-in shelves. Not even a book or a magazine.

The living room held a couch and a chair while the dining room contained a desk instead of a table. The table was in the kitchen, but it had only two chairs at it. There was a bed in each of the two bedrooms.

Blaine showed her to one while taking the other for himself. Maybe she slept. Maggie wasn’t sure. She drifted in and out, occasionally hearing Blaine’s voice. She doubted he slept at all. He had been on his cell phone instead.

The house was quiet now. But Maggie knew he hadn’t left because she smelled food. Bacon. And coffee. Her stomach grumbled, but she stayed in bed, not eager to face him. Her face heated even now, as she thought of how she’d acted.

Like a girlfriend...

But Blaine Campbell was just an FBI agent doing his job. He probably had a girlfriend somewhere, because a man that handsome was unlikely to be single. Unless Blaine’s only commitment was his career...

She had to stop thinking of him as Blaine and remember that he was Special Agent Campbell. That was all he was and all he would ever be to her.

The baby kicked. Apparently they both wanted food. So she tossed back the covers and kicked her legs over the side of the bed. The T-shirt Blaine had loaned her as a nightgown had ridden up, revealing her high-cut briefs. She reached to tug down the hem of the shirt just as someone cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” Blaine said, as he had the night before when he’d peeled her off him.

She was the one who should be apologizing—for inconveniencing him as she had. For costing him a friend like Sarge. For making his job harder. But for once she, who usually couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t find words to express herself and her gratefulness for his saving her over and over again.