Jan Schliesman - Protecting His Brother's Bride

He returned to the bedroom and dialed the emergency services number again. He couldn’t second-guess his decision to help the unconscious woman. Commitment was his middle name. “This is Dalton Matthews. I need to cancel the call for a grass fire. Looks like the rain put it out.”

“I’ll remove it from our list,” the dispatcher replied.

“I’m heading out of town for a few days. Could I get an extra patrol to swing past tomorrow and make sure everything’s in order?”

“We can do that.”

The man in the next room gathered enough energy to bellow a string of curse words.

“Sorry. Forgot to mute the television before I called.”

“No problem, sir. I’ve heard worse.”

“Now that I think about it, switch the patrol to the day after tomorrow.” Dalton grinned to himself. “Nothing exciting ever happens around here.”

“Right. I’ve got you down. Have a safe trip.”

He disconnected the call and stared at Blondie. She was out for the count and his ruse might have bought her a short reprieve. Getting her to a doctor or hospital would cover his culpability regarding her injuries. He dropped his bloodstained flannel shirt and pulled on the first available T-shirt.

“Now for sleeping Blondie.”

All his efforts while he’d been in hiding the past several months would be wasted by tomorrow. There was no time to cover all the windows and prevent any further damage to the house. He released another, longer sigh and with it some of the anger kindling his blood.

He tossed an old afghan onto Blondie and secured her close to his body. He settled her in the front passenger seat of his vehicle, clicked the seat belt in place and climbed into the driver’s side. He backed out of the garage and refused to look at the damage.

The rain had arrived in time to stop the fire. He adjusted the wipers and pulled onto the darkening county road with one final glance in his rearview mirror. No second thoughts.

Right or wrong, he was committed to securing Blondie’s health and safety. She needed a hospital. She’d get a hospital. If she woke up before that, he’d get answers.

Dalton rubbed his knuckles, thinking of the bastard who’d taken a hit to the groin. The man’s curse-filled tirade had confirmed that someone wanted more than death for Blondie. What did she want from Dalton? More than a few things didn’t add up.

Dalton spotted the bright pink nails grasping the edge of the damp afghan he’d thrown over her. He caught himself reaching for her fingers, the familiar color causing his gut to clench. Instead, he anchored his hands on the steering wheel.

How many times had he seen such a color? Visiting the nail salon had been a ritual for Lauren. Until the day she’d taken her life. It was almost impossible not to think of his wife, and every time he did, he couldn’t get past the circumstances framing her death or the blame levied at him.

“How many media exclusives can you people want?” An unlimited supply, when every person Lauren had known, past and present, collected a fee for their sorrow. Too bad they hadn’t been half as involved in her life when her fame had started tearing her apart.

But paparazzi don’t normally carry guns or have thugs blowing up their cars.

The woman beside him was too pale. Too fragile looking, as though she’d endured more than her fair share of pain. She moistened her lips and wiped her hand across her eyes before wincing and bolting upright in the seat.

“Let me out!” She tugged at her seat belt.

He glanced at the highway. “Out where?”

She pushed a strand of hair off her face and glared at him. “Just pull over and let me out.”

Dalton hit the brakes and steered the sedan onto the shoulder, sending gravel flying against the undercarriage of the car and abruptly stopping them with enough force the airbags could have deployed.

She braced a hand against the dashboard before throwing off the afghan and releasing the seat belt. She yanked on the door handle and then beat her fist against the cherrywood trim in frustration. “Why won’t this door open?”

Dalton placed the car in Park and turned off the ignition. “Because we have some unfinished business, because it’s dark and rainy outside or because you aren’t wearing shoes. Take your pick.”

She shut up for six seconds and then immediately returned to attack mode. “I already said I was sorry. Now let me go.”

“First tell me your name.”

“Tell me your name.” She might talk big, but her body language told a different story. She was shrinking to the corner of the seat.

“I have a feeling you already know it.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she softly counted to ten. Then she reached forward, opened the glove box and started riffling through the papers inside. He’d give her points for resourcefulness, but she’d find nothing in there to help her.

Next, she flipped on the console light and held up three or four papers for inspection. “BCA. BCA. And BCA, Inc.” She glared over at him. “What’s a BCA?”

“Business name.” He winked, hoping she could see it in the dim light. “Your turn.”

“I pass.” She crossed her arms, stubborn yet again.

“Are you sure?” he asked, typing in a request on the car’s GPS screen and doing it with enough fanfare she had to be watching him. He flipped on the audio switch and waited for the announcement.

“Law enforcement located, ten point three miles northeast, downloading directions now.”

She stared at the screen, chewed her lip nervously and then straightened her spine. “If you were going to turn me in, why didn’t you do it already?”

He didn’t need her calling his bluff. He needed her to crumble and spill her guts so he could determine her true motivation. It was like a really bad game of hot potato and he wanted to get rid of her as soon as feasibly possible.

“Simple answer, I was headed to the hospital, quicker than waiting for an ambulance.” He invoked his most take-charge tone before continuing. “You could move things along by telling me your name and how you found me.”

She shoved the mass of paperwork and fast-food napkins back into the glove box and slammed the cover shut. “I wasn’t looking for you.”

“Really? Then what were you doing, snooping around my property?”

She chewed her bottom lip again. “Exactly how long have you lived there?”

The air in Dalton’s lungs turned to fresh cement and for several seconds he couldn’t breathe as he remembered the day he’d escaped to the woods. Had he really been hiding out for over a year? He cleared his throat. “Answering a question with a question is a classic avoidance technique, one you probably already knew.”

She blew the bangs from her forehead and turned toward him. “And yet it’s a question I will ask again. How long have you lived there?”

“And I’ll repeat, what were you doing snooping around my property?” Two could play her game.

She glared at him again. “I wasn’t trying to snoop, but I’d actually been there several years ago. I was searching for...an old friend.”

Dalton took a moment to absorb the information. This woman was asking him to believe she’d been there, legally, without his knowledge. There were only four people with a key.

“Maybe the exterior has changed a bit, but I’m 99 percent certain my friend still owns that property. We came here New Year’s Eve almost four years ago.” Her voice shook again and she blinked away tears.

“Blondie, my family has owned that house for sixty years.” Dalton watched as her expression changed from anger to uncertainty. “You’ve either confused the location with another property or you were trespassing the first time.”