Authors: Lynde Lakes
“Is this yours?”
Would it even start?
He grinned. “All mine, no payments.”
“Well, that puts a different prospective on it. How impressive. A paid for chariot.” His dark wavy hair was styled rather than just cut. The blue in his striped tailored shirt was the same shade as the well-cut slacks that fit perfectly over lean hips. She glanced at the car again. The contradictions in this man intrigued her, and on a deeper level, they worried her. Was he a guy looking to make a fast buck?
Dane opened the door for her with a sweeping gallant gesture. He seemed oblivious to the loud crack that shook the frame.
She slid in, trying not to dislodge the padding that poked through the upholstery. At least the car was clean. “Will this get us to the university safely?”
Dane’s deep, throaty laugh sent a tingle dancing down her spine. “As safely as any car.”
He dashed around to the driver’s side and eased behind the steering wheel with firm-muscled agility. As he turned the key, the tendons in his hands tightened. Those hands looked capable, strong, and they were definitely not the hands she’d seen in the video.
She shivered. How was Tess involved in all this? A pulse throbbed in Jill’s neck. She felt a bomb ticking inside her, minutes ebbing away. Her sister was out there somewhere, unaware that she’d been marked as the killer’s next victim. How could she save her if she couldn’t find her?
Dane pumped the gas pedal several times. The engine sputtered. He pumped again. Finally the car shuddered to life.
Jill coughed as exhaust fumes filled the air. “Do you think this bucket of bolts will even make it out of the lot?” It was rude to criticize his car, but the temptation to get back at him for his cockiness had been irresistible. He had a way of bringing out the worst in her.
Damn him. He was talking about more than merely driving the car. Jill lifted her chin. “That’s fine if we’re talking about cars, but remember, Newshound, this is my investigation.” The sooner he recognized it the better.
The amusement on Dane’s face faded. His strong, granite-like profile warned her that she’d said enough on the subject. His lightning mood change was a red flag she intended to keep in mind. What would she find if she dug deep into his psyche?
One thing she had to admit, he did have a strength and solidness about him. He reminded her of her tall, imposing, absentee father, whom she’d idealized as a child. He’d seemed strong, and dependable too, yet he’d left the day Tess was born and never returned. Jill’s stomach tightened. Maybe that’s why she’d gone into psychology, to learn how a man could walk away from his baby and young daughter, but she’d never found a satisfactory answer. Perhaps if he’d stayed around, Tess wouldn’t be in her present jam.
For the first time, she noticed the silvering at Dane’s temples. It gave him a seasoned appearance, one that instilled confidence, trust. Ha. How deceiving looks could be.
She’d learned from the FBI files that Dane lived on the edge, willingly taking risks to get a story. That could make him doubly dangerous to her case.
I’ll be watching you, buddy.
Damn. If she’d insisted upon taking her car, they’d be halfway there by now. He had to gun the old bucket simply to merge into the freeway traffic. Instantly, the car began to shake from the stress of highway headwinds. “Remind me to take my own wheels next time.” Instead of air-conditioning he had open windows, in place of a radio he had rattles and vibrations.
“Planning our second date already, Agent Grayson?”
In spite of Dane’s quip, his expression remained tight. He kept looking in the rearview mirror. His rigid body language and the way his fingers gripped the steering wheel unsettled her. Their eyes met briefly. For that small space of time she felt strangely vulnerable. Wind from the open windows tossed hair about her face. She tried to hold it back out of her eyes, control it, the way she was trying to control her conflicting emotions. And with about as much success.
Although Dane wasn’t the killer, he was one of the six lessees and active in the production of videos. What if the killer wasn’t alone in this? Did Dane want his big story enough to work with the killer to manufacture news?
“I have a hunch you’re holding out on me,” she said. The undercover work he’d done on this story showed he had an instinct for the heart of a story and the courage and daring to go after it. But had he sold his soul as well?
He reached over as though to pat her knee. Her breath caught. Mid-air, he stopped and returned his hand to the steering wheel. “If you’d just learn to relax and trust me, we’ll do better as a team.”
“I won’t blow your precious case. I want the killer as much as you do.” His grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles bone white. “My friend was just mutilated...and I was accused of doing it.”
The ragged sound in Dane’s voice settled around her heart. Was this the real Dane Clark, or was he the wise-cracking, callous clod he sometimes seemed? “I’m so sorry about Charmaine...” Jill straightened her shoulders and pressed her lips together, fighting the swelling ache rising in her throat. “I suppose you realize, if the murderer doesn’t want something reported he’ll kill your story—forever.”
“Kill me, you mean.” He snickered. “If I let my mortality bother me I’d have to change professions.”
She knew he’d say something like that. Reporters liked to get into the thick of things and stir up trouble. Jill didn’t expect Dane to be any more cautious on this story just because of the danger to himself or others. Still, the intensity in his tone confused her. She would love to get him on a couch, delve into his mind.
Love to get him on a couch
echoed in her brain
.
“Let me put it in simpler terms that even a reporter can understand. The killer wears a normal mask when he lures the young women.” Jill clasped her hands. “Charmaine didn’t have a chance against his charm and cunning.”
Just like a reporter, always playing the what-if game. “You’ve seen too many bad B movies.” The wind swirling around her seemed to join forces with Dane to irritate and electrify her nerves.
“How many people knew about the warrant?” There was an edge to Dane’s voice. He was looking in the rearview mirror again.
Jill turned. The driver behind them practically rode their rear bumper, but Dane didn’t speed up. “Do you ever talk without asking questions?”
“Does it bother you?”
She wouldn’t admit how much. He was like a pesky mosquito, taking constant bites out of her. She feared it would be too late by the time she determined just how badly she’d been bitten. “Frankly, I don’t like your style.”
“You think I have style? Thanks.” He winked. “So, tell me, how many people knew about the warrant?”
She glared at him. Did he really expect her to answer that? Her chief knew about the raid, so did the SWAT team leader, and Agent Gary Paine. “No one with the Bureau would leak information about the raid.”
Dane’s expression remained skeptical. “Money has a way of corrupting. Even dedicated agents and cops have been known to fall when the big bucks are flashed before their eyes.”
“Cool it, Dane. I won’t discuss this. It’s too ridiculous.”
“Maybe someone else, the clerk who types the requests?”
She shook her head in disgust. “Maybe it’s your connections, Mr. Clark. How many people at the paper know you’re working on this story? Or how many friends?”
Dane glanced in the rearview mirror. “Why don’t you just pass me, jerk!”
Jill turned. The black truck was still riding their bumper. “I’d really like to hear your answer,” Jill said. “What about
your
assistant?”
“Sammy and I are working on this story together. Are you going to try to lock him up too?”
“If he’s guilty. What do you know about Professor Mansell?”
Suddenly, the truck with dark windows riding their bumper swung into the next lane and came abreast. It swerved and slammed against the passenger side. Jill screamed.
“What the hell—” Dane twisted the wheel.
The Simca skidded right then left. Sweat broke out on his brow. He slowed. The truck dropped back and swerved again—this time it clipped their rear bumper.
Would they be crushed? At the very least, the force would send them into the concrete divider or into the path of other oncoming traffic.
The truck rammed them, connecting just behind the rear window on the passenger side. Metal crunched against metal. The rear tire blew. The Simca rocked, nearly flipping over as it bounced around the freeway. Jill’s heart pounded. She clung to the seat for dear life. The seatbelt pressed into her chest as Dane’s car collided with the concrete divider. The Simca’s front caved in; the hood went up; steam spewed from the crushed radiator as the Simca jolted to a stop.
The door that protected her had fallen away. All the windows on her side of the car were shattered. And so was the rear window.
“Are you okay?” Dane asked.
She felt numb. “We’re alive.”
How had they survived?
Cars zoomed around them. If someone failed to see them in time...
A highway patrol unit and two motorcycle officers arrived. Uniformed policemen spread out in front and behind the car. Dane got out of what was left of his Simca and rushed to her side.
If she was in shock, the pain could come later. She stared numbly at where the door had been. At least Dane didn’t have to pry it open. Trying to find humor in the situation fell flat. Now they’d be delayed, maybe even miss Tess. That was what someone wanted, she felt sure of it.
Dane unfastened her seat belt and slid his hands under her arms. Her knees felt like rubber. When she stumbled, his arms closed around her. She clung to him, desperately needing to be comforted.
The officer suggested that she sit in the patrol car while the tow truck hooked up to the accordion of metal that once was Dane’s car. Dane led her to the unit, then left her. She trembled from the loss of his nearness. Her need for him had to be a shock-reaction from the accident, nothing more. She had to stay strong and focused.
Other officers were talking into radios and recorders. One policeman slowed and waved traffic around them. Dane and Officer Pender stood nearby. Pender leaned against the patrol car and opened his dog-eared notebook.
“What happened, Sir?”
Dane gave the facts concisely and finished by adding that the black truck had mud-covered California plates. Here was a man who easily assumed control and was an expert at handling emergencies. Another man might have panicked during the attack, but Dane had stayed calm. They were alive because of it.
One of the officers took pictures, then measured distances with an automatic measuring tape on wheels. When he finished, he came over to them. “Witnesses said it looked like that guy was trying to kill you.”
An unreadable look crossed officer Pender’s face. “Is that how you see it?”
“I’m sure of it.” Dane’s voice was steady.
“Seldom catch hit-and-runs,” Pender said, “unless someone gets the license number.” Pender checked Dane’s driver’s license and insurance papers then made another note in his book. “Can you think why someone would run you off the road like this?”