They had the entire beach to themselves. Why tail-gate?
When they honked at her, she kept driving along the beach, obeying the ten-mile-per-hour speed limit, and ignored the men, hoping they just wanted to pick up a beach babe and would go away if she paid them no attention. Before, she’d welcomed the isolation. Now, she wished for the weekend crowd. But besides the fisherman who stood on the pier with his back to her, the only other person on the beach appeared to be a man on a motorcycle, maybe a half mile back, his silhouette black and razor sharp against the blowing sand.
At least she hadn’t stopped and turned off her engine. She could simply keep driving, circle to the main road and report the creeps to the cops. She might lose a half hour of sailing time, but she knew trouble when she saw it.
However, when she tried to head back toward the road, the sedan blocked her. Quickly, more annoyed than frightened, she whipped the steering wheel the other way and made a skidding U-turn, her wheels sinking into wet sand and lapping waves. She easily made the turn and glanced over her shoulder, figuring she’d lost the men in suits.
Then she again spied the blue sedan on her tail, speeding toward her. It looked ready to ram her, smash her to a bloody pulp. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal.
Her car skidded like oil on a hot skillet. Failed to accelerate quickly enough.
The sedan rocketed into her car’s trunk. Her car veered into the ocean and water rolled up to her tires, up to her bumper, onto the floorboards.
Soon it would be up to her neck, making her keep her head above water to avoid drowning. A huge wave lumbered over the hood like a runaway mule, kicked into her windows, tossed the car up and smashed it into another taller wall of dark water. She banged her head and fireworks shot off in a sea of darkness. Her airbag inflated.
And then her world turned black.
CLAY GUNNED HIS Harley down the beach, blasting a spray of sand behind him, skidding to a stop short of where Melinda Murphy’s car had just been forced into the water by the blue sedan. At the first sign of trouble, he’d kicked his bike into gear, wishing he’d had more power. She wasn’t going to die on his watch.
Running toward her, he flung his jacket behind him, stopping for only a few seconds to kick off his boots. His heart was hammering so hard he barely heard the roar of the waves pounding the rocks by the pier like a hammer. Barely noticed the cold water that numbed his extremities. Barely noticed how suddenly the sunshine was disappearing as thunder-clouds thronged dark and dangerous overhead.
He refused to lose her. Not after he’d stayed awake, driving all night to reach her.
Yesterday, after learning he couldn’t catch a commercial flight to Daytona’s tiny airport, he’d chosen to ride his bike from Virginia to Florida. Maybe he should have chartered a special flight. Or flown into Orlando or Jacksonville. Or hired protection for her until he’d arrived to take over himself.
Wishing he could sprout fins, his frantic dash into the water slowed as he was forced to wade through the waist-high waves. He forged right by the blue sedan that had been caught by a wave and spun upside down, trapping its occupants inside.
Clay’s clothes absorbed water, slowing his progress, but he lunged forward, straining every iota of energy out of his powerful thighs, breathing hard, balancing on each crest of water, praying he could make it to Melinda before she drowned.
His first assignment. He wouldn’t blow it before it began. He wouldn’t have a woman’s life weighing on his conscience, wouldn’t live with failure.
Fifteen minutes ago, at noon, when he’d reached Melinda’s rented house, he hadn’t been too alarmed that she wasn’t there, especially after a neighbor told him that she’d driven off with her windsailer strapped to her car’s rack. Clay had followed the helpful neighbor’s directions to the beach, and he’d obeyed the speed limit. Now he wished he hadn’t.
The tide was kidnapping her, holding her hostage in its fierce grip, the car bobbing and spinning and rolling like a sinking boat. The blue sedan fared no better. When the sand dropped from beneath his feet and the water reached his chest, he started swimming, his arms windmilling, his legs kicking.
Water was filling the inside of her car, each incoming wave pouring in with fierce surges. Fear of watching her sink before his eyes made his tired limbs fight through the water. If she disappeared completely before he reached her, he might not even find the vehicle. Right now he could only see her sailboard strapped to the roof, about to be washed under the surging water.
The blue sedan stayed afloat better than Melinda Murphy’s car, and its occupants were trying to climb out onto the roof of their vehicle.
Clay cursed the powerful waves and the fate that had led him here. Doing too little. Too late.
His body wasn’t made for swimming. He didn’t have the lean lines of a swimmer. Built like a wrestler with too many heavy muscles that didn’t want to float, he struggled, took in a mouthful of water. He choked, but kept going.
He had to reach her. Minutes counted. Seconds counted.
Finally he stroked alongside her car. Stretching his hand through the open window, he yanked open the door, reached inside and grabbed her. She wouldn’t come free.
Damn it.
She must be wearing a seat belt.
Taking a quick breath, he prepared to dive under, but a surging wave lifted the car, for a few moments helping instead of hampering his rescue efforts. He reached past the airbag, unsnapped her seat belt and pulled her into his arms.
She didn’t fight him. Didn’t move. Remained completely limp.
Please don’t be dead.
Eyes closed, unmoving, she floated in his arms like a mermaid that the sea had given up to him. Her color was pale, almost gray as death, but he didn’t have time for CPR or mouth-to-mouth. Even the Heimlich maneuver was impossible in the high surf. First, he had to swim her to shore.
Although she didn’t weigh much, the waves caught at her body, trying to tug her from him. Yet this time the wind and the rolling surges pushed them in the direction in which he wanted to go.
His lungs burned with effort as he struggled to carry her. Ignoring the pain in his chest and the cramps in his straining legs, he battled the surging waves, unable to use his hands to swim while he held her, trying to keep her head above water. He fought his way back and finally his feet touched sand. But he didn’t have time to feel relief.
Didn’t have time to consider how long it would take the men in the blue sedan to give up their fragile perch on the car’s roof and make a swim for the beach. Didn’t have time to consider how long it would take them to be within shooting range.
On the beach, he collapsed to his knees beside Melinda and leaned over to examine her. He had no idea whether she had a pulse, doubted he could find it with his wet and cold fingers. One quick glance at her gray skin told him she wasn’t breathing. How long had it been? Two minutes? Three? Four and she’d suffer brain damage.
Brain damage. The ugly words cut like a razor, sharp and painful. Tilting her head back, he cleared an airway, pinched her nostrils shut. Then he placed his mouth over hers and breathed.
“Come on, Melinda.” He spoke to her, each time blowing more air into her mouth.
“Breathe.”
“Breathe.”
Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the men in suits start their swim to shore, like sharks scenting prey. They’d drifted way out, giving him extra minutes to ensure her safety, which would do him no good if she didn’t regain consciousness.
“Damn it. I told you to breathe.”
Her eyelids fluttered. Maybe she responded to the urgency in his tone. Maybe her lungs needed time to fill with air, but whatever the reason, he couldn’t have been more relieved when she coughed. He turned her head to help her to spit out water. Even a teaspoonful in the lungs was enough to drown a person.
Her trembling hand rose to her head and she mumbled, “Hurts.”
Her eyes opened, and her pupils were very large, sur
rounded by the creamiest hue of caramel he’d ever seen. Dark hair covered her forehead, and when he smoothed back the wet strands, he discovered a lump the size of a golf ball there. Just looking at the knot starting to discolor made him wince. She needed ice to keep the swelling down. Unfortunately, he had none.
He held up two fingers. “How many?”
“Four?”
“Great, you’re seeing double.”
“That’s why there’s two of you,” she muttered then closed her eyes.
“Oh no you don’t. Melinda, you can’t go to sleep. You have a head injury. Maybe a concussion.”
“Hurts.”
Helpless, she lay in his arms, but at least her deadly gray pallor had been replaced by a much more healthy-looking olive tone. “You need a doctor.”
“I need—” Her eyes suddenly opened again, and she bolted into a sitting position, wincing at the pain the effort cost her. “Who are you?”
She sounded as suspicious as an operative on his first assignment, and he almost smiled. He supposed many women might be frightened by his appearance, black leather pants and a black T-shirt—all sopping wet. His size alone could intimidate most men, and he hadn’t bothered shaving this morning, so his jaw sported more than a five-o’clock shadow. For her to wake up in the arms of a stranger had to be unnerving, especially one as scruffy-looking as he probably was.
Of course, she wasn’t exactly ready for a beauty pageant either—not with that bump on her head that was starting to turn a wicked shade of purple. But with her tight tank top plastered to her breasts and short shorts that outlined her hips, she appeared to be a prime candidate for a wet T-shirt competition.
Thank God, a man like him would never be attracted to his charge. He didn’t go for petite, curvy brunettes with eyes like melted taffy. He preferred his women cool, blond and intellectual. Melinda Murphy, with her delicate jaw and suspicious glare looked precisely like the type of woman who was trouble with a capital T.
She’d nearly died, he reminded himself, and she wasn’t out of danger yet. Luckily the escalating wind and rising current were on their side, hindering her pursuers’ progress back to shore. Within moments, they would be swept around the point.
He didn’t want to scare her by mentioning the men after her, not while her hands trembled and her eyes reflected confusion. “I’m Clay Rogan.” He pointed to the choppy sea, noting that the blue sedan and the swimming men were now totally out of view and around the bend. “When I saw your car go under—”
Bewilderment filled her eyes, and she frowned, her full lips forming a lusty pout full of suspicion. “My car? Underwater?”
“I’m lucky I got you out. I’m afraid I couldn’t do much about the—”
Her head jerked back and forth in denial, her eyes wildly searched the churning waves as if she’d lost a dear friend. “I don’t suppose you nabbed my purse?”
“Sorry.”
Her bottom lip quivered. Oh, hell, she was going to cry.
“Don’t cry.”
He hated when women cried, because then he gave in to their demands and hated himself for it later. Only, this half-drowned mermaid wasn’t making demands. Yet she was so suspicious of him that he didn’t know whether to feel sorry for her.
Her eyes brimmed.
“Don’t,” he repeated softly but firmly, as he would to an injured child.
She paid absolutely no attention to his demand. Tears overflowed her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
He bit back a curse and gently lifted her into his lap, cradling her against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. Her entire body shook, a sob escaped and instead of offering her additional reassurances, his first thought was how holding her in his arms made him feel like keeping her there for a long time. She had a toned body, teasing curves and a bottom lip he wanted to taste.
What the hell was wrong with him? The woman was crying and all he could think about was her bottom lip? Forcing his thoughts back to practical matters wasn’t easy, although usually his focused mind stayed on the subjects he intended it to. But her combination of strength and defenselessness called to him on a level he couldn’t quite comprehend. He only knew he had to regain control of himself, before he did something stupid—like kiss her.
“Are you in pain? You need a doctor?”
“Not a doctor. I need a psychiatrist.”
A shrink? Was she crazy?
Actually he must be the insane one around here. She wanted a shrink. And he wanted to kiss her. What kind of a secret agent was he anyway?
A bad one.
Damn it! This mission would be hard enough with a reasonably sane woman. And Melinda Murphy seemed anything but reasonable. Or sane. In fact, she hadn’t made much sense since the moment she’d opened those soulful toffee-colored eyes and raised his protective armor.
Perhaps he needed to humor her. “Okay. Why do you need a psychiatrist?”
“Because I have no memory.”
“What do you mean you have no memory?”
“Which word don’t you understand?” she countered. But the tears still rolling over her cheeks took the sting out of her strong words.
He suspected she was trying to be brave, especially since he could feel her trembling. So he gentled his tone even more. “You don’t remember your accident?”
She shook her head and angrily wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. “Tell me what happened. Maybe it’ll come back to me.”
Finally, a good suggestion. But they needed to get out of here in case anyone else showed up. Before the men he’d seen swimming around the point made it to shore and headed back here for Melinda.
Still, Clay hesitated, knowing she was in a fragile emotional state. He couldn’t be so callous, wasn’t so pressed for time that he couldn’t make a few explanations.
Clay ignored the storm clouds darkening overhead. They were already soaked, their clothing sticking to them like a swimsuit. A little rain would only wash off the salt. “When I arrived on the beach, I saw a blue sedan force your car into the water.”
She straightened in his lap, pulling her head from under his chin. She looked up and down the beach, her spine stiff, her arms crossed over her chest defensively. “I don’t see another car.”
“The vehicle chased you into the ocean. And sank.”
“Really?”
She didn’t believe him. He could see it in her eyes, which glinted like ice glimmering through a fog, and in the stiff way she scooted off his lap and stood, looking uncertainly around her. But he could no longer point out the two swimming men, since they’d made it around the point. Or the tire tracks that the waves had washed away.
She spied his black leather jacket, his boots, then his motorcycle, and took several steps back, her eyes narrowed with the wariness of a cornered cat.
“You don’t remember the accident at all?”
“Must be the bump on my head.”
“Okay, let’s backtrack. Did you notice the blue sedan following you from your house?”
“I don’t remember.” Her bottom lip, slightly purple with cold, quivered again, but she fought back the tears with a valiant sigh.
“Hey, don’t let it upset you. You obviously got whacked upside the head. Maybe that made you forget. But even if the head injury didn’t cause your memory loss, unless they’re trained to notice, most citizens won’t pick up a tail.”
The information didn’t seem to reassure her. If anything, his words made her even more vigilant as she curled her fingers into fists. She shivered and looked at him as if he were a crab that had crawled out from beneath a rock.
“Citizen? What are you, some kind of military—”
“I work in an office on a computer,” he told her. If there was one thing Clay hated, it was lies. Yet the truth would frighten her and make her trust him less than she already did.
“Then how do you know about tails?”
He shrugged, slipped on his boots, picked up his jacket and walked toward
her, holding the jacket extended as a peace offering, intending to wrap her in its dry warmth. “I watch TV like everybody else.”
Teeth chattering, she backed up, staying out of reach, even though she obviously needed his jacket. Her lips were definitely bluish purple and goose bumps rose on her flesh. “How do I know you weren’t the one who forced my car into the water?”
“On a motorcycle?”
Car tires had left imprints all over the beach but there was no way to prove which tracks belonged to which vehicles. Waves had washed away the critical ones that led directly to the water. “You’ll have to take my word, Melinda.”
As he said her name, she retreated again, her teeth chattering. “Just how do you know my name?”
Damn! He didn’t want to lie to her. It went against the grain. But if he told her he’d been sent by the CIA’s director of operations to protect her, he’d be breaking his orders not to reveal his cover. Yet he needed her to trust him. Enough to let him look at the documents her brother had sent her.
“You told me your name when I pulled you out of the car.”
“Liar!” She took another step back, spun on her heel and raced away from him as if her life depended on eluding him.
She’d called him a liar, and his jaw dropped in astonishment. How had she known he’d lied? She hadn’t been conscious and couldn’t know she hadn’t mumbled to him. Why was she looking at him as if he were a criminal with violence on his mind?
He let her run, knowing he could easily catch her on his bike. But then he realized chasing her down with his Harley would frighten her even more.
And while he stood there second-guessing himself, the woman had a damn good head start. With a muffled oath, he took off after her, wondering how one small brunette could cause so much trouble. He should have ridden the Harley. Maybe if he scared her enough, she’d be more cooperative.
He wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. As he pounded down the beach in his leather boots that weren’t made for running any more than they were made for swimming, he thought once again that the director had made a mistake in choosing him for this assignment. He simply didn’t have the experience to provide good protection. Didn’t have the kind of practice necessary to handle Ms. Melinda Murphy.
Lovers in Hiding Page 2