SEAL Under Siege. Liz Johnson

back onto the main road. In one quick motion he took off after them, joined only by the smell of burning rubber.

      He caught up to the van about four blocks later as it maneuvered itself to pin the sedan against the deserted sidewalk in front of the gated entrance of a convenience store.

      Air caught in his throat until he schooled it into measured breaths, keeping his hands steady despite the rush of adrenaline that coursed from the top of his head to his fingertips.

      Like it or not, he was part of this now. No way was he going to let a fool in a van hurt the girl he’d risked his neck to rescue on the other side of the world.

      The van let up for a moment, and Tristan hoped he might be able to get between the two vehicles. But his hopes were in vain. A second later, the van crashed into the side of the green car, sending it careening into a light pole.

      THREE

      Staci jerked against the shoulder strap of her seat belt, which stole her breath but kept her head from cracking against the steering wheel. The car was too old to have air bags. There was nothing but the seat belt to protect her.

      With one eye pinched closed and the other only open partway, she surveyed the white van with tinted windows as it sped away after running her into the light pole. As she clawed at the seat-belt buckle and fought for air, she sank against the steering wheel, every ounce of strength dripping from the bottom of her feet through the floorboard.

      Maybe if she held her head between her hands, the world would stop spinning.

      And maybe if the world would stop spinning, she could pull her thoughts together.

      She pressed her palms harder into her forehead, but the earth still seemed to be whirling out of control. As she fell toward her car door, it suddenly disappeared, replaced by a pair of hands that cradled her against a broad chest.

      “Whoa there.”

      The voice was deep and strong like the hands, but she couldn’t manage to open her eyes far enough to look into his face.

      “Did you hit your head?”

      She rubbed it absently, unable to pinpoint if the pain came from the spinning inside or a throbbing outside. “I don’t think so.” The last word came out on a wheeze, and she pushed against the cotton covering his shoulder—his unmovable shoulder—for any ounce of space.

      “Careful.” He loosened his grip, but not enough.

      She managed a shallow breath. “I’m okay.”

      “I’m not so sure about that. Just stay with me for a second.”

      Something about his words pricked at her memory. They were familiar like a sweet dream.

      “Stay with you.” She swallowed and gasped for air and with it the strength to open her eyes.

      The arch of his nose and curve of his mouth were just as surprising—and welcome—as the first time she’d seen them.

      “Lieutenant Sawyer?”

      He shrugged the shoulder where her hand still rested. “Hello.” His eyes twinkled, and something akin to humor crossed his face. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

      “Why are you here?” But it didn’t really matter.

      “Well...” His lips puckered to the side, a row of fine lines wrinkling his forehead as he stewed on her question. “Just in the right place at the right time.”

      “Guess this means it’s all real, isn’t it?”

      For a moment he looked as if he were going to play dumb, pretend he didn’t understand what she meant, but as she blinked up at his face, he nodded. “I guess so. But I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ll find him.”

      Any other day, any other situation, she’d have argued with him. He was trying to pacify her, but she didn’t need it. At the moment, though, she just needed to lean into him and let him make sure she got home in one piece.

      So she did.

      * * *

      “Thank you for your help. I don’t know how I’d have gotten home without you.”

      Tristan stood two inches inside the front door of Staci’s town house on the hardwood of the entryway, staring into a sea of white. Her carpet, furniture and curtains. All of it gleamed.

      Hadn’t she ever had a dog? Or a kid brother? Or a visitor?

      Sterile as a hospital room.

      “Sure thing. No problem.”

      She looked toward the back of the house, crossing her arms over her chest and grabbing her opposite shoulders. “Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”

      “No, thanks. I should get going.” He motioned to the door. “The paramedic said you should try to get some rest. You’ll probably be pretty sore tomorrow.”

      Just as his hand connected with the doorknob, she grabbed his other arm—then dropped it as if he burned her fingers. “What do I do if he comes after me again?”

      He let go of the door and reached to give her elbow a reassuring squeeze before letting his hand fall to his side. She sure hadn’t appreciated his touch that afternoon. “I doubt he knows where you live. Is your name on this property?”

      “No. My parents bought it as an investment property a couple years before I left for Lybania. A friend of mine stayed here while I was gone.”

      That was good. Anyone could look up property owners in the county recorder’s office, but Hayes was a common name. “You’ll be safe. And your car will be in the shop for at least a week, so he won’t be able to use it to ID where you live. Do you have someone who can run errands for you, if you need?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then you’re all set.”

      “But what if...”

      Her tone gouged at his stomach, and he couldn’t walk away. She wasn’t playing the part of a lost little girl nor tempting him with her feminine charm. Fear shook her voice, and those three little words carried a heavy weight of meaning.

      She knew the truth as clearly as he did.

      Someone was after her. And until he was caught, she wouldn’t be safe.

      He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to do what he’d done in Lybania. But he couldn’t just pick her up and carry her to safety. He wasn’t supposed to have any contact with her. And explaining to his CO that he’d watched her get run off the road wasn’t going to change the rule.

      She would be safe enough in her home for now. And he could turn this whole thing over to his buddy in the FBI.

      But he couldn’t walk away from the tremor in her voice.

      “If something happens, call me.” He moved his hand as though he was wielding a pen. “Do you have something to write on?”

      She shuffled papers in a mail organizer, finally pulling out a white envelope with a clear, plastic window, shoving the paper and a pencil into his hands. He scribbled his number down and handed it back to her.

      She smiled, the light never quite reaching her eyes. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.” He turned to go but stopped with the door only partially open. “Try to get some rest this weekend.”

      She followed him to the cement slab that could hardly be called a porch, despite its overhang. “All right.”

      He made it to the last of three steps before her voice stopped him again.

      “Wait.”

      He glanced over his shoulder, squinting into her soft features, her pink lips glistening in the evening sun.

      “If