The Enforcer. Anna Perrin

attempting to drive away and try to stop her.

      He ran back to the connecting door, knowing that it wouldn’t take the shooter long to search the garage. He’d likely shoot the lock off the inner door and head inside.

      Brent crossed the laundry room to the back door, stretched out both hands, but encountered only empty space.

      “Claire?” he whispered.

      No response. Damn this darkness.

      Retrieving the penlight from his pocket, he shone it around him. The sliver of light flickered over the confined space, revealing a washer, dryer, sink and three-foot-long counter for folding clothes. And nothing else. His frustration surged to a new level. Where the hell had she gone?

      Turning on his heel, he aimed the penlight toward the hall. The narrow beam illuminated her suitcase with its two ugly bullet holes. An equally ugly thought crossed his mind. What if Claire hadn’t left the laundry room voluntarily? The possibility choked off his annoyance like a tourniquet, and alarm took its place. He’d only spent two or three minutes in the garage, but that could have been enough time for Claire to be dragged out the back door and forced into a waiting vehicle.

      A quiet click sounded. The back of his neck prickled.

      He removed his semiautomatic pistol from its holster and headed into the hall. As he drew near the kitchen, the pantry door swung open. He aimed his weapon. Despite the cold air seeping in through the broken window, sweat broke out on his brow.

      When Claire emerged alone, his relief quickly gave way to anger. “Why didn’t you wait for me in the laundry room?”

      “Nowhere to hide if the guy broke in before you came back.”

      A reasonable explanation, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “You just took ten years off my life.”

      “Then I guess we’re even.”

      He knew he’d terrified her earlier. Not his intention, but before he could explain his presence, she’d walloped him in the face with the flashlight. After that, he’d lost all interest in apologizing.

      “Come on,” he said, turning away.

      When he reached the back door, he stopped. “I’ll go out first. If it’s safe, I’ll whistle. Run to the hedge on the right, wait for my next signal, then cross into your neighbor’s yard. This time, stick to the plan.”

      “I will,” she promised.

      Something settled on the floor beside her. “What’s that?”

      “My carry-on.”

      “Leave it. It’ll slow you down.”

      “No, it won’t.”

      He decided to try a different tack. “Look, we’ll stop at a store later, and you can pick up whatever you need.”

      “Thanks, but what I need is in this bag.”

      He couldn’t believe they were arguing over toiletries. “Claire—”

      “Save your breath,” she told him. “I’m not going anywhere without it.”

      FORTUNATELY, YOUNG seemed to accept that arguing with her further would be a waste of time. Time they didn’t have.

      He headed out the back door, and she waited for his all-clear signal. He must think she was absurdly possessive. But if she divulged her reason for hanging on to her case—because it contained cassette tapes of her sessions with Forrester—Young might demand to listen to them later. And although Forrester had forfeited his right to patient confidentiality the instant he’d revealed his violent intentions, it was up to her to decide what information to share and what to withhold.

      Young’s signal came. She set off.

      Freezing cold rain pelted her as she sprinted across the lawn to the hedge. In seconds, her jeans were plastered to her body like a wet second skin. She crouched low, her muscles tense with fear, knowing at any moment a bullet could slam into her. In the darkness, another ofYoung’s low whistles sounded. Remembering his instructions, she followed him into her neighbors’ yard. Unfortunately, their dog was outside, and his barking and snarling pinpointed their location with the same intensity as a siren.

      “Run!” Young hollered.

      She stretched out her legs and raced after him. The wet grass was slippery, but she managed to stay on her feet, pumping her arms to propel herself faster. Across the yard, down the street and around the corner. The speedy pace soon had her gasping for breath, but Young, running beside her, wasn’t even winded, damn him. When she stumbled over a curb, he grabbed her arm.

      “Keep going,” he urged. “My car isn’t far off.”

      A few minutes later, they reached a black Mustang.

      “W-where are we going?” she asked, as they rocketed out of her neighborhood.

      He didn’t answer. He was too busy checking the rearview mirror. When he seemed satisfied that no one was following them, she repeated her question.

      “I have a cabin on Camel Lake,” he said. “Gene thought you’d be safest there.”

      She had heard of Camel Lake, but never been there. About a ninety-minute drive from Cincinnati, the lake was known for its clean water and excellent fishing. Gene must really be concerned about a breach of security if he didn’t want her staying at one of the Bureau’s safe houses in the city.

      Rain dripped off the ends of her hair and trickled inside the scoop neck of her tank top. She was cold and uncomfortable. But her soaked clothes were only partly responsible for her discomfort. Young’s presence accounted for the rest of it.

      She glanced sideways at him. The glow from the dashboard lit up his rugged profile and broad shoulders. All that maleness was unnerving, distracting. How long would she have to stay at the cabin with him?

      Another rivulet of water streaked between her breasts. She shivered.

      He cranked the heat up to its maximum setting. “There’s a sweatshirt inside my gym bag,” he said, motioning with his thumb toward the back of the car. “Help yourself.”

      She glanced over her shoulder at the bag. No way could she reach it without leaning over and sticking her backside up in the air.

      “I’m okay,” she said, even though her fingers were so chilled, she had to rub them to restore circulation.

      “I promise it’s clean.”

      His voice was low and persuasive, the same seductive tone she imagined he would use in bed. She rubbed her hands harder, berating herself for the wayward thought.

      “I’ll warn you,” he said. “This heater takes forever to get hot.”

      He wasn’t shivering at all. Maybe he was too hot-blooded to feel the cold. It certainly wasn’t because he carried excess body fat. The sinewy arms and chest pressed against her body earlier were solid muscle.

      “Claire?”

      She was supposed to be considering his sweatshirt offer, not his physical attributes. And although she was tempted, she’d have to pass—on both. Donning clothes he had worn seemed so personal. She cleared her throat. “No, thanks.”

      He gave her a long, silent look, then returned his attention to the road.

      Claire settled back and tried to assimilate what had happened to her…and what had nearly happened.

      Damn, that job offer in Minneapolis was looking good. No more one-on-one therapy sessions with traumatized patients. No more decisions about who was fit to return to work and who should go on disability. And, of course, no more heart-stopping incidents like tonight. Just twenty hours a week of teaching stress management techniques to executives.

      “Gene said you had Forrester committed to Ridsdale for seventy-two-hour lockdown.”

      Abandoning