Someone To Protect Her. Patricia Rosemoor

      “You don’t have to do that.”

      “Yes, I do,” she said, keeping focused on the sheet rather than the man. “You’re a hero. You deserve a civilized bed…even if it’s not really a bed.”

      “Trust me, I’ve slept in worse. Much worse.”

      She wondered what “worse” meant. A seedy motel, perhaps?

      “Here, let me do that.”

      He took the top sheet from her hands. At the unexpected touch, she sprang back and watched him work. His precise movements. The strength apparent in the contracting muscles of his arms. The way the trim cut of his short dark brown hair threaded with silver perfectly suited his high forehead and broad cheekbones. He reminded her a little of that actor—George Clooney—only sexier.

      “Daniel’s putting out feelers on your attacker.”

      He took the blanket from her and snapped it open over the couch. “Gonna try to ID him.”

      “But without a true description,” C.J. mused, “where would he even begin?”

      “The MO—uh, modus operandi. This guy was a pro, but pros normally try to blend in, a little hard to do covered in bronze paint. So this one’s somewhat unique. Might be easier to tag him than if he’d played it like Joe Regular.”

      “I see what you mean.” She dropped the pillows at one end. “Is there anything I can get you?”

      “I’ll be fine. Get some rest. We’ll be up at the crack of dawn.”

      “Yes. Thank you.” She started for her bedroom door, then hesitated. She turned to find him staring at her. Something about his expression made her falter. Then she moistened her lips and said, “I mean that, Frank Connolly. The ‘thank you’ part. You really are a hero.”

      With that she slipped into her bedroom, closed the door, then leaned against the wall, trembling. She lived such a quiet, ordinary life. The last few hours—being attacked and rescued, having a man more handsome than George Clooney not only in her apartment but sleeping on her couch—were sure to stand out in her mind forever.

      Quickly she stripped out of the trousers and summer sweater that required a trip to the cleaners. Not until she returned to Boulder, whenever that might be. She passed her already packed medium-size suitcase and shoulder bag on the way to the bathroom.

      Standing under the shower longer than she normally would, C.J. hoped the pounding hot water would relieve some of the ache of being dragged by her arm, of having her hip make more contact with the ground than was comfortable. She also hoped the water would relax her enough so that she could fall asleep.

      But freshly scrubbed and encased in her favorite satiny pajamas, she still found sleep to be an elusive creature. Thoughts continued to roil through her head as she lay in the silent dark.

      The burden of finding an antidote before a water supply could be contaminated with D-5.

      The horror of having been attacked.

      The discomfort of having her too appealing rescuer mere feet away, separated from her merely by a flimsy—and unlocked—door.

      HE WAS HIT.

      “Get out! Get out!”

      No time to think…eject.

      A plume of smoke surrounded him, choking him. The crippled jet veered off, nose down, spinning, its death scream sounding in his head.

      Explosion…his ears imploded.

      He flew down, wingless, through a momentarily silent world.

      A world of jagged peaks and valleys coming closer fast.

      The chute shot open behind him. He jerked back. Stomach lurched. Then all righted.

      He was coming down…but to what?

      The ravaged earth met his feet. The stink of fire burned his nostrils. Folds of material enveloped him, taking him prisoner.

      He fought, knowing his very life depended on it….

      THUMPING…POUNDING…groaning…

      Terrifying noises awakened C.J. from an already restless sleep. Heart lurching, pulse pounding, she sat straight up in bed. An intruder? She groped for the telephone, had the slender receiver in hand before remembering.

      Frank Connolly.

      Her heart thudded. What was going on in her living room? Was Frank fighting off the intruder once more? Half asleep, he would be vulnerable. He could be dead by the time the authorities arrived.

      Dropping the phone and grabbing an empty vase, she flung open the door. Barely able to make out thrashing on the couch in the dark, she yelled, “Stop that!” and flew across the room.

      “Huh? What’s going on?”

      The deep-throated grumble replaced the more threatening noises and stopped C.J. dead in her tracks. Closer now, she realized Frank was alone. And asleep. At least he had been until she’d come charging in.

      A lamp clicked on. C.J. blinked at the magnificent display of Frank’s naked torso, cast in gold from the lamplight. The very breath caught in her throat as she allowed her gaze to explore the planes and angles, the muscular perfection that begged to be touched….

      “I must have been dreaming,” he mumbled, shifting on the couch so that the sheet dropped lower.

      Not seeing a band of white—or any other color—along his hip, she wasn’t certain he wore anything beneath.

      “Or h-having a n-nightmare.” The very thought of a naked man on her couch—especially this man—was disconcerting. “I, uh, thought you were in trouble.”

      “And you were going to save me?”

      Frank stared at her somewhat in wonder, as if he were really seeing her for the first time. His expression changed subtly. Heat creeping up her neck, C.J. set the vase on a table and shoved her hands behind her back.

      “Tea,” she offered in desperation as he continued to pin her with his intense gaze. “I have a calming herbal if you would like to try it.”

      “Sure. That would be great.”

      Relieved for the respite from the odd tension he caused in her, she fled to the kitchen.

      FRANK HAD PULLED ON a T-shirt and his jeans by the time C.J. returned to the living room.

      “This should settle you down,” she murmured, placing a tray heavy with a porcelain teapot and cups and saucers on the table before the couch.

      “I’m fine.”

      Not appearing to believe him, she sat down on a chair opposite.

      Frank watched closely as she poured the tea. Her hands were graceful, her ringless fingers long, her short nails glossy as if she’d just buffed them. She held out a cup on a saucer, and he suddenly realized the delicate set decorated with flowers and dragons was the only really personal item he’d seen in her apartment.

      Even that vase she’d commandeered as an impromptu weapon was colorless, like the rest of the apartment. A furnished rental unit, no doubt. Bland, but easy. Still, he wondered why she’d done nothing to make the place her own. It was devoid of the little things he usually noticed in a woman’s place.

      “Thanks,” he said, adding more sugar than was good for him—at least if he wanted to sleep.

      She didn’t comment, merely raised one pale eyebrow.

      “If you need someone to talk to, I’m available.”

      “I told you, I’m fine.”

      “If you say so,” she murmured, her voice as soothing as she’d promised the tea would be. She took a sip. “But sometimes talking helps.”

      “Talking