The Hunted. Rachel Lee

adrenaline junkie. But while adrenaline helped the wise to flee, she had a tendency to walk where only angels dared to tread.

      Knowing this about herself did not, of course, make her any more cautious. Nor did she want it to.

      The room-service guy appeared to be on the up-and-up. Jerrod pulled the cart into the room without letting the waiter bring it in, and signed the slip. Moments later, the door was locked again.

      Erin didn’t wait for permission to come out. She walked down the very short wannabe hallway past the kitchenette to the front room. “So what were you expecting? A team of ninjas?”

      “I’m working very hard not to roll my eyes at you.”

      “Don’t waste the energy. Roll away. I can take it.”

      Instead he lifted the covers from the dishes. “Soup.” With a flourish, he offered her the bowl on a plate after she resumed her seat in the armchair. A napkin and soup spoon followed it.

      She’d expected him to be a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, but he’d chosen grilled salmon, salad and rice. He put his plates on the coffee table and leaned forward to eat.

      “TV?” he asked.

      “Why not.”

      He glanced at her. “I suggested it because you don’t seem to want to talk about why someone busted into your apartment and stole anything that might contain information.”

      “You sure of that?”

      Holding his plate and fork, he smiled and leaned back. “You betcha.”

      She set her soup on the end table. It smelled good, but her stomach rolled over nonetheless. “Maybe the court forgot to tell them I was testifying early. After all, I wasn’t supposed to testify until Monday.”

      “You wouldn’t have anything on your computer that wasn’t already in the hands of the U.S. Attorney.”

      “Damn, you’re good.”

      “Don’t I know it.”

      “I wonder if there’s any club soda on this planet.”

      He set his plate down. “Stomach?”

      “Awful.”

      He leaned over and reached for the phone, then told room service to bring up a six-pack of club soda.

      “So,” he said when he hung up and reached for his plate of salmon, “why don’t you tell me what it is about Erin McKenna that’s keeping her so calm in a situation that would have most people in hysterics.”

      “I’m not the hysterical type.”

      Now he did roll his eyes at her, but the way he did it was humorous. “I’d already gathered that,” he said with sarcasm so heavy it was obviously meant as a joke.

      “I’m just weird,” she said finally. “I’ve always done things most sane people wouldn’t do. I’ve gone into burning rooms, walked out into forest fires, chased tornados, chatted up gangs for a mega-turd—”

      “A what?”

      “Mega-turd. Newsroom slang for those big in-depth pieces. The official name for them is enterprise stories.”

      “Ah.” He sat back, savoring a mouthful of salmon. “Gangs, huh?”

      “Yeah.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Once they knew I wasn’t a cop and wouldn’t rat on them, they were okay.”

      “And fires? Did you actually walk into a building on fire? This I gotta hear.”

      At that she had to laugh, despite everything that seemed to be squeezing the joy out of her. “Well, yes. But it was actually a burning room. I suited up and everything.”

      “What aren’t you telling me?”

      “That it was one of those practice rooms.” She laughed again. “It’s like a big trailer. They have gas jets shooting fire, stuff burning, all so guys can get used to the difficulties. Even suited up, it was so damn hot in there I could barely stand it. And the equipment weighed a ton. One of the guys had to help me move.”

      “And why did you do this?”

      “For a story.”

      “You’ll do anything for a story, I take it.”

      “Well, you know, there were a whole bunch of us media types there. The chief was showing off the room and how they use it. And when he asked if one of us wanted to try it, I was the only volunteer. God, did I have those firefighters laughing. They walk around in that gear as if it’s nothing, and I could barely stand up once they got me into it. But it was instructive, too. All that protection and I still felt hot enough to burn, and the smoke made it nearly impossible to see. Believe me, I wasn’t in there long before they helped me out.”

      “That’s a rough job.”

      “You don’t know how rough until you’ve done a training exercise with them.” She shook her head. “I had a lot of respect for those guys beforehand, but after that, I’d give them all a medal.”

      Jerrod laughed again. “You lead an interesting life.”

      “Sometimes. Like any other job, there’s a lot of humdrum.”

      “But you like it.”

      “I love it.” The statement was unequivocal. “And at least I don’t have to cover auto accidents and plane crashes anymore. Nothing can prepare you for that smell.”

      He nodded. “I know what you mean.”

      She looked at him, studying him. “I guess you do.”

      “So you’ve really walked into a forest fire?”

      “A TV cameraman and I wanted to see what it was like. So we wandered off down this forest road.”

      “And?”

      “It wasn’t what I expected. This loud roar of rushing air being sucked in, and yet it’s…cold. I don’t know if it was the smoke blocking out the sun or the draft from the fire itself. Maybe both.”

      “I hope you don’t plan to do that again.”

      “You sound like my mother.”

      “Still…”

      “We came back fast, and we didn’t go that far.”

      He seemed to study her for a long moment. “What part aren’t you telling me?”

      “You mean, the part where we were walking back and the fire jumped across the road?”

      “No!”

      She nodded. “Yeah. For a few seconds all I could see was fire. Everywhere. But it was arching through the branches overhead. Not down to ground level yet. We ran like hell, and the next thing you know it was behind us. It was way cool.”

      “Cool? You are an adrenaline junkie.”

      She rose from the chair and began pacing, unable to hold still despite the jackhammer in her head.

      “Y’know where the real adrenaline rush is?”

      “Tell me.”

      “Writing the piece up under deadline. Racing the clock to get the front page done when the people down in production are screaming for the layout and everyone around you is yelling at someone because they need some little tidbit to finish what they’re working on. TV blaring so if the world comes unglued we’ll know it, plus so we know what the Barbie-and-Ken world are saying about the story. It’s barely controlled chaos, a dozen blindfolded foxes chasing chickens around the same yard, knowing Farmer Time is just around the corner with a shotgun and that’s why they call it a deadline. That’s the real rush.”

      She realized she’d been talking a blue streak, and sat down and went silent