When Bruce Met Cyn. Lori Foster

let me out, okay?”

      No way could he do that. “Calm down. Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

      Her anger sizzled between them. “You won’t let me out?”

      Her escalating temper forced him to plain speaking. “No, I won’t. I can’t. I’m sorry, but it’s too dangerous. You’d have hours and hours of walking before you even came close to reaching a town. There are critters of all sorts, and the occasional coyote or bear sometimes shows up—”

      Bruce heard a click, and knew it was her seat belt opening.

      “Cyn, stop it.” Impatience made his voice sharp. What in the world was wrong with her? She’d been cocky only moments ago, confident in her ability to control the trucker, the situation, and him. Now she acted as if she’d found a bloody ax in his backseat.

      He slowed for a sharp bend in the road. Gently, hoping to reassure her, Bruce said, “It’s all right, you’re safe with me—”

      And her door swung open.

      Bruce slammed on the brakes. The smell of burning rubber and the squeal of tires filled the quiet night. The old car jerked hard and came to a grinding halt.

      Cyn had already rolled out.

      “Oh, my God.” Bruce twisted to look over the back of the seat. His brake lights left a red glow on the narrow road, and plainly showed the small body curled there.

      His heart shot into his throat, his muscles clamped in alarm, and then he saw her push to her feet and take off in a hobbling, hurt run—into the thick woods at the side of the road.

      Dear God, he’d worked with a lot of emotionally wounded women, but none who had ever feared him like this. She tried to hide the fear—she was brassy and bossy and full of obnoxious command. But he saw through that.

      He couldn’t let her get lost. He couldn’t let her go.

      Bruce opened his door, and silent as a ghost, went after her.

      Chapter Two

      Cyn could hear the awful soughing of her own breath in her ears as she slapped past branches and bramble and twigs. Damn, but she’d been such an idiot.

      A preacher! Few things took her by surprise anymore, but she sure hadn’t seen that one coming. She’d have believed almost anything else, but not that. The man was too rugged and sexy and handsome to be a preacher. No, she wasn’t buying it. He had to be lying.

      And why would he lie, unless it was to lull her, pull her in? That’s what scared her.

      Even as she thought it, she recalled how he’d come dashing to her rescue when no one else would have. He’d taken her blow to the chest without retaliation, and he’d even apologized for eyeing her boobs.

      Other than that one slight, he hadn’t leered as other men usually did. Mostly, he’d been watching her with gentle, concerned brown eyes….

      But she’d sure never seen a preacher who looked like him. Streaked blond hair that touched his collar, deep brown eyes framed by black lashes and low brows. Wide shoulders, trim hips. He was deeply tanned, physically fit. Muscular, sexy…In no way did he look like a man of great moral rectitude. A sinner, sure, but not a man of God.

      Her foot caught on a gnarled root and she pitched forward, hitting the ground hard and getting several scratches and a mouthful of dirt. Pain shot up her leg. Reflexively, she curled into a small ball and held still, straining to hear. Nothing.

      Odds were, he’d given up and gone on. Who wanted a looney tunes broad to deal with? Her reaction was nothing short of insane, she knew that, but even though Palmer Oaks was long dead, old memories were deeply inbred and impossible to shed.

      She struggled to calm the wild drumming of her heartbeat so she could concentrate. She was safe from her past—had been safe since that night she’d left long ago.

      However, her current predicament was not safe. She hurt from her toes to her ears, she’d left her suitcase behind, and she was all alone in the woods, as Bruce had said, hours from reaching a town.

      She’d screwed up big time, so now what should she do?

      Very slowly, every movement as silent as she could make it, she pulled into a crouch.

      “Cyn.”

      The scream was startled right out of her. She flailed around and landed on her ass. Eyes wide, she stared in the darkness at the hulking shadow of his body standing a few feet away.

      He made no move toward her, which was a good thing considering she’d probably scream again and she felt idiotic enough as it was. She didn’t need to add to the drama.

      Bruce let out a long sigh. “Don’t run, okay? I swear I’m not going to hurt you.” He took two steps back. She heard—and felt—his retreat more than saw it. “Are you all right?”

      Her thoughts ran this way and that, making it impossible to speak. How the hell had he crept up on her like that? How did a man his size, easily six feet tall and she’d be willing to bet he weighed at least two hundred pounds, move without making a sound?

      “You fell hard,” he continued in that calm, gentle voice—a voice she realized was a lot like the Reverend Thorne’s, the man Arlene and Palmer had taken her to see.

      Cyn pulled back more, and hated herself for showing that much weakness.

      Still, Bruce held himself immobile. “Did you hurt anything?”

      She shook her head, then felt even more moronic because he couldn’t possibly see her. Well, she’d quit acting dumb and cowardly right now. “No.”

      “Good. I’m glad.”

      Jesus, what type of man was he?

      He knelt down too, and Cyn felt her spine collide with the rough bark of a massive tree.

      Determined to brazen it out, she straightened her back and shoulders. It was unfortunate, but while he remained so close, she totally forgot the different ways that she knew to defend herself. She could have maced him. She could have drawn her knife.

      Instead, she glared at him in the darkness, buried in confusion and exasperation and yeah, still some healthy fear. “What the hell do you want, anyway?”

      “I just want to help you.”

      Yeah, right. And then he’d sell her a bridge. He didn’t know her, had no vested interest in her—unless he hoped to get laid. Ha! Fat chance. He looked like he was poor, driving that old rattrap car and dressed in faded jeans.

      She clenched her hands into fists. “I’m not screwing you.”

      “I didn’t ask you to.” And then, with some sort of warped amusement, he added, “I’m not that easy.”

      “Oh, give me a break,” she said, more to herself than to him.

      “That’s what I’m trying to do. I offered to drive you into Visitation. But if that won’t do, then at least let me get you to a gas station.” She started to shake her head, and he continued. “But if you don’t want to do that, either, then I’ll leave your suitcase on the road for you.”

      She wasn’t buying it. “You’d really do that?”

      “Yes. But I’ll also call the deputy of Visitation. His name is Scott Royal and he can come by and give you a ride.”

      Worse and worse. No way in hell did she want the law involved. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

      “Why?”

      Was he an idiot? “I don’t want any trouble with the law.”

      Bruce was silent for a moment, then asked quietly, “Why would there be trouble?”

      Because she’d killed a man.

      Only,