Christmas Kidnapping. Cindi Myers

a stalker or something.”

      “I guess that would be strange.” She speared a tomato wedge with her fork. “How old were you when you realized you had this talent?”

      “Pretty young.” For a long time, he had thought that was the way everyone saw the world, as populated by hundreds of individual, distinct people who stayed in his head. “In school it was kind of a neat parlor trick to play on people—go into a store to buy a soda and come out three minutes later and be able to describe everyone who was in there. But as I got older, I stopped telling people about it or showing off.”

      “Because of the social awkwardness.”

      “Because it made me different, and if there’s anything teenagers don’t want to be, it’s different.”

      She laughed, and they waited while the waitress refilled their glasses. “Did your ability get you the job with the Bureau?” she asked. “Or did that come later?”

      He shrugged and crunched a chip. “You know the government—they test you for everything. I was doing a different job—one that used my electrical and robotics background—when someone in the Bureau decided to put together a whole unit of people like me and I got tapped for it. Gus was a recognizer, too.” A familiar pain gripped his chest at the mention of Gus. Jack didn’t have any brothers, but he had felt as close to Gus as he would have any brother. They had been through so much together.

      “Is that what brought you two together?” she asked.

      “Not at first. We were in the same class at Quantico and we hit it off there. We had probably known each other a year or so before I found out he had the same knack I had for remembering faces. We used to joke about it some, but we never thought anything of it. Not until both of us were recruited for this special project.”

      “That’s really fascinating.” She took a bite of her salad and he dug into the chicken sandwich. The silence between them as they ate was comfortable, as if they had known each other a long time, instead of only a few hours.

      But after a few more minutes he began to feel uneasy. Not because of anything she was doing. He glanced around them, noting the group of women who sat at a table to their left, shopping bags piled around them. A trio of businessmen occupied a booth near the front window, deep in conversation. A family of tourists, an older couple and two clerks he recognized from the hotel where he had stayed his first two nights in town months ago filled the other tables. Nothing suspicious about any of them. He swiveled his head to take in the bar and gooseflesh rose along his arms when his gaze rested on a guy occupying a stool front and center, directly beneath the flat-screen television that was broadcasting a bowling tournament. Average height, short brown hair, flannel shirt and jeans. Nothing at all remarkable about him, yet Jack was positive he had seen the guy before. Probably only once—repeat exposure strengthened the association. But he had definitely been around this guy at least once before.

      “What is it?” Andrea spoke softly. “You’ve gone all tense. Is something wrong?”

      He turned to face her once more. “That guy back there at the bar—the one in the green plaid shirt—he’s watching us.”

      She looked over his shoulder at the guy and frowned. “He has his back to us.”

      “He’s watching us in the bar mirror. It’s an old surveillance trick.”

      “Do you know him?” she asked.

      “I’ve seen him before. Maybe only once. I think he’s in our files.”

      “Why would he be watching you?”

      Jack shoved back his chair. “That’s what I’m going to ask him.”

      He pretended to be headed for the men’s room, but at the last second, he veered toward the guy at the bar. The guy saw him coming and leaped up. He overturned a table and people started screaming. Jack took off after him, alarmed to see the guy was headed right toward Andrea, who stared, openmouthed. Jack shoved aside a chair and dodged past a waitress with a tray of plates, but his bum leg made speed difficult and the guy was almost to Andrea now.

      But the perp didn’t lay a hand on her. He raced past, headed toward the door, Jack still in pursuit. Andrea cried out as Jack ran by her. “My purse,” she said. “He stole my purse!”

Chapter Two

      Andrea stared at the water glass on its side, ice cubes scattered across the cloth. Jack had taken off after the purse snatcher so suddenly she hadn’t had time to process everything that had happened. One moment he was saying something about the guy at the bar watching them, and the next her purse had disappeared, and so had Jack.

      “Would the gentleman like the rest of his meal boxed to go?”

      Andrea blinked up at the waitress, whose face betrayed no emotion beyond boredom, as if purse snatchings and overturned tables were everyday occurrences.

      “No thank you,” Andrea said. “Just bring the check.” She glanced toward the door, hoping to see Jack. Had he caught the thief? Had he been hurt in the attempt? She needed to get out of here and make sure he was okay.

      The waitress returned with the check and Andrea realized that, without her purse, she had no way to pay the bill.

      “I’ll get that.” Jack’s hand rested atop hers on the tab. He dropped into the chair beside her, his face flushed and breathing hard. “He got away,” he said. “I’m sorry about your purse.” He shifted his hip to retrieve his wallet and winced.

      “You’re hurt,” she said, alarmed.

      He shook his head. “I’m fine.” He removed his credit card and glanced around. Two busboys were righting the overturned table and most of the other diners had returned to their meals. “Where’s our waitress?” Jack asked. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

      He helped her with her coat and kept his hand at her back as they left the café. “What was in your purse?” he asked. “I’m assuming a wallet and credit cards. Driver’s license?”

      She nodded. “And my car keys, house keys and cell phone.” She took a deep breath. “I can call and cancel the cards, get a new license, and I have spare keys at home. I’ll have to get a new phone.”

      “Let me take you by your place to get the keys,” he said.

      “You don’t have to do that. I can call someone.” Maybe Chelsea, who was babysitting for her, would come—though that would mean bringing along Ian and Chelsea’s baby, Charlotte.

      “I have the whole afternoon free, so you might as well let me take you.”

      “All right. Thank you.”

      Jack drove a pickup truck, a black-and-silver late-model Ford that was the Western equivalent of a hot sports car. She gave him directions to her home and settled back against the soft leather seats, inhaling the masculine aromas of leather, coffee and Jack Prescott. If some genius were to bottle the combination, it would be a sure bestseller, the epitome of sex appeal.

      “Nice place,” he said when he pulled into the driveway of the blue-and-white Victorian in one of Durango’s quiet older neighborhoods. Snow frosted the low evergreens around the base of the porch and dusted the large pine-and-cedar Christmas wreath she had hung on the front door. Jack had to move Ian’s tricycle in order to get to the walkway to the steps.

      “Sorry about that,” Andrea said. “I keep telling him not to leave it in the way like that, but he forgets.”

      “He’ll be ready for a bicycle before long,” Jack said. “If he’s five.”

      “He’s been asking for one for Christmas but I don’t know...” The thought of her baby riding along the narrow and hilly roads of her neighborhood filled her with visions of collisions with cars or tumbles in loose gravel.

      Chelsea