Risk It All. Anna Perrin

problem.”

      The guard’s expression became less fierce, his stance less intimidating. Mostly, he looked hot and irritated. The danger had seeped out of the situation, Brooke realized. He was going to let her go. Nice work, Joe.

      Finally Latschenko spoke. “I need to check her camera.”

      Oh crap. This was bad. Very bad. Those shots of Sidorov couldn’t be explained away, no matter what Joe or she said.

      Once again, Brooke’s fake boyfriend interceded on her behalf. “That’s just going to waste time,” Joe objected. “The longer she stays here, the bigger the risk your boss sees her and blames you.”

      The guy in leather mulled over Joe’s comment, and his head began to nod in agreement. Then he suddenly seemed to reconsider, his face hardening in resolve. “If the camera shots are of flowers, she can leave. If they show anything else, Sidorov will have to decide what to do with her.” His outstretched palm came toward her while the gun in his other hand prevented her from bolting.

      Her first impulse was to hurl her camera onto the flagstones underfoot, which would smash the viewing screen. Unfortunately, that would only delay, not solve, the problem. The memory card would still be intact, and the images on it could be downloaded onto a computer.

      Latschenko lifted his gun until the barrel was level with her chest. “Give me the—”

      He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. The metal blades of Joe’s hedge trimmers cut through the air and slashed down on Latschenko’s outstretched hand. The guard doubled over, clutching his injured hand against his groin while his weapon dropped near his feet. His cry of outrage warned he wasn’t ready to give up, and with his head down like a bull, he charged his attacker. Brooke darted around both men and kicked the gun. It skidded across the grass until it lay out of reach.

      Sidestepping him, Joe swung the trimmers again. This time they connected with the side of Latschenko’s head. Thunk. The burly man pitched onto the ground, flattening a wide patch of grass.

      Brooke stared at the unmoving figure, feeling a mixture of relief and horror. A little blood matted the hair at his temple. Was he dead?

      Joe pressed his fingertips to the man’s neck and answered her unspoken question. “He’s okay, but he’ll have a helluva headache when he wakes up.”

      That awakening probably wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Latschenko looked to be out cold. Good. He deserved to feel some pain for threatening her, as well as stirring up the terrifying memories she wanted to keep buried deep down in her psyche.

      Joe grabbed her arm. Hustling her over to the Green Thumb pickup, he shoved her into the cab from the driver’s side and followed her in. As the truck reversed quickly down the driveway, the lawn equipment slammed around in the open bed of the vehicle.

      Her mind couldn’t let go of the image of Latschenko’s gun pointed at her, primed to maim or kill her. Her new line of work wasn’t supposed to expose her to life-threatening situations; that was one of the reasons she’d quit being a police officer. Her near-death experience and months-long recovery wasn’t something she was willing to put herself—and her family—through again. But if Joe hadn’t been holding the hedge trimmers and been willing to use them, she might be the one bleeding on the grass instead of Latschenko. Or alternatively, they might have been forced into a confrontation with Sidorov. If the home owner had discovered the shot she’d taken of him holding a gun on Trevor, she had no idea how he might react. Would he have been content to confiscate her camera’s memory card, then release her and Joe? Or would he have decided they were witnesses who needed to be disposed of? And what about Trevor? Would their presence have endangered him even more?

      When she’d agreed to Savannah’s request to check up on her husband, it had seemed straightforward and simple, even silly. Instead, it had morphed into a dangerous incident that could have ended in multiple homicides.

      Brooke managed to fasten her seat belt only seconds before a trio of familiar sensations hit her: a steel band squeezing her ribs, the runaway pounding of her heart and an overwhelming urge to throw up.

      She closed her eyes, swallowed repeatedly and ordered herself to calm down. Naturally, that only exacerbated the problem, and her anxiety spiked higher. The truck lurched to one side, and she grabbed on to the dashboard to steady herself. Meanwhile, she kept up an inner reassuring dialogue. This is nothing new, she reminded herself. You know what to do. Sucking air deep into her lungs, she concentrated on a slow, even count. One...two...hold. Three...four...release. Again.

      After several repetitions, her nausea retreated, and her heart settled into a rhythm that was still quicker than usual but no longer insanely fast. She released the dashboard and concentrated on keeping her hands open and relaxed on her thighs. As the panic attack gradually faded, awareness of her rescuer crept in. She thought about Joe’s unruffled demeanor throughout their ordeal and the way he had disposed of Latschenko. No hesitation, no wasted moves, no excess force. Just ruthless efficiency. As if handling armed thugs was nothing new to him...

      With the truck speeding down the road and her mind rehashing everything that had transpired, she realized one undeniable fact.

      She had trespassed in the wrong damn place.

      * * *

      As Jared drove the truck, every muscle in his body was tense with frustration. Usually, he found rescuing a victim from a dangerous criminal deeply satisfying and one of the reasons he stayed committed to his job despite the long hours, reams of paperwork and internal politics. Today, however, that satisfaction was overshadowed by anger and self-recrimination. His altercation with Latschenko had ruined his chance to search the house and possibly uncover proof Sidorov had been involved in his younger brother’s disappearance. But what else could he have done? The blonde trespasser had been in imminent danger. Her survival had to take precedence over his original plan, which was a long shot born of desperation. That logic was inescapable to any reasonable person. So why did a niggling voice in his head question his motives? Why did it accuse him of placing the well-being of a stranger over that of his own flesh and blood?

      No, that was ridiculous. Despite the fact that he and Steve had a complicated relationship, colored with anger and resentment and hurt, none of that had influenced his decision to run interference for the woman. He had made the right call, according to his training and conscience. The noise in his head was caused by worry and uncertainty.

      Next to him, his passenger was hyperventilating, her rapid breathing audible in the confines of the truck. She was obviously terrified, and her reaction didn’t surprise him. Latschenko was a tough, scary dude, and Jared didn’t regret knocking him out.

      When the woman had first crawled out of the garden, he’d known her presence was a complication he didn’t need, but he’d been confident he could control the situation. Her claim that Sidorov had drawn a gun on his visitor had substantiated his suspicions the supposedly retired mafia boss hadn’t completely walked away from his criminal past. Jared had warned her to make a speedy exit. Everything would have been fine if she’d moved a little faster or if Latschenko had been content to hang out a little longer at the tennis courts. The difference of a few seconds had proved disastrous, a point driven home when Jared had spotted the two facing each other, the guard’s gun aimed at the blonde’s slender stomach. He could have walked away from the situation, but he’d felt compelled to intervene. What if he hadn’t? Would the woman have managed to escape on her own? Or would she have ended up like Steve—missing, with family members trying desperately to figure out what had become of her?

      There was no point dwelling on what-if scenarios; he had to decide his next move based on what had actually gone down. He would take her to her car so she could contact the police, even though the last thing he wanted was lawmen swarming all over Sidorov’s place. If the former Russian mobster felt he was under scrutiny by the authorities, he wouldn’t go about his usual routine or take part in the candid, potentially incriminating conversations Jared had hoped to record on the bug in his office.

      When his passenger’s breathing had evened out and she was