Christmas Undercover. Hope White

to someone in her condition.

      Narrowing her eyes, she grabbed his backpack and stepped a few feet away. Never lowering the gun, she unzipped the side pocket.

      “May I sit up to stop my nosebleed?” he asked.

      She nodded that he could.

      He would continue to act submissive so she wouldn’t see him as a threat. It was the best way to keep her from firing the gun by accident. He sensed she wasn’t a killer, but rather she was disoriented and frightened.

      Sitting up, he leaned forward and pinched his nose, just below the bridge. He’d have dual black eyes for sure and didn’t know how he’d explain that to his girls, or their grandparents.

      You’ve got bigger problems than a bloody nose. He had to talk this woman down from her precarious ledge.

      She rifled through his wallet and hesitated, fingering a photograph of Claire and Marissa.

      “My girls,” he said. “They’re in first and third grades.”

      She shot him a look of disbelief and shoved his wallet and the photos haphazardly into his pack.

      “Did you fall from a trail above?” he asked.

      “I’m asking the questions!” She straightened and pointed the gun at his chest again. “And you’d better give me the right answers.”

      “Please,” he said. “My girls... I’m all they’ve got. Their mother...died.”

      He thought he’d gotten through to her.

      She flicked the gun. “Get up.”

      He slowly stood, realizing how petite she was, barely coming up to his chest.

      “Where are they?” she demanded.

      “Who?”

      “LaRouche and Harrington.”

      “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “Right, you randomly happened to find me.”

      “I did.”

      “Uh-huh. And you’re out here, in the middle of nowhere, why?”

      “I’m spending a few days in the mountains for—” he hesitated “—solitude.”

      “You’re lying. There’s more to it.”

      “I’m not lying, but you’re right, there is more to it.”

      She waited and narrowed her eyes, expectant.

      “I come to this spot by the lake to find emotional peace—” he hesitated “—with God’s help.”

      “Yeah, right. Great story, Will.”

      He didn’t miss the sarcastic pronunciation of his name, nor the paranoid look in her eye.

      She dug in her jacket pocket and pulled out her phone. She frowned.

      “You have a phone?” she asked.

      “I do.”

      She shoved hers back into her pocket. “Give it to me.”

      He pulled it out, dropped it between them and raised his hands. “You won’t get a signal here, but there’s a spot by my cabin where I can usually find service.”

      “Your cabin?”

      “I’m renting a cabin about a quarter of a mile north.”

      She eyed his phone, must have seen there weren’t any bars, and shoved it into her other pocket.

      “Let’s go.” When she picked up his pack, a groan escaped her lips.

      “Do you want me to—”

      “Walk,” she demanded, her eyes watering.

      They were obviously tears of pain. He guessed from the rip in her jacket and strained look on her face, she might have cracked a rib or two.

      With a nod, he turned and headed toward the cabin. She was hurt and confused, and the worst part was, she wouldn’t accept his help.

      He’d have to rely on patience, kindness and compassion to make her feel safe. That would go a long way to ease her worry and earn her trust.

      Hopefully that would be enough.

      * * *

      Sara wasn’t sure how far she’d get before passing out from the excruciating pain of her headache, but she’d fight until she dropped. She had somehow survived the fall, and wouldn’t allow herself to die at the hand of a hired thug.

      It figures LaRouche and Harrington would send a handsome, clean-cut guy to find her—a real charmer, this one. Will or Bill or whatever his name was, had to be over six feet tall, with chestnut brown hair and green eyes, and he spoke with such a gentle, calming tone. What a story he’d crafted for himself: he’d come out here to pray?

      He’d laid it on thick, all right. Those were probably his little girls in the photograph, girls who had no idea what their daddy did for a living.

      In her ten years with the FBI, Sara had learned plenty about sociopaths and how they used their cunning intelligence and polished charisma to convince an interrogating agent of their innocence.

      Clutching the gun, she took her finger off the trigger in case she stumbled and pulled it by accident. He wouldn’t know the difference. As long as Will thought she aimed a gun at his back, he’d do as she ordered.

      The trees around her started drifting in and out of focus. She blinked to clear her vision, and stumbled on a rock jutting out of the ground.

      Strong, firm hands gripped her arms, keeping her upright. Will’s green eyes studied her face, as if assessing her head injury. He must have realized his mistake, that he was still holding on to her, because his hands sprung free and he raised them, as if to say, please don’t shoot me.

      She stepped back and dropped the backpack on the ground. “It’s throwing me off balance.”

      He picked up the pack and adjusted it across his shoulders with ease. “That bruise above your eye—” He hesitated. “Are you experiencing blurred vision?”

      “I’m fine.” She flicked the gun barrel toward the trail.

      He continued walking.

      “I have ice packs at the cabin,” he said. “And pain reliever.”

      She hated that he was being so polite. It was an act, his strategy to discover how much she knew. Those were LaRouche and Harrington’s orders, right?

      Much like her official orders had been to leave it alone, put aside the LHP, Inc., investigation due to lack of evidence. But she’d pushed and pushed until Bonner had had enough, and told her to take a couple of weeks off.

      So she did, and spent her vacation going undercover and buying her way on to the trail guide team that LaRouche, Harrington and Price had hired to take them up the mountain. Her goal: watch and listen, glean whatever information she could from the men who were on vacation with their guards down.

      “Would you like some water?” Will offered.

      She ignored him. Sara might be hurting, but she wasn’t stupid. It would be too easy for Will to slip something into her water, rendering her unconscious.

      “Guess not,” he said softly.

      She took a deep breath and bit back a gasp at the stab of bruised ribs. She decided it was a good thing because the pain would keep her conscious and alert.

      He slowed down, closing the distance between them.

      “Keep walking,” she said through clenched teeth.

      “I thought you might need to rest.”

      “I