Killer Colton Christmas. Regan Black

the truck’s dashboard. “I’ll follow you over.”

      “Are you planning to stay in my apartment?”

      He wasn’t sure yet how they would work that out, only that he had orders to keep an eye on her. “Let’s get over there and we’ll talk.”

      Her lips twisted, though she didn’t speak as she finally closed the truck door. The spunky Mini Cooper suited her, he decided. Painted creamy white with a dark green rocker stripe, it would be useless anywhere but the city.

      And why was he analyzing her car? She put her purse and computer bag behind her seat and slid behind the wheel. He prepared to move his truck so she could back out, when she opened her door and peered at the windshield.

      He powered down the passenger window. “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing. A flyer or something.” She stretched an arm out and he ordered her to stop.

      “Let me see it first.”

      He grabbed his phone and hustled around the front of his truck to her car. Tucked low under the windshield wiper was a small square of white paper.

      “Not a flyer,” he said as much to himself as to her. He took pictures and used the flashlight app on his phone to peer under the hood. He dropped to the ground and checked the undercarriage.

      She crouched beside him. “What are you doing?”

      He deliberately kept his focus on the car rather than her legs. “Looking for any obvious signs of tampering or tracking devices.” On his feet again, he called Dashwood and gave her an update.

      “Tampering? You’re a bomb expert, too, I suppose.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

      “Not an expert.” He dusted off his palms and smacked at the dirt on his trousers. Why couldn’t he remember he was in a suit on the job, rather than in his work jeans at the ranch? “The FBI does keep us trained.”

      “Of course.” She tucked a lock of hair, teased loose by the breeze, behind one ear. “I’m not handling this well,” she admitted softly. “My work is everything to me and I don’t appreciate strangers interfering with that.”

      There hadn’t been any mention of a spouse or other family in her file and he’d assumed the rest of her background was in process. Now Emiliano wondered what that background would reveal. “May I?” He pointed to the note.

      She shrugged, arms folded again. “Go ahead.”

      Using the end of a pen, he freed the note and unfolded it there on the windshield.

      The image of a Guy Fawkes mask filled the top half of the letter-sized paper. Underneath, one sentence in all caps threatened her.

      YOU WILL PAY FOR TRADING PERSONAL PRIVACY FOR PROFITS

      Emiliano took a picture of the note and sent it to his boss by text message. Within two minutes she replied that an evidence team was on the way. The only hope for a lead was a camera on the parking area or fingerprints on the paper itself. The standard copy paper and black-and-white printing would be impossible to track down. Anyone could have printed this at home, an office or a copy store.

      It took a little more than an hour for Emiliano to sign over the scene to the crime-scene unit. Miss Meyers wasn’t happy about leaving her car to the investigators, but he convinced her it was temporary.

      “That’s one thing settled,” he said as they drove away.

      “One thing?” Another huff of frustration lifted her bangs.

      “You can’t stay in Dallas.”

      She gaped at him. “I certainly can’t leave. Not without my car and not while the investigation is ongoing. Sooner or later you’ll discover I can help.”

      “We’ve got it under control,” he said. The woman had plenty of nerve to think they’d share information before they made a determination on her involvement.

      She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not leaving town.”

      She was wrong. “You’re under my protection, so that choice is out of your hands.”

      “Third-worst day,” she muttered. “Special Agent Ortega.” She said his name with such respect it startled him. “I can manage on my own.”

      He believed her. “Since these circumstances aren’t normal, I’m transporting you to a safe place until we sort this out.”

      He still couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard himself suggest to Dashwood or that he was about to say it again. “The FBI has decided you’ll stay at my family’s ranch until we’re sure it’s safe for you to return to Dallas.”

       Chapter 3

      Marie was sure she’d misunderstood Special Agent Ortega. Yet here she was again in his pickup truck, her suitcase stowed in the bed and the city she loved well behind them already. It was all she could do not to ask him how much longer they’d be on the road.

      He’d stated in that infuriatingly calm tone that he was taking her to Shadow Creek, Texas. She’d done a quick search on her cell phone while she packed. Thank goodness, too, since he’d surprised her by confiscating her phone and laptop before they left Dallas. He’d made it clear that she would not be allowed any internet access during the investigation.

      Located in the Texas Hill Country, the area’s primary claim to fame was a quaint town center giving way to businesses surrounded by acres of cattle ranches. The idyllic pictures of rolling grassland, clear rivers, green hills and livestock dotting the landscape made her nervous. Checking the street-view pictures provided for Main Street didn’t help. Not a high-rise in sight. The closest thing to a city-like feature was the Shadow Creek Memorial Hospital. She’d found it odd that a local hospital would feature so prominently on the search results until she read that it had been built by Livia Colton, hot story of the day.

      As they passed through Austin and the landscape on either side of the highway gave way to the wide expanse of ranch land, she suspected they were getting close.

      At the first sighting of a longhorn cattle herd grazing well back from the road, her palms went damp. She didn’t do rural and couldn’t imagine staying anywhere close to a heavy animal with horns like that. A city girl at heart, she’d only been camping once, though she suspected her experience wouldn’t qualify in Special Agent Ortega’s book. The excursion had only gone so far as pitching tents at the edge of the wooded greenway behind the youth center. Already the quiet beyond the low rumble of the truck’s engine pressed in on her.

      “Not much longer,” he said.

      She jumped on the first words he’d spoken in over an hour, needing the conversation. “How can you be a rancher and an FBI agent?” she asked, hating the nerves making her voice tight.

      “Family effort,” he replied.

      He glanced her way and the look of contentment on his face launched a swarm of butterflies in her stomach. “You’re moving me in with your parents?”

      His eyebrows flexed into a scowl. “They’re out of town right now,” he said. “Plenty of room even if they were home. It’s not like we’ll be tripping over each other.”

      She gazed out at the wide-open landscape, wishing for the clear boundaries of a stable city structure. “I doubt anyone out here has that problem.”

      “Shadow Creek and the surrounding area will also make it harder for anyone wishing you harm to succeed.”

      She supposed he would know. Protection protocol wasn’t her thing. “The note on my car can’t really mean anything.” If someone wanted to attack, wouldn’t they have waited for her to show up? Although restating her earlier protest wasn’t likely to make him turn around now, she felt she had to try. “The Cohort