Someone To Protect Her. Patricia Rosemoor

peculiar way to answer a question—with another question. Just another facet of the man’s odd nature, Frank guessed, like the zippered paratrooper boots he wore. Not that he would bother asking the man about them.

      Before exiting the cockpit, Frank took stock of their position. They were about fifteen minutes from the Montana border. He wondered if Daniel had made any headway in identifying C.J.’s attacker. He’d get the answer to that one soon enough.

      He turned away, his gaze sweeping over his copilot, whose concentration was on the controls. His head was bent forward slightly, and Frank noticed a dark stain along the man’s shirt collar.

      As if aware of the close scrutiny, Vasquez glanced up at him in question.

      Frank nodded and left the cockpit.

      As he entered the cabin area, he didn’t know what to expect—certainly not C.J. curled in her seat, half turned toward her charges, who stood calmly staring at him. Spice Girl was munching the last of her hay.

      And C.J. was dead asleep.

      Her mouth hung open slightly. And he imagined he could hear the softness of her breath against the harsh power of the engines. Her hair was half wrested from its clip, and her glasses yet again sat crookedly on her delicate nose.

      Frank couldn’t help himself. He reached over to straighten the metal frames on her face. And while his hand was there, he couldn’t stop himself from brushing knuckles over her cheek, smoothing back the loose hair.

      Suddenly her eyes shot open and with a strangled breath, she sat straight up.

      “The horses…what…”

      “They’re fine.”

      She checked her watch. “No, they’re not. I haven’t given them water—”

      “I’ll do it. You’re still half asleep.”

      She sat there looking a little dazed, while he filled one of the buckets and offered it to Spice Girl, who immediately dipped her nose into the water and began siphoning.

      “I am awake now,” C.J. said, launching herself out of the seat. “I can do that.”

      Frank crooked an eyebrow at her. “What? You want me out of here already? Surely you trust my copilot at the controls for a little while.”

      She shoved her hands behind her back. “It’s just that I’m usually on top of things.”

      The statement was reminiscent of Jewel telling him how responsible she was. The girl had taken the task he’d given her with Silver very seriously also.

      Not that he was comparing C.J. to the twelve-year-old. She was every inch a woman. And yet…in some ways, she did seem younger than her years would indicate…and she seemed unsure of herself. Around all men?

      Or did he make her feel insecure somehow?

      C.J. walked around him and moved toward the back of the plane. As he switched the water bucket to the palomino, he realized she was checking on the chestnut without getting too close.

      “She’s asleep, huh?”

      “With some help,” C.J. said. “It’s a good thing you came prepared with that tranq.”

      “That’s me. A real Boy Scout. You know our motto—Be Prepared.”

      “For anything?”

      “Most things,” he muttered.

      For Frank realized that he wasn’t prepared for her, for the shock of being attracted to another woman so soon.

      After refilling the bucket, he watered High Note, all the while surreptitiously watching C.J. A scientist of some repute, she seemed unsure of herself in her present situation, unable to look him square in the eye.

      Oddly enough, he found her uncertainty charming.

      Born to Be Wild woke up long enough to take a short drink, then dozed once more. He turned to find C.J. looking amused.

      “I just got it. Born to Be Wild. High Note. Double Platinum. Spice Girl. Music—all their names are connected with music.”

      “Their owner is a pop singer,” Frank said.

      “Anyone famous?”

      “Ever heard of Jill and Her Four Jacks?”

      “Afraid not.”

      “Then I guess not famous enough.”

      Her lips quivered into a smile that lit up her face. She really was pretty when she smiled.

      “So this Jill still owns the mares?” she asked.

      He nodded. “They’re ladies of leisure now, retired from the racing circuit to be introduced to some good ole boys to make baby racehorses. Jill wanted Sierra Sunrise to be one of the daddies, and since we own him…”

      “Ah, I see.”

      Her discomfort seemingly renewed—at the turn of the conversation? he wondered—she checked her watch.

      “So we’re almost there?” she asked.

      “We’ll be crossing the Wyoming-Montana border any minute now. In a couple of hours, you’ll be settled into your new digs.”

      “You will be staying at the research institute, as well, won’t you?”

      “Actually, I’ve got a cabin on Lonesome Pony, which is up the road a piece.”

      “Oh, I thought—”

      “If you’re worried about safety, you’ll be guarded at all times.”

      “But not by you.”

      “Not unless I’m assigned.”

      “Which isn’t exactly likely, is it?” she asked. “You being a pilot and all.”

      Though her expression remained neutral, Frank had the distinct impression that C.J. was disappointed. She obviously saw him as some kind of knight in shining armor because of his saving her, when all he’d been was lucky.

      “I’d better get back to the cockpit.”

      “Right.”

      Pure luck had put him on her trail at the exact time she was being attacked.

      Pure luck that the attacker had given up so easily.

      That fact still bothered him as he set down the bucket and moved forward.

      The bastard had gone to considerable trouble to stage the attack. Why would he give up so easily? Unless he figured he’d have another shot at C.J.

      Frank worried over it as he reentered the cockpit.

      Vasquez didn’t seem to hear him and Frank froze for a moment as the man worked the controls and the plane adjusted slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

      Changing direction?

      Frank frowned. What the hell did Vasquez think he was doing? He came up behind the man, his gaze once again drawn to the stained collar. The skin there appeared a shade paler than the flesh higher on the man’s neck, as if the color had actually rubbed off…and the color was definitely a shade darker than his arms were.

      Makeup?

      Why the hell would a pilot be wearing makeup?

      Only one reason came to mind.

      Before Frank could decide how to react, the choice was taken from him.

      The man who called himself Vasquez turned in his seat just enough so Frank could see the gun in his hand.