Someone To Protect Her. Patricia Rosemoor

to sleep.

      She didn’t comment, merely raised one pale eyebrow.

      “If you need someone to talk to, I’m available.”

      “I told you, I’m fine.”

      “If you say so,” she murmured, her voice as soothing as she’d promised the tea would be. She took a sip. “But sometimes talking helps.”

      “Talking can’t change anything, can’t bring someone back!” Frank said heatedly before catching himself. “Okay, so what’s the giveaway?”

      “Other than you scaring me half to death in your sleep? Your eyes. You try to hide it, Frank, but when you’re not vigilant, they tell me that you’re troubled…haunted by your past.”

      Certain she didn’t know about his background—how could she when she hadn’t even known who was coming for her—he said, “Perceptive as well as intelligent and beautiful, huh?”

      She blinked at him and he could see that she was thrown. “I’m not beautiful—I’m a scientist.”

      Frank started. Maybe she didn’t get many compliments of that sort, considering she hid behind lab coats and glasses and an unflattering hairstyle. But without the glasses, her hair tousled and brushing her shoulders, C.J. indeed appeared beautiful, if in a starched, stiff-upper-lip kind of way. Her body wasn’t encased in a lab coat now. Rather, satiny material drowned her curves. The peach-and-cream stripes of her pajamas complemented her honey-gold hair and flawless ivory complexion.

      But again, she seemed to be hiding.

      And Frank couldn’t help but wonder what he might find under the baggy garments.

      Cup halfway to her mouth, C.J. hesitated. Their gazes locked for a moment, and Frank felt as if he’d just caught a doe in his headlights. He watched the subtle change in her expression before she hid that, too.

      She took a quick sip of her tea, then rose, snatching up her saucer. “Since you’re not inclined to talk, anyway, I’ll just finish this in my room.”

      “Something I didn’t say?”

      But if his comment amused her, she hid it well.

      Spine stiff, C.J. retreated to her bedroom.

      “I’d rather not fly with an exhausted pilot, so try to let that tea work its magic on you,” she murmured, just before she closed the door.

      And locked it. Frank was certain he heard the bolt slide into place.

      To lock him out? he wondered.

      Or herself in?

      He swigged down the tea and set down the cup, too delicate for his big hands. But it was perfect for hers, he thought. He could see her cradling the fine porcelain, even after he turned out the light and closed his eyes.

      For once it wasn’t Bosnia that kept him awake halfway through the night.

      THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN streaked the sky over Boulder Municipal Airport. Gilad had been lying in wait for nearly an hour. As always, he was patient.

      And he really was more clever than the bungled attempt on the Pearl Street Mall indicated. He was still burning at that temporary setback.

      He disliked failure. Disliked looking like a fool even more.

      For that, he would require special payment.

      Gilad knew all about Frank Connolly, ex-military pilot. His contacts were fast and thorough. Yes, indeed, he could easily imagine the bastard’s worst fears.

      As he checked his watch yet again, just as he had been doing every few minutes, an addendum to his plan was already forming. Something that would give him infinite pleasure. A very special way to test his enemy’s true mettle…

      Thinking about Connolly flying without benefit of either plane or parachute brought a smile to his lips.

      But his fanciful musings were cut off at the sound of footfalls along the tarmac. Time to get down to work. He stepped out in clear view of the approaching man, who was stocky, of medium height and with burnished skin tone. His mustache was neat, as were his navy slacks, white short-sleeved shirt and tie. A laminated ID swung from his pocket protector.

      “Vasquez?”

      “Right. You Connolly?”

      Gilad nodded.

      “So where’s the horse van?”

      “Not here yet.”

      “Then why did you insist I get here an hour earlier than planned?”

      “We have something to take care of.”

      “What’s that?”

      Gilad slipped the cold object from his pocket, saying, “Let me show you.”

      Chapter Three

      C.J. yawned her way to Boulder Municipal. She’d barely fallen asleep before dawn. And all too soon, Frank had been pounding at her door.

      To look at him, one would think he’d had a full eight hours’ sleep. She knew better. She’d heard him roaming around the living room for at least an hour after she’d locked herself in. What had been bothering him? she wondered. Something serious—at least the nightmare had made it seem that way. He hid his exhaustion well, though. She wondered what else he was hiding and why he thought it was necessary. Not that she should expect true confessions from a stranger. His past was his past, just as hers was her own.

      “Your chariot awaits,” Frank said, breaking into her thoughts. “And the trailer is already here, too.”

      “What trailer?” But she swept her gaze right past the commercial vehicle and onto the adjoining aircraft, which appeared to have been built in the previous century. “What is that thing?”

      “A DC-3.”

      He brought the car to a stop near the hangar, and she took a better look. The plane’s lines were chunky, both propellers and wheels appeared to share a housing, and its tail practically swept the tarmac.

      “Can you actually get that thing in the air and keep it there?”

      “Plenty of these babies still take up airspace, hauling cargo—and they have been for the better part of six decades.”

      “That’s what bothers me.”

      She couldn’t help the trepidation that filled her. Too many stories of failed parts on old planes. She rubbed her arms and refocused her attention back to the trailer, where a man in dark pants and a white shirt was talking to another dressed more casually in jeans, plaid shirt and billed cap.

      A special ramp already in place led from the trailer’s back end up to the rear door of the aircraft. Suddenly, from the side of the trailer, brilliant red lettering jumped out at her: Equine.

      “That’s a horse trailer!” she said accusingly.

      “Did I forget to tell you? Our cover is that we’re hauling the mares to Lonesome Pony.”

      Doubly concerned now, she thought to protest, but before she could get a word out, Frank opened his door, slid from behind the wheel and reached in back for his gray, broad-brimmed hat. Added to the jeans, boots and multipocketed vest, it made him look more like a real Wild West cowboy than a government agent.

      Though an involuntary thrill shot through her—probably due to the old American western movies that had once fascinated her long, long ago—C.J. tried not to be impressed.

      He said, “Wait here while I take care of getting these girls loaded.”

      “Gladly.”

      Stuffing the hat on his head, Frank aimed straight for the other two men.

      That they needed a cover made C.J. shudder.