Secret Identity. Пола Грейвс

       “Rusty,” she admitted, “but I still remember a few things.”

       Rick checked the back window. The SUV was about four car lengths back. “This Charger will do 140 miles an hour. I bet we can outgun that land boat back there. If they try to run us off the road or start shooting, just floor it.”

       She gave a brisk nod, her gaze flicking back and forth between the light traffic ahead and the rearview window. He saw her shoulders tighten. “Weapon!” she barked.

       He turned and saw a large-caliber handgun extending from the passenger window of the Toyota. “Duck and gun it!”

       Dropping low in his seat, he held on as the Charger bolted forward, the engine singing with the power surge, and sent up a quick prayer of thanks that his sister Shannon had talked him into buying the muscle car instead of a less expensive, more practical sedan.

       Amanda weaved the Charger through traffic, the SUV staying with her for about a mile before it started to fall back.

       “I love this car,” she declared, sounding like the Tara Brady he remembered. A rush of pure male hunger surged through him, badly timed but strangely welcome. For the first time in a long time, he felt like the Rick Cooper who’d fallen hard for the sexy American spook.

       It was about damn time.