Her 24-Hour Protector(45)

Oh, God, he was going to try and push her over the bridge railing!

She saw a highway on-ramp up ahead. She had to get back onto that freeway, where there were more cars, people. She gritted her teeth, punching down on the gas just as the sedan smacked sideways into her. She bounced off a median, swerving violently back onto the road. She was almost to the on-ramp, almost!

Jenna flattened the accelerator to the floor, screeching up the on-ramp as the sedan closed the distance gap at incredible speed behind her. It drew almost level with her as the road narrowed, forcing her vehicle to scrape against the concrete abutment, throwing sparks.

The passenger window of the sedan slid down. Then she heard it, something thudding into her car. He was shooting at her! Oh, dear God, someone was trying to kill her! Another bullet sparked off metal.

Adrenaline dumped into her system, firing every synapse in her body as she kept her foot flat on the gas, focusing dead ahead where she wanted to go. And Jenna careered from the on-ramp onto the highway, bouncing and shooting diagonally across four lanes. Cars screeched everywhere, radiating out from her, but she had her fists clamped on the wheel, and she aimed for the gaps between vehicles. A small truck swerved madly, narrowly missing Jenna. But in doing so it connected the back bumper of an old station wagon, sending it into an instant 360 degree spin behind her. Cars and trucks swerved outward from the spinning station wagon, tires shrieking, horns blaring…and she heard the sickening thud and crunches of metal against metal. But she couldn’t look back. She kept speeding down the highway, hands fisted on her wheel, limbs shaking, tears streaming down her face. Soon the sound of sirens began to wail, coming at her along the highway from the opposite direction.

She passed the flashing lights and the screaming fire engines and ambulances.

Shaking violently now, mouth bone dry, her body drenched with sweat, Jenna drove for the one solid thing—the one person in her world who would know exactly what to do, how to keep her safe. Even if he was using her.

She pulled up outside Lex’s modest suburban house, relief washing through her chest when she saw that his lights were still on inside. Jenna cut the engine, glanced up into her rearview mirror, saw nothing but empty street.

She peered out the side windows. It was dark, the shrubbery and trees moving in a hot breeze. Ominously writhing shapes. Jenna was convinced she could see malicious intent in every shadow, in every movement. She was terrified that whoever had murdered Candace, whoever had said that one by one, they would eliminate the Rothchild trash, was now trying to kill her. And even though the distance to Lex’s door was short, she was too afraid to get out, cross the dark space.

“Are…are you okay, Naps?” she said on a harsh sob, reaching with trembling hands for her dog who was cowering on the floor. Napoleon made a small whine and climbed up into her lap, and Jenna began to cry, hard. She couldn’t stay here, but she couldn’t move, either.

The front door of Lex’s house suddenly swung open. Warm gold light pooled out into the night, and the agent, dressed only in faded jeans, stepped barefoot onto his porch. Jenna scooped Napoleon up, rammed open her battered car door and bolted for his front door.

“Jenna?”

She hurled herself into his arms. Lex drew her quickly into his home, shutting the door to the night, and he just held her until she began to calm down. Jenna sobbed against his bare chest, clutching Napoleon, and not ever in her life had arms felt so warm, so welcome. So capably solid and protective.

So safe.

He titled her chin up, concern—real genuine care—softening his gorgeous green eyes. “Hey,” he said softly. “What happened, Jenna? What’s going on?”

“Some—someone just tried to kill me.”





Chapter 9




Jenna cradled a mug of sweet tea in both hands, her face wan and hair disheveled, her mascara smudged. A band of tension strapped viselike across Lex’s chest, and a quiet rage began to hum inside him.

She’d told him about being followed, the chase, the pileup on the freeway, and he’d called in her description of the dark sedan. Lex could not begin to articulate the relief he felt that she’d come through unscathed, save for a dark bruise forming on her left cheek where her face must have hit the driver’s side window. He got up, wrapped some ice in a cloth. “Here,” he said. “Hold this against your cheek. It’ll keep the swelling down.”

She took it from him, eyes dark vulnerable hollows. Her hands trembled. He’d wanted to take her to the emergency room. She was clearly in shock. But she’d refused. She did not want to leave his house or him.

He also wanted to get crime scene techs to look at her car—paint scrapes, bullet holes. She’d need to make a statement also.