“I’m not a callous jerk, no matter what kind of first impression I gave you.”

She patted his hand, which still rested on the table in front of her. “You still have a chance to redeem yourself.”

By the time the waiter brought the check, Graham felt almost comfortable with her. He debated asking her out for a real date, but decided to wait. He’d be sure to see her again; the case gave him a good excuse to do so.

He walked her to her Jeep and lingered while she found her keys and unlocked the car door. “Here’s my personal cell.” He wrote the number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. “Call me anytime.”

“About the case—or just to talk?” Her tone was teasing.

“Either. Maybe you’d like to give me your number?”

She smiled and opened her purse. But she never had a chance to write down her number. The loud crack of gunshots shattered the afternoon silence. Her screams rang in Graham’s ears as he pushed her to the ground.

Lawman

Protection

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CINDI MYERS is an author of more than fifty novels. When she’s not crafting new romance plots, she enjoys skiing, gardening, cooking, crafting and daydreaming. A lover of small-town life, she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in the Colorado mountains.

For Mike

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

“Would you rather face down half a dozen reporters at a press conference, or shoot it out with drug runners in the backcountry?”

FBI Captain Graham Ellison gave his questioner, Montrose County sheriff’s deputy Lance Carpenter, a sour look. “Is that a trick question? At least with the drug runners I’ve got a fair chance. It doesn’t matter what I say at these press conferences. The media puts the spin on it they want.”

“If the questions get too tough, just look menacing and tell them the safety of local citizens is your primary concern.” Carpenter clapped Graham on the back. “You’ll do great.”

Graham eyed the crowd of reporters, cameramen and news trucks waiting in the parking lot outside the trailer that served as headquarters for The Ranger Brigade—the nickname given to an interagency task force addressing crime on public lands in southwest Colorado. “The safety of citizens is my primary concern,” he said. “Or one of them. I have a lot of concerns—and I don’t need reporters telling me how to do my job, or wasting my time listing all the ways I’m doing it wrong.”

“I don’t think you’ve got any choice in the matter this time.” Lance studied the gathering over Graham’s shoulder. “Prentice and Senator Mattheson forced your hand.”

Graham let out a low growl and shifted his focus to the newspaper that lay open on his desk. Twin headlines summed up his predicament: Mattheson Calls for Dismantling Task Force read one. Prentice Readies for Battle declared the other. Peter Mattheson, senator from Colorado, was on a crusade to “get the feds out of local law enforcement business” and “stop wasting money on federal boondoggles.”

Richard Prentice, a billionaire who’d made a career out of buying up environmentally or historically valuable properties, then blackmailing the federal government into paying top dollar to save the parcels, had filed a lawsuit to force local authorities to allow him to develop property he owned at the entrance to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park.

Graham’s bosses in Washington had “suggested” he hold a press conference to address both these issues. “We’d better get out there before they start making stuff up,” Graham said. He straightened his shoulders, opened the door and stepped out into a hail of shouted questions.

“Captain Ellison, have you spoken with Richard Prentice?”

“Captain Ellison, has the death of Raul Meredes slowed drug trafficking in the area?”

“Captain Ellison, how do you respond to Senator Mattheson’s criticisms of the task force?”

Graham stood on the top step of the trailer and glowered at the gathered media. Flashes around him let him know his scowling face would be in newspapers all over the region tomorrow. More than one news account had described him as “a big bear of a man.” He hoped this time they’d look at him and think “grizzly.” He scanned the crowd for a familiar face, some reporter he knew who’d let him ease into the grilling with a softball question.

A cameraman moved to one side, adjusting his angle, and a woman took advantage of the opening to step forward. Digital recorder in one hand, notebook in the other, she was clearly a reporter, but not one Graham had seen before. He wouldn’t forget a figure like hers. She was tall, with a generous chest and curvy hips, a wild tumble of strawberry blond hair and full lips in a perfect pink bow of a mouth. Her eyes were hidden by fashionably large sunglasses, but he had no doubt she was looking right at him. And frankly, he couldn’t stop staring at her. Forget the fragile, stick-figure women so popular in magazines and on television—here was a real-live, flesh-and-blood goddess. Here was a woman he could embrace without crushing, one he could kiss without getting a crick in his back, one...

“Captain Ellison, what are you doing about the disappearance of Lauren Starling?” the woman asked, her voice husky and deep, carrying easily even in the crowd.

At her words, his fantasy vanished like a puff of smoke. She wasn’t the perfect woman—she was a reporter. And judging from the frown on her face, she didn’t think much of him. “So far it has not been determined that Ms. Starling is a missing person, or that she is, in fact, missing in our territory. We are working with the Denver police to try to determine her whereabouts.”

“You don’t think finding her car abandoned in the National Park, not a half mile from where we’re standing right now, points to some connection between her failing to show up for work two weeks ago and ‘your territory?’”

Lauren Starling was the popular nightly news anchor at Denver’s number two news station. Three weeks ago, she’d failed to return from a few days’ vacation and park rangers had discovered her car abandoned at an overlook in Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. “Denver police are in charge of that investigation and they are keeping us apprised,” Graham said. What he wished he could say was that, for all he or anyone else knew, Lauren Starling was in Mexico with a secret boyfriend. “At this point we have no evidence of foul play.”

Twin lines, like the number eleven, formed between the woman’s eyes and her mouth turned down in disapproval. Clearly, she didn’t think much of his answer. Too bad. He had bigger things to worry about than one woman who the Denver cops had hinted was more than a little flighty. His officers were keeping their eyes open for any sign of Ms. Starling, but he wasn’t losing sleep over her.

“Captain, did the death of Raul Meredes put an end to drug trafficking on public lands?” A reedy man Graham recognized as being from the local county paper asked the question. Meredes had been in charge of a large marijuana-growing and human-trafficking operation based in the National Park. Identifying him as a key figure in the recent crime spree had been the task force’s biggest achievement thus far. Unfortunately, Meredes had been murdered before they could question him. The crime rate in the area had dipped following his demise, but Graham sensed the lull represented only a marshaling of resources, in preparation for another surge.

“Mr. Meredes played a major role in the crimes going on in this area,” Graham said. “But we don’t believe he was the one supplying the money and man power for the operation. We’re still trying to track down that individual.”

“Do you think Richard Prentice has any connection to criminal activity in the park?”

Graham wasn’t sure who asked that question; it came from the back of the crowd. Had someone leaked the task force’s suspicions, or had Prentice himself sent someone to test how much the Rangers knew?

“We have no reason to believe Mr. Prentice has anything to do with the crimes in the park,” he said. Prentice was a jerk and a thorn in the side of federal and state officials in general, but being nasty and unpleasant didn’t make a man a criminal. Which didn’t mean the task force wasn’t watching him very closely. But Prentice had a lot of money, and a lot of lawyers, so they had to tread carefully, which meant not airing their suspicions to the press.

“What do you think of his plans to build a housing development at the entrance to the park?” asked the stringer for the Telluride paper.

“I don’t think my opinion on the matter is relevant,” Graham said. “I have bigger things to focus on at the moment than Mr. Prentice’s battle for public opinion.” He glanced at his watch; he’d been standing up here only five minutes. How much longer before he could make his escape?

“What do you have to say to Senator Mattheson’s charges that a multi-agency task force is an ineffective and expensive way to address problems better handled by local law enforcement?” The question came from the female reporter. She’d removed her sunglasses to reveal hazel eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. But there was no warmth in those eyes for him.

“I would remind Senator Mattheson that local law enforcement requested help from the federal government in addressing the multiple crimes that seemed to be originating from federal lands,” Graham said. “Law enforcement on public land has always been the purview of federal park rangers and the various federal agencies who oversee various federal regulations, from ATF to Border Patrol. This task force brings members of those agencies together to pool resources and provide a more focused approach to addressing crime in a vast and largely unpoliced area.”

“But in three months you’ve only made one arrest, and you’re no closer to identifying the person responsible for this crime wave,” she said.

“Real life isn’t like television, where every case is wrapped up in an hour,” he said, barely reining in his annoyance.

“And you don’t think Lauren Starling’s disappearance has any connection to the other crimes within the park?” she asked, recorder extended toward him.

“I believe I’ve addressed the question already.” He turned away, aware of her gaze boring into him.

“Captain?”

He turned and found Lance, cell phone in hand. “I think you’d better take this call,” the deputy said. He handed the phone to Graham, then stepped forward to address the reporters. “We’re going to have to wrap this up now,” he said. “Thank you all for coming.”

At first, Graham thought the sheriff’s deputy had manufactured the call, as a ruse to end the press conference early. Points for him, Graham thought as he turned his back to the reporters and spoke into the phone. “Ellison here.”

“Captain, Randall here.” Randall Knightbridge was the Bureau of Land Management’s representative on the team. His voice was strained, putting Graham on alert; this was no fake call.

“What is it, Randall?”

“Marco and I were patrolling in the Curecanti Recreation Area and we came upon a plane wreck. It looks recent—within the last day or so.” Marco Cruz was with the DEA, probably the best tracker on the task force—well, the best, except for Randall’s dog, Lotte. “A Beechcraft Bonanza,” Randall continued. “One casualty—the pilot.”

“Give me your coordinates and I’ll send a team right away.” Graham pulled a notepad and pen from the front pocket of his uniform shirt.

Randall rattled off the GPS coordinates. “You probably want to come with the team,” he said.

Graham tucked the notebook back into his pocket and glanced over his shoulder at the departing press. The curvy blonde was trailing the pack, headed toward a red SUV parked at the far end of the lot. For a moment he was transfixed on the tantalizing sway of her backside as she moved away from him. Too bad she was a reporter...

“Captain?” Randall’s voice recalled him from his fantasies.

“I’m here. What were you saying?”

“I said, there’s some interesting cargo here you’re definitely going to want to see.”

* * *

EMMA WADE STARED at the captain’s back through the windshield of her Jeep Wrangler—broad shoulders, muscular arms and yes, a very nice rear end. In other circumstances, he was exactly the kind of guy she’d go for—big enough that she wouldn’t feel like an elephant next to him. Strong. Intelligent. Too bad he was a jerk.

He finished one call and immediately made two more, then barked something at the sheriff’s deputy at his side. She was too far away to hear the words, but the tension in his expression and body language made her sit up straighter. Something was up.

Graham Ellison and the deputy headed for a black-and-white FJ Cruiser parked on the side of the task force trailer. Emma fastened her seat belt and started her vehicle. The press conference had been a bust as far as gathering any new information, but she didn’t have to go home empty-handed. Wherever the captain was headed, maybe there was a story there.

He could refuse to answer her questions at the news conference, but he couldn’t keep her off public land. Fresh anger rose at the memory of his easy dismissal of the idea that Lauren Starling might be a concern of his precious task force. The police had had the same attitude ten years ago, when Sherry had turned up missing. The next thing Emma knew, she’d been attending her sister’s funeral. She gripped the steering wheel of the Jeep until her knuckles ached. Captain Ellison might think he’d heard the last from her about Lauren, but he was wrong. She wouldn’t let another family suffer the way hers had if she could help it.

She eased off the accelerator, letting the Cruiser get farther ahead. Unpaved roads made following easy—she could track the plume of dust that rose behind the speeding vehicle, her own vehicle hidden by the dirty cloud.

When the Cruiser’s tracks turned off the road, headed across the prairie, she hesitated only a fraction of a second before following. The Jeep bounced over the rough terrain, rattling her teeth, and she prayed she wouldn’t blow a tire. They were headed away from the canyon that gave the park its name, across an expanse of rocky ground pocked with sagebrush and piñon trees, deep into the roadless wilderness area where few people ventured. All that largely unpatrolled public land had proved attractive to the criminals who’d taken advantage of sheltered canyons and abandoned ranch buildings to plant marijuana, manufacture methamphetamine and smuggle people and illegal goods. Hence the need for the task force, though public opinion wasn’t convinced that the influx of law enforcement had been much of a crime deterrent.

The dust was beginning to settle around two black-and-white Cruisers by the time Emma parked the Jeep a few yards behind them. As she climbed out of her vehicle, she focused on the mass of wreckage behind the cops: the tail and one wing of a small plane pointed skyward, the nose crumpled against the prairie. She took a couple of pictures with her digital camera then, aware of at least two cops glaring at her, strode forward with all the confidence of a journalist who knows she has every right to be where these men didn’t want her.

“Stop right there, ma’am.” A rangy officer in a long-sleeved brown shirt, khakis and a buff Stetson stepped out to meet her. A blond-and-black police dog stalked at his side, golden eyes fixed on her.

“Hello, Officer. I’m Emma Wade, from the Denver Post.”

“You need to turn around and leave, Ms. Wade. This is a crime scene.”

“Oh?” She directed her gaze over his shoulder, to where the captain and two other officers were huddled at the door of the crashed plane. “What kind of crime? Was the plane carrying drugs? Illegal aliens? Some other contraband? Did anyone survive the crash? Do you know who the plane belongs to?” She took out her reporter’s notebook, pen poised. She didn’t really expect him to answer any of her queries, but sometimes interrogating men who were more used to assuming the role of interrogator yielded interesting results.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the plane, then back at her, his expression tense. “No comment,” he said.

“Then I’d better talk to someone else.” She started forward, but he put out his arm to stop her.

“You really need to leave,” he said.

“After I’ve driven all the way out here?” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll stay.”

“Then you’ll have to wait over there.” He motioned in the direction of her Jeep.

Clearly, he wasn’t going to let her any closer. Better to wait him out. “All right.” She replaced the notebook in her purse. “Tell Captain Ellison I have some questions for him when he’s finished.”

She turned and walked back to her vehicle, not in any hurry. Once there, she rummaged in the glove compartment until she found a pair of binoculars. She leaned against the Jeep and trained the binocs on the wreckage.

Debris littered the area around the crash—chunks of fiberglass and metal, a tire, a plastic cup, the remains of a wooden crate. She focused in on the crate and made out the words Fragile and Property of— Property of whom?

She scanned to the right of the crate and froze when she found herself looking into a pair of eyes the color of hot fudge, underneath craggy brows.

Angry brown eyes, she corrected herself, that belonged to Captain Graham Ellison. He glared directly at her and she gasped and drew back as he stalked toward her.

By the time he reached her Jeep, she’d lowered the binoculars and was doing her best not to look intimidated, though the site of the big bear of a man glaring at her was enough to make a guilty person tremble.

But she hadn’t done anything wrong, she reminded herself. “Hello, Captain,” she said. “What can you tell me about this plane crash?”

“Why did you follow me out here?” he asked.

“I’m a reporter. It’s what I do— I track down stories.” She took out her notebook and pen. “When do you think the plane crashed? It looks recent, considering the broken tree limbs are still green, and the scar in the earth looks fresh.”

“So now you’re an expert?” Irritation radiated from him like heat, but she was no longer nervous or afraid. His intensity excited her, both professionally and—she wasn’t going to analyze this now, only note that it was true—personally. Being attracted to Captain Ellison might complicate things a little, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t do her job.

“Not an expert,” she said. “But I’ve been a crime reporter for a while now. Who does the plane belong to? Do you know?”

“Whoever he is, he’s dead.”

“Oh.” Her pen faltered, leaving a scribble on the notebook. “I suppose it would be difficult for anyone to survive a crash like that.”

“Oh, he survived,” Ellison said. “Then someone put a bullet in him.”

She swallowed hard. She didn’t like this aspect of her work, dealing with violence. But finding justice for victims often began with exposing the particulars of the crime. “How was he killed?”

“He was shot. In the chest.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Who do you work for, again?”

“The Denver Post. I’m with the Western Slope Bureau.” She was the Western Slope Bureau. While she wrote stories about everything from local festivals to water rights, she specialized in crime reporting. The attempted arrest and subsequent murder of Raul Meredes had focused her attention on The Ranger Brigade—a romantic name for a disparate collection of officers from all the federal law enforcement agencies.

“If you’re so interested in this story, maybe you’d like a closer look.” He took her arm and pulled her toward the plane.

She didn’t protest. Clearly, he wanted to shock her, to frighten her even, but she’d seen death before. Whatever that plane held, she’d study it objectively and write about it later. She’d show the captain she was tougher than he thought. She wouldn’t be bullied or intimidated just because he didn’t like the job she was doing.

The pilot slumped sideways in his seat, safety belt still fastened, his shirt stained brown with dried blood. Flies buzzed around him, and she swallowed hard against the sickly stench that rose to greet her. “Recognize him?” the captain asked. He still held on to her arm, as if he feared she might bolt.

She started to look away, to shake her head, but that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? For her to be horrified and repulsed. She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to lean closer, to study the dead man, whose face was turned away from her. When she did so, true horror washed over her. She fought to breathe, and tears stung her eyes.

“What is it?” the captain shook her. “You’re not going to be sick, are you?”

She shook her head and wrenched away from him. “I...I do know him,” she gasped, then covered her mouth with her hand, fighting nausea.

“Who is he?” Ellison demanded.

“His name is Bobby Pace. I... He... We were dating. I went out with him two nights ago.”

Chapter Two

The stricken look on Emma Wade’s face made Graham feel like the lowest form of jerk. He’d been furious with her for nosing her way into his investigation, but that didn’t give him the right to treat her so cruelly. “Come on.” He put his arm around her and turned her away from the sight of the dead man. “I’ll take you back to headquarters and we can talk there.”

“I’ll be fine.” She tried to rally, but fresh tears streamed down her face.

“I’ll have one of the officers bring your Jeep,” he said. “You come with me.”

She didn’t protest as he helped her into the Cruiser. “Bring her Jeep with you when you come back to headquarters,” he told Randall, then he climbed into the driver’s seat.

Neither of them said a word as the vehicle bounced over the rough terrain. He kept stealing glances at her. She’d stopped crying, and was staring out the windshield with the look of someone who wasn’t seeing what was right in front of her. Even in her grief, she was beautiful; he fought against the desire to hold and comfort her. She was a reporter, and a potential witness in his case. He needed to fight his attraction to her and keep his distance.

At headquarters, he led her into his cramped office at the back of the trailer and moved a stack of binders to make room for her in one of the two folding chairs in front of his desk. The administrative assistant who helped deal with the mountains of paperwork the job entailed was off today, so they had the building to themselves, at least until the rest of the team got back from the crash site. He opened a bottle of water from the case that sat in the corner and handed it to her, then pulled the other folding chair alongside her. “First, I apologize for being such a jerk back there,” he said. “I get a little...intense, sometimes.”

“And you don’t like the press.” Her eyes met his over the top of the water bottle. They were the green-gold of dragonflies, he thought, fringed with gold-tipped lashes.

Focus, he reminded himself. “The press sometimes makes my job more difficult.”

“And men like you make my job more difficult.” Amusement glinted in those beautiful eyes, and he had to look away.

“What can you tell me about the man in the plane?” he asked. “Was he the pilot?”

“Bobby was a pilot. I never saw his plane, but I know he owned a Bonanza.”

“You and he had been dating?” Some emotion he didn’t want to look at too closely—jealousy?—pinched at him and he pushed it away. “For how long?”

“We only went out a few times. We weren’t lovers, just friends. He was having a hard time and needed someone to talk to.”

“What do you mean, having a hard time?”

“His little boy is sick, and needs a lot of expensive care. Bobby was worried about money—that’s the reason he took the job with Richard Prentice, even though he couldn’t stand the guy.”

“He worked for Richard Prentice?”

She nodded. “That’s how we met. I wrote a profile of Prentice for the Post last year. Bobby was kind of like a chauffeur—he piloted his Bonanza, or sometimes he flew a plane Prentice owned. He was on call to take Prentice wherever he needed to go.”

“When you saw him two nights ago, did he say anything about doing a job for Prentice the next day, or the next?”

“No. We didn’t talk about work. And he didn’t just fly for Prentice. He worked for anybody who wanted to hire his plane. He taught flying lessons, too.” She set the still-full water bottle on the desk and leaned toward him. “What happened? Did the plane crash because he was shot, or did that happen after they were on the ground?”

“We don’t know, though someone would have to be pretty stupid to shoot the pilot while they were still in the air.”

“You’re sure there was a passenger?”

“We’re not sure about anything. But someone shot your friend, and someone took the cargo that was in the plane. And we found fresh tracks that looked like a truck or another big vehicle pulled up alongside the wreckage.” He clamped his mouth shut. He was telling her too much.

“I saw the busted-up crate,” she said. “What was in it?”

“We don’t know that, either.” Though Marco Cruz, the DEA agent who’d been patrolling with Randall, had recognized the markings on the crate.

“Do you think this is connected with Richard Prentice?” she asked. “Is he running a smuggling operation?”

“We don’t know. How well do you know him? You said you wrote a profile for the paper?”

“I spent two weeks visiting his home and shadowing him as he conducted business. He was charming. Arrogant, but when you have as much money as he does, maybe it comes with the territory.”

So she thought Prentice was charming? The idea annoyed him, probably more than it should, but he wasn’t going to waste any more time playing the polite card. “I’ll need you to tell me everything you know about Richard Prentice. And I want to see all your notes, recordings and any other material you collected while researching your article.”

“I’m not one of your officers who you can boss around, Captain,” she said. “If you really want that information, you can get a subpoena.” She stood, her face flushed, eyes practically snapping with fury. “And if you want to know about Richard Prentice, read the article.” She stalked out of his office, slamming the door hard behind her.

He stared after her, stomach churning. So much for his attempt to not be a jerk around her. But the thought of her and that arrogant billionaire...

“Captain! Wait ’til you hear this.” Marco Cruz, trailed by Randall Knightbridge, burst into the headquarters trailer. Lean and muscular, with skin the color of honey, Marco was the epitome of the strong, silent type. But at the moment, his face was more animated than Graham could remember ever seeing it.

“What’s up?” he asked, rising to meet them.

“I made some calls to some people I know,” Marco said. “I think my hunch about what was in that crate was right.”

“So what was in it?” Graham had no patience for top secret time-wasting, not when the agencies were supposed to be working together.

“I thought the crate looked just like the ones the military uses to ship Hellfire missiles. My sources in the army tell me they’ve had a few come up missing the last couple of years.”

“What, they just lost track?” Graham asked.

“That’s what I said,” Randall said. “But I guess people steal them to sell on the black market.”

“So what was a Hellfire missile doing in that plane?” Graham asked. “Provided that’s what was really in that box.”

“Hellfire missiles are what they use to arm unmanned drones,” Marco said.

The hairs on the back of Graham’s neck stood up. “Anybody with enough money can buy a drone from a private company. It’s not illegal.”

“But only someone with a Hellfire missile can arm that drone,” Marco said.

“Who around here owns a drone?” Graham asked.

Marco nodded. “That’s what we need to find out. And fast.”

* * *

FORGET GRAHAM ELLISON, Emma told herself as she unlocked the door to her house in a quiet suburb on Montrose’s south side. She didn’t need him to get to the bottom of this story. Safely inside, she dumped her purse and the day’s mail on the kitchen table.

“Meow!” A silver-gray tabby emerged from the bedroom and leaned against her ankles.

“Hello, Janey, darling.” Emma bent and scooped the cat into her arms. As she rubbed a finger beneath the furry chin Janey—for Jane Austen—purred loudly.

“How was your day?” Emma asked. “I had to deal with the most frustrating man.”

“Meow!” Janey said—though whether in sympathy, or simply because she wanted to be fed, Emma couldn’t say.

But she opened a can of Salmon Supreme and dumped it into Janey’s dish, then poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the table to try to organize her notes. She didn’t have that much, but she had enough to write a story about the plane crash. For a painful moment the image of Bobby’s lifeless body slumped in the pilot’s seat of his destroyed plane flashed into her mind and she felt a sharp pang of grief for her friend.

She swallowed her tears and opened her notebook. All the more reason to do everything she could to find his killer. Bobby had been a great guy—not a man she could fall in love with, but a good friend, and he deserved better.

Her doorbell rang, the loud chimes startling her. She hurried to the door and checked the peephole, and sucked in a breath when she saw Graham Ellison standing there. He was still in uniform, but he held a large bouquet of flowers in his hand, wrapped in green tissue paper.

She unlocked the door and opened it. “Captain, what are you doing here?” she asked.

“It seems like I’m always apologizing to you,” he said. “We got off on the wrong foot. Can we try again?”

She regarded him warily, trying hard not to notice how he towered over her, or how his shoulders were almost wide enough to fill the doorway. A man who made her feel dainty was a rarity, and she usually liked to savor the experience. But she had trouble relaxing around Captain Ellison. “Why should I give you another chance?” she asked.

“Because we both want to find out who killed your friend.”

It was the one answer that was sure to sway her. She held the door open wider. “Come in.”

He moved past her into the foyer, and handed her the flowers. “Peace offering,” he said.

“Come in here.” She led the way into the kitchen, and motioned to the table. “I was just going over my notes.” She found a vase in a cabinet and filled it at the sink.

“I’m not going to make the mistake of asking to see them.”

She flushed. “I don’t like being ordered around. Also—I have my own system for organizing my research material. It’s messy and it probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.”

“I shouldn’t have barked at you like you were one of my junior officers.”

She arranged the flowers in the vase and set it on the counter, then looked him in the eye, ignoring the way her heart sped up when she did so. “What is it about me you don’t like?” she asked. “Is it just because I’m a reporter? Because we’re on the same side here. I want to know who killed Bobby, and I want to see them brought to justice.”

He grimaced, as if in pain. “You’ve got it all wrong. Our problems aren’t because I don’t like you—they’re because I’m so attracted to you.”

Now her heart was really racing, and she felt as if she’d swallowed battling hummingbirds. So she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the heat between them. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

He looked around the apartment, everywhere but at her. His gaze finally focused on the cat, who had finished eating and was meticulously grooming herself. “When I saw you in that crowd of reporters, I had a hard time not staring.” He hazarded a glance her way. “Is this going to get me into trouble?”

“That depends on your definition of trouble.”

He shoved both hands in his pockets. “We’re both professionals. Maybe we should keep it that way.”

“Or maybe we should be more honest.” She stepped out from behind the kitchen counter, moving toward him. “I’m an adult. I think I can handle my job and my personal life without ruining either.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m attracted to you, too, Captain. It takes a special man to appreciate a woman like me.”

His gaze swept over her like a caress. “Then those other men are fools.”

She laughed. “Maybe. But some men don’t know how to handle a woman who’s five-eleven and probably outweighs them. I’m no delicate flower.”

“I’m not interested in flowers.” His gaze drifted to her cleavage. She had plenty of that. And an ample backside. He wouldn’t be the first guy to appreciate her killer curves, even if the women in fashion magazines never looked like her.

“So did you come here this afternoon to ask me out?” she asked.

“No. I came to ask for your help. You know a lot more about Richard Prentice than I do. Maybe you can give me some insight.”

“Richard Prentice?” The mention of the billionaire surprised her. “Do you think he’s behind Bobby’s death?”

“We don’t know. Your friend worked for him, so that seems the most logical place to start our investigation.”

He still wouldn’t look her in the eye, a sure sign he was holding something back. “You’re not telling me everything,” she said. “Why focus on Prentice? Do you think he’s connected to other crimes in the park?”

“I’d rather you tell me what you think—and what you know—about Prentice.”

She considered the question for a moment, sorting through her impressions of the billionaire. “He pretty much hates the federal government, but you already know that,” she said. “He’s made a career of forcing the government’s hand and of trying to circumvent regulations he sees as controlling and unjust. But he’s never broken the law.”

“Never that anyone can prove.”

“But you think he has now? Why? How?”

Graham shook his head. “I have no proof that Mr. Prentice has anything to do with any crime—his only connection is that the dead pilot was known to have worked for him.”

“But you have your suspicions.”

His silence was as good as a confirmation. “I understand why you won’t say anything more,” she said. “And I wouldn’t write anything about Mr. Prentice without a lot of proof to back it up—he can afford very good lawyers and we both know he’s not afraid to use them. But anything you can tell me I’ll keep in confidence until it’s appropriate to write about it.”

The line of his jaw tightened, but he gave a single nod. “I can’t tell you everything I know about the case,” he said. “But I will say—off the record—that the cargo we think was in that plane could be very dangerous, and it’s definitely illegal.”

“Will you tell me more when you can?”

He hesitated. “When I can, yes.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I know about Richard Prentice, even though I don’t see how it can help.”

He took his hands out of his pockets, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. “Good. Why don’t we discuss this over dinner?”

“Is this a date?”

He flushed. “No. Yes. Why don’t we call it dinner and see what happens after that?”

* * *

EMMA INSISTED ON driving her Jeep to the restaurant, with Graham following in his Cruiser. He’d do whatever it took to put her at ease, though he wasn’t used to yielding control. The little Italian bistro occupied an old house off a side street, and at this time of day they were the only customers, but the owners seemed to know Emma and greeted her warmly. “I just took some lasagna out of the oven,” the woman, who looked more like Sophia Loren than an Italian grandmother, said.

“And we have a new wine you should try,” her husband, a short, burly man added.

Emma looked at Graham. “Does that sound good to you?”

His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn’t had anything but coffee since breakfast. “It sounds great.”

The couple left them alone in a secluded booth and Graham studied Emma across the table, vowing that he wouldn’t press her for information, even though he was dying to know her impressions of Richard Prentice—and what her relationship with the billionaire might have been. She’d insisted on changing before they went out, and instead of the jeans and boots she’d worn earlier, she’d put on a long dress made out of some light fabric that clung to her curves. A colorful scarf around her shoulders brought out the green in her eyes. She looked soft and sexy and too distracting for him to be comfortable. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about her suggestion that they explore their mutual attraction. Getting involved with a reporter struck him as one of the worst ideas he’d ever had.

But if the reporter was a beautiful woman...

“My editor at the Post wanted a story on Richard Prentice after his run-in with the county officials here over his attempts to force the federal government to buy the land he owns near the park entrance,” she said after their host, Ray, brought their wine. “I approached Prentice with the angle that this would be a chance for him to tell his side of the story. He ended up inviting me to visit his ranch and shadow him for a couple of weeks.”

“Maybe he wanted you close, where he could keep an eye on you.” His fingers tightened on the stem of the wineglass as he thought of how close Prentice had probably wanted to be to her. As close as Graham himself wanted to be.

“Maybe. But it worked in my favor. I met the people who worked for him, saw how he lived.”

“What did you think?”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You really should read the article.”

“I will, but give me your impressions now.”

“All right.” She spread her hands flat on the table in front of her. She wore rings on one thumb and three fingers of each hand. Her nails were polished a shell pink, the manicure fresh. “First of all, he’s smarter than you probably think. A genius, even. He can rattle off phone numbers of almost everyone he’s ever called, remember minute details about things that happened years ago—he practically has a photographic memory.”

“Smart people can still do dumb things.”

“Yes. And he does have a weakness—because he’s very smart, he views everyone else as dumb. That kind of arrogance leads him to underestimate his opponents sometimes.”

The woman, Lola, brought two plates loaded with thick slabs of fragrant lasagna, accompanied by buttered and seasoned zucchini. “This looks amazing,” Graham said as he spread a napkin in his lap.

“It is.” Lola beamed. “My special recipe.”

“It really is divine,” Emma said. She slid a forkful into her mouth and moaned softly.

The sound made Graham’s mouth go dry. He shifted to accommodate his sudden arousal, and took a long sip of wine. When was the last time a woman had affected him this way? Maybe when he was a teenager—twenty years ago. “What kind of people does Prentice hang out with?” he asked. Focus on the case.

“All kinds. Politicians. Foreign businesspeople. Fashion models. Celebrities. Lobbyists. People who want favors. People he can order around. He’s not the kind of man who has close friends, though, just a lot of contacts and acquaintances.”

“Any romantic interests?”

She shook her head. “He’s been photographed with a lot of beautiful women at various events, but he treats them like accessories—necessary to his image, but there’s no real attachment there. He likes women, but they’re not an obsession. And in case you’re wondering, he was a perfect gentleman around me.”

Neither perfect nor gentleman fit his impression of Prentice, but he was relieved to know the man hadn’t taken a personal interest in Emma. “How did he get all that money he has?”

“He was vague about that. Some of it he inherited. He owns a lot of different companies. He’s sort of known for running competitors out of business, and for buying up marginal concerns and selling off their assets. As you might have gathered, he has no qualms about using people or situations for his own gain.”

“He clearly enjoys sticking it to the government.”

“Definitely. Believe it or not, he sees himself as a kind of champion, fighting against the feds. And there are people who look up to him for that.”

“Even if it means destroying historic landmarks or using public land for private gain?”

She nodded. “I met some of his fans—everybody from property rights lobbyists to extremist groups who believe everything the government does is wrong.”

“So if he wanted to do something illegal, he could probably find people to help him.”

“I’m sure. And they don’t have to be fans of his—he has enough money to pay anyone to do what he wants. For some people that’s enough.”

He had enough money to buy a drone and a black-market missile to arm it. And people who’d cheer him on as he did so. “I’ll probably have more questions for you later, but right now, let’s change the subject to something less grim,” he said. “Why did you decide to be a reporter?”

She laughed, and the sound sent a tremor through his middle. “You don’t have to sound so disgusted. I’m not an ax murderer.”

He winced. “Sorry. Let’s just say a lot of my interactions with the press haven’t been positive.”

“I can’t imagine.” Suppressed laughter again.

Point taken. “So I’m not Mr. Personality. But I really do want to know what drew you to journalism.”

She sat back and took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for an ordeal. “All right, I’ll tell you. When I was nineteen, a freshman in college, my older sister disappeared. She was a nurse, working nights at a hospital. She got off her shift early one morning and was never seen or heard from again.”

He felt the pain behind her words, despite her calm demeanor. “How awful for your family,” he said, the words completely inadequate.

She nodded. “Sherry had left once before without telling the rest of us—she’d run off to Vegas with a guy she was dating for a wild weekend. At first the police suspected a repeat of that caper. We tried to tell them that this time was different, but they wouldn’t listen. They didn’t take the case seriously until we went to the newspapers. A reporter took an interest in the case and helped us. Eventually, the police found her body, not far from the hospital. She’d been murdered. They never found her killer.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” She withdrew her hand and sipped wine. “Anyway, that reporter inspired me. I wanted to help others the way she helped our family. Sometimes that means riding the police—reminding them to do their job.”

“Those questions you asked about Lauren Starling.” Understanding dawned.

She nodded. “She’s another woman who’s gone missing, and no one is doing anything about it.”

“We are keeping our eyes open for any sign of her. But we don’t have anything else to go on.”

“I’m still trying to find out more about her and the case,” she said.

“If you learn anything, let me know,” he said. “I’m not a callous jerk, no matter what kind of first impression I gave you.”

She patted his hand, which still rested on the table in front of her. “You still have a chance to redeem yourself.”

They finished the meal over espresso and small talk about each other’s background. He told her about growing up in a military family, playing football, then joining the marines and eventually moving into law enforcement with the FBI. “No wife or family?” she asked.

“I was married once, but it didn’t work out. I guess I’m one of those men who’s married to his work. No kids. What about you?”

She shook her head. “I was engaged once, but we both thought better of it.”

By the time Ray brought the check, Graham felt almost comfortable with her. He debated asking her out for a real date, but decided to wait. He’d be sure to see her again; the case gave him a good excuse to do so. No need to rush things and risk screwing up.

He walked her to her Jeep and lingered while she found her keys and unlocked the car door. “Here’s my personal cell.” He wrote the number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. “Call me anytime.”

“About the case—or just to talk?” Her tone was teasing.

“Either. Maybe you’d like to give me your number?”

“I could make you work for it. I’ll bet the FBI could find it out.”

“I probably could, but I’d rather you gave it to me voluntarily.”

She smiled and opened her purse. But she never had a chance to write down her number. The loud crack! of gunshots shattered the afternoon silence. Her screams rang in Graham’s ears as he pushed her to the ground.

Chapter Three

Emma might have fantasized about Graham on top of her, but not like this. Gravel dug into her back, she couldn’t breathe and her ears rang from the sound of gunshots. The smells of cordite and hot steel stung her nose, and she realized he had drawn a weapon and was firing. A car door slammed and then a revving engine and the squeal of tires signaled their assailant’s escape.

Graham rolled off her, then took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She brushed dirt from her skirt, and tried to nod, but she’d always been a lousy liar. Her legs felt like jelly and she was in danger of being sick to her stomach. “I think I need to sit down.”

Ray and Lola emerged from the restaurant and crowded around them, followed by most of the waitstaff and half a dozen customers. “We called 911,” Lola said. “What happened?”

“Someone shot at us.” Graham put his arm around Emma. She leaned on him and let him lead her back inside. The reality of what had happened was beginning to sink in. They could have been killed—but why? “Can you bring us some brandy?” he asked.

Ray left and returned with a snifter of brandy. Graham held it to Emma’s lips. “Drink this.”

She did as he asked, then pushed the glass away, coughing, even as warmth flooded her. “I don’t even like brandy,” she gasped.

Graham handed her a handkerchief. It was clean, white linen and smelled of lemon and starch. She wiped her watery eyes, leaving a smear of black mascara on the pristine cloth. “If this is a typical date with you, I think I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.”

She tried to return the handkerchief, but he waved it away. “You keep it. I promise you, this isn’t typical.”

“Did you see anything?” she asked. “The shooter, or their car?”

“A man dressed in black, wearing a ski mask and a watch cap. He drove a dark sedan, no license plate.”

“I’m impressed you saw that much—I didn’t see a thing.”

“I make it a habit to notice things. The car was parked at the corner, waiting for us.”

“So this was planned—not a random drive-by.” She searched his face, hoping for some reassurance, but his expression was grave. Worried.

“I don’t think so, no. Do you know anyone who might want you dead?”

The question brought another fit of coughing. “Don’t sugarcoat it, okay?” she said when she could talk again. “What do you mean, does someone want me dead? What kind of a question is that?”

He patted her shoulder, his hand warm and reassuring. But these definitely weren’t the circumstances in which she wanted to be bonding with a guy. “Can you think of any reason someone would want to shoot at you?” he asked.

The idea was as unsettling as the shots themselves. “No. I’m just a writer. And a nice person. I don’t have enemies.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you’ve written a story that’s upset someone.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What about Richard Prentice? What did he think of the profile you wrote about him?”

“He said he liked it—that I’d made him sympathetic. I mean, that’s not what I set out to do, but that’s how he took it.”

“You said you’ve been a crime reporter. Has your reporting been responsible for putting any violent criminals away—people who might have vowed revenge?”

“I’ve reported on all kinds of crimes, but no one’s ever threatened me, or even sent me angry letters.” She knotted the handkerchief in her hand. “I thought that kind of thing only happened on television.”

He squeezed her shoulder, and she fought the urge to lean into him and close her eyes. No, she had to be strong. “Tonight, when you’ve had time to think about it, I want you to make me a list of every story you’ve reported on that led—directly or indirectly—to the conviction of someone,” he said. “We can run a check to see if any of them are out of prison. I’ll work with the local police to determine if any of those people have been seen in the area.”

“Shouldn’t you leave this to the local police entirely? I thought your territory was the public lands.”

He frowned. “It is. But when someone shoots at me, I take a personal interest.”

“So maybe this isn’t even about me.” The idea flooded her with relief. “Maybe the shooter was after you.”

“That’s possible.”

“Maybe whoever shot Bobby decided to go after you.”

“That’s taking a big risk, considering we have no leads in that case.”

“Maybe the person responsible doesn’t know that.”

He nodded. “Maybe not.”

“Sir?” A uniformed police officer stepped into the alcove where they were sitting. “I’m Officer Evans, with the Montrose police.”

“Captain Graham Ellison, FBI. And this is Emma Wade.”

“I’ll need a statement from each of you about what happened,” Evans said.

“Of course.”

A female officer joined them and led Emma away to question her about what had happened. Emma kept her answers brief; everything had happened so quickly she had few details to share. “What were you and Captain Ellison doing before the attack?” the officer asked.

“We were having dinner.”

“You two are dating?”

The dinner had been like a first date. But not. “I’m a reporter and I was questioning him about a case he’s working on.”

“What case is that?”

“The Rangers found a downed plane in Curecanti Recreation Area today. The pilot had been shot.”

The cop’s eyes widened. “Murder?”

“It looks that way.”

The officer shook her head. “When I joined the force, we might have had one violent death a year. In the past eighteen months we’ve had half a dozen. This task force doesn’t seem to be doing much to slow things down.”

Emma opened her mouth to defend Graham but stopped. Hadn’t she had the same criticism of the task force? Knowing and liking Graham didn’t change that opinion, did it?

“Did you see the shooter, or get a glimpse of the car?” the officer asked.

“No. Captain Ellison pushed me down as soon as we heard the first shot.”

“And you have no idea who would want to shoot at you?”

“No. Maybe it’s just one of those random things,” she said. “Or a case of mistaken identity or something.”

“Maybe so.” The officer put away her pen and paper. “We’ll do our best to find the person responsible. In the meantime, be careful.”

The officer left and Graham rejoined her. “Let’s go back to your place,” he said.

She nodded. All she wanted was a hot bath and a cup of tea, and maybe a movie to distract her from all the horrors of today—first Bobby’s death, then someone trying to kill her. It was too much.

When they reached her Jeep, Graham held out his hand. “I’ll drive.”

She started to argue—to tell him he was bossy and point out it was her car. “What about your Cruiser?” she asked.

“I can get it later.”

Weariness won over stubbornness and she handed over the keys without another word.

Neither of them spoke on the drive to her house. She was still too numb for words, and he appeared lost in his own thoughts. But he swore as he pulled the Jeep to a stop in her driveway. She sat up straighter, heart pounding. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t leave your front door standing open when we left, did you?” he asked.

She stared at the entrance to her house, registering that the door was open. Then she was out of the car before she even realized what she was doing, running up the steps. “Janey!” she shouted. “Oh, Janey!”

* * *

JANEY THE CAT turned out to be fine, though she was clearly upset. They found her hiding under Emma’s bed—a king-size affair with a puffy floral comforter and at least a dozen pillows. It looked feminine and soft and sexy—and it annoyed Graham that he could think these things while in the midst of a serious investigation.

“Is anything missing?” he asked as he followed Emma through the house, which looked undisturbed.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I was so worried about Janey I didn’t even look.” She cradled the cat to her chest and he felt a stab of envy. Yeah, he had it bad for this woman. Focus, he reminded himself.

“Then let’s look together.”

They checked the spare bedroom, living room and dining room. Everything was neat and orderly, nothing out of place. When they got to the kitchen she stopped. “My papers,” she said.

“What papers?”

She pointed to the kitchen table, where a half-empty wineglass and a pen sat. “I was going over the notes I took today—at the press conference and at the crash site. They’re gone.”

She set down the cat and hurried back into the living room and through a door to what turned out to be her office. “My laptop is gone,” she said. She opened the accordion doors leading to a walk-in closet. “My files are gone, too.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them.” She pointed to the floor of the closet. “There was a rolling cart here, with two file drawers. It’s gone.”

“What was in the files?”

“Notes about articles I’ve written. Transcripts of interviews. Some photos.”

“Everything?”

“The last couple of years’ material. Anything older than that is in storage.”

“You’ll need to report this to the police,” he said. “Then you can’t stay here.”

There he went, being bossy again. “Excuse me, but this is my home and I’ll stay here if I want,” she said.

“It’s not safe.” He turned away, as if that were the final declaration on the subject.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back toward her. “Wait just a minute. We don’t know if this is connected to the shooting or if the people who took my files mean me any harm.”

“And we don’t know that they don’t. Do you want to take that chance?”

Of course she didn’t. But she didn’t want him thinking he could step in and rearrange her whole life for her. “I’m not leaving. I’ll change the locks and I’ll be careful, but I’m not leaving. Besides, where would I go?”

He pressed his lips together, as if debating his response. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “At least stay away for tonight,” he said. “The police will want to come in and take photos, dust for prints. You can go to a hotel. While you’re gone you can have someone in to change the locks.”

He’d softened his tone—less bossy, more concerned. Her stomach knotted with indecision. She looked around and spotted Janey in the armchair where she liked to nap, busily grooming herself. “A hotel won’t let me bring my cat and I won’t leave her,” she said. “Not when she’s had such a terrifying day.”

“Then stay with me. Janey can come, too.” At her stunned look, he added, “I have a guest room. And a security system. No one will bother you.”

“Fine.” She was too tired—and yes, too scared—to argue anymore. “And thank you,” she added.

She called the police and half an hour later found herself telling her story to an officer. While she dealt with the officers, Graham stepped out and made several calls. Every time she looked up she could see him out the window, pacing back and forth across her front lawn, phone to his ear. She had the feeling if she hadn’t agreed to come with him tonight he would have insisted on staying and standing guard. She wavered between being touched by his kindness and concern, and annoyed at his overprotectiveness.

When the police told her she was free to go, she coaxed Janey into her carrier, packed an overnight bag and stowed everything in her Jeep. One of the officers had driven Graham back to the restaurant to retrieve his Cruiser, and she followed it out of town, toward the National Park to an upscale neighborhood of large lots and lovely homes.

Graham turned out to live in a cedar-sided cabin with large windows providing a view of open prairie and the distant lights of town. He helped her carry in her and Janey’s things, stopping to punch a code into an alarm panel as soon as they entered. Then he led the way into a high-ceilinged great room. “Let me show you your room,” he said.

The guest room was Spartan but adequate, with a queen-size bed, an armchair and a large bath across the hall. Without asking, he helped her set up Janey’s litter box and bed, and filled the cat’s water dish in the bathroom and brought it back. “Do you have any pets?” she asked.

“I had a cat at my last posting, but my schedule makes it tough on a pet, so I decided not to get another one after Buster died.” He ran his hand along Janey’s flank and she responded with a loud purr. “That’s a pretty girl,” he cooed, and Emma felt a flutter in her stomach, as if she were the one he was stroking.

He looked up at her. “How about if I fix us a drink?”

She nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.”

She shut the door to the bedroom to give Janey time to settle in, then followed him into the living room. Though it was well into June, the night was cool, and he turned up the flame on a gas fireplace. “This is a gorgeous place,” she said, accepting the glass of wine he offered.

“I can’t claim any credit. A Realtor found it for me. Let’s sit down.” He motioned to the sofa.

She sat at one end of the leather couch; he settled at the other end, close enough that she could see the pulse beat at the base of his throat. She had a sudden memory of the feel of his body on hers, a heavy shield from danger.

“I’m sorry if I came across a little gruff earlier,” he said. “I’m used to giving orders all day, and when I see a problem, my natural approach is to try to fix it.”

“Except sometimes it’s not your problem to fix.” She sipped the wine and watched him over the rim of the glass. The apology had surprised her. She admired a man who could admit when he was wrong.

“Since I was with you when those shots were fired, my instinct has been to protect you. Call it sexist if you want, but that’s how I feel.”

“I’ve gotten used to looking after myself,” she said. “But I appreciate everything you’ve done. If I’d been alone, I’m not sure I would have reacted so quickly to those shots.” She shuddered, and set aside the glass.

“Hey, you did great.” He set aside his own glass and slid over to her. “You kept your cool under pressure. That’s one of the things I admire about you.”

“Oh.” Her eyes met his. “What else do you admire about me?”

“Would you think I was superficial if I said you have a beautiful body?” He caressed the side of her neck and brushed his lips across her cheek.

“Superficial can be good.” She turned her head and he covered her lips with his own. The kiss was hot and insistent. So much for holding back on their mutual attraction.

She slipped her arms around him and pressed against him, deepening the kiss. His body was big and powerful, and the need she sensed in him made her feel powerful, too. Maybe this was just what she needed, this physical distraction...

The strains of an Adele song jangled in the evening stillness. Graham raised his head and looked around. “My phone,” she said, and reached for her purse.

Unknown number flashed on the screen, and she clicked the icon to answer, prepared to give a phone solicitor a piece of her mind. “Hello?”

“You need to stop now, before you get hurt,” said a flat, accentless male voice.

“What are you talking about? Who is this?”

“If I’d wanted to kill you this evening, I would have,” the voice said. “Next time, I won’t miss.”

The line went dead. Emma stared at the phone.

Graham took the device from her hand and set it aside. “I heard,” he said. “Who has access to this number?”

“Lots of people,” she said. “I mean, it’s not listed, but it’s on my business cards. People at the Post have it. Friends. Business contacts.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, suddenly cold. “Maybe this is just a prank. Somebody trying to unsettle me.” She gave a shaky laugh, perilously close to hysterical tears. “And they’re doing a good job of it.”

Graham stood and pulled out his own phone. “I’ll have someone trace the call, though I doubt it will do much good. It was probably made from a throwaway.” His eyes met hers, and the hard look she found there frightened her all over again. “This isn’t a joke, Emma,” he said. “I think you’re in real danger.”

Chapter Four

Though Emma couldn’t think of a safer place to be than Graham’s spare bedroom, sleep still eluded her. Every time she closed her eyes, visions of what might have happened at the restaurant and the memory of that flat, menacing voice on the phone kept slumber at bay until the early hours.

Graham tapped on her door and awakened her a little after seven. “I wanted to let you sleep, but I have to get to the office,” he said when she answered his knock. “I wasn’t comfortable leaving you sleeping and alone.”

His gaze drifted over her, and she was aware of her disheveled hair and the open robe over her nightgown. He wasn’t leering or anything so crass, but she had the feeling if she’d suggested it, he wouldn’t have hesitated to remove the crisp uniform he wore and join her back in bed.

She resolutely shoved aside the thought, tempting as it was. As much as her body might have enjoyed the release, her mind wasn’t ready for that kind of involvement with the intense captain. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said, accepting the steaming cup he held out to her. “Do I have time for a shower?”

“Take all the time you need. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

By the time she’d finished the coffee, showered and dressed, she felt she had a better grip on her emotions. Janey curled up on a pillow and watched as Emma brushed out her hair and completed her makeup. Unlike her mistress, the cat had seemed perfectly content with their temporary quarters. “I’ll agree the curmudgeonly captain has a certain charm,” Emma said as she slipped on a pair of gold hoop earrings. “I just haven’t decided if that makes up for the fact that he doesn’t approve of what I do for a living.” Though he’d probably never admit it, she was sure Graham still viewed journalists as his adversaries.

Janey followed her into the kitchen, where they found Graham serving up eggs and toast. “It’s nothing fancy,” he said, and set a plate in front of her.

“It looks great. Thanks.”

He refilled her coffee, then set a bowl of water and another of food on the floor by the sink. “I opened up one of the cans of cat food you brought over.”

Janey rubbed against his ankles, her purr audible across the room. “She never gets quite that enthusiastic when I feed her,” Emma said, amused.

“I get along with most animals.” He took the seat across from her.

“Just not most people,” she said.

The corners of his mouth quirked up in acknowledgment of the gibe. He had nice lips, full and expressive. Her memory flashed to the kiss they’d shared last night, before the threatening phone call had destroyed the mood. What would have happened if the phone hadn’t rung? Would she have spent the night in Graham’s bed? And then what? They weren’t exactly on the same side of things right now. Yes, she’d agreed to help him as much as she could, but she wasn’t naive enough to believe he’d be even half as open with her. She’d have to dig and fight for information as much as ever. It didn’t strike her as a good formula for a healthy relationship.

“Were you able to trace the call to my phone last night?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No luck. Anyone who watches television these days knows to use a cheap throwaway phone that can’t be traced. And if the caller really was the same person who shot at us yesterday afternoon, he’s a professional.”

“I still don’t get why I’m a target all of a sudden,” she said.

“What was in those notes that were stolen from your house?”

“Nothing that wasn’t in the articles I wrote.”

He took a bite of toast and crunched, a thoughtful look on his face. “You must take notes on some things that don’t make it into the articles,” he said after he’d swallowed.

“Oh sure—little details, background information—but nothing important.”

“Were the notes you took during the weeks you spent with Richard Prentice in those files?”

“They were. Along with notes for a lot of stories. Everything I’d managed to pull together about Lauren Starling and her disappearance was in the file on the table. But why would they take everything?”

“Because they weren’t certain what they were looking for? Or maybe they wanted to disguise their focus—take everything so it wouldn’t be obvious what they were really interested in.” He mopped egg from his plate with a triangle of toast and popped it into his mouth.

“It’s not as if taking my notes would stop me from writing a story,” she said. “I still have my memory, and my recorder—that was in my purse. I could even go back and interview people again.”

“What are you working on right now?” he asked.

“I have to turn in a piece about your press conference yesterday.”

He made a scoffing sound. “You couldn’t have gotten much out of that.”

“I’ll have a few inches of copy, by the time I lay out the background behind the conference—Senator Mattheson’s challenge and Richard Prentice’s lawsuit.”

“I can’t see anything threatening in a story like that.”

“I’m also providing background for a story on the plane crash and Bobby’s murder, though because of my relationship to him, my editor is assigning another reporter to write the main article.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m trying to find out everything I can about Lauren Starling and her disappearance.”

“If it is a disappearance.” He held up a hand to forestall the objection he must have known she’d have. “I’m not saying she isn’t legitimately missing—only that we don’t have proof of that yet. And she does have a history of erratic behavior.”

“She didn’t show up for work.”

“At a job where she was rumored to be on her way out.”

The sharp look he sent her told her he knew she’d underestimated him. “I guess you’ve been doing your homework,” she said.

“I have. And everyone on the team has been on the lookout for any sign of Ms. Starling. Despite what you may think, we are taking this very seriously.”

“That’s good to know,” she said. “And thank you for telling me. I know you didn’t have to.”

He nodded. “Back to the problem of whoever threatened you. Maybe there’s something in your notes that you don’t realize is important, but whoever took them does. Maybe something you noticed about Richard Prentice that he doesn’t want someone to find out.”

“Do you really think Richard Prentice is behind this, or is it just that the man has made himself such a thorn in your side?” she asked.

He stabbed at the last bite of egg on his plate. “I already told you, I don’t have any proof that he’s done anything wrong. I just have a feeling in my gut that he’s up to something.”

“Raul Meredes was operating near Prentice’s estate, wasn’t he?” The criminal with ties to a Mexican drug cartel had been killed while attempting to take a college student who was conducting research in the area hostage, but law enforcement officers at the scene swore they hadn’t fired the shot that had ended his life. He’d been done in by a sniper, who fled as soon as Meredes was dead. The task force had linked Meredes to the deaths of several illegal immigrants in the park, who they suspected were part of a marijuana-growing operation and human-trafficking ring operating on public lands. If he’d lived to testify, he might have identified the person in charge of the operation.

“He would have had to cross Prentice’s land to get to his operations,” Graham said. “I don’t believe for a minute that Prentice didn’t know what was going on. The man has guards and cameras all over that place.”

“Maybe he thought it wasn’t his responsibility to report it,” she said. “He’d say he shouldn’t have to do law enforcement’s job for them.”

“He would say that, wouldn’t he?” Graham’s face twisted in an expression of disgust.

“Even if you’re right and he’s responsible for the crimes you’re trying to control, why target me?” she asked. “I was with him for hours at a time for two weeks and he never showed the slightest hostility. And that was months ago. Why suddenly decide I’m a threat?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with the pilot who died.”

“Bobby?” A dull pain centered in her chest at the memory of Bobby’s lifeless body slumped in the seat of his plane. “We were just friends. We’d get together to talk, mainly. It wasn’t anything serious.”

“Maybe Prentice doesn’t know that. He might have heard you two were dating and feared Bobby told you something he shouldn’t have. Like what that plane was carrying, and who the cargo was intended for.”

“What was the cargo?”

His expression grew wary. “We’re still looking into that.” He drank the last of his coffee. “If you’re done with breakfast, we’d better go. I need to get to work.”

“So do I.” She carried her plate and cup to the sink. “I can wash up.”

“Leave it. I have a woman who cleans for me. She’ll take care of them. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, though.”

“No, I’ll head back to my place. I’m sure the police have finished there by now.”

He turned toward her, his big body filling the doorway, effectively blocking her in the kitchen. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go there alone,” he said. “Whoever attacked before could be waiting for you.”

“He already took my notes and warned me off. He’s not going to waste any more time with me.” But she sounded more confident than she felt.

“Let me send someone with you. One of my men—”

“No! I do not need a babysitter.” She told herself he was merely concerned, not being deliberately overbearing, and she softened her voice, trying to appear less angry at his suggestion. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine,” she said. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

“I don’t like it.”

“This isn’t about what you like and don’t like. I’m not your responsibility.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue this point, too, but thought better of it. “Call me when you get to your place,” he said. “Let me know you’re okay.” He hesitated, then added, “Please.”

She wondered how much effort it took for him to add that last word. “I’ll call you,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He stepped aside to let her pass and she retrieved her bag from the guest room. He helped her load it and the cat supplies into her Jeep. “Thanks for taking me in last night,” she said. “I think I would have been a lot more upset if I’d been alone when I got that call.” Though she resisted his overprotectiveness, she had to admit his strong, calm presence last night had made her feel safe. She hadn’t worried about anyone getting past him to get to her.

“I hope I’ll see you again under better circumstances.” He put a hand on her arm, his gaze focused on her mouth, as if debating the wisdom of another kiss.

She made the decision for him, leaning in to kiss him. The contact was brief, but intense, heat and awareness spreading through her. His grip tightened on her arm, but he didn’t resist when she pulled away. “I’d better go,” she said.

“Call me,” he reminded.

“I will.” And in the meantime, she’d try to figure out exactly what she felt for Captain Graham Ellison, and what she wanted to do about those feelings.

* * *

“SO THIS CRATE definitely contained a Hellfire missile?” Graham studied the debris they’d collected from the crash site, each piece tagged and cataloged, lined up on folding tables or set against the wall in a room in the trailer that had formerly been used to store supplies. The charred bits of wood and twisted scraps of metal told a story, though it was up to the task force to put that story together in the right order.

“According to the investigator the army sent over from Fort Carson, it did.” Marco consulted a notepad. “They even know the serial number, a partial of which was stenciled on the box. If we find the missile, the numbers on the tail fin should match.”

“Where did the missile come from?” Michael Dance, a tall, dark-haired lieutenant with the Border Patrol, asked. The newest member of the task force, he was also recently engaged to the woman who’d been instrumental in helping them find and target Raul Meredes. Abby was finishing up her masters in botany from the University of Colorado.

“Originally, from a shipment of Hellfires destined for Afghanistan,” Marco said. “But a number of them disappeared along the way, probably to the black market in the Middle East and Africa.”

“So, how did it end up here?” Carmen Redhorse, the sole female member of the task force, with the Colorado Bureau of Investigations, asked.

“Anyone with enough money can buy anything,” Lance said.

“How much do you think one of these would sell for?” Michael nodded toward the busted crate.

Marco shrugged. “Half a mil? Maybe not that much, if you knew the right people.”

Lance leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. “So who do we know around here with that kind of smack?” he asked.

“Being able to afford a missile doesn’t mean Richard Prentice bought one,” Carmen said.

“But the fact that the missile was on a plane flown by a man who was known to work for Prentice gives us reason to question him,” Graham said. He turned to Lance. “What did you find out about Bobby Pace?”

Lance uncrossed his arms and stood up straight. “He keeps his plane in a hangar at Montrose Regional Airport. The Fixed Base Operations manager saw him there three days ago, checking out his plane, but Bobby said he didn’t have a flight scheduled. I asked if he seemed nervous or anything, but the man I talked to—” he checked his notebook “—Eddie Silvada, said Bobby always seemed nervous lately. Jumpy. Silvada thought it was just because he’d been having financial problems. His kid has cancer and even with insurance, the treatments are expensive.”

Graham nodded. This fit with what Emma had told him.

“Does he have other family in the area?” Carmen asked. “A wife?”

“Ex-wife,” Lance said. “Susan Pace. They’ve been divorced a year and she says they don’t talk much—just about the kid. She doesn’t know what he was up to.”

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