“Nash—”

He shushed her with a finger over her lips. “You have the most beautiful mouth I’ve ever seen on a woman. When I’m alone in this room with you, and the rest of the world is some distant nightmare outside that door, all I can think about is that kiss we shared yesterday.”

“You were delirious with fever. You probably aren’t remembering it accurately.”

At last those firm lips crooked up with a dangerous grin. “How’s my temperature now, Nurse Rodriguez?”

“Normal. Your fever hasn’t come back.” Was that hushed quiver of anticipation really coming from her throat?

Nash brushed the calloused pad of his thumb across her bottom lip, sparking a dozen different nerve endings. “My eyes are focused? My thoughts are sane? No delusions?”

Her mouth was parched with anticipation. “As far as I can tell, you’re … healthy.”

“Good. I just wanted to make sure we’re clear on this.” Then he leaned in, replacing his thumb with his mouth.

Crossfire Christmas

Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

USA TODAY bestselling author JULIE MILLER attributes her passion for writing romance to all those books she read growing up. When shyness and asthma kept her from becoming the action-adventure heroine she longed to be, Julie created stories in her head to keep herself entertained. Encouragement from her family to write down the feelings and ideas she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where this teacher serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Julie believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, this award-winning author now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and an assortment of spoiled pets. To contact Julie or to learn more about her books, write to PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA or check out her website and monthly newsletter at www.juliemiller.org.

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For the cast and crew of Grand Island Little Theater’s production of Twelve Angry Men.

I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of a show I’ve directed.

With particular thanks to Jeremy Johnson and Liz Boyle for the title idea for this book!

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

“You’re a dead man, Nash!”

DEA agent Charlie Nash slammed his back against the metal shelves that had blocked the spray of bullets and saved his life. One step slower and he’d be bleeding out on the floor like the young man lying in the open aisle beside Thug One.

“Kid?” He wasn’t really expecting a response.

He didn’t get one. Check one more black mark in the loss column of his soul.

Yet there was no time for guilt or regret or even grief. He’d spotted the trap the moment he’d pulled into the parking garage and would have backed out then, evading the threat that had trailed him seven hundred miles from Texas to Kansas City, Missouri. But with the rookie handler climbing out of his car without a clue, Nash had been left with no choice but to stay put and warn the young agent back into his vehicle.

Revealing himself to the three goons lying in wait hadn’t made a damn bit of difference.

The kid was still dead.

And he was still the Graciela cartel’s most wanted man.

The cop who’d put together the plan to stop them.

Nash pulled a bandanna from the back pocket of his jeans and tied it around his left thigh, trying to slow down the blood seeping from the wound there. As he tightened the makeshift bandage, he listened to the clomp of running feet, pinpointing the locations of the two remaining assailants as they tried to flank him. He ignored the throbbing burn in his leg and fought to calm his labored breathing so the clouds of stress and exertion in the open warehouse’s wintry air wouldn’t give his position away. He figured he had about two minutes—three if he was lucky—to find a way out of this mess.

The desk agent who’d met him in this run-down auto-parts warehouse near the Missouri River to try to help him reestablish his undercover persona hadn’t been so lucky. He’d wager most of the car parts in this place weren’t legal, and that Tommy Delvecchio had never been in the middle of a real firefight before. Stupid kid must not have been wearing his flak vest, judging by the size of that puddle of blood pooling beneath him.

If Delvecchio had been one of Nash’s operatives, he’d have trained him better than that. Hell. If he’d been one of Nash’s undercover operatives, he’d probably still be dead. Just like the other embedded agents whose covers had been blown.

Glancing over at the still figure crumpled on the floor between storage racks, Nash felt his gut twist with anger and remorse. “Damn it, Tommy. Told you I didn’t need backup.” All he’d asked for was cash and a new ID to be sent to a PO box. He hadn’t needed a personal delivery. He hadn’t wanted the kid to come all the way to K.C. “You should have stayed at the office.”

You can’t risk hiding out for more than forty-eight hours, boss. And you said you can’t trust anyone in the field. You need someone who isn’t part of the Graciela-Vargas turf war to do this for you. Nash could imagine Agent Delvecchio rising to attention beside his computer, eager to get on the next flight to KCI and prove himself. I’m not a field agent. They don’t know me. I can help.

Smart kid. Good logic. Still dead. Just like Torres and Richter back in Harlingen and Houston. Nash’s team was another man down, he had no ID on the traitor who’d marked them as cops, and he was on his own in this nightmare.

Pushing aside the distracting emotions that could get him killed, too, Nash quickly evaluated his options. The stinging smell of sulfur in the air told him the three shooters—down to two now—had used up a lot of their bullets coming after him and Delvecchio. But that didn’t give him the advantage it should have.

He kicked out the magazine from his Smith & Wesson and checked his own ammo supply before reloading the clip. Three bullets left. The rest of the ammunition and backup weaponry he needed were in the go bag lying on the floor beside Delvecchio. The only chance of a getaway was his truck, parked a good thirty yards from his position. And as far as he could tell, there were still two of Berto Graciela’s thugs in the warehouse with him.

Unless these were Santiago Vargas’s men. Vargas had been loyal to Berto’s older brother, Diego. Ever since Diego’s death two years earlier, the two had been vying for power within the organization. What did a few cops mean to either of them? Just collateral damage in a war to control a drug-trafficking pipeline that funneled cocaine, pot and an assortment of designer concoctions across the border—or straight into the U.S. at import traffic hubs like Houston, K.C. and Chicago.

But Nash’s team had been making progress. They’d fed the DEA precious intel, helping the agency shut down some key distribution centers. Now Nash and his men were dying.

How had they found him here in Kansas City? Who had found him? He was over ten hours away from his last encounter with Graciela’s men in Houston. Had they followed the kid? If so, how had they connected computer geek Thomas Delvecchio to him? Was there a hidden tracking device on his Ford F-250 he’d missed? Unlikely. He’d gone over the thing with a fine-tooth comb at a truck stop in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the last time he’d checked in with his captain in the Houston office and made the arrangements with Delvecchio.

There had to be a leak somewhere in the system. One of the DEA’s confidential informants wasn’t keeping things so confidential. Torres or Richter had let something slip in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or worst-case scenario? One of Graciela’s or Vargas’s men had infiltrated the Houston office and Nash’s men were at the mercy of a double agent.

That had to be the answer. A team didn’t lose three agents in a week unless someone was leaking inside information.

“You’re outnumbered, Señor Nash!” one of the thugs taunted, his accent rolling his Rs and making the gibe sound like a joke instead of a promise of death. “You are the mouse and we are the gatos. When you come out of your hole, we’ll be waiting to pounce.”

So at least one man had taken up position near the open garage door.

Time to stop speculating about who had betrayed him and deal with the threat at hand. Nash craned his neck to peer through a stack of sports car bumpers to gauge the distance and amount of open ground he’d have to cover before reaching his truck.

On a good day, he could do it in a matter of seconds. But this was far from a good day. And he didn’t have a location on the second shooter.

Time to go old school.

After slipping off the black felt Stetson that the years had shaped so perfectly to his head, he kissed the crown and set it on the shelf beside him, nudging it into clear view near the end of the row. Then he pushed to his feet and pulled down the pile of bumpers, creating a noisy diversion while he ducked into the next aisle and ran for his truck.

Boom. His hat flew off the shelf, giving him a twenty on Thug Three. The angle of that last shot told Nash the man was running parallel through the stacks with him.

Well, running was a relative term. Thug Three was an overweight man who moved with the grace of a lumbering buffalo, while Nash was hobbled by the wound on his leg.

But Nash was still faster.

Sorry, kid. I owe you one. He scooped up the heavy nylon go bag from the floor beside Delvecchio and limped toward the open garage area with a galloping gait. Twenty yards. Fifteen. He could feel the blood running down his leg and filling his left boot. Thank God the shot hadn’t taken out his knee or ankle.

Ten yards.

The damp wind and flakes of blowing snow pelted his face as he broke into the open garage area.

Ah, hell.

Thug Two stepped out from behind a rolling toolbox and shot at him. Either the guy had piss-poor aim or Nash was lurching on his gimpy leg more than he thought. One bullet smacked into the side of the truck bed, punching a hole through the black metal. The second shot went wide and shattered the driver’s-side window.

Nash raised his gun and squeezed the trigger.

Thug Two didn’t get off a third shot.

Nash swore when Thug Three stumbled out from shelves near the dead body by the garage door. Couldn’t a guy catch a break? Nash swept the broken glass off his seat, tossed the bag into the truck and climbed in behind the wheel. The big man silhouetted against the sunny glare of the snow outside was panting hard. But he wasn’t relying on perfect aim to stop Nash. He pulled out a second handgun and fired both in a smoky barrage of sparks and firepower.

Nash started the engine and stuck his left hand out the broken window. Bracing his wrist on the mirror to steady his aim, he pulled the trigger. With a flurry of Spanish curses, Thug Three dropped one of his weapons and shook his fingers. Lucky shot. Nash must have hit the gun and stung his hand.

But two shots and he was done. No way could he reach his bag on the floorboards across the truck and reload in time. Dropping the gun into his lap, Nash shifted the truck into Drive. He’d only irritated Thug Three. The big man clasped both hands around his remaining weapon and fired.

Nash stomped on the accelerator. A bullet smacked the windshield on the passenger side, splintering the glass into a web of cracks. The wheels spun until they found traction on the smooth concrete. A second bullet took out his side mirror. The truck lurched forward and barreled toward the exit. A third bullet found the open window and ripped through his left shoulder, spinning downward through the muscle, oblivious to the protective vest he wore.

The explosion of pain in his shoulder and back was instant and intense. Damn lucky shot robbed him of breath and jerked his grip on the wheel, sending the truck into a sideways skid. Squeezing his elbow to his side, Nash collapsed into the steering wheel, hugging his right arm around it—regaining control of the truck and making himself a smaller target. He was close enough to see the yellowed teeth of Thug Three’s smile as the man steadied the gun and took aim at Nash’s head.

But what good ol’ Texas boy didn’t know how to play chicken?

“For Tommy,” Nash wheezed, stomping on the accelerator. Before Thug Three could pull off the kill shot or dive out of the way, Nash plowed into him.

With a sickening double jolt, the truck bounced over the body and burst into the sunshine of the clear December afternoon. Nash raced away from the warehouse, clipping a couple of junker cars and jumping the curb out of the back alley before pulling onto the street.

“Brilliant plan, Nash,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he slowed to merge with a line of cars. His entire left side was on fire and the pain doubled every time he tried to catch a deep breath. No way to tell yet if the bullet had gone through or had clipped a lung and was bouncing around inside him. But he knew from the light-headed haze he had to shake off that he was losing a lot of blood. Delvecchio was dead and, like him, any hope that Nash had escaped to Kansas City undetected had literally been shot to hell. He was no closer to finding out the identity of the traitor who had exposed his men as undercover cops and marked them, and now him, for death.

Worse, he was on his own. He’d better report in to Captain Puente and tell him he was going off the grid until further notice. No more help from the remnants of his team. No more deaths on his conscience. He wasn’t putting any more of his people in the line of fire until he could figure this thing out.

Nash slowed to a stop at a traffic light and unsnapped the cell phone on his belt. After wiping away the clammy sweat that dotted his forehead, he searched the screen for Jesse Puente’s office line, punched it in and tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could twist around and untie the blood-soaked bandanna on his thigh.

The light turned green before the number picked up.

“Captain?” Nash dropped the bandanna in his lap and gripped the wheel again as he pressed on the accelerator. The responding silence raised every suspicious hackle Nash possessed. Puente liked the sound of his own voice too much for him not to start talking. “Who’s this?”

“Agent Cruz Moreno, Drug Enforcement Agency, Houston office.” Like Nash, the officer spoke with a hint of suspicion coloring his tone. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

A quick grunt of relief clouded the cold air leaching in through the truck’s shattered window. Cruz Moreno was the newest man Puente had recruited. He’d transferred over from the San Antonio office and was being trained to replace the slain officers working in the Graciela organization. Thank God Nash had convinced Captain Puente to hold off sending Moreno into the field. Although not as green as Tommy had been, he wasn’t up to speed yet on the intricacies of their long-term investigation. “This is Nash. Put the captain on.”

“Puente isn’t here right now.” Urgency replaced the caution in Moreno’s tone. “Where are you, man? The captain booked it out of here as soon as we lost contact with Delvecchio’s phone. Tommy missed his call-in time. Did you two meet up?”

Nash pulsed his grip on the wheel, his body feeling hot and chilled at the same time. And it wasn’t just his injuries messing with his ability to focus right now. “Tommy’s dead.”

“Dead? I knew that kid couldn’t—” Moreno’s bilingual curses pretty much summed up the grief and rage Nash felt. “I’m calling Puente on the other line. You need backup? An extraction?”

“No. I need to disappear. I need time to find this guy before he finds me. I’m gonna put a stop to this.” Nash released the steering wheel at the next stop and wadded up the bandanna to stuff it beneath his vest to stanch the wound. Pain knifed through him at the added pressure and he swore. “Tell Puente he can claim Tommy’s body in Kansas City.”

“Is that where you are?”

The agonizing jolt cleared his head for a split second, and Nash got the feeling he’d already said too much. Someone had leaked his name, along with Torres’s, Richter’s and Delvecchio’s, to Graciela’s or Vargas’s men. That someone could be listening in on the line right now. And even though Cruz wore the same badge Nash did, trusting anyone—even a fellow agent—just wasn’t going to happen. “Not anymore, Moreno. I’m halfway to Chicago,” Nash lied, wondering how far away he could get before another thug or the hole in his chest stopped him. “I’ll call again when it’s safe. Until then, I’m going off the grid.”

“What about backup?”

No. Solo was the only way to go until he knew who was killing his team. “If I’m as good at this job as I hope I am, I won’t need it.”

Bold words for a man whose left hand was going numb inside his glove and whose sheer will was keeping him upright.

“We’ve got no idea who’s behind this yet, so watch your back, Nash.”

“You, too.”

He could hear Captain Puente’s voice in the background, grousing on the other line as Moreno gave him a brief sit rep. Then Cruz was back, no doubt relaying a message. “Is this phone clean?”

“What?”

“Are you using the burner phone Tommy brought you? If Graciela’s men could track Tommy, then chances are they can locate you, too.”

Nash cursed. Rookie mistake. “I’m done.”

“Wait. The captain wants to know where in Chicago—?”

But Nash had already disconnected the call. He raised his aching leg to guide the wheel on the straight stretch of road, freeing his good hand to turn off the phone and raise it to his teeth to pry open the back. He pulled out the battery and GPS chip and spit them out on the seat beside him, going dark on any kind of satellite trace. Unfortunately, though, that meant he had no means of communication on him, either, until he could find a spot to stop where a bleeding man in a broken truck wouldn’t draw attention, and he could unpack the new phone in his go bag.

And since he was clearly off his game, Nash had driven into the heart of downtown instead of catching one of the highways and had the dumb luck to be caught in the heart of rush-hour traffic. Until he could get his bearings, until he could think this whole mess through and decide where he needed to go, he’d just keep driving.

He’d come to K.C. to hook up with an old friend, Jake Lonergan, a former agent who’d gotten out of the business. He’d hoped for a spare bed or sofa to bunk on for a night or two until he could make some inquiries and form a new plan of action. But Jake had a family now, complete with a wife and little girl, and another baby on the way. Nash seriously doubted his old friend would appreciate him bringing a drug war to his front doorstep.

He’d met a couple of guys at KCPD a little over a year ago, working on another case. But they weren’t the kind of buddies a desperate man called on for off-the-record help. He’d trusted every man on his team—would have called Torres or Richter in a heartbeat. But now they were gone. Besides, he didn’t want to be responsible for the deaths of any more cops. Whether the Graciela-Vargas war had extended its reach to Kansas City or they’d come here just for him, he could imagine they wouldn’t take too kindly to interference from anyone else who wore a badge.

Nash slowed his truck and followed the flow of traffic through a fancy shopping district decorated with more lights than he could count and window displays for the upcoming holiday. He hadn’t even thought about Christmas. Besides the fact his parents were gone and he had no siblings and was married to his work, he’d been too busy trying to stop the drugs and save his team these past few months. Celebrating the holidays was for men with families and kids who still believed in the kind of magic and hope he’d stopped believing in long ago.

Right now he just had to live long enough to ID a traitor and exact a little revenge on the man who’d sentenced his agent brothers to death. Legally, if he could. But a bullet to the head would be justice enough if he couldn’t find any other way to finish this.

Maybe he’d see Christmas next week. If he was lucky, he’d see New Year’s. He glanced down at the blood seeping through the hole in his leather coat.

Or maybe, if he didn’t clear his head and think of some options fast, he wouldn’t even live to see tomorrow.

* * *

“FINALLY. HERE’S THE horse I’ve been looking for.”

Teresa Rodriguez watched Laila Alvarez sag into her wheelchair, dropping the scissors and magazine she held into her lap. Despite the little girl’s brave smile and never-ending chatter, Teresa could tell that thirty minutes of making ornaments in the playroom of the Truman Medical Center’s children’s wing had taxed the eight-year-old’s energy.

Knowing her patients better than they sometimes knew themselves, Teresa slipped her hand over the glue stick on the table and dropped it into the pocket of her cartoon-print scrub jacket before Laila noticed. She nodded toward the image of a team of brown-and-white horses. “Those are Clydesdales. They grow big and strong and pull heavy wagons. They’ll be a nice addition to your stable.”

“Are they bigger than you?”

At five foot three, Teresa found that a lot of things, except her patients, were taller than her. “Bigger than you and me both.” She leaned in with a smile and gently took the magazine and scissors from her young friend. “How about I set the Clydesdale aside, and we can cut him out and put him on a new ornament tomorrow.”

Laila closed her fingers in a halfhearted grab. “But I want to finish decorating the tree.” She gazed longingly over at the Christmas tree in front of the bank of windows. An Appaloosa, a buckskin, a pinto, a palomino and a Lipizzaner stallion already hung from yarn bows in the branches, along with ornaments other children had made. “And I want one to hang in my room.”

“I said we could work until we ran out of supplies, remember?” Teresa gestured to the tabletop. “We’re out of glue. I’ll have to get some more on my way home. But we’ll finish them later. I promise.”

Despite the wistful expression in her cocoa-brown eyes, Laila nodded. She moved her small fingers to the picture of a barn and hay bales that she’d already glued to a piece of cardboard for Teresa to cut out and string a loop of yarn through. “I need a cowboy to watch the horses for me when I’m not here.”

“After I get the glue, I’ll go by a bookstore and find a magazine with lots of cowboys in it to bring to the hospital.”

“You’re the best nurse ever, Teresa,” Laila gushed on little more than a whisper.

Teresa smoothed her hand over the knit cap that covered the girl’s bald head. “You’re the best patient, sweetie.” With a quick glance at her watch, Teresa rose and turned Laila’s chair toward the hallway. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your room. It’s time for your medication, and I think maybe you can use a nap.”

“But I—”

“You want to be fresh and smiling when your mom and dad come in after work, don’t you?”

Laila nodded. “Can we show them the ornaments I hung up?”

“Absolutely.” Teresa parked her friend at the central desk to chat with an aide and a receptionist while she went into the dispensary and unlocked the prescribed medication. Then she wheeled her patient through the wide door to her room and locked the chair beside the bed before helping the determined girl stand and climb beneath the covers herself.

Teresa handed Laila the stuffed horse from her bedside table and the little girl hugged the well-loved toy to her chest while she chewed her tablets. After giving her charge a sip of water and tucking her in, Teresa checked the girl’s vitals and recorded the details and medication on her computer tablet. Laila was asleep before she was done.

“Oh, sweetie.” With a smile that was part admiration and part heartache, Teresa caught her long ponytail behind her neck and leaned over to kiss the girl’s pale cheek. Then she closed the blinds, unlocked the wheelchair and headed back into the hallway.

Returning to the playroom, Teresa quickly cleaned up their mess and pulled over an ottoman to set Laila’s artwork safely out of the way on the top shelf of the supply cabinet. As she climbed down to return the glue stick to a lower shelf, she made a mental list of other craft supplies they were running low on that she could pick up to keep the children who visited siblings or were patients here entertained. She suspected that Laila and a few of the other long-term care patients would be here over Christmas next week. Maybe she’d add some small gifts for them to her shopping list, too. Plan a party. Bring decorations from home to add more holiday color to their sterile environment. She had a couple of days off she could spend shopping, decorating and wrapping gifts. She glanced toward the waning sun and white flakes floating past the windows and grinned. If she cleared it with the doctors, maybe she could even bring the ingredients to help the children make snow ice cream.

No one should have to be alone on Christmas Day, denied the family and fun of the blessed celebration. No one should have to be sick or injured and in the hospital, either.

Humming a tune at the plan that was coming together in her head, Teresa locked things up and headed back to the nurse’s station to update her end-of-day reports. Although it had nothing to do with physical care, putting together a holiday party for the patients in the children’s wing would do wonders to raise their spirits. That was probably why she’d become a nurse instead of the artist she’d originally intended to be in college. Teresa was hardwired to help anyone in need. She needed to make a difference in other people’s lives.

Even if all she could do was make a little girl with a brain tumor forget her surgeries for a few minutes and bring a smile to her face at Christmastime, she was going to do it.

“There you are.”

Teresa looked up from her laptop to see a petite woman with dark brown hair and cheekbones that matched her own waddling up to the counter.

“Emilia.” She quickly stood to greet her oldest sister. The white coat and shadows beneath her eyes told Teresa that Dr. Emilia Rodriguez-Grant had just finished a long shift in the E.R.—if she wasn’t still on duty. “What brings you to the third floor?”

“Have you looked out the windows?” Emilia pointed to the bank of glass in the playroom before bringing her hands back to rub at her pregnant belly and the small of her back. “We’re supposed to get three to five more inches of snow on top of what’s already on the ground tonight.”

Here we go again.

Teresa inhaled a steadying breath but couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “It’s December in Missouri? Snow happens.”

“Don’t get smart with me.” Emilia tugged a lock of her recently bobbed hair behind her ear, practically clucking like a mother hen. “It’ll be dark soon. But the sun was bright enough today to melt some of the snow. You know when the temperatures drop, it will refreeze into ice. Driving will be very dangerous.”

Although she would’ve liked to blame this overprotective streak on Emilia’s pregnancy and the fact their mother had passed away just over a year ago, Teresa was far too familiar with her older sibling’s smothering concerns. It was both a blessing and a curse to be part of such a tight-knit, loving family. While she knew she was loved and would never lack for someone to care about her, she was the baby of the family, and asserting her independence was a challenge she’d been working on for most of her twenty-nine years.

“Thanks for the weather report. But I’ve been driving since I was sixteen—in worse conditions than this. I’ll be fine.”

“You know we promised Mama we’d look out for you.” Why hadn’t that dictate been given regarding any of her older sisters and brother? Maybe their father’s murder when she was a baby or the fact she’d been mugged her first summer out of high school or having a veteran cop for a big brother made them all unusually cautious about protecting their own. Still, it would be nice if one day her brother and sisters would see her as an equal adult and not that fatherless baby or traumatized teen. “I want you to head for home as soon as your shift is done,” Emilia cautioned.

Teresa risked a little nudge toward independence. “I need to pick up some groceries. And I was planning to do a little Christmas shopping.”

“Teresa—”

“Then I’m going straight to my apartment to bake cookies for Laila and the other pediatric patients to decorate. What kind of trouble can I get into buying baking goods and Christmas gifts?”

Emilia arched a dark brow. “Gamberro—” aka Troublemaker “—is your middle name, Teresa.” She tempered her skepticism with a smile and a hug. “Just remember you can call any of us if you have a problem with your car or the roads. I don’t want you stranded out in the cold.”

Were any of her older siblings getting the same lecture? Of course, they all had spouses and children at home expecting their arrival, who’d worry if they didn’t show up at a certain place at a certain time. Teresa didn’t even have a cat waiting for her at her apartment. She should be more appreciative of their concern.

“I won’t be. But just in case, I’ve got an emergency kit in my trunk, complete with blankets and flares, and I’ll keep my cell phone in my pocket.” Teresa tightened her arms briefly around her sister, then pulled back to touch Emilia’s distended belly. “Now you go home and get off your feet. Hug Justin and my nephew and get yourself and this little one some rest.”

The tension in her sister’s face eased as she placed her hand beside Teresa’s. “I think this one is going to be like her tía Teresa.”

“Pretty and smart?”

Emilia laughed. “A handful. I swear this one tosses and turns twenty-four hours a day. Not at all like when I was pregnant with her big brother.”

Teresa sobered with concerns of her own. “Do you need me to drive you home? Is your blood pressure spiking again?”

“No, no.” Really? Her family wouldn’t even let her do this little thing? “Justin is coming by the hospital to get me after he picks up Joey from day care. I’m fine. You just take care of yourself. Unless you want Justin to drive you home, too?”

Teresa bit down on her frustration and summoned a smile for her sister. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

Emilia cupped Teresa’s cheek before turning away. “Have you decided what you’re doing for the holiday yet?”

“I’m planning a Christmas party for the children here the afternoon of the twenty-fifth.”

“I mean Christmas morning. It would be fun for all of us to help with your party later in the day. We could make extra food and bring gifts. Joey and our nieces and nephews would have fun playing with the boys and girls here.” Teresa knew that look—the one that said I love you and You’ll need our help at the same time. “But you’ll be joining us all at AJ and Claire’s to unwrap presents and eat brunch, right?”

Teresa understood mixed emotions all too well. Just as much as she loved her family, she wanted them to respect her skills and maturity and desire to be who she needed to be. But that battle was for another time. Not the holidays.

Her answer was sincere. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Chapter Two

Nash couldn’t remember how long he’d been driving, and he had no clue where the highway was taking him.

Shaking off the fogginess in his head, he pulled off the next exit ramp and drove through some cookie-cutter neighborhood mecca. The front yards were dotted with wire reindeer and giant inflatable lawn ornaments. The snow and suburbia were as foreign to him as the need to find an ally who could help him.

He blinked away the frost forming on his eyelashes as his brain skipped from one random thought to the next. It was freaking cold here in Missouri; he had no driver’s-side window to roll up and he’d lost his hat. He loved that hat. It was a sentimental homage to the boys ranch where he’d lived and worked and gone to school after his parents’ deaths at the hands of a pair of drugged-up teenagers who’d invaded their home. Nash had grown up and taken a job with the DEA to combat the flow of drugs into Texas and other parts of the U.S., to stop another tragedy like his parents’ murders, to help troubled kids like he’d been find a healthier way to deal with the crap life threw at them.

He usually oversaw or handled undercover operations where an agent infiltrated a gang or cartel or independent meth lab to gather information to stop the drugs being made, trafficked or sold. But two of his agents had been exposed as cops and killed. So he’d gone undercover himself to find out how and why and who and had ended up with too many suspects and too little concrete evidence.

Somehow, Berto Graciela had found out he was a cop, too.

He was driving in circles.

Tommy Delvecchio was dead.

“Ah, hell.” A moment of painful clarity put the brakes on Nash’s rambling thoughts.

He’d come to Kansas City with one desperate plan in mind. Without knowing who’d betrayed him in Houston, he’d gone elsewhere to find a sanctuary where he could lie low long enough to safely figure out his next move.

He reconsidered calling Jake Lonergan, who’d left the DEA due to a nearly fatal head injury that had robbed him of his memory. Jake probably didn’t want any part of the violence chasing Nash to enter his happily-ever-after life. But, sitting in a pool of his own blood and panting for nearly every breath, Nash knew his luck was running out. It might cost him a friendship, but Jake was all he had left.

Taking his hand off the reloaded gun at his side, Nash brushed the snow off his lap at the next stoplight and reached inside the bag Tommy had brought him to pull out the untraceable phone. Even that subtle shift in his seat renewed the pain like a stab in the back. Thug One had winged him in the leg, creating a discomfort he could simply throw a bandage over. But Thug Three had got him good. He still couldn’t tell if the bullet had gone through or if it was lodged inside him somewhere. All he knew was that he was hurt. He was bleeding. And he wasn’t going to get any better on his own.

The light changed. A horn honked behind him before Nash stepped on the accelerator and moved along with the traffic past a busy shopping mall and a modern hospital. He debated whether or not to turn off into the hospital’s E.R. But if the men after him were smart—and clearly they were or they wouldn’t have tracked him to K.C.—they’d be checking E.R.s across the city looking for him. Besides, a gunshot victim showing up in a hospital was an automatic call to the local police and a subsequent alert to the DEA office in Houston. That was the kind of publicity he didn’t need. Until he knew who had set him up, trusting anyone, even a cop, wasn’t a good idea.

When he reached the next crossroads, Nash spotted a narrow two-lane road leading away from the suburbs and turned. He needed to get someplace without all these cars and people—someplace where he could put the first-aid kit in his bag to good use without anyone trying to help him or ask any questions. He needed a place where he could pull off and make sense of the dancing letters and numerals on his phone as he tried to recall Jake Lonergan’s number, which had been programmed into the phone he didn’t want to reactivate.

The truck wheels spun on a patch of snow-packed road and he dropped his phone to grab the wheel and keep the big Ford from skidding across the asphalt. Coming from Houston, he wasn’t used to driving in weather like this. Of course, if the world outside his cracked windshield hadn’t been such a blur, and he hadn’t been shivering from the icy wind blowing in through his busted window, he might have been able to handle the treacherous stretch of winding road he’d pulled off onto.

But he was hurt. He was bleeding. He was cold.

When he crested the hill and hit the next patch of black ice, Mother Nature finally did what a half dozen thugs in two different cities hadn’t been able to do.

She took him out.

Nash’s truck sailed off the shoulder of the road and plowed into the ditch. It careened up the other side and slammed into a tree. A wave of snow flew over the truck as he banged his head against something hard and blacked out.

* * *

TERESA DRUMMED HER gloved fingers against the steering wheel and hummed along with the Christmas music on the radio while she waited at the stoplight.

She tilted her gaze up to the big flakes of snow drifting from the charcoal sky into the light from the streetlamps. “See, Emilia?” She taunted the invisible big sister she felt arching a warning eyebrow over her shoulder. “Shopping’s done. Traffic’s fine and I’m on my way home with nary a problem whatsoever. And I did it all by my little lonesome.”

Not like a couple hours of defiant refusal to heed Emilia’s warning and go straight home in the nasty weather could really quell the nagging, indulgent voices of her siblings in her head.

You’re so good with children, but if you want any of your own, you’ll have to get serious about a man first. I’d already had Olivia and Maria by the time I was your age. A girl can’t wait forever.

But she could wait for the right one.

My husband has a friend I want to introduce you to. He has a good job at the college business office and he’s stable.

Dullsville. Sounded like another overprotective trap in the making.

You should move closer to us. They’re building new condos across the street. And it’s a better neighborhood.

She liked her apartment—had it decorated just the way she wanted. The neighborhood might not be prime real estate, but there were some good people living in her building. Besides, big brother AJ had taught each of his sisters, wife and nieces the basics of self-defense and personal safety. She could take care of herself.

I don’t want you driving without an emergency kit in your car, especially in winter. Flashlight? Jumper cables? Kitty litter? Make an appointment to get the tires rotated, too.

Done, done and done. Even before AJ, Emilia, Luisa or Ana had all mentioned reminders about winter driving safety to her.

Just because she longed for her family’s respect for her choices and a little bit of independence in her life, didn’t mean she was a naive fool. An optimist, yes. A resourceful go-getter. A hopeless holiday lover. But not a fool.

“Why can’t they see that?”

The light turned green, and Teresa cranked up the radio, turning her thoughts to something more pleasant. Like sugar cookies. And wrapping gifts.

She drove through the intersection after the cars ahead of her turned off toward the highway, and she continued on to the back-road shortcut to her neighborhood. The busy roads and businesses open late for holiday shopping gave way to country homes on hilly acreages. Then civilization thinned out to a recycling center and a shooting range. Finally, she was winding through woods and farmland. She’d pass through about two miles of bare trees reaching up like dark, gnarled fingers in the foggy twilight and pretty hillsides of undisturbed snow.

Although the twisting road was more dangerous than the straight lanes of bypasses and city streets, she loved this drive, especially in the winter. When the stars were out and the moon was full, it could be as bright as all the holiday lights on the Plaza. And on cold, damp evenings like this, with big flakes of snow swirling in and out of the shadows, it conjured up images of gothic romance, with mysterious heroes, hidden castles and storm-swept moors.

Teresa was imagining a castle hidden behind the frosted branches of the trees when she crested the hill and saw the tire tracks cutting through the snow at the side of the road. Automatically, she pumped her brakes and slowed, peering over the edge of the blacktop.

“Oh, my God.”

A silent alarm tightened her grip around the steering wheel. She braked again and pulled onto the shoulder for a closer look, angling her headlights toward the trees.

The tracks ran down into the ditch and up the next incline, leading to a black pickup truck that had finally been stopped short by the trunk of an old pine.

The truck’s lights were on. The plume of exhaust making a black spot in the churned-up snow meant the engine was still running. The accident was recent. Or else the driver wasn’t able to turn off the motor....

Gamberro is your middle name. Despite her sister’s teasing, Teresa didn’t believe she caused that much difficulty or misfortune. But she wasn’t about to walk away from trouble like this when there was something she could do to help.

Teresa clicked on her hazard lights and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She glanced ahead at the dark road. She checked the pavement behind her in her mirrors—equally dark. A curtain of falling snow seemed to mask her and the accident below from the rest of the world.

Had the driver called for help yet? Was he or she even able to call?

Taking a deep breath, Teresa pulled the hood of her parka up over her dark hair and unbuckled her seat belt. She pulled out the flashlight AJ had insisted she keep in her glove compartment and braced herself for the blast of winter outside. Deciding to leave the engine and heater running in case the driver was able to move and needed a warm place to sit and wait for a tow truck, she climbed out and circled to the front of her car.

Dots of blowing snow melted on her cheeks and nose and obscured her vision as she huddled inside her coat.

“Hello?” Her shout was swallowed up by the cold, damp air. Her flashlight was too small to pierce the gloom at this distance. “Is anyone in the truck?”

Her sigh formed a puffy cloud in the air. The snow was knee-deep for a woman who was only five-three. And even though she’d changed from her work clogs to wool-lined ankle boots, she knew they wouldn’t be tall enough to get her past that first drift where the road crew had piled snow when they’d scraped the road.

“What’s a little wet and cold, anyway?” she dared herself, tightening her scarf against the biting wind.

She punched in 911, put the phone to her ear and plunged into the shallowest part of the drift. By the third step, she was sinking in up to her thighs, and the snow quickly chilled her through the scrubs and long underwear she wore. When she lifted each foot, she scooped the icy crystals into her boots, where they melted, wetting her socks and freezing her skin.

The dispatch operator answered. “This is 911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“I need to report a vehicle off in the ditch by... Oh, heck.” Teresa glanced back up the hill. Since she’d been daydreaming, she had no idea how far she’d come or how close she was to reaching the nearest subdivision. “I’m somewhere along old Lee’s Summit Road—between the medical center and 40 Highway. On the east side.”

“Are you in the vehicle?”

“No, I just drove up on the accident.” She broke through the snow at the bottom of the ditch and stepped into ankle-deep slush that soaked her to the skin in icy water. Her teeth chattered through the dispatcher’s next question. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Is there anyone inside the truck?”

Teresa’s wet feet left her shivering as she climbed out of the ditch. “Just a minute. Let me check.”

She tilted her flashlight up to inspect the damaged vehicle. The driver’s-side window was down—no, it was missing. It must have shattered with the impact of the crash, leaving tiny blunt shards along its bottom edge. Still, with the coming night and no light on inside the cab, she couldn’t make out any driver or passenger. Not for the first time in her life, she silently cursed her diminutive height. When she reached the door of the jacked-up truck, she was too short to see in.

“Hello?” she called again. She reached up and tried the handle, but it was locked. She knocked on the door panel. “Is anyone in there?”

No response.

“Just a sec,” she warned the dispatcher. Finding a safe spot to grasp the edge of the open window, she tucked the flashlight into her pocket, stepped onto the running board and pulled herself up. “Madre de Dios.”

There was a man inside, slumped over the steering wheel. His dark blond hair was frosty with moisture. There was blood oozing from a knot on his forehead, and his skin was far too pale.

“Sir?” The ice cubes of her toes and the woman on the phone were forgotten as alarm, compassion and her years of training kicked in. “Sir?” She stuck the tip of her wool glove into her mouth and pulled it off with her teeth. She slipped two fingers beneath the collar of his padded leather jacket and pressed them to the side of his neck. Even with the thick jacket and the heater running, his skin was cold to the touch. But she could feel a pulse. It was faint and erratic, but it was there. “You’re alive.” She spat out the glove and raised her voice for the dispatcher to hear. “He’s alive.”

Pushing up onto her frozen toes, she gently leaned him back against the seat. With a groan, his head lolled toward his shoulder. A quick glance across the cab revealed a heavy nylon duffel bag but no other passenger to worry about.

“One victim,” she reported. Hooking her arm inside the door to free her hands, she reached across his lap to turn off the ignition and saw more blood staining the front of his coat and the left leg of his jeans. “How fast were you going?” she mused out loud, wondering at the extent of his injuries. The wreck hadn’t looked that bad from the road. Plus, he was still wearing his seat belt.

An answering moan silenced the random thoughts, and she moved her chilled fingers to his face, willing him to open his eyes. “Sir? Hey. I’m a nurse. I’m here to help.” She pushed aside the damp spikes of straw-colored hair on his forehead to inspect the gash there. It might need a bandage, but no way could it account for all this blood. She pushed open one eyelid, then the other. Honey-brown irises looked back at her, trying to focus. She smiled. Good. Probably no concussion, then. “I need you to talk to me. I’m Teresa. What’s your name?”

His pale lips drew together. “Don’t need a candy striper, kid. Run along.”

His speech was slurred. But it could be from the cold.

Kid? A little defensive fire crept into her veins before common sense reminded her to ignore the dig. The man was in trouble and needed her assistance. “I’m a registered nurse, and you’re badly hurt. You want me to hike back to the road to get my hospital ID or do you want me to help?”

“Bossy little thing,” he muttered. His eyes blinked open again, long enough to assess her face. “You’re...nurse?”

“What’s your name?” she repeated.

He inhaled a quick breath, gritted his teeth, then squeezed the words out. “Charles. I’m Charles.”

“Like Charlie? Or Mr. Charles? No, don’t close your eyes.” She cupped her palm against the sandy beard stubble on his jaw. “Keep looking at me. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

He pulled his left hand from his lap and grabbed the steering wheel. By sheer will, his vision seemed to sharpen and his gaze dropped to the phone tucked to her ear. “Is that 911?”

“Yes.” When he reached for it, she handed it over. “Good idea. You can tell them exactly what hap— What are you doing? Give me my—”

“No cops.” He disconnected the call and tossed her phone onto the dashboard. With a jerky shift of his broad shoulders, he pulled his right hand from beneath the duffel bag.

“¡Oh, mi Dios!”

He had a gun.

Teresa instinctively recoiled, but before she could jump off the running board, a big gloved hand anchored her arm to the door with surprising strength. “Let go!”

His fingers tightened around her wrist, trapping her beside him as he pounded her phone with the butt of the wicked-looking pistol, smashing it into pieces.

“Hey!”

And then he turned the barrel of the gun on her. Bleeding Charles tilted his eyes up to the shoulder of the road. His voice was raspy, deep. “That your car, kid?”

Teresa’s answer was a frozen gasp in the cold air. “Yes.”

The gun barely wavered as he pushed open the door, forcing her into the snow. She landed on her butt and slid down the hill a few inches, but her bare hand, numb toes and panic slowed her efforts to scramble back onto her feet. He swung one long leg out, then the other, his black cowboy boots sinking into the snow, his breath hitching when his feet hit solid ground. Leaning against the cab for support, he pulled the duffel bag across the seat and tossed it at her. It hit her square in the stomach, knocking her onto her bottom again.

Judging by its weight and rattle, whatever was inside was heavy and metal and... “Son of a...” More guns.

Teresa shoved the bag away and climbed onto her knees, letting gravity pull her down into the ditch, farther away from the bleeding man, until she could find solid ground and bolt away.

She’d come to the aid of some drug dealer or gunrunner or mass murderer.

She was the one in trouble.

“I’d stop if I were you.”

The ominous double click of a bullet sliding into the chamber of his automatic weapon rang clear in the crisp, frigid air, spurring her to her feet.

“I said stop!”

The deafening report of a gunshot froze her in her tracks. Teresa pushed her hood away from her face and turned her head, lifting her gaze to the tall, pale man with the narrowed eyes and bloody coat.

The mysterious Charles-slash-Mr. Charles was still leaning against the truck to hold himself up. But the gun he’d fired into the tree behind him was steaming in the cold air. The smell of sulfur filled her nose as he pulled the weapon down to aim it right at her. “Don’t get any idea that you’re going to run from me.” His raspy, low-pitched threat was a whispery cloud in the night air. “Now you’re going to pick up that bag and get me the hell out of here.”

Chapter Three

Please don’t make me scare you any worse than I have to, darlin’, Nash silently begged. Just do what I say. Take me where I want to go. And then you never have to deal with my sorry butt again.

But those dark brown eyes tilting up to his were wide and frightened and telling him exactly what he didn’t want to see—she was about to run.

“Ah, hell.”

He was already sliding the gun into his holster when she spun around to leap across the bottom of the ditch. He was in no shape to chase anyone down, but she wasn’t leaving him many options.

She landed on her hands and knees, a tangle of turquoise coat and pink scarf in the snow. But before she could find her footing, Nash ignored the protest jolting through his stiff leg and dove after her, using his six feet three inches of height to full advantage. He wasn’t fast, but he was big enough to catch her around the thighs and tackle her. He landed across her legs and bottom, crushing her into the snow beneath him. Pain radiated through his shoulder as he hit the ground beside her, and he groaned.

But she didn’t leave him any time to clench his teeth through the blinding agony or even to catch his breath. With a feral roar, she rolled onto her back beneath him, spitting snow in his eyes and clawing at his neck and face.

“Get off me!”

Nash deflected the first blow. The second caught him square in the nose and made his eyes water. Hobbled by cold and pain and utter fatigue, he was about to be outmaneuvered by the thrashing woman unless he resorted to doing her some serious harm. And since he was still a hairbreadth away from that kind of desperation, he crawled on top of her and let his weight pin her down until the night stopped reeling about him.

She screamed in his ear and shoved a palmful of snow against his cheek.

“Stop struggling.” The icy cold on his skin was like a reviving slap across the face. But when the empty fist arced toward him a second time, his temper flared. He caught her wrist with his good hand and pinned it on the ground above her head. “I said stop!”

For one surprising moment, she went still beneath him. Through the rapid puffs of breath that clouded the air between them, he took in the quick dart of her tongue across her full bottom lip and the halo of long coffee-brown hair fanning over the snow beneath her head. The defensive anger that had spiked inside him gave way to a flash of something wildly inappropriate for a wanted man fighting to survive for a few more days.

He was still processing those quick impressions of curves and heat and spirited beauty when she offered up a husky whisper. “What are you going to do with me?”

Keep your head in the game, Nash. Don’t let the pretty girl distract you.

“Not a damn thing. Look, I don’t want to be a part of your life any longer than you want to be a part of mine.” Running on fumes, he summoned what little energy he had left and went the tough-guy route again. “You can either drive me where I want to go or I can take your keys. But I don’t especially want to leave you abandoned out here on a night like this.”

“Don’t worry about me.” He saw the spark in her eyes a split second before he felt her leg sliding beneath his and sensed her target.

Of all the... Nash pulled his knee between her thighs, beating her to the intimate contact. With a startled gasp, she went still again—long enough for him to release her wrists and unholster his gun. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Those injuries aren’t from any car wreck.” Although her rosy cheeks indicated she was as aware of their intimate position as he was, it seemed nothing could silence that smart mouth. She brought her hands to the uninjured side of his chest, and he let her shove a few inches of breathing room between them. “And that’s body armor. Who are you, Mr. Charles? What did you do?”

“The less you know about me, the better.” Good. He hadn’t slipped and given her his name in his groggy state in the truck. That meant it wasn’t out there on the wire or in cyberspace, flagging his location to the cartel or the inside man who’d set him up.

Nash raised his head and glanced around him, suddenly wary that he’d already spent too long out in the open. That gunshot he’d used to intimidate her when he realized he couldn’t stop her from running might have alerted a nearby farmer or some other fool who was out here in the middle of nowhere on this wintry night. And even though he’d severed her call, the authorities were almost certainly already on their way.

He assessed the subdued flight risk in her warm chocolate eyes before easing his hips off hers and gingerly pushing himself up on one knee in the snow. “I don’t have much time. I can’t afford to let the police get here before I’m gone—and you’re my only way out of here, Peewee. I need you to grab my bag and get me to your car, then take me someplace where you can patch me up.”

“Peewee?” She sat up as soon as she was free. A second later she was scooting away, climbing to her feet and brushing the snow off the clinging wet cotton of her pink pant legs. “I should just leave you here to freeze to death.”

“Can you outrun a bullet?” If she tried, he’d have to let her go. But he was hoping he still had that big-and-mean-and-on-his-last-nerve look going for him to convince her to cooperate.

Apparently, he did.

Although that defiant spark never left her dark eyes, she lifted her gaze from the gun up to his, nodding her acquiescence. “Now that you’ve conveniently gotten us both soaked to the skin, we’re at risk for hypothermia if we stay out here much longer. And I’m not dying for the likes of you.”

She stumbled down the hill, kicking her way through knee-deep snow with every step. Man, she was a little spitfire. Maybe not as afraid of him as she should be, and definitely not the teenager he’d first thought her to be. She stood over his go bag, breathing deeply, rubbing her bare hand inside her gloved one, no doubt feeling the cold and damp, especially after that tumble in the snow.

Or maybe she was contemplating another avenue of escape.

Nash shifted the angle of the gun toward her. “Pick it up and don’t try to run again,” he warned. With an answering glare, she hoisted the heavy bag onto her shoulder. It was almost as big as she was. But other than a Spanish curse beneath her breath, she trudged up the hill without further protest or complaint.

Nash, however, struggled to find his footing. His leg ached but felt solid enough. It was more a case of finding his balance and catching his breath. He lurched to his feet, swaying with the first step. White spots swam before his eyes, but it was more than the snow swirling past.

The nurse was several steps ahead of him when she dropped the bag into a drift at the shoulder of the road and turned.

Nash willed the light-headedness to go away and raised the gun toward her. But his left arm hung at his side and his right was getting weaker. “I said—”

“I don’t think I can carry you both,” she groused, marching back down the hill.

He almost laughed at the idea of this little bundle of sass thinking she was going to carry him. But she moved to his right side, wound her arm behind his waist and urged him to put his arm around her shoulders. “Lean on me,” she ordered.

Nash hesitated. She fit right beneath his arm, the perfect height for the crutch he apparently needed. And yeah, it put the crown of that silky dark hair that had fallen out of its ponytail and gotten dotted with snow right beneath his chin. He tightened his grip around the gun that rested on her shoulder when she grabbed his wrist and butted her hip up against his. Was this cozying-up tactic some kind of trick to get the weapon away from him?

“Come on, tough guy.” She latched her fingers around his belt and tugged. “You can get fresh with me in the snow and threaten me with a gun all you want. But if you really want my help, you’ll put your weight on me and move your feet.” She flashed her dark eyes up to him before urging him forward with a jerk at his waist and a grunt of effort. “In about two minutes, my extremities are going to be so numb I won’t be able to do anything for either of us—even if you do shoot. So move.”

He couldn’t have been rescued by some meek, mousy thing who’d do what he said without the attitude? He tapped the butt of the gun against her shoulder. “That’s pretty bold talk for a woman who’s got no advantage.”

“Uh-huh. I’m not the one bleeding to death. Your color’s awful. Your skin is cold to the touch. I don’t want your dead body on my conscience.” She tugged again, forcing him to take a step. “How long have you been losing blood?”

“The leg’s just a graze,” he informed her, bracing more of his weight on her shoulders to limp another step up the hill. “I stanched the hole in my chest,” he ground out as his right boot slipped and he came down hard on his injured leg.

“Nice dodge,” she chided. “That means longer than you want to admit.” She yanked back on his belt to keep him from falling. “So if you won’t tell me about your injuries, then tell me what the other guy looks like.”

The exertion of climbing the hill and keeping his wits about him left Nash gasping for breath. But he kept moving. “You don’t want to know.”

Three steps. Four. They’d reached the tracks in the snow where he’d plowed through the drift on the shoulder of the road. “Is he kidnapping some poor unlucky Good Samaritan, too?”

“Nope. They aren’t doing anything right now.”

“They?” She was breathing as hard as he was when she stopped beside the car and tipped her face up to his. “Wait a minute. Are they...? Did you...?”

“Yeah, darlin’. I killed all three of them.”

“Killed—?”

“I preferred them in the morgue instead of me.”

Her cheeks blanched as she opened the passenger door. “You murdered three men?”

No jury would call what he’d done anything but self-defense. But she didn’t have to know that those hired guns had come to the warehouse to murder him. And Tommy. Remembering the young man dead on the warehouse floor created a different kind of pain in Nash’s chest. He should have dragged the body to his truck, made sure Agent Delvecchio got the proper burial he deserved, instead of letting him lie alongside his own killers on a cold concrete floor. Losing Tommy had been like losing a kid brother. One by one, Graciela and his thugs were taking out the closest thing he had to family. There had to be justice. They had to pay.

Nah. He wouldn’t feel remorse about taking advantage of this woman’s nursing skills or scaring her into the no-questions-asked cooperation he needed. Even if he wound up dead at the end of all this, he was going to make sure the traitor was exposed and no one else on his team died.

“You gonna stop giving me trouble now, Peewee?” He looked down at her and saw the bravado or anger or whatever had fueled her defiance these past few minutes disappear. Now she was finally truly afraid of him. Ignoring a deep stab of guilt and reminding himself of the necessity for haste and maintaining anonymity—for her sake as well as his—he lowered himself into the seat of her midsize car. He pointed the gun over the crest of the hill. “Now the bag. Put it in the back.”

With a nod, she hurried to obey his orders. Fisting the gun in his lap, Nash risked tipping his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes for a few seconds. The heat inside the car was a drugging mix of pain and relief. The thawing nerve endings around his wounds and frozen toes stung like hundreds of needles piercing his skin. Yet drawing warm air into his lungs after so many hours exposed to the elements seemed to ease the constriction in his chest. Maybe it was the influx of oxygen into his system, or maybe these were the last moments of his life seeping away, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

This was humiliating, to be so helpless, so dependent on a frightened woman for survival. And while he might be more comfortable giving orders to his men or smack-talking his way with the bad guys, he’d sweet-talked a woman or two in his day. But that required a degree of thought and patience, and minding the words that came out of his mouth, that he didn’t possess the energy to stay on top of this evening. So he’d resorted to the bull-in-a-china-shop approach to gaining her cooperation.

Once he was in better shape, he’d let her go. She could report him to the local police after she’d gotten him off this exposed stretch of road, stitched him up and bought him a few hours of rest. Of course, by the time he released her and any cops got wind of his presence here in Kansas City, he intended to be long gone.

The car door slammed behind him, startling him from a dozing state, reminding him that he probably needed a good twelve hours of rest and recovery time before he could let his reluctant rescuer contact anyone. That meant he had to stay alert and he had to stay mean to maintain the upper hand and keep her from asking any questions or turning him in. If she never found out who he was or who was after him, the cartel wouldn’t be able to tie him to her. He needed her to believe he was a threat, but Nash intended to walk away without doing more than inconveniencing her for one night. Berto Graciela and Santiago Vargas and their selfish greed were real dangers he wouldn’t risk her life on by making her any kind of witness or information source.

When she opened the driver’s door and got in, the blast of cold air revived him further. “Let’s go.”

Instead of obeying, she cranked the heat, peeled off her remaining glove and rubbed her fingers in front of the heating vent. He could see her visibly shaking now, but he wondered how much of that was the cold and how much was fear. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“Nothing, if you do what I tell you.”

She slid him a sideways glance before focusing on bringing warmth back to her fingers again. “You owe me a new phone.”

The corner of his mouth wanted to crook with amusement at the woman’s refusal to say die. Ignoring his growing admiration for her spirit, though, he reached over and turned the heat back down to low—partly to keep his head clear and partly to remind her who was in charge. “Drive.”

“I’d like to wait until I can feel my toes first.”

He shifted the gun in his lap. “It wasn’t a request.”

She tucked a long strand of tangled hair behind her ear, peeking at him around her hand. Her gaze dropped to the Smith & Wesson pointed at her before she buckled herself in and shifted the car into gear. “You’re a bully, you know that?”

“I know,” he answered, surprised she hadn’t called him worse. Nash checked the mirrors right along with her, ensuring the road was clear in both directions before she pulled out. “Did you give 911 my license plate number?”

“No. I was more worried about your safety. Stupid me, huh?”

Good. That should buy them a few minutes. A police officer, ambulance and fire engine were most likely already en route to the scene. But if she hadn’t reported his truck, then the authorities wouldn’t be able to track him or put his name over the wires until they arrived on site. And he intended to be long gone by then.

She tapped on the brake, slowing their speed as they neared the bottom of the hill. “What are you, a hit man? Drug dealer? Is that what’s in that bag? Your payoff? Drugs and guns? Is there some innocent man somewhere I should have stopped to help instead of you?”

“Less talking, more driving.”

She nudged on the accelerator as they followed the dark ribbon of road up the next hill. “The moisture in the air is freezing on the pavement, so I don’t trust myself to turn around here. I’ll have to drive up to the next intersection or driveway to turn around and get you back to the med center.”

“We’re not going to the hospital.”

“Then where...?” She stomped on the brakes and they started to skid.

His instinctive reaction to reach for the wheel burned through his shoulder like a fresh gunshot. Nash swore as the edge of the road zoomed up to his window.

But she jerked the wheels into the skid, jerked them the other way. Leaving dirt and drift on the blacktop behind them, she steered them back to the middle of the road.

“Easy, Peewee.” Nash gritted his teeth as new waves of pain shot through him. “We need to get there in one piece.”

She slowed their speed and guided them back into the right lane. “Enough with the nicknames, okay?”

He nudged back the front of his jacket and pulled the blood-soaked bandanna from beneath his vest. His time was already limited—he didn’t need a panicked driver cutting it any shorter. “I thought you were a kid when you first walked up to my truck. What are you? Five foot nothin’?”

“I’m five-three. I’m not even the shortest one in my family, and I’m not going to have any personal conversation with you.” She glanced over at the bandanna dripping on his pant leg. “Here.” She released her death grip on the steering wheel to untie the pink scarf from her neck and pull it free. She tossed it across the seat into his lap. “Pack that against the wound. The cold temps have probably slowed the bleeding enough for you to survive this long. You need to see a doctor.”

“I’ve got a nurse.”

“A pediatric nurse,” she reminded him.

Bit by bit, he stuffed the scarf beneath his vest. “Can you stitch up a wound?”

“Yes, but you need antibiotics. Maybe even surgery. At the very least, you need an X-ray to find out what damage that bullet’s done inside you.”

“I’m not going to any damn hospital.”

“Then where am I taking you? The nearest cemetery?”

“That’s a sweet bedside manner you’ve got there, darlin’.” She reached over and shut off the heat. “Turn it back on. You’re shivering.”

“Like you care.” She shook her head. “The cold’s better for you. That’s probably the only reason why you haven’t bled to death yet.”

“You’re a smart girl.”

“I’m not a girl.” She said the word as if it left a sour taste in her mouth.

“No, you’re not.” Her cute little curvy shape and endless backbone proved that. Her grown-up strength was also giving him an idea for plan B or C or whatever letter of the alphabet he was on now with this mess of an assignment. He could see the glow of lights in the distance now, a neighborhood or highway interchange, he guessed. But there was still no oncoming traffic or vehicles on the road behind them. The site of his crash had been swallowed up by hills and darkness. So the ambulance and cops must be coming from the south—not the direction they were headed. He’d have to play the kidnapper for a day or so longer, but he could make this work. “You married?”

“No.”

“Got a boyfriend? Kids? Roommate?”

She smiled, but there was no humor in her tone. “I’ve got a big brother who’s a cop. A fugitive like you is probably already on his radar.”

Good. “So no boyfriend, either.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Eyes on the road,” he warned when she glared at him again. “You don’t play the big-brother card unless you’ve got no other man in your life to stick up for you. You live alone.”

Her fists tightened around the steering wheel. “My personal life is none of your business.”

This plan was going to work. The woman lived alone and no one was expecting her. She had the skills he needed—if he could just keep her in line. “A pretty little thing like you with that sassy mouth and no husband or boyfriend? Are you a widow or a workaholic?”

“Am I a...?” He met her glare this time, and she quickly glanced away. “It’s...complicated.”

As intriguing as that answer might be to follow up on, Nash had the information he needed. She lived alone. No one was expecting her for a date. No one would worry if she didn’t check in for the next few hours. Steer clear of the cop big brother—if he wasn’t just a story she’d made up to try to intimidate him—and this plan could work. “Trust me. I understand complicated.”

“I bet you do.” They passed a sign indicating a state highway up ahead. She pointed to the traffic lights in the distance. “Am I taking you to your place? Just tell me where to turn. I’m bad with street names. I promise if I see the address, I’ll erase it right out of my head.”

“I’m not from here.”

“Are we going to your hideout?”

“Hideout?” Amusement threatened a smile again. “Isn’t that a little Sam Spade-ish?”

“Whatever you call it. To meet up with your friends? Will they take care of you? Or are they the three men who did that to you?”

“They were from...” Ah, hell. He was saying too much. He didn’t want to give her any names or places she might share later. “I don’t have friends in K.C.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” She adjusted her lights down from bright as a car coming from the opposite direction appeared over the next hill. “Why are you here?”

“You ask an awful lot of questions, darlin’.”

“Darlin’? I think I prefer Peewee.”

Nash considered her answer. He could give a little as long as she was cooperating. “What’s your name again?”

“Teresa.” She rolled her R with a musical lilt.

“Take me home, Teresa.”

“You said you weren’t from here.” Her gaze darted down to the dashboard, and her posture straightened a tiny bit, putting him on guard. “Oh. I wondered where the twang of yours was from. How far south are we going? I’ll need to stop for gas if we’re driving any distance. There are a couple of gas stations up on 40 Highway.”

Really? She thought she could outfox him and stop in a public place where she could call for help? His momentary lapse into nice-guy territory had just ended. “Don’t get too smart, Teresa.” He nodded toward the needle on her dash before raising his gun in his lap. “Your tank is practically full. Very responsible for this kind of weather. Nice try, though. I’m guessing our destination isn’t that far or you wouldn’t be on this backwater stretch of road. You’re taking me to your place.”

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