glanced at her, surprise flashing across his hard-set face, and swore. “No. Damn it, Nicola, keep your head down.”
He knew her name.
She swallowed and sat on her shaking hands. No need to let him see how scared she was. He’d probably been stalking her at the gym. God, how stupid could she be? She had liked him, had even entertained some thoughts of walking up to him someday and maybe getting to know him better.
She glanced at the gun. Sinister-looking firearms had definitely not been part of her plan.
As a kid, during her father’s ambassadorship in China, they’d lived under constant guard, and she had often daydreamed about what she would do if something like this happened. She had imagined rebels breaking through the embassy gates. Since she was the smallest person in the compound, only she could escape, crawling through vent holes to the roof. She would go for help and save the hostages inside. Then her father would have come to her in tears of happiness and gratitude to tell her how proud she made him.
So much for the childish fantasy. Her limbs numb with fear, it took all her willpower not to whimper.
The car swerved, and she hung on for dear life. She was only twenty-five. Too young to die. Then do something about it, her mother’s voice said in her head. Her mother had been the strong one in the family. Strong enough even to stand up to her father. But she hadn’t inherited much of her mother’s character. Maybe if they had spent more time together, some of it would have rubbed off. But there hadn’t been time. Breast cancer had ripped her mother out of her young life with ruthless efficiency.
What would her mother say if she could see her now? Don’t let him intimidate you, the little voice spoke again, and it certainly sounded like her mother. Nobody had intimidated Lillian Barrington. Nicola looked at her kidnapper. “Who are you?”
“I’m here to protect you.”
“Right. What’s your name?”
“Alex,” he said it in a way that discouraged further inquiry.
She took in his wide shoulders and well-built body, the scars on the back of his hand, the gun. “Where are we going?” she pushed.
He grabbed his cell phone, flipped it open and dialed. “We had an incident at the Devon Farmers’ Market. Shooting. She’s fine. Brown van, 1990 Ford Econoliner. New York plates.” He glanced at his phone and punched a button then read off a plate number from the screen.
When did he have the time to get that?
“Still in pursuit, going north on Route 202. Got anything open?” He paused. “Will do.”
“Who was that?” she asked as he hung up the phone.
“My boss.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To a safe house, once we lose the tail.” He swerved to the left.
It sounded utterly ridiculous. He looked the opposite of safe. She considered opening the door and hurling herself onto the pavement.
The passenger side mirror blew out, and she slid further down in the seat.
“The main body is bulletproof but the rest isn’t.” He swerved again. “I’m going to have to pick up some speed to get rid of them. Don’t want to give them a chance to shoot out the tires.”
He took a sharp turn and she slammed against the door, the seat belt cutting into her stomach.
He barely spared her a glance. “Nothing to worry about. I work for the United States government. I’m here to ensure your safety.”
For a second, confusion so overwhelmed her she couldn’t process his words. Then in an awful moment of comprehension it all began to make sense. She would have preferred a kidnapper. “Does my father know about this?”
“Senator Barrington is aware we’re in a situation where something like this may develop.”
Of course he was. He was bloody aware of everything. He handled everything. Behind her back. Who cared if it concerned her life? At that moment she hated him more than she hated the men shooting at her.
“I don’t want your protection.” She despised the idea of getting sucked back into her father’s life again.
“Let me take you someplace safe, bring you up to date. Then, if you still want, you’re free to go.”
“I am?” She stared at him, the wind taken out of her sails. He was logical and had given her the freedom of choice, two things she valued above all others.
“You’re not a prisoner.” He looked at her, and for the first time she noticed his eyes. They were black or nearly so, bottomless pools devoid of emotion. She looked away first.
“Where are we going?”
He crossed two lanes of traffic, ran off the road, crossed the few yards of grass that served as divider and got on Route 202 going the opposite direction without once putting his foot on the brake. “Lancaster.”
She looked back just in time to see the brown van follow and nearly flip over as it hit the divider. Unfortunately, the vehicle slowed for only seconds before resuming the pursuit at full speed. Her fingers fused to the edge of her seat. “To the Amish?”
“Kind of.” Swerving across lanes, he executed one evasive maneuver after the other, with the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
He probably liked his job. The thought seemed incomprehensible, but must have had at least some truth to it. People usually chose occupations they enjoyed.
Oddly, the smile did not soften his formidable looks. Neither did his worn jeans that stretched over his well-muscled thighs, nor the long-sleeved black T-shirt. He looked very different up-close-and-personal, the deliciously intriguing image of him she had developed during their morning workouts forever ruined by the handgun resting on his thigh.
Her girlish daydreams of him seemed ridiculous now. He was probably a Secret Service agent, everything she didn’t want in a man. The bullets bouncing off the hatch window were a good reminder.
The car swerved to the right. He swore in Spanish as he brought it back to the road and steadied the vehicle. “They got the tire.”
Her brain held only one thought—it bounced screaming inside her skull. I am going to die.
The two men were close behind them, with two guns and a van that would now easily outspeed Alex’s SUV. And Alex couldn’t even shoot back, it took both hands to keep them on the road with the flat.
“Can you take the wheel?” He threw her an assessing glance.
What other choice did she have? “Yes.”
She grabbed on, and they swerved for a moment when he let go and the vehicle jerked to the right. She corrected and brought it back straight and steady.
Alex still had his foot on the gas and kept the speed, much faster than what she would have been comfortable with even if it weren’t approaching rush hour, and they didn’t have a flat tire and she weren’t driving from the passenger seat. Nicola gripped the wheel. She had to handle the car. Their lives depended on it.
Alex rolled down the window and leaned out, his foot steady on the gas pedal. He fired one shot, then sat back inside and took the wheel from her.
She turned to see the brown van come to a halt in the ditch, its front window shattered.
“How long can we go on a flat?”
“Over thirty miles on these tires.” He drove by an exit.
“Shouldn’t we get off the highway?”
“Next exit. They’ll expect us to take the first.”
“You think they’ll still come after us?” She felt the blood leave her face at the thought.
“He.