mouth to scream, but a hand clamped over her face, blocking the sound.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” The harsh whisper brushed across her ear.
Yeah, no way was she believing that.
She kicked out and shoved. Flailed and tried to run again, this time for the tree line. She would not go out like this. She’d always joked that if she stayed on Calapan she’d die. She refused to let that prediction come true.
She elbowed him in the stomach and heard him swear in response. Another shot or two like that and she might be able to put some distance between them and get inside. Gathering all her strength, she drew her arm forward again and pushed back. She hit nothing but air.
One minute she stood locked in an epic battle on the porch. The next, her attacker reached around her and got the door open. He propelled her forward, slamming the door behind them and locking them both inside.
He held up his hands as he stared at her with big blue eyes. “Please listen to me.”
He could beg all he wanted. The dimple, those shoulders, the objective cuteness...she wasn’t buying any of it. She’d never been charmed by a handsome face before and wasn’t starting now.
If he wanted a fight, fine. She’d give him one. Without thinking or analyzing, almost on autopilot, she ran for the small family room on the far side of the kitchen. Guns didn’t scare her, because they were a way of life on Calapan. Growing up here, she’d learned how to shoot. Cans, mostly, but she didn’t plan on telling her attacker about that limitation.
Footsteps beat in time with hers. She ran. He stalked. He kept talking—something about needing her help—but she blocked it all out, her only thought being to find that rifle. There was a Glock around here, too.
“Ma’am, slow down for a second.”
Not likely. She put a couch between them as she tried to remember where she had left the guns after she moved them around this morning. Her mind flipped to the fireplace, and a quick glance revealed one leaning against the mantel. The same fireplace mantel next to the attacker and not her.
Her mind raced with directions. Draw him out. Let him talk. She skipped all of it. “Get out.”
“I will not hurt you.” He hadn’t lowered his hands.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t. Her gaze dipped to the gun strapped to his hip and the trickle of blood running down from the edge of the sleeve of his navy T-shirt. “Then leave.”
“My name is Cameron Roth.”
As if she cared. “Fine. Leave, Cameron.”
“I work for a group called the Corcoran Team.”
She didn’t even know what he was talking about. Her mind stayed focused on the gun, the blood, the shots and the fact that a stranger stood in front of her. The combination was all her brain could process at the moment.
“I don’t know who this team is, but you can go find them.” She bit back the tremble in her voice and tried to get the words out as quickly and clearly as possible. “I’ll pretend this never happened, but you need to leave now.”
“I can’t.”
Looked as though logic wouldn’t work on this guy. She mentally measured the distance from her to the gun and wondered if she could get there before he put his hands down. “You mean won’t.”
“I need you to stop worrying.”
That voice, all soothing and calm. It called to her, but she refused to trust it. Not when it promised a one-way ticket to getting injured...or worse. “That’s not going to happen with you standing in the middle of my house.”
“I’m one of the good guys.”
“Says the man who grabbed me and dragged me inside.” Her gaze traveled over him and she thought she made out another weapon tucked into his jeans and outlined by his slim tee. “Were you the one out there shooting?”
All emotion left his face. His blank expression didn’t give anything away. “There was a problem.”
Forget the weapon—with that nonanswer the guy should be a lawyer. “I’ll give you the keys to the car. You can take it and—”
“No.” At his bark, she took a step back and he moved in, closing the gap again. “I’m here on assignment.”
“What are you talking about?” She had no clue.
This was the nightmare that wouldn’t end. She should have stayed in Seattle and let the house stand abandoned. Her father was gone and she didn’t owe anyone on Calapan anything.
“I rendezvous with my team in fifteen minutes.”
Again with the team thing. “Be extra punctual and go now.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I would, but I don’t want to be shot.”
She wasn’t sure if he was laughing at her or with her but didn’t like either option. “That makes two of us, Cameron.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders as he nodded toward the couch. “Sit.”
He had to be kidding. “No.”
“I’m at a disadvantage here. What’s your name?”
This guy just kept talking when she needed him gone. “You aren’t going to be here long enough for that to matter.”
“There are some nasty people after me.” He lowered his arms, but his hand didn’t venture near the gun. “I’m just hiding out here for a few minutes.”
“Who?” If there were more people out there with weapons, she wanted to be ready.
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Who is after you?”
His gaze went to the rifle and lingered for a second before returning to her face. “Let’s just say some of the people on this island can’t be trusted.”
Yeah, that was a lesson she knew all too well. “Understatement.”
“What?”
She ignored the question because she had bigger problems. Now he knew where all the weapons were. That left knives, and grabbing for those gave her the shivers. “Just so we’re clear, you’re running around the island shooting and being tracked by someone and have no trouble manhandling me—”
“That didn’t actually happen.”
“—yet I’m supposed to trust you.” Her voice got louder as she went on.
He had the nerve to smile at her. “Yes.”
“I’m not an idiot.” Sure, her brain kept malfunctioning and waves of fear crashed over her every two seconds, but she was not letting her world end like this.
“I never said you were.”
“And I have a phone.” She lunged for the landline. It had been disconnected months before, after her father died. But this Cameron guy didn’t know that...at least, she hoped he didn’t. “The police can come and you can explain your problem.”
“That’s not going to work.”
She’d read somewhere that trying to form a bond with an attacker sometimes helped humanize the victim. Since she was the victim, she was willing to try anything. “Tell me why, Cameron.”
“You can call me Cam.”
Apparently the bond thing worked. She shook the phone. “Talk or I’m dialing 9-1-1.”
“That would be a mistake.”
There was something about the way he said it. “Why?”
“The police are the problem.”
A