LITMIR.BIZ

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has slowed. I think I could drive you back to town.”

      “I don’t want to leave the cruiser,” she answered. “If you don’t mind my staying here a while longer.”

      Did he mind? On one level, he didn’t mind a bit. She was an interesting woman, and not bad to look at, even with her hair plastered to her head with sticky blood.

      But she was also a cop, and while he technically had nothing to hide from the law, he didn’t want anyone looking too closely at his life. In a way, Cold Creek, Texas, was a hideout. There were people back in Virginia who’d like to get their hands on him, and he was currently in no condition to hold his own.

      Soon, though, he promised himself. He’d be back in fighting form soon. And then it wouldn’t matter who knew where he was.

      “I don’t mind,” he answered.

      Her eyes narrowed a notch. “Took your time answering that question.”

      He smiled. “I’m a bit of a loner.”

      “Is that why you moved out here? To be alone?”

      “I guess.”

      “You said you were in the hospital not long ago. Car accident?”

      He shook his head but didn’t elaborate.

      “Assault?”

      He should have known silence would only pique her curiosity. But he was tired of lying. It seemed as if he’d been lying for years, first as a CIA agent pretending to be an international finance manager, then the decade he’d pretended that he found life as an accountant satisfying.

      And then, there was the past year, working undercover for Alexander Quinn. Using an alias, pretending a career that didn’t exist, acting as a go-between for Quinn and another undercover operative trying to infiltrate a dangerous militia group called the Blue Ridge Infantry—

      What would Miranda Duncan think if he laid out his whole deception-riddled history for her examination?

      She’d probably think he was crazy. Or lying.

      Or both.

      “I guess you could say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said finally.

      “That’s...cryptic.”

      He smiled. “Yes.”

      To his surprise, her lips quirked in response, a faint half smile that dimpled her cheeks. He felt a drawing sensation low in his belly that caught him by surprise.

      She was so not his type. Hell, he wasn’t sure he even had a type.

      But damned if he wasn’t sitting here, wondering what she’d look like naked. In his bed.

      Her smile faded suddenly, and her head turned toward the front door. “Do you hear that?”

      Listening, he realized what she was hearing.

      A car engine, idling somewhere outside the house.

      He crossed to the window and parted the curtains an inch. The snow was picking up again, but not enough to obscure his view of the road, where a dark blue sedan sat idling on the shoulder, directly in front of the house.

      “What is it?” Miranda asked, her voice closer than he expected. Glancing to his right, he found her beside him, trying to see out the window.

      “It’s a dark blue sedan,” he answered, easing the curtain closed and pulling her with him deeper into the cabin.

      “Is it—?”

      “I don’t know,” he admitted. He hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at the vehicle earlier while dodging bullets and trying to get Miranda to safety. “It looks similar. And it’s idling outside my house, about forty yards from your wrecked cruiser.”

      Miranda’s face went paler. “Are all your doors locked?”

      He met her troubled gaze. “I don’t know.”

Chapter Three

      While John went around the house checking the locks, Miranda pulled the M&P 40 from the holster at her hip and crossed to the front window, taking a quick look outside. The sedan remained idling at the side of the road. The windows were tinted, obscuring the occupants from view.

      What do you want? she wondered.

      John’s footsteps drew her gaze to him. He was carrying a pistol in his right hand, barrel down, his finger safely away from the trigger. But the sight still gave her a start.

      What did she know about him, really? Did he even have a license to carry that pistol?

      “I have a Virginia CCW,” he answered as if she’d asked the question aloud. Was she that easily read?

      Up close, she saw that the pistol was a Ruger SR45. Big and black, with a brushed stainless slide. If she were the type of cop who indulged in weapon envy, she’d be indulging in it big-time.

      “We need to call for backup,” she said, forcing her gaze away from the big gun and back to the sedan idling outside her house.

      “Already done.” He nudged her away from the window. “I told the guy who answered that we needed a unit out here if they had to pull it off the pileup.”

      “That could take a while.”

      “Better late than never, right?” He glanced toward the window, his brow furrowed. “I wonder why they’re just sitting out there.”

      “Maybe it’s an intimidation tactic.”

      “Or maybe they want one of us to come outside to see what’s going on.”

      “If we did that, we’d be sitting ducks.”

      “So we wait.”

      She nodded. “Whoever’s out there knows I’m armed. But they can’t be sure whether or not you are.”

      John slanted a quick look at her. His expression was neutral, unreadable, but something in those hazel-green eyes set off warning bells in her head.

      Did he know something about the car outside? She had the strangest feeling he was keeping something from her.

      Something important.

      “The doors are locked,” he said. “The windows, too.”

      “The windows, too?” She looked in his direction again, took in his wary expression. He was definitely keeping something from her. But what?

      She didn’t think he wanted to hurt her. She was vulnerable from her injury—it wouldn’t take much to get the drop on her. He could have done so at almost any point since he’d dragged her inside the house.

      Hell, he could have killed her out in the car, or made it possible for the shooters to do so, if he’d wanted her dead.

      So maybe what he was hiding wasn’t about her.

      “Accounting,” she said.

      His gaze cut toward her. “Accounting?”

      “You said you were of the accounting Blakes. When I said I was from the hardware Duncans.”

      “Oh, right.”

      “Are you taking a sabbatical from that kind of work?”

      A huff of laughter escaped his throat. “No. I did that kind of work for ten years. That was ten years too many.”

      “Are you unemployed?” She knew the answer to that question. She might not remember what happened to send her rolling off the highway, but she remembered her computer search earlier at the station.

      Even then, John Blake had piqued her curiosity.

      Seeing him armed and appearing both

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