LITMIR.BIZ

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hillside opposite the barn, behind the car. Narrowing her eyes, Elle saw the long barrel of a rifle. Behind it loomed a red truck.

      The judge drove a big four-wheel-drive Dodge Ram, candy apple red. Gun rack in back. Vintage Winchester .401 caliber autoloading deer rifle always at hand….

      She screamed a warning and ducked her head as a shot rang out and a bit of earth at Elle’s knee exploded. Covering her head with her arms, she saw Alazandro dive back into the car as more shots seemed to come from every direction. Pete was suddenly at her side, grabbing her arm, yanking her to her feet. She lunged toward her duffel bag until another shot took a bite out of the ground an inch from her boot.

      To hell with the duffel bag.

      She ran ahead of Pete who seemed to be one step ahead of gunfire. The driver’s door stood ajar. Pete all but threw her inside where she quickly climbed between the seats into the back, aware of Alazandro sitting crumpled with his head against the dashboard. Pete climbed in after her. The gun still clutched in his hand, he started the car, revved the engine and turned the wheel sharply to take off back down the gravel road.

      Gasping for breath, Elle looked out the rear window.

      Which one of them, Peg or the judge, had just attempted to murder Víctor Alazandro?

      And as she looked at Alazandro’s slumped figure, a new thought surfaced.

      Had they succeeded?

      Chapter Four

      What the hell was going on?

      Pete glanced in the rearview mirror. His gaze collided with Elle’s. Wide brown eyes met his gaze and shied away.

      “Are you okay?” he demanded.

      She nodded.

      She’d been worried that standing too close to Alazandro might be dangerous and she’d been right.

      As far as Pete knew, there had never been a death threat made against Víctor Alazandro. That piece of fiction had been created by the DEA right before the staged shoot-out during which Pete had rescued Alazandro from a crazed gunman. Agent Ben Kipper had made a very believable, wigged-out drug addict firing blanks at Alazandro until Pete had single-handedly subdued him.

      Alazandro hired him on the spot.

      Still, Pete could understand someone taking shots at Alazandro. Peg Stiles came readily to mind. But would Peg shoot at Elle? No way.

      That left Elle’s adopted father who Elle had told him was in the area last night. That meant the man had to love her enough to come to Tahoe to try and talk to her about something she obviously didn’t want to talk to him about, but hate her enough to take potshots at her when she blew him off.

      Again, no way, it didn’t add up.

      Someone had tried to kill Alazandro and hadn’t cared a whole lot who else they hit.

      What was needed, of course, was a crime scene investigation. Collection of spent shells. Bullet trajectories. Witness interviews. All of that was as good as lost because Pete couldn’t break cover to call in the cops.

      As he steered the car onto the main highway, he darted a quick look at Alazandro. Blood trickled down his forehead, ran along his cheek. “Sir?” Pete said, almost choking on the word.

      Without looking up, Alazandro responded in a shaky voice. “Is it safe now?”

      “Yeah,” Pete said. “You’ve been hit,” he added.

      Alazandro’s voice was shaky as he mumbled, “I bashed my head when you shoved me into the car. It’s my arm that hurts like hell.” He turned in his seat. His left hand clutched the sleeve of his right arm. Blood soaked the tattered cloth between his fingers. The suit was history.

      Following a gasp, Elle said, “The hospital is about fifteen minutes away. Take a right when you get to the second intersection—”

      In unison, Pete and Alazandro said, “No!”

      She was quiet for a second before trying again. “You need a doctor, Mr. Alazandro.”

      “Doctors have to report gunshot wounds to the cops,” Pete said.

      A longer silence was followed by a tentative, “But aren’t we going to tell the police what happened?”

      Alazandro said, “No hospital and no police, Ms. Medina. I’m a busy man and don’t intend on getting stuck stateside in some worthless investigation when I have a jet waiting. Pete, get us to the airport. You know first aid, you can patch me up after we’re in the air.”

      Pete drove. Another glimpse in the rearview mirror revealed Elle shrugging off her bulky jacket and the denim one she wore beneath. “You’d better use this to stop the blood from getting all over the upholstery,” she said, handing the denim jacket over the car seat to Alazandro.

      He pressed it against his arm and smiled back at her.

      “You’re very brave,” she cooed, sitting forward and touching his good shoulder.

      Alazandro kind of puffed out his chest and sighed.

      Wait a second. Shouldn’t Elle Medina be shaking like a leaf, shouldn’t she be demanding to be let off at the nearest police department? The woman had nerves of steel.

      As enticing a potential spy as she might make, however, Pete couldn’t put her in harm’s way. He needed to find a way to make a surreptitious call and arrange an incident at the airport that would prevent Elle from boarding Alazandro’s private jet. A fake customs ploy, maybe. A phony arrest warrant—

      Alazandro said, “Whoever is trying to get me came damn close this time.”

      Pete said, “He came close to getting all three of us.”

      Elle whistled. “You can say that again.”

      Pete, sensing his chance, said, “We don’t need someone else to worry about, boss. Leave the woman here. She can fly down later.”

      As Alazandro glanced into the back seat, Pete used the mirror. Elle’s blinding white T-shirt revealed an amazing amount of creamy cleavage. The top curves of her breasts looked smooth and inviting. The stirring in Pete’s groin had as much to do with the memory of her naked as it did with her wavering image in the mirror. She flicked a few blond hairs away from her heart-shaped face and smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges as she licked her lips for Alazandro.

      The temptress was back.

      Pete said, “We had to leave your duffel bag back at the stable. It probably held your passport—”

      “Nope, that’s right here in my purse.”

      “Stop fussing, you’re not her father,” Alazandro said, casting Pete an annoyed frown. He added, “I hear your father is a judge, Elle. Whereabouts?”

      “Down in Butter Gulch, Arizona,” she said.

      “I built a resort down that way a few years ago,” he said, wincing as he tried to get comfortable. “Near the border. So you grew up in Arizona?”

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