LITMIR.BIZ

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her way to dinner with me when she was attacked.” He took satisfaction in the way Surfer Cop’s expression fell in disappointment.

      The nurse interjected, “Then you’ll be with her tonight, Mr. Prescott? We can’t release her with a concussion unless she won’t be alone.”

      Ana struggled to sit up, looking freaked at the idea of spending the night in the hospital. Or maybe she was freaked at the idea of spending the night with him. He frowned. “Of course. I’ll take her home with me. I’ll wake her up every two hours or whatever I need to do.” He’d been in a movie last year where his female costar had to be woken up periodically after a concussion. It had been a plot point that they made love each time he woke her up. Fun couple days of shooting—

      The nurse broke his train of thought. “She won’t require anything that extreme. Just keep an eye on her for nausea, vomiting, disorientation, slurring of speech, balance problems, mood changes, restlessness, excessive light or sound sensitivity, or trouble focusing her eyes.”

      Well, okay then. He followed the nurse out front to deal with the discharge papers, and he wrote a check for the cost of the E.R. visit. He remembered what it had been like to be a struggling young actor couch surfing and living from hand to mouth between jobs.

      After all of the paperwork was taken care of, he headed back down the hall to collect Ana. He wasn’t thrilled to see the cop still there, perched on the end of her bed chatting her up. She was his dinner date, dammit.

      “Ready to go home, Ana-banana?”

      He caught the glimpse of wistfulness that passed through her expressive eyes before she masked it. It tugged at his heart. An orderly shooed him aside to help Ana into a wheelchair. The cop walked out beside her while Jackson cooled his jets behind the procession. He wasn’t used to having competition for women, and he didn’t particularly like it.

      At least he got to put the hot girl on the back of his bike and peel out of the parking lot while the cop climbed into his piece-of-junk Crown Vic cruiser. There was a little justice in this world, after all.

      He murmured over his shoulder, “Hang on tight, baby. I’ve got you now.”

      * * *

      Ana leaned into Jackson’s back and wished desperately that his comment could be true. She was so tired of fighting her own fights and looking out for herself. Particularly since she didn’t seem to be doing that hot a job of it.

      His bike accelerated onto the Coast Highway, and it felt phenomenal to breathe in clean, ocean air as the wind whipped past. It had been a scorching-hot day and warmth still lingered in the evening. She reveled in having survived the attack. In having her arms around this man. Euphoria overtook her at having cheated death for real. In her stunt training, she’d done plenty of risky things, but all of that paled before the danger of real life.

      “You okay?” Jackson asked over the comm system between their helmets.

      She replied, “Um, yes. Why?”

      “You tensed up.”

      “Oh. Sorry.” She consciously relaxed each major muscle group in her body one by one and let herself flow with the movements of the motorcycle and the man confidently maneuvering along the moonlit ribbon of asphalt.

      Jackson pulled into the parking lot of her motel. She slid out reluctantly from behind him, startled by how sexy it felt to rub her body across his like that. His gaze snapped to hers, and for a second, his eyes blazed white-hot. Yowza.

      Embarrassed as all get-out, she made a production of taking off her helmet and passing it to him. He stayed seated on his bike for a few extra seconds, securing first her helmet and then his before climbing off the Harley and following her up the stairs to her second-floor room.

      Except as they approached her door, she spied something odd about it. The whole thing looked...crooked. Jackson shoved past her abruptly, hooking an arm around her front and simultaneously pushing her behind him and jumping in front of her. What the heck?

      “Get back,” he ordered low and hard.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “Your door’s busted.”

      “It was probably like that before—” she started.

      “Jamb’s broken. Boot print by the doorknob,” he interrupted. “Stay out here.”

      “What?”

      He stopped in front of the door and spared her a glare. “You heard me. Don’t come in until I tell you it’s clear.” He used his forearm to push open the sagging door. She frowned until it occurred to her he was intentionally not leaving fingerprints on the doorknob. Sheesh. Paranoid much?

      He disappeared into the dark interior of her dingy room. Ignoring his instructions, she stepped into the doorway to see what he was doing. She caught sight of him just spinning into her bathroom in a low crouch. Whoa. Where did he learn a move like that?

      That was when her eyesight adjusted enough to really see the interior of her place. What. The. Heck? It was trashed. As in totaled. As in a tornado had shredded the place. Every piece of furniture was knocked over. Every cushion was gutted, and stuffing was all over the place. Drawers were pulled out and thrown on the floor. The TV was smashed. Curtains yanked down off the rods and sliced into rags.

      She jumped as Jackson reappeared in the doorway of her bathroom. “I told you to stay outside.” He sounded irritated.

      “Is anyone here?” she blurted, her heart pounding.

      “No. But if a crook had been in here, you could’ve put yourself in the line of fire and gotten hurt.

      She flipped the switch beside the door that turned on the lamp across the room. Nothing happened. What on earth was going on? It was as if someone was targeting her. But who? The only person on earth who wanted to kill her was in jail.

      Jackson moved to her side and reached past her to close the broken door as much as it would go. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a phone number without answering her question. “Hello, I’d like to report a break-in.” He gave her room number and the name of the motel, but he gave the person on the other end of the line his cell phone number.

      “I understand, Officer. The room is secure, no one’s injured and I’m taking the owner to a safe location. I’ll have her make a list of stolen property, and when you’re ready to come by and have a look, call me.”

      Jackson called the motel’s manager on his cell since the rotary phone in the room was currently in pieces, none of which were still attached to each other or the wall. He pocketed his phone and then asked her, “Did you have anything valuable in the room like jewelry or cash that someone could have taken?”

      “No. Nothing like that.”

      “Can you think of anything someone might toss your place to look for?”

      “No.”

      “You got a torqued-off ex?”

      “No!”

      “How about an ex you didn’t know is pissed?”

      “No exes,” she admitted reluctantly.

      “None at all?” he blurted, sounding surprised.

      Well, wasn’t this just too embarrassing for words? “I don’t date,” she mumbled.

      “Why the hell not?”

      “This from the guy who has no female friends whatsoever?” she replied a shade defensively.

      The manager showed up, blessedly ending Jackson’s uncomfortable line of questioning. The man confirmed that this had been the only room broken into and commenced shooting her suspicious looks as if this was all her fault.

      Jackson must have picked up the guy’s hostility because when she started to ask the manager if he had another room she could move into,

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