All the while knowing someone wanted to kill her.
“Damn it, put me down,” she snapped.
He complied, lowering her to stand on her own feet, though he kept one arm around her waist to prevent her from making a run for it. With the other, he unlocked the door of his SUV. It was parked out back, behind a Dumpster, near a few cars in private employee spaces. Unimpeded by the crowd probably gathering out front…with easy access to a rear alley. He’d left it here when he’d followed Bridget’s limo earlier this evening, anticipating the possible need for a fast getaway.
“Let me go!”
“Shut up, Bridget, we’re getting out of here. I’ll explain everything later.”
She wriggled and kicked, seeming to suddenly have eight arms and legs, all of which were battering at him, demanding her freedom. “I swear I’ll scream.”
“Nobody’ll hear you over the emergency alarm,” he replied, not a bit fazed by her threat. “Now get in and stay down… This is serious.” He pushed her into the backseat. Knowing he couldn’t trust her not to make a break for it the moment he moved to the driver’s seat, he took her chin in his hands. Staring into her blazing eyes, he said, “Someone’s been following you.”
“You,” she spat.
“No,” he replied, crouching down behind the open door. “Someone doesn’t want you to testify next week and they’re going to try to make sure that you don’t.”
Her mouth opened, then quickly snapped closed. Bridget’s eyes narrowed and her brow scrunched as she tried to make sense of his words. To process the idea that someone might actually want to hurt her.
He still hadn’t quite processed it. Because since the moment he’d found out—after being called in by the Bureau chief three days ago—he’d been operating on pure anger and adrenaline.
God help the bastard sent to harm her. When Dean found him, the guy was going to wish he hadn’t been born.
“Trust me, Bridget,” he asked, his voice low and resolute. He needed her to cooperate. Now. “I know you hate me, and that’s understandable. But I swear to you, I’m trying to protect you.”
She glared and he knew she was planning a sarcastic response. That sarcasm and strength were two of the things he liked about her, especially because they were so unexpected given her quiet demeanor and beauty.
Whatever she’d been about to say was cut off by the sound of sirens approaching. She glanced toward the building and the driveway leading to the front lot as if contemplating taking refuge among the crowd with the rescue workers. Then she looked back at Dean. The frown faded. And though the anger remained, the distrust disappeared from her expression.
The woman was furious, all right. But she was not stupid. She might hate him, but she knew he could protect her.
“All right. What is it you want me to do?”
2
DEAN HAD PROVED HIMSELF a liar several months ago when they’d met. But now, tonight, Bridget knew he was telling the truth. His tension and barely controlled fury spoke volumes about his genuine worry. For her. The star witness.
That was the only reason he was here, she knew enough about him to realize that much. It certainly wasn’t out of any personal regard. The kiss he’d just laid on her had rocked her world as much as the ones they’d shared in her office last August. But they hadn’t so much as caused him a tremor. She meant nothing to him—he’d made it clear that day when he’d let her be interrogated for hours by his other FBI buddies, who thought she had something to do with Marty’s not-so-honest dealings.
Letting her be interrogated had been the least of his crimes. Letting her care about him…that was the one she couldn’t forgive.
“Stay down,” he barked as he started the vehicle, gunning the engine hard.
She did as he ordered, crouched in a ball on the backseat. The SUV jerked and swayed, angling sharply to the right, almost knocking her to the floor. Dean’s big hand appeared out of nowhere, blocking her fall with a firm grip on her shoulder.
God, she hated her own weakness for immediately sucking in a breath of pure excitement at the rough touch of his hand. “I’m fine,” she managed to say between clenched teeth.
“Don’t move.”
As if she could.
“And don’t pop your head up.”
“I’m not a jackrabbit. Just pay attention to the road.”
He didn’t respond, but he removed his hand, putting it back on the wheel. He obviously needed it because he intentionally maneuvered in jerks and swerves as he tore off down the street, as if physically trying to shake off pursuit. He drove like it was a sunny, warm day with miles of dry blacktop in front of them. Not as though there’d been a blizzard up until this afternoon and patches of slick ice were lurking beneath snowdrifts, anxious to send a car into a deadly spin.
He drove that way for a good five minutes. Bridget watched him from between the front seats, seeing the way he leaned forward, his chest almost against the steering wheel. He stared out, his gaze constantly moving from side to side. But even that rapt attention couldn’t keep him from almost fishtailing into the path of a long, black stretch limo.
“Watch out!” she yelled.
“You’re supposed to be staying down.”
“You’re supposed to be preventing me from getting killed.”
“I’m the one driving.”
“Seems to me like you’re the one almost wrecking,” she muttered under her breath, even as he brought the SUV back under control and the limo driver honked his horn wildly.
Oh, did she wish she was in one just like it, preparing to go back to her hotel and her nice, plush bed. Rather than here. With him. The guy who messed with her head and filled her senses up with the musky smell of him and the big, strong sight of him and oh, Lord, his heat.
The Dean she’d known had been cute and endearing. Good-looking but usually appearing self-deprecating. Boyish.
There was nothing boyish about the man whose whole body was tense with adrenaline as they tried to outrun danger.
Danger. To her.
“Does someone really want to kill me?” she whispered.
Even in the low lighting from the dashboard, she saw the way his jaw jutted out and his eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
It was almost too much to believe. Bridget was a big fan of crime shows and mystery novels, but the idea that she could be a target was so crazy she had trouble grasping it. “Is it Marty?”
He appeared to hear the note of hurt in her voice, which she just couldn’t hide. She’d known Honest Marty since she was a kid growing up in the neighborhood. He’d been a nice, paternal, if slightly overbearing, boss. And he wanted her to die?
“Not Marty,” Dean finally replied, sounding loathe to admit it. “His…former colleagues.”
She didn’t know why it relieved her that a bunch of drug dealers wanted her dead but one pudgy, blustery car dealer did not. But it was true. A little, anyway. “You’re sure?”
He nodded. “He was the one who came forward with the information about the hit.”
“The hit?” she yelped. “As in hit man?”
He reached back, seeming to want to calm her down with a hand on her shoulder. But he didn’t touch her shoulder. Instead, those strong, rough fingertips of his brushed her cheek. Lightly,