Ricochet. Jessica Andersen

a crumpled piece of paper at him. “The bastard sends his greetings.”

      Tucker sat up and grabbed the paper, automatically handling it by the edges, though there was little hope of getting usable evidence from it.

      You’re getting warmer.

      Tucker cursed as their suspicions were confirmed. The kidnapper was playing a game with the cops. But to what end?

      “Here they are!” Mendoza’s voice shouted. Footsteps thundered toward the narrow gap between two cars, where Tucker and Alissa had taken shelter from the blast.

      Cassie and Maya were at the front of the group, panicky and frantic looking. But instead of letting them fuss over Alissa, Tucker climbed stiffly to his feet and offered her a hand. The bulk of his body blocked the space between the two cars, creating a small, intimate area for just the two of them.

      Surprise showed in her tired, shadowed eyes, and she put her hand in his. The shimmer of contact was a slow, sexy burn he didn’t know how to handle, any more than he knew how to deal with the bright sizzle of anger and fear he felt at the situation, at the bastard who’d tried to kill her twice that day.

      He pulled Alissa gently to her feet, giving her time to veto the move if she was hurt. But the glint in her eye and the set to her delicate, feminine jaw told him that, like him, she had little intention of admitting to an injury.

      It surprised him to realize they had something in common, after all.

      Then he got a second shock when her eyes softened to nearly the openness they’d held that night at the bar, when she’d looked at him like a woman looks at a man when she likes what she sees. She tightened her fingers on his hand. “Thank you.” She glanced over his shoulder and must have seen the growing crowd beyond their small space, because she flushed and dropped his hand. But then she looked back into his eyes as though steeling herself for a difficult conversation. “I owe you one. Two, really. One for digging me out earlier, and one for just now when…” She faltered, swallowed and then continued, “If you hadn’t knocked me down, I would’ve been toast. Literally. So, thanks.”

      Nearby, a fire truck’s wail increased, then quit when the vehicle rolled into the parking lot and stopped beside the charred remains of her VW.

      Tucker eased away and tucked his scraped hands into his pockets, which were still warm. If he’d learned anything about Alissa Wyatt in the time she’d been at the BCCPD, it was that she didn’t bend easily, didn’t apologize easily and didn’t want to owe anybody anything, except perhaps, her two closest friends.