imagined anything. It had been very, very real. And very, very hot.
Good God.
Shaken by it and by the fact that she'd reacted to him on any level other than anger, she eased into the passenger seat, then dared a quick glance at his profile when he settled behind the wheel. His jaw muscle clenched—and to her utter shock, a few of her internal muscles did a little clenching, too, right along with her pulse, which was pumping in places she didn't want to feel it.
This was going way beyond crazy. She wasn't sure what had just happened between them, but whatever it was, she didn't like it. Neither did he, if his dark scowl told the story, but it sure hadn't stopped him from looking his fill.
All right. It should be easy to rationalize. A truckload of adrenaline had pumped through her system during the last few hours. That could account for some momentary brain cramps and a little skewed perspective.
It called for a quick fix: Level out. Get a grip.
He shoved the key in the ignition about the time she'd convinced herself that whatever had just passed between them not only was over; it also hadn't been nearly as intense as she'd thought.
And then she didn't have to rationalize anymore, because it took every ounce of concentration she could muster just to keep from screaming.
She couldn't help it. Jillian clutched the dash and buried her feet against the floorboard as they cut down the nearly empty streets at breakneck speeds. The needle on the speedometer had made only passing acquaintance with the speed limit— and that had been several blocks ago.
"God forbid that I point this out, but in my experience, red generally means stop," she said through clenched teeth as they flew through yet another light.
She craned her head around to look behind them.
Nothing. No cars. No trucks. No police cruiser when you needed one.
"Fill me in."
She looked from the deserted street to Garrett's face. "On color-coded traffic lights?"
He looked dead ahead, the streetlights casting ominous shadows over his hooded brow. "On the death threats. When did they start? How were they delivered?"
She swallowed back a squeal as he took a corner on two wheels, then replied in the same concise verbiage that seemed to be his stock-in-trade. "Two weeks ago. The first was on my home voice mail. This week's came to the station. E-mail. My God, do we really have to drive this fast?"
"Who do you think it is?"
Her grip on the dash and the door tightened. "I have no clue."
"What are the police saying?"
"They have no clue."
He snorted.
And she saw red.
"So sorry," she bit out with the sweetness of alum, "but you're going to have to translate that one for me. I'm not fluent in brooding male grunting."
Another almost smile, which she chose to ignore, lifted the corner of his mouth. 'Translated: that's not much to go on."
She glared out the window as street signs raced by. "And less to get worked up about. I still maintain it's someone's idea of a joke."
"And in your experience a death threat is a laughing matter?"
It was her turn to snort. "Experience? I have no experience in this. I just want it to go away."
"Well, princess, that makes two of us."
She whipped her gaze to his hard profile. The anger hit her first. "Do not call me princess." Then came curiosity as she tried to figure him out. "If you hate this so much, why are you here?"
The look he gave her when he turned his head and met her eyes made her blood run cold and hot at the same time. "Hell if I know."
Before she could recover from another bout of inexplicable sexual heat and pounce on his cryptic remark, he braked, then whipped the car into a parking space littered with newspapers, fast-food wrappers, and the remains of a battered shoe.
Jillian looked through the windshield, blinked, and gaped.
"A bar? You dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night to take me to a bar?"
She stared in disbelief at a cinder-block building that sat on the corner of a backstreet where either
Good God.
Shaken by it and by the fact that she'd reacted to him on any level other than anger, she eased into the passenger seat, then dared a quick glance at his profile when he settled behind the wheel. His jaw muscle clenched—and to her utter shock, a few of her internal muscles did a little clenching, too, right along with her pulse, which was pumping in places she didn't want to feel it.
This was going way beyond crazy. She wasn't sure what had just happened between them, but whatever it was, she didn't like it. Neither did he, if his dark scowl told the story, but it sure hadn't stopped him from looking his fill.
All right. It should be easy to rationalize. A truckload of adrenaline had pumped through her system during the last few hours. That could account for some momentary brain cramps and a little skewed perspective.
It called for a quick fix: Level out. Get a grip.
He shoved the key in the ignition about the time she'd convinced herself that whatever had just passed between them not only was over; it also hadn't been nearly as intense as she'd thought.
And then she didn't have to rationalize anymore, because it took every ounce of concentration she could muster just to keep from screaming.
She couldn't help it. Jillian clutched the dash and buried her feet against the floorboard as they cut down the nearly empty streets at breakneck speeds. The needle on the speedometer had made only passing acquaintance with the speed limit— and that had been several blocks ago.
"God forbid that I point this out, but in my experience, red generally means stop," she said through clenched teeth as they flew through yet another light.
She craned her head around to look behind them.
Nothing. No cars. No trucks. No police cruiser when you needed one.
"Fill me in."
She looked from the deserted street to Garrett's face. "On color-coded traffic lights?"
He looked dead ahead, the streetlights casting ominous shadows over his hooded brow. "On the death threats. When did they start? How were they delivered?"
She swallowed back a squeal as he took a corner on two wheels, then replied in the same concise verbiage that seemed to be his stock-in-trade. "Two weeks ago. The first was on my home voice mail. This week's came to the station. E-mail. My God, do we really have to drive this fast?"
"Who do you think it is?"
Her grip on the dash and the door tightened. "I have no clue."
"What are the police saying?"
"They have no clue."
He snorted.
And she saw red.
"So sorry," she bit out with the sweetness of alum, "but you're going to have to translate that one for me. I'm not fluent in brooding male grunting."
Another almost smile, which she chose to ignore, lifted the corner of his mouth. 'Translated: that's not much to go on."
She glared out the window as street signs raced by. "And less to get worked up about. I still maintain it's someone's idea of a joke."
"And in your experience a death threat is a laughing matter?"
It was her turn to snort. "Experience? I have no experience in this. I just want it to go away."
"Well, princess, that makes two of us."
She whipped her gaze to his hard profile. The anger hit her first. "Do not call me princess." Then came curiosity as she tried to figure him out. "If you hate this so much, why are you here?"
The look he gave her when he turned his head and met her eyes made her blood run cold and hot at the same time. "Hell if I know."
Before she could recover from another bout of inexplicable sexual heat and pounce on his cryptic remark, he braked, then whipped the car into a parking space littered with newspapers, fast-food wrappers, and the remains of a battered shoe.
Jillian looked through the windshield, blinked, and gaped.
"A bar? You dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night to take me to a bar?"
She stared in disbelief at a cinder-block building that sat on the corner of a backstreet where either
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