So About the Money (45 page)

Holly gaped at him. How in the hell did he get all that? All she’d noticed was a big car and really loud noises before JC body-slammed her to the ground. Speaking of which, he was still sprawled all over her on the
really
hard pavement. And—
 

Oh. My. God. Did he say a dark Suburban?

“We’re on the bike path, just past the new construction before you get to Badger Park.”

She squirmed, trying to wiggle out from under him. He frowned at her while he listened. He shifted and settled more firmly on top. She nearly groaned aloud. Under the circumstances, she probably wasn’t supposed to notice, but his body heat and intoxicating man-smell set off a different kind of lights and explosions inside her.
 

“Sounded like he jumped on the Interstate. See if Patrol has anybody up there.” He listened a moment longer. “The intended victim was our favorite accountant.”

Whatever the person on the other end said made him smile grimly. “I already asked her that.”

She narrowed her eyes. He was making this
her
fault? Suddenly, she could feel every rock digging into her back and the enormous bruise that was undoubtedly forming on her butt.

He closed his cell phone, but made no effort to move.
 

“Get off me.” She swatted his shoulder.

He blocked her arm, then pinned both of her hands to the ground. “Not until backup gets here.”

She struggled, but he weighed at least sixty pounds more than she did—most of it solid muscle—and he knew all that cop stuff about subduing bad guys. “You said the shooter left. That he was on the Interstate.”

“He could come back.”

Mm,
 

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” She could feel entirely too much of him. And parts of her were starting to really like parts of him.
 

“What are you complaining about? I’m putting my life on the line here, protecting you with my body.”

“Protecting me? You don’t even have your gun out.” She glared at him. “That better be your gun that’s poking me.”

“What else would it be?” He gave her the innocent-as-a-choirboy smile, with a dimple thrown in for good measure.
 

His face was inches from hers. She studied his expression. He wanted to kiss her. It was all over his face. But after yesterday’s revelations, he might be holding back, afraid to commit. Or waiting, forcing her to make a decision.
 

No way was he going to make the first move.
 

So, she did the sensible thing.

She kissed him.

It was a simple kiss, a soft pressing of lips, but he reacted as if she’d shot him. His body jerked, then froze, and she could’ve sworn he quit breathing. He stared at her long enough that she worried she’d completely misread him. Then he lowered his head and kissed the fool out of her.
 

He let go of her arms and wrapped her up in a full-body hug that sent her hormones into overdrive and left no doubt about his interest. His fingers wove into her hair and his tongue did the tango with hers.
 

Holly stopped caring about the hard ground when his warm fingers worked their way under her shirt. Her hands slid under his jacket and explored the wonderful muscles in his shoulders. Just about the time she wondered if the texture of his skin was as fantastic as it had been in college, she heard the unmistakable scream of an approaching siren.
 

JC heard it, too. He turned his head, listened for a heartbeat which, given the way both of their hearts were pounding, lasted a nanosecond. “Shit.”

He scrambled to his feet, then reached down and hauled her upright. They were still straightening clothes and brushing off road grit when the first patrol car swooped to the curb.
 

Blue lights dancing from the rooftop flashers nearly blinded her night-sensitized eyes, but she did a quick personal inventory. All their clothes were intact. Well, mostly intact. JC had managed to unfasten half her shirt’s buttons. She tugged her jacket’s zipper higher, and glanced at him. He had an impressive bulge in his personal region, but maybe whoever was in the police car wouldn’t notice. An uncomfortable expression crossed his face, like he’d love to adjust something, and she wondered if he was still a boxer guy.
 

Before she could consider the possibilities, his face transformed—it took maybe two seconds—and he turned into Detective Dimitrak.
 

Okay, fine. Let’s all pretend nothing happened.
 

She crossed her arms, then brushed more road grit off her elbow.

Wait a minute. What
did
just happen?
 

She gave JC an appalled look. She’d actually kissed him. On purpose. And wow. He was an even better kisser than she remembered. After all her don’t-want-to-get-involved-with-him insistence, what had she been thinking? She
hadn’t
been thinking. That always got her in trouble. Kissing him was complete insanity, no doubt sparked by the fact that, oh, dear God, somebody just shot at her.
 

That obvious fact, which she’d effectively ignored until that moment, slammed into her with the same stop-your-breath impact as JC knocking her onto the bike path.
 

Another patrol car slewed to a stop, closely followed by a big black Ford 4x4. After Thursday night, she knew what its arrival meant. She grabbed onto the irrelevant distraction, refusing to think about the other…things.
 

The 4x4 was the squad leader’s vehicle. The sergeant had arrived to take charge. If this was going to turn into the same kind of circus as the incidents at the library parking lot and beside the Interstate—with a sinking heart, she saw it headed straight down that path—the captain and the press were about five minutes behind the sergeant. Shootings were still rare enough in Richland that
everybody
showed up at the scene of one.

JC was talking cop stuff with the sergeant. Two patrol officers bracketed her, their attention focused outward, alert for another attack.
 

She stood at the edge of their circle of activity, trying to simultaneously not think about the bullets and figure out what had happened on the bike path. The unbelievable kiss simply had to wait its turn. She didn’t want to think about it, analyze it, blush over it, regret it, do it again really soon, or any of the other hundred possibilities clamoring for her attention. For at least a few minutes, she had to focus on the other part. The part where some psycho in an SUV had shot at her.
 

Shot, as in bullets.
 

As in bang, bang, you’re dead.
 

Dead.
Like Marcy
.

The fine trembling began. She really had to learn to deal with the adrenaline rush and the corresponding whole-body-shut-down-in-shock-because-it-didn’t-want-to-deal-with-reality thing. By now, she should be getting a handle on that.
 

She had good reflexes. Thursday night in the parking lot she’d jumped out of the truck’s way and leapt sideways between two vehicles, in a move her Zumba instructor would’ve applauded. But nobody dodged bullets. Whoever was in that SUV tonight was simply a lousy shot.
 

“Holly?” JC’s voice intruded.
 

She blinked and discovered the cops were all staring at her. An eerie calm settled over her, even as her body continued to shake with reaction.
 

“What do you remember?” he asked.
 

She sucked in a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady. She was not going to let them treat her like an hysterical female. “I was waiting for you to catch up with me. The car pulled over to the side of the road. It didn’t stop, just slowed down. The lights were bright—my eyes were adjusted to the dark—so I put up my hand to shield them. I noticed the passenger window was down, because who drives around this time of year with the window open?”

“Are you sure?” another patrol officer asked. He looked at JC for confirmation.

JC nodded and lifted his arm, miming the shooter’s probable actions. “That’s why there were only three shots. The driver shot through the open window.”

He pointed his arm. “Bang.”
 

He moved halfway through the shallow arc. “Bang.”
 

He swept through the rest of the turn. “Bang. If it had been someone sitting in the passenger seat, they’d have had their arm out the window. They’d have kept shooting even after they passed us. The driver couldn’t risk putting a bullet hole in his own car. It’s hell to explain those later.”

 
She ran the movie in her head. Two converging figures on the bike path. The moving vehicle approaching. It was a math problem. She stifled the urge to giggle. If a car leaves the park and travels north at forty miles per hour and the walkers go south at three miles per hour, how many bullets can the driver shoot as he passes?
 

Three
.

Her hands shook as the reality of the situation met up with her imagination.
 

“We’re never going to find the slugs,” one of the patrol officers said. He swung a flashlight over the tumbled heaps of cracked basalt and granite, sage clumps and tumbleweeds that littered the acreage beyond the bike path. “Not without a metal detector.”

“Could be worse.” A sudden smile quirked JC’s lips. His dimples flashed and Holly’s heart did an irreverent pitty-pat. “Another five minutes and we’d have been by the irrigation canal. When you’re crawling all over that field, remind yourself you could be up to your ass in duck crap and rotting cattails.”

The cop looked as though he would’ve said something if the sergeant weren’t standing right there. One of the other guys coughed, as if covering a laugh. The captain—when had he finally shown up? —said, “Let’s remember we’re dealing with an attempted homicide here.”

Holly’s breath stopped. Attempted homicide.
 

Attempted murder
.
 

Her stomach felt sick and her knees seemed wobbly all of a sudden. The reality she was trying to avoid hit her upside of the head with the subtlety of a baseball bat.
She could be dead right now.

She was alive only because someone hadn’t wanted to shoot holes in their car.
 

“Holly?” JC had hold of her arm. “Let’s go to the car and sit down.”

She meant to shake her head—she wasn’t sure she could walk—but he practically lifted her off her feet. The next thing she knew, she was in the backseat of the 4x4. The sergeant had left it running with the heat going full blast. At least that’s what she told herself when she felt sweat bead along her hairline. It was too warm in the car. She couldn’t catch her breath.
 

“Put your head between your knees.” JC sat beside her, gripping her neck. He nudged her forward. “The windows are tinted. No one can see.”

Her body folded over and she sucked in air until the spinning stopped. His hand stroked her back. She’d just started to relax when she heard the front-door latch click. JC’s hand retracted and the door opened. Bright light flooded the interior.

Holly squinched her eyes closed.

“She okay?” The captain peered over the front seat.
 

If there was one thing she hated—almost as much as being shot at—it was people talking about her as if she weren’t present. She sat up. “I’m fine.”

Captain Blake—he’d introduced himself at some point—studied her a moment, then nodded. “This is what we’re going to do. Officer Mittemayer is going to take Detective Dimitrak’s statement, then he’ll drop the detective at Bookwalter so he can get his car.”

Holly could already foresee the guy’s first question: Why were you walking instead of in JC’s car?

“You’ll go to the station, where we’ll take your statement. Detective Dimitrak said he’d make sure you get home safely. We’ll increase the patrol through Hills West tonight, move the floater to that sector to double the coverage, but if you’d prefer to stay with a friend, I’m sure the detective will take you there.”

The lengthy session Thursday night with the Pasco police scrolled through Holly’s memory. If she went to the station, it would be hours before they’d let her go. “Can’t I give you my statement here?”