Page 3 of Allie's Shelter

It was the distraction she needed. When the shooter glanced up toward the TV, she surged forward, staying low and driving her shoulder through his knees.

She heard the boom of another shot, but didn’t feel any pain. She had him on the floor, belatedly realizing the tang of copper in the air was his blood, not hers, where it seeped out of his body. For a few more seconds she couldn’t move. When her instincts kicked in, she reached out to check his pulse. Nothing. The man was dead. Nothing in her public relations experience trained her to put a positive spin on being shot at or dealing with a dead intruder.

She stared down at the shooter, dressed in black with a black ski mask over his face. Working up the courage, she reached for the mask. She only knew of one man who might want her dead. Her boss, Bradley Roberts. She couldn’t picture him getting his hands dirty behind a loaded weapon. Then again, desperation was a mighty motivator. As she reached for the mask again, a shadow blocked the light. She looked up into a face she had never thought to see again.

“Time to go.”

“Ross?” Her stomach pitched as her eyes roamed over the face that had once been so dear to her. She must be hallucinating, not even her luck could be this bad.

“The same.” His voice was deeper and all too real. “Pack a bag while I call this in.”

Over a dead body had to be the worst place to run into an old flame.

“Where did you come from?” She glanced behind him, but couldn’t see anything. His broad shoulders blocked more of the doorway than the shooter had. Maybe it was her angle, but he seemed taller than she remembered. She was clearly addled if his height was her primary concern in this horrible moment. She dropped her gaze back to the dead man.

“Go pack, Allie.”

“No.” She sat back on her heels, not trusting her legs to support her, and let out a sigh of defeat. “This is my fault.”

“I know.” He knelt down on the other side of the body, his brown eyes hard and intense on her. “This is a crime scene now. They won’t let you stay here.”

She stood up, retrieved her small backpack, and did an odd sort of two-step to get around him and out of the room. In the kitchen, she picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

* * *

Ross spun around when he heard her calling it in. The stubborn girl hadn’t changed much beyond the new hair and new knack for serious trouble. He shrugged it off. Probably better if the sheriff’s office heard it from her first anyway.

It would give his heart more time to return to its rightful place. It had leaped up and lodged in his throat when he’d heard the gun shot.

Everyone on her side of the equation would be mad as hell when they learned he was not only in town, but now irrevocably involved in her downfall. Whatever happened, it wouldn’t be a stretch if the town blamed him for her problems. Which only proved things never changed.

He peeled away the shooter’s ski mask, took a picture with his cell phone, and emailed the photo to his office. Eva would wake up when her laptop chimed an alert and they could start the search for an identity to go with the ugly face.

To expedite matters, he took a thumbprint and patted the guy down, not surprised to come up empty.

“What are you doing?”

“My job.” He glanced up at her, grateful to see she’d covered those fine, long legs with jeans.

“I meant what are you doing here?”

“Sheriff Cochran had reports of a prowler in the area. I was helping with patrols. What are you doing here?”

“They, um, told me to wait here.”

Which meant sirens would be waking up the whole damned neighborhood any minute now. “Do you recognize this guy?”

She shook her head and looked away from the body. “How did you get in?”

“Getting where I need to be is part of the job.”

“Oh.”

He probably shouldn’t feel so relieved that the weak explanation satisfied her. It was clear by her wide eyes that shock would set in soon if he didn’t do something to divert it. He caught sight of the little backpack he’d been searching for upstairs, and the larger duffel slung over her shoulder. Standing, he reached into his jacket pocket for the rental car key. “Go put whatever isn’t essential for your identification and right to be here in the house out in my trunk.”

She gripped the backpack tighter, telling him without words exactly what he needed to know. What he’d been hired to recover was in there.

“Or you can let the cops have at it,” he added.

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