Page 22 of Stalked

Some of the tests she did were to establish the gestational age of the child.

Every indication was that the fetus was twenty-five weeks developed. That would mean he was conceived six months ago.

Steve knew that didn’t mean the baby was his. But it was definitely a step closer.

The most important thing right now was that both Rosalyn and the baby were healthy. His flying tackle hadn’t hurt either of them in any way.

When he’d seen that car speeding toward Rosalyn his heart had stopped. Only years of training, his body responding almost before his mind did, had him moving forward to get her out of the way.

Drunk driver, his ass.

Steve might possibly have believed it if the guy hadn’t backed up to run over him.

Someone had been trying to kill Rosalyn or Steve or both of them. He’d made it look like he was a drunk driver, but after everything Rosalyn had told him, that was one coincidence too many.

Funny thing was, until the attack happened, he hadn’t really believed Rosalyn about her Watcher theory. To Steve, her description of the situation broke too many of the typical patterns that would be found in a stalker committed enough to kill people.

He’d spent the last hour in a room the hospital had lent him for privacy, on the phone with Sheriff Harvey Palmer. He explained about Rosalyn and her twin, Lindsey. Explained how Lindsey’s prints weren’t in the system but Rosalyn’s were, although he still didn’t know why.

Steve also told Palmer what had happened with the car. A dark two-door Toyota with no plates wasn’t going to be particularly helpful, but the sheriff agreed to run the description against other incidents in the area. Maybe they’d get lucky.

Steve finished the call by telling Palmer he’d be taking Rosalyn with him out of Florida.

He was going to take her to Colorado Springs. Back to Omega Critical Response headquarters. If they were fighting some villain intent on hurting Rosalyn and her baby, Steve planned to fight on his own turf.

Once he finished with Sheriff Palmer, he called his office.

“Steve Drackett’s office.”

“Angela, it’s me.” Someone was in Steve’s office twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to be able to field calls that might come from as far up as the White House. Angela tended to work the evening shifts.

“Hey, boss. I thought you were taking a couple of personal days.”

“I was, but my situation has changed. I’m going to need you to book me two tickets on a flight from Pensacola to Colorado Springs for as early as possible tomorrow. Me and a Rosalyn Mellinger.”

“Okay, no problem. I’ll text you with the details.”

“Anything exciting happening around the office?”

“All in all, a pretty quiet day. If you can believe it.”

Aquiet daymight have only meant there were no events threatening national security.

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“See you then, sir.”

A doctor had already looked over Steve’s wounds—some road rash and bruises—and declared him free to go. What had happened tonight could’ve been much worse.

He walked down the hallway and saw Rosalyn joking with one of the nurses. He was struck again by her natural beauty and animation.

It could’ve been much, much worse.

He’d spent six months angry with her, followed by a day of terrible sadness when he thought she was dead. He’d then been given the precious gift of a second chance when he’d found out she was alive.

Her smile still took his breath away just like it had six months ago.

“You ready to go?” he asked her.

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