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He kept a sharp eye on the road—wildlife and errant livestock were a constant hazard—but he kept just as close an eye on Gia, sitting stiffly beside him, hands folded tight in her lap.
Something happened earlier that had her skittish, but when he’d asked, he’d gotten a breezy smile and a non-answer that set his teeth on edge.
A glint of light flared in the rearview mirror—too bright, too close.
Gia’s posture snapped even straighter.
Glancing at the speedometer, Caleb noted their pace. The car behind them had to be doing at least seventy—gaining fast. Slowing the Jeep to forty-five, he eyed the glove compartment where he’d stashed his weapon.
With a roar, the other vehicle veered into the opposite lane, surged past them, and vanished over the next hill.
Beside him, Gia’s shoulders sagged with a long exhale.
“Something wrong?” he asked casually. Just to see what she’d say.
“No.”
Lie.
Her body language screamed otherwise.
He waited a beat, then said, “Does Jennie know the truth?”
She paled. “The truth?” Her throat worked. “About what?”
Another dodge.
He took his eyes off the road long enough to pin her with a look. “About who’s after you. And why.”
Because she hadn’t told him everything. His intuition rarely let him down.
She turned to stare out the window. “I told her my ex sent those men to harass me.”
Caleb ground his molars together. Her vulnerability yanked hard on his protective instincts. He admired her compassion, her internal strength in the face of fear.
But if Manuel Ortega and the young punk with him had ties to Espina Negra, where exactly did Gia’s “ex” fit into the picture?
He pulled up in front of her house, where a Navajo Nation Police cruiser sat parked in the street, the silhouette of a female officer visible inside.
“That’s Naveah, my neighbor,” Gia said.
“Good.” Zach had come through.
“Caleb…” Gia licked her lips, and suddenly, that was all he could focus on.
Pink tongue, full lips.
He really did like that color she wore.
“…dinner. As a thank you. For all your help.”
“What?” He’d missed something.
Her cheeks flushed. “I said I’d like to make you dinner. I make a really good lasagna—family recipe. It’s better than hotel food and…” she shrugged awkwardly. “I feel like I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
But he wasn’t about to turn down a home cooked meal—especially Italian. Or more time around her.