Page 37

She stood on the brakes.
“No. Oh, no. Oh, God!” she whispered, ramming her Jeep into park.
She threw open the door. Flying out of the driver’s side, she prayed the man wasn’t dead. She rounded the back of the Jeep, her boots sliding, panic surging through her brain.
He lay in the drive, half buried in six inches of icy white powder. Jeans, heavy jacket, boots, dark hair. Face turned to one side.
Unmoving.
She nearly heaved. God, was he dead?
“Hey,” she yelled. “Hey!” She slid onto her knees ready to take his pulse, aware she saw no blood.
With a groan, he rolled over, blinking, two blue eyes peering up at her.
“Are . . . Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” He lifted his head, snow clinging to his near-black hair.
“Hey . . . don’t—No! You shouldn’t move.”
His head fell back into the depression in the snow. “Wow.”
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! She swallowed hard, reached for her phone to call 9-1-1, but she’d left her cell with her purse on the front seat. Glancing down the street, she saw it was empty, no one out, the only evidence of life a yellow tabby cat stepping through a snow covered yard slowly, lifting each paw carefully as it made its way to a sedan parked in the driveway and sliding beneath it. But other than that, the yards were quiet, the streetlights still glowing, a few windows bright from interior lights, a couple of houses glowing with strings of Christmas lights.
He sat up. Brushed his face with gloved fingers.
“Stay.” Holding out a hand, palm out, fingers splayed, she scrambled backward, still searching the empty street for anyone who could help. No one. Just the cat. “Don’t move, just . . . just stay,” she ordered. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No,” he said around another groan, and winced. “I’m . . . okay . . . just give me a minute.”
“What? No!”
“I need a sec.”
“But—”
He held up a finger and she was grateful that he was conscious, seeming coherent and could move, that his color seemed okay—normal. And that there was no dark red stain seeping into the snow. She still couldn’t stand the sight of it. “I said a second,” he repeated. Rolling onto his back, he gazed up at the sky, where morning light pierced the sluggish clouds moving slowly overhead. He let out his breath. “I’m okay. I’ll be . . . I’m okay.”
Was he? Shouldn’t he see a doctor? Or at least an EMT? What about internal injuries?
But she was already backing up, heading toward the open door of her Jeep. “I think we should call someone who—”
“Don’t!” he barked. Then a little more calmly said, “Look, I’m okay. Really.” To prove his point, he rolled to his knees, then pushing upright, was able to stand, thank God. He didn’t even sway.
That said, she was still freaked out, her own blood buzzing with the adrenaline, her mind racing with all the horror that could have happened. She could have killed him. Maimed him. Even now there could be other injuries that weren’t visible or . . . or . . .
And then she recognized him.
Damn.
“Man,” he said, and glanced at her. For the first time she saw him full in the face and thought he might be familiar. Near-black hair fell over his forehead, beneath thick eyebrows which guarded those stark blue eyes. A hawkish nose and beneath three or four days’ growth of beard, a strong jaw and . . . Oh. Crap.
Her heart nose-dived.
Anger flooded through her.
Wesley Friggin’ Tate. The damned reporter. Son of Edmund Tate, the cop who’d rescued her from the lake all those years ago, the man she’d run from, the man she’d thought was the monster who had slaughtered her family. Bristling, she said, “What’re you doing here?”