Tait grabbed Lauren’s hand and tugged her to the door. He put his index finger to his lips to shush her then slowly leaned his head into the hallway to check for the mercs. The back door stood propped wide open by a concrete block. Trap? He’d have to take the chance because there was no way he could walk her through the front. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “There may be guards out there. Stick close. I’ll get you out of here.”

She squinted and those luscious lips of hers parted. He was about to get an earful. He cut her off at the pass by saying a name. “Major Jackson.”

Lauren snapped her mouth shut. She had not expected him to know that name. Then again… Her eyebrows unclenched from the narrow-eyed glare she’d leveled on him as she tugged against his hold. “What did he say to you?”

Shooter’s amused expression said it all. He knew what she was doing and thought she was ridiculous for trying.

“I admit, I didn’t actually talk to her. My contact is the command sergeant major she’s married to.”

She choked back a relieved puff of breath. Maybe…just maybe, Hannah McIntire had gotten her message after all, and maybe, with a change of her current run of bad luck, this guy was on the up-and-up.

Not giving her time to think, Tait hustled Lauren down the hallway toward the gaping exit. Inhaling, he didn’t pick up any scents that shouldn’t be there. Still, he paused, eyes raking the parking lot. Nothing stirred. No occupied vehicles. He corralled her beneath his left arm and stepped into the insipid glow cast by a lone security light. His Beretta nestled along his thigh, gripped firmly in his right hand.

“Act like my date. We’re going to walk along the side of the building to my truck in the front lot. If I let go, grab my belt, hang on, but stay behind me.” He gazed down at her until she nodded. In the distance, his sensitive ears perceived the faint wail of sirens. “Shit,” he muttered. “We gotta move.”

Picking up the pace, he trotted her down the side of the roadhouse. At the corner, he stopped and checked the area. A black Hummer was parked directly in front of the entrance, nose in. Good. Even if they were spotted, the Black Root mercs would have to turn the bulky vehicle around to catch them. He moved them down a notch on the stupid rent-a-gun meter.

He walked beside Lauren now, all we-aren’t-the-droids-you’re-looking-for nonchalant and confident. She did not want to admit how good it felt to be tucked up to his side. She’d been so scared for what seemed like forever, even though it had only been a few weeks. Relief and a sense of safety threatened to take her legs out from under her. That’s all it was. It had nothing to do with the hard muscles pressing against her, or the oddly appealing fragrance of citrus and wood smoke filling her nose.

“My truck is straight ahead.”

A large gray pickup, with four doors, and a decal running along the side of the bed that said “4 X 4” gleamed under the desultory mercury lights illuminating the parking lot with a salmon-colored haze. She matched Shooter step for step, grateful he’d shortened his stride so they were strolling instead of jogging. Stopping at the passenger door, he keyed in a code to unlock it. “Paranoid much,” she mumbled under her breath. This was a newer truck. It would have one of those fobs that unlocked it and started it and did all the fancy electronic things. That’s when she realized he held a gun one hand. Lauren gulped as she moved back so he could open the door.

Two men burst through the front entrance of the roadhouse. Tait grabbed Lauren around the waist and tossed her into the passenger seat with a growled, “Seat belt.” He slammed the door shut and sprinted to the driver’s side. Four more men stumbled out from the bar. Sirens were closer now. He had no time to waste. He swung into the driver’s seat, threw the transmission into reverse and gunned the accelerator. He executed a faultless J-turn, spinning the reversing truck 180 degrees before slamming it into drive and speeding away.

Lauren squawked, scrambling to buckle up. She clung to the armrest on the door and center console with white knuckles. At this rate, she wouldn’t have to worry about the men in black catching up to her and doing dire things. She’d die in a car wreck caused by this guy’s reckless driving. Except he looked totally in control, not totally freaked out like she was. He drove behind the low building housing the motel, lights off. With no security lights back here, how could he see? The lack of any source of illumination obviously didn’t bother Shooter. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the transmission shifter.

He eased the truck around a set of overflowing Dumpsters and nosed it into an overgrown dirt road. Good thing he’d scouted the area beforehand. This old road led to the back entrance of an abandoned lumberyard. In a few minutes, they’d be back out on the highway making the run for Montana. He cut his eyes toward his passenger. She still had a death grip on the console and armrest and he caught the glint of the whites of her eyes. At least she wasn’t screaming.

His wolf snarled. The damn animal didn’t like that Lauren was scared, didn’t want her to scream unless it was in pleasure. Tait shut that thought down with iron-clad will. Lauren Reilly was a job—a favor to a man from the past. He was only keeping her until Mac and Hannah made other arrangements. The wolf paced now, tense and angry, not liking the idea of being apart.

“Don’t have time for this,” he muttered.

“Pardon?” Lauren’s voice squeaked a little and she darted a glance his direction.

Shit. Had he spoken out loud? He had to get his head in the game before it got blown off. “Nothing. Just muttering. We need to make up some time.” He tilted his head toward the backseat. “When we hit the highway, toss your backpack over the seat. There’s a blanket back there if you get cold. The seat reclines so you can get some sleep.”

“What about yo-oooh!” Her voice rose almost an octave as the truck bounced over a deep rut.

“I’ll sleep later. I’ll drive through the night to put distance between us and the SOBs hunting you.”

A few minutes later, they did indeed reach the highway as Shooter said they would. She pushed her pack through the gap between the front captain’s seats and patted around until she found the blanket—a thick fleece that contained that intriguing scent of citrus, smoke, and a musk that only came from a man’s skin. She tried not to bury her nose in the soft folds of material, really she did. She focused on Shooter instead—not that looking at him was any less tempting.

She’d originally pegged his age as early thirties but studying him now, she decided he was older. Or more rugged. Mostly likely both. A fine feathering of lines at the corners of his eyes alluded to a life spent outdoors squinting in the sun rather than laughter. Lauren had the distinct impression that Shooter didn’t laugh much. And she really wanted to know how he’d come by his nickname—almost as much as she wanted to know his real name. He probably had a good reason for not telling her, like if she was captured by the bad guys, they couldn’t torture it out of her. She shuddered around a spike of fear. Would they torture her? Or just kill her?

Tait’s nostrils flared as a whiff of ammonia drifted over from his passenger. Was she still afraid of him? Good. If she was afraid, she’d stay away, and he needed her far away from him—emotionally at least. Lauren was too tempting. He had his reasons for being a lone wolf, just like he had his reasons for only working on a case-by-case basis for Hank and his Brotherhood Protectors.

“You should sleep.” His voice came out more gruffly than he’d intended.

“I’m fine.”

Only he knew she wasn’t. Her exhaustion beat at him, along with the vestiges of fear still clinging to her. “Suit yourself.” He stretched out one leg, leaning back against the leather seat. They had about thirty miles to go before they hit interstate. He debated sticking to the back roads. Each route came with their own set of pros and cons. At the moment, speed was the essential element.

He drove in silence, his big hand loosely gripping the steering wheel, the other braced on the shifter. Lauren tried to watch the scenery, but the roadside was a dark blur. Shooter had done something to lower the lights on the dashboard so his face was swathed in shadow. She resorted to studying him again. She pegged his age somewhere around forty, give or take a few years. Short hair, a dark brown but with a bit of highlight from the sun. Stubbly beard lining his jaw and chin. Would the scruff be soft or bristly?

The man’s biceps bulged beneath the long sleeves of the T-shirt he wore, which was only fitting considering the width of his shoulders. Not that she was shallow or anything. Of course, most of the men who’d asked her out had been of the nerdy persuasion and Shooter was anything but that. He was male squared. Men like him didn’t make passes at girls who wore glasses, she reminded herself as she pushed her pair up higher on her nose.

“May I ask you a question?”

She caught a gleam of light flashing in his eyes, almost like a dog’s eyes at night. No, not a dog. Something wilder, more feral.

“S’long as you remember what they say about curiosity.”

“I am not a cat,” she huffed.

He laughed. No, his little mouse was not a cat. “What do you want to know?”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To my place.”

She breathed around the sudden panic blossoming in her chest. “Your place?”

Her voice squeaked again. Tait should find it irritating instead of cute. “Yeah. You’ll stay there until Hannah and Mac can make arrangements.”

“So…where exactly is your place?”

Tait almost didn’t tell her. He’d been tracking her crazy movements for almost a week before he caught up to her in Nowhere, Iowa. All things considered, he was amazed she’d managed to stay out of Black Roots’ hands. From his research, she’d probably been trying for Chicago, thinking to get lost in the big city. Except that wasn’t as easy as most people thought. Still, he should give her some idea because they had a long trip ahead of them—over twenty hours if they didn’t stop for anything but gas and drove straight there following an interstate. “Montana.”

“Montana?” she screeched.