The squeal of tires preceded the sickening thud and crunch of metal on metal. The force exploded the airbag like a fist to his face. The tinkling of broken glass breaking against the pavement and the overpowering smell of gasoline roused him.

“Son. Of. A. Bitch.” The words came out muffled Dust gritted against his teeth and tongue, as did the taste of copper. Shaking his head, Ben “Cannon” Stone released the seatbelt before he forced the driver’s side door open.

On his feet, he blinked dazedly through his broken sunglasses. Pain radiated from his chest, but he’d had worse in drills. Blood trickled from his nostrils and he had to lean to the side to spit the taste of it from his mouth. Stripping away the sunglasses, he stared at the remains of a sexy little red Jag, which had definitely taken the worst of the impact with his 450.

Tossing the broken glasses into the back of the truck, he grabbed a fire extinguisher from behind the driver’s seat before he strode toward the other vehicle. It had tried to T-bone him. The front bumper was scuffed and side panel was a mess, and he’d have to get the alignment checked, but otherwise the vehicle was in good shape.

The gas smell grew stronger as he approached the other car. Not seeing flames didn’t mean they wouldn’t be there. All he could see of the driver was a cloud of black hair pinned by an airbag. Must be an older model. Deflating the bag with a stab of his knife, he touched two fingers to her throat to check for a pulse and came face to face with a Glock 26.

“Don’t touch me,” the woman ordered, her sweet contralto husky with pain.

“No problem, ma’am.” He kept his tone strictly polite. Baby Glock or not, if she squeezed the trigger then it was bye-bye Cannon with a bang. He still had a few items left on his bucket list to court the option. “I was driving the truck you hit, so I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

A hint of acrid filtered through the overwhelming smell of gas. Cutting his gaze to the right, he checked the tail of his truck. No fluids flowed. A faint groan tugged his attention to the woman leaning her head back against the seat. The cascade of black hair parted like a curtain, revealing a pair of stunningly dark eyes, a cute—if abraded—nose and some luscious lips. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of that beautiful mouth.

“You’re hurt.” Probably an unnecessary observation, but the gun hadn’t wavered, and she seemed to have trouble focusing her eyes. “Anything broken? Hurt?” Jags were tougher than they looked, but whether she’d cracked the engine block or not, she wasn’t driving away without significant repairs.

“I’ll live,” she managed to grind out. “Back off…I told them I wasn’t going back and sending a pretty boy isn’t likely to change my mind.”

He’d taken a hit, but not enough for a concussion. “Sweetheart, I think you’ve got me confused with…”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

Hostile.

Okay, he could work with that. “I hear you, lovely lady. You’re hurt. Let’s get you out of the car then check your injuries.”

She grimaced then glared at him. The blood from her lip slowed, so maybe she just split the inside of her cheek. Minor injury. The force had to be tremendous, as it shook him and she’d appeared unconscious when he got to her.

The sound of an engine approaching reached him. His cell was in the truck, but backup might not be a bad thing if he couldn’t calm her down.

“Back. Off.” She pushed the two words out with effort. His gaze dipped to her chest. Short, shallow breaths.

“I have a knife, and you’re having trouble taking a deep breath. Can you free your seatbelt?” He set the extinguisher down.

Her focus sharpened on him as disbelief rippled across her face. “Are you stupid or something? I’m pointing a gun at you.”

“Is that a problem?” Covering the gun with his free hand, he removed it from hers, leaving her blinking rapidly. “There, all taken care of. Need help getting the seatbelt off?”

The engine continued to draw closer, but the winding roads of West Virginia weren’t crowded. He’d been taking the back way on purpose to delay returning home to visit his parents after helping Flint clean up a mess in Virginia. Where the hell had she been going so fast? He hadn’t even seen the Jag before it plowed into him.

“How did you…?” She couldn’t finish the statement as her breath wheezed. Enough of an answer for him—he sliced through the seatbelt holding her rigid and she sagged with a whoosh. Folding the knife closed, he tucked it back into his pocket then set the gun next to the fire extinguisher.

Only idiots tucked a weapon into their pants. He liked his junk right where it was.

The doorframe was pretty shot, but he let her get some needed oxygen while he worked on wrenching it open.

The acrid smell increased, and a faint trail of smoke rose from beneath the crunched hood. Time to go. Putting his back into it, he managed to get the door open then wedged wider. More glass fell, but he ignored the shards. They were falling outside, not into the car on her.

“All right, pretty lady, my name’s Ben—friends call me Cannon. I’m going to pull you out of there. Try not to bite me.” He waited until her shock-eyed gaze collided with his to wink. “I might like it.”

“Who are you?” She found her voice and speaking revealed her white teeth. Only one showed stains from the blood, which was a good sign. After sliding an arm beneath her legs, he eased one behind her back. He was used to dealing with pain—it was just weakness leaving the body. Didn’t mean he wanted to hurt her more than she already was.

Her hiss told him he’d definitely ticked something aching on her. Lifting her out, he balanced her easily. Until he had a better grasp on her injuries, he wanted to avoid the bump and jerk. Once clear of her car, he circled the truck to the driver’s side. He got the back door open and lifted her up into the rear passenger seat.

“My bag…” She groaned. “I need it.”

“Stay,” he told her before jogging back to the damaged vehicle. The smoke intensified, so he grabbed the fire extinguisher and sprayed it over the cracked engine. The smoke vanished, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Collecting her gun, he reached across the seat and lifted her purse by the straps. It was one of those huge duffle-bag-wannabe looking jobs and weighed as much as a training ruck. What the hell was she carrying?

Though he could still hear an engine, no vehicles put on an appearance. Clocking the noise, he returned to the injured woman and handed her the purse sans the gun. Her fingers closed over it, giving him a good look at the bruises on her fingers, and the barely scabbed over knuckles which were cracked and raw.

“I need to move the truck back. You good?”

Not waiting for an answer, he closed the door and climbed back into the driver’s seat. The engine running was his, but it wasn’t the sound he’d heard. Instinct told him to move, so he moved. In the field, he trusted his gut and that hadn’t changed since he’d gotten home. The damage to his truck might be negligible, but it was annoying.

He’d just picked this bad boy up after totaling the last one in a barn.

Story for another day. He put the truck into reverse. Somewhere after the crash, he’d managed to put the gear into park. Whatever, auto-pilot worked, and he didn’t want waste another second. Metal dragged with him as he retreated from the smashed Jag. At three hundred feet back, he slowed and pulled over onto the shoulder. Well, what there was of it.

The stop she’d blown past was visible just beyond her car, and there were trees all around the road he’d been following. Touching a finger to his nose, he checked to make sure it wasn’t broken. Adrenaline waning, the feeling of his pulse thudding in what was sure to be a bruise ached. Nothing he couldn’t live with though.

Putting the truck in park, he twisted to look at his passenger. She stared back at him, blinking slowly. Ignoring the throb on his cheek, he grinned. “Okay, that went well, all things considered.”

The truck’s engine rumbled, but there was another engine noise—and it increased as it drew closer. His passenger’s eyes widened, and Cannon whipped around in time to see another car bearing down on them. This one had a man hanging out of the side, and he opened fire.

“Put the seatbelt on and get down,” Cannon ordered. The Glock 26 was a nice gun, but he preferred his own. Freeing it from the lockbox between the seats, he put the truck in drive and floored it. It was like playing chicken with a semi-automatic. Fortunately, their bullets sprayed wide. The peppering of pops mostly hit the blacktop, but one found its mark on his truck.

“Dammit,” he muttered. Brand new truck. Another pop and he was pretty sure it caught a tire. Fortunately, he was rolling on eight, not just four. He didn’t bother to shoot at the oncoming car. He could shoot with his left hand, but he was a hell of a lot better with his right.

Whipping around her damaged car, he hit the control to lower the window on the right, then fired at the car as he accelerated.

“Sorry,” he called back to his passenger.

“For what?” came her muffled reply. More words. Great. More words was always good.

The second bullet he fired hit the leaking gas on the ground. The spark jumped, then there was a whoosh and he lowered the gun and dropped the accelerator all the way to the floor. In his rearview, the car racing toward them disappeared as the fire roared over the Jag and then there was a very loud boom as metal sheared off metal.

Cannon grinned. “For that.” It wasn’t funny, not really. Her car just went up in flames and someone was shooting at them.

A tire bounced off the hood of his truck leaving an unholy dent.

Damn.

His grin faltered but returned.

“Why are you smiling?” Disbelief and horror twined in his passenger’s voice, and it still sounded like she was lying down on the seat. Their would-be pursuers hadn’t gotten around the burning Jag.

“Because it went boom. Boom’s pretty funny when you’re not the one going boom and no one you know or like is going boom.” Then it occurred to him. “They weren’t friends of yours, were they?”

Crap. What if he’d blown her people up? That would not be funny.

“No,” she exhaled. “Definitely not…”

“Good.” Free to enjoy it, he checked his rearview then ahead. He had no idea what road he was on, or who the hell she was, or what had just happened.

The only thing he knew was he didn’t have to go back home and that was all right. “So,” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s try this again. I’m Ben Stone, friends call me Cannon. And you are?”

Bruised and battered, Pilar Petrucci clung to the back of the seat. The man in the driver’s seat flashed another of those heart-stopping grins in her direction. Everything about him screamed clean-cut, American pie, boy next door with his reddish-brown hair, green eyes, and a smattering of freckles. Then he did things like take away her gun, rescue her, get shot out, and blow up her car without seeming to break a sweat.

“My car?” The thoughts swirled through her as though poured from a container of maple syrup—slow, gooey, and sweet enough to make her teeth ache. Except the last one, as the last one soured. “You blew up my car.”

“To be fair, your insurance company would have totaled it anyway, but chances are they’d have blamed it on you. Your rates would’ve skyrocketed.” He kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on a gun he’d pulled from…somewhere. The barrel angled toward the door and away from both of them, but he didn’t release it. “Trust me, you’re better off with the fire. Just hope it doesn’t get these woods.”

Who the hell was this guy? He didn’t sound like one of the locals, not that she’d spent a lot of time in West Virginia—if that was where she still was. She’d been passing through as she fled southward.

Blinking, she touched a finger to her forehead. The headache beat in time to her pulse, which happened to be racing along like she’d fled a mugger in Central Park. Probably an apt comparison, because her grandfather’s soldiers weren’t going to stop. Old Man Petrucci didn’t have a forgiving bone in his body. Now, she’d crashed this…good samaritan’s life.

Pushing her hair away from her face, she slid over on the seat to get a better angle on his face. His jawline was firm, strong—a man’s jaw. Never fall for a man with a weak chin, her nonna advised. They always had something to prove.

“And you are?” he said, cutting a look back at her again before his gaze went to the rearview mirror.

Twisting, she glanced behind. The act looped pain around her neck, and a lance of it drove right into her brain. Gripping her neck, she grimaced, then turned her whole body to look. Her head had snapped forward at the impact—she remembered that much before the airbag shoved her back.

No sign of a car behind them.

“They’re not following,” her erstwhile rescuer announced. Wait, hadn’t he told her his name?

“I think I missed your name,” she managed, straightening in the seat and then leaning back to let it support her head. Everything hurt. The taste of blood in her mouth left her a bit queasy on top of her other complaints.

“Ben,” he said, not seeming to mind repeating himself.

“You called yourself something else.”

“Cannon.” He leaned his head to the left a little, and the muscles along his neck flexed and his shirt tightened over the shoulder. The man was solid. A fleeting memory of the way he’d lifted her out of the car and carried her darted across her mind. She’d been pressed up against him. Pity she hadn’t been in better condition to enjoy it. Closing her eyes, she shook her head internally. Externally would have hurt, and frankly keeping her sluggish brain on target was a chore.

“Weird name,” she finally said.

“You okay back there?”

When she opened her eyes, it was to meet his worried green-eyed gaze in the rearview mirror. “Not really, but I’m alive, so that’s something.”

“Damn straight. You’re not running alone anymore. Where are we headed?” How did he manage to sound so damn cheerful? Maybe it’s because his truck wasn’t the one totaled and on fire. She would miss the Jag. Her family’s dubious connections and life choices aside, she had just made the final payment on that car, thanks to the job those connections got for her. Not that she held any illusions anymore about whether she still had a job, a place to live, or a vehicle.

She had cut all ties by turning on them. Hard to swallow that she was dead to them, even if they hadn’t whacked her yet.

“Hey,” the sharp cut of his voice echoed in the cab of the truck. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Are you hurt?”

“I told you, I’m not your sweetheart.” He’d called her that earlier. Terms of endearment didn’t flow in normal conversation, especially not between strangers. “Of course I’m hurt.” It came out a little harsher than she’d intended. “I was just in a car accident.”

“Got it.” Though to which part he didn’t clarify. “Any serious injuries?”

“Like what?” All she really wanted to do was go to sleep. In school, they’d done a whole segment on fight or flight. Some animals, when cornered, turned into hellions. It was how a smaller animal might even survive attack by a larger predator. Flight was also an option, one she’d embraced. They fled, relying on speed to get away. In both types, however, there was a point where they gave up. Exhaustion could have a lot to do with it, or a depletion of resources brought on by too much adrenaline.

Those animals laid down and just died where they were or waited for the inevitable to come.

The last thought pushed her chin up, and she sucked in a deep breath. Her lungs expanded, and though it ached, it was nowhere near as punishing as it had been earlier. That was something.

“Bruises. Cuts. Bullet wounds.” Cannon was still talking to her. The man was relentless. Bullet wounds? Wait, they had been shooting at the truck. Jolted, she ran her hands over herself. There was blood on her shirt, but there was also blood on her cheek.

“I’ve never been shot. How does that feel?” Even her toes hurt, so Pilar wasn’t sure if she could identify it without a mirror and stripping.

“Burns like a mother fucker when it goes through bone…”

Nothing felt that bad.

“…hot when it just goes through skin and tendon…”

Heat crept through her, but she wasn’t sure if that a sympathetic reaction to the description or not.

“…razor sting and heat when it hits muscle…”

No stings. Except for her face. Surely he’d notice if she’d been shot in the face. Right? Still, she touched two fingers to her face.

“…sometimes the shock hides the pain.”

“God, that’s not helpful.” Dropping her hands to the seat, she glared at him. “I don’t think they shot me.”

“That’s good, sweetheart. Real good. Let me know if you get lightheaded or feel faint. Or if it feels like you got hit with a bat somewhere.”

The fledgling sense of hope collapsed. “I feel like I got hit by a bat everywhere. How do you know so much about how it feels to be shot?”

“Experience,” was his only reply.

Blowing out a breath, she ran a hand over her chest and then her abdomen. Her chest hurt, but only where the seatbelt had been. It started at her left shoulder and traveled diagonally across. Her neck twinged with every movement, but she found no blood. Her thighs, like everywhere else, trembled.

“Verdict?” Cannon asked after she stilled.

“I think I’m not shot. I think.” She preferred definitives, but all she had to go on was the lack of blood or burning pain.

“Good.” He checked the rearview again. “So, let’s get back to the earlier questions.”

Earlier…?

“Do you have a name, sweetheart? And where are we going?”

Oh…

“My name is Pilar…Napolitano.” She almost said Petrucci, but it wasn’t her name. Legally, sure, but she’d been born a Napolitano. Time to reclaim it, especially if she had Petruccis gunning for her.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?”

“Sure was,” she countered, meeting his gaze in the rearview. “Sweetheart.”

Cannon threw his head back and laughed, utterly baffling her. It wasn’t meant to be funny but chiding. After his amusement subsided, he moved the gun from the passenger seat to a holster tucked between the seats—or was it a lockbox? She couldn’t quite make it out. Then he pulled open a water bottle and took a long drink. When he leaned toward the open window and spit out a stream of water, he killed her thirst.

“Sorry,” he grunted, then took another drink. “Bloody water isn’t my favorite.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as if he smiled.

“It’s fine.” She could hardly criticize. Though her mouth was dry, and all she could taste was blood. The power of suggestion was not that strong. Closing her eyes, she stretched her legs and flexed her toes. Still aching, but no burning pains. Accepting it as a good sign, she exhaled.

“Drink,” he ordered, and when she opened her eyes this time it was to see a fresh bottle of water in front of her.

“You’re really annoying.” The words slipped out even as she accepted the bottle, and fresh heat suffused her face. Pressing the bottle to her hot cheek, she groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually this much of a bitch.”

“Heh, no worries, sweetheart. I can handle it. Now drink and tell me where we’re going. Not sure how much farther this road goes, and I haven’t seen any turn offs, which means we’re still on a direct route for those guys, if they get around your car.” Despite his conversational tone, fear prickled along her spine.

“I don’t know you.” And she wasn’t sure where to go. Her only desire had been to get away.

“Sure you do. I’m Cannon and you’re Pilar.”

Gut clenching, she opened the bottle of water and bought herself a few seconds to think about her response. Unfortunately, as good as the water tasted and as welcome as the moisture was on her throat, no answer presented itself. Tell the truth? A lie? No.

Maybe he would turn out to be one of the bad guys later, but he still had her gun. If she played along, it would lull him into a false sense of security and give her a chance to get it back.

If he wanted to kill me, he could have left me in the car. Though the memory of their collision remained a bit fractured, she had been fleeing her grandfather’s soldiers. She’d been trying to look over her shoulder and drive.

I hit him.

“Look, you’re going to be safe. Don’t know who those guys were and don’t care. I’ll get you to where you need to be. Trust me long enough to do that, okay?” Damn hard request to deny.

“I don’t know where to go,” she admitted. “I don’t think I have anywhere.” Her plan had been get away. She hadn’t done so well on that part.

“Are you in trouble?” The warmth in his voice steadied her. Too weird a response even for her, especially when she had too many other worries on her plate.

“Yes, and as much as I hate to ask after everything you’ve already done, could you wait to get rid of me until after we reach civilization?” Everything she had was in her purse. Her gaze dipped to it. He’d gone back for it, and he hadn’t had to do that either.

Cannon didn’t miss a beat before asking, “Trouble with a capital t or a lower case one?”

“Is there a difference?” Wasn’t trouble, trouble?

“Sure, capital T means the guys with the guns keep coming. Lower case means it’s over cause the car is gone.”

“Upper case T.” They weren’t going to stop. Grimacing, she grit her teeth against the fresh wave of head pounding. “I think I’m going to puke.”

“Hang on,” he swerved the truck a little, then thrust a plastic bag toward her. “Use this.”

Taking it, she stared at the bag, then at him.

“What?” Cannon said. “It’s a new truck. Kind of want to keep it as newish as possible.” There was a plaintive note on the end, and she started laughing. It was a new truck, and she’d already hit it, and her grandfather’s soldiers shot at it—so she couldn’t blame him for not wanting her to puke on the upholstery.

Never had laughter hurt so much or felt so good at the same time. She almost forgot she needed to puke.

Almost.