One Wild Wedding Night_ Getaway - Leslie Kelly [5]
“You,” she spat.
“No,” he replied, crouching down behind the open door. “Someone doesn’t want you to testify next week and they’re going to try to make sure that you don’t.”
Her mouth opened, then quickly snapped closed. Bridget’s eyes narrowed and her brow scrunched as she tried to make sense of his words. To process the idea that someone might actually want to hurt her.
He still hadn’t quite processed it. Because since the moment he’d found out—after being called in by the Bureau chief three days ago—he’d been operating on pure anger and adrenaline.
God help the bastard sent to harm her. When Dean found him, the guy was going to wish he hadn’t been born.
“Trust me, Bridget,” he asked, his voice low and resolute. He needed her to cooperate. Now. “I know you hate me, and that’s understandable. But I swear to you, I’m trying to protect you.”
She glared and he knew she was planning a sarcastic response. That sarcasm and strength were two of the things he liked about her, especially because they were so unexpected given her quiet demeanor and beauty.
Whatever she’d been about to say was cut off by the sound of sirens approaching. She glanced toward the building and the driveway leading to the front lot as if contemplating taking refuge among the crowd with the rescue workers. Then she looked back at Dean. The frown faded. And though the anger remained, the distrust disappeared from her expression.
The woman was furious, all right. But she was not stupid. She might hate him, but she knew he could protect her.
“All right. What is it you want me to do?”
Chapter 2
Dean had proved himself a liar several months ago when they’d met. But now, tonight, Bridget knew he was telling the truth. His tension and barely controlled fury spoke volumes about his genuine worry. For her. The star witness.
That was the only reason he was here, she knew enough about him to realize that much. It certainly wasn’t out of any personal regard. The kiss he’d just laid on her had rocked her world as much as the ones they’d shared in her office last August. But they hadn’t so much as caused him a tremor. She meant nothing to him—he’d made it clear that day when he’d let her be interrogated for hours by his other FBI buddies, who thought she had something to do with Marty’s not-so-honest dealings.
Letting her be interrogated had been the least of his crimes. Letting her care about him…that was the one she couldn’t forgive.
“Stay down,” he barked as he started the vehicle, gunning the engine hard.
She did as he ordered, crouched in a ball on the backseat. The SUV jerked and swayed, angling sharply to the right, almost knocking her to the floor. Dean’s big hand appeared out of nowhere, blocking her fall with a firm grip on her shoulder.
God, she hated her own weakness for immediately sucking in a breath of pure excitement at the rough touch of his hand. “I’m fine,” she managed to say between clenched teeth.
“Don’t move.”
As if she could.
“And don’t pop your head up.”
“I’m not a jackrabbit. Just pay attention to the road.”
He didn’t respond, but he removed his hand, putting it back on the wheel. He obviously needed it because he intentionally maneuvered in jerks and swerves as he tore off down the street, as if physically trying to shake off pursuit. He drove like it was a sunny, warm day with miles of dry blacktop in front of them. Not as though there’d been a blizzard up until this afternoon and patches of slick ice were lurking beneath snowdrifts, anxious to send a car into a deadly spin.
He drove that way for a good five minutes. Bridget watched him from between the front seats, seeing the way he leaned forward, his chest almost against the steering wheel. He stared out, his gaze constantly moving from side to side. But even that rapt attention couldn’t keep him from almost fishtailing into the path of a long, black stretch limo.
“Watch out!” she yelled.