Someone To Protect Her. Patricia Rosemoor

      Chapter Two

      Wondering if she would be alive to see the sunrise, C.J. was amazed when a man hurtled past her and tackled the busker so hard the force almost ripped her arm from its socket before the knave finally freed her.

      A panting, hurting, horribly frightened C.J. tried to make out the identity of her rescuer, but it was nearly dark now. All she could see was a tangle of limbs as the men did a bizarre dance away from her seemingly in slow motion. Punches were traded, though in such close quarters, she suspected neither man had enough leverage to do harm. Suddenly, her attacker forced the other man away from him, kicked out and connected with the man’s knee, then ran, so the incident was over nearly as quickly as it had begun.

      Her rescuer caught himself and appeared ready to follow the blackguard, but then he stopped and limped back to where she still sat in a dazed puddle.

      “Are you all right?”

      “Yes—at least I think so.” Testing her limbs, she winced when she stretched out her abused arm. “Bruises and strains, I suspect, but I shall live. Thanks to you.”

      “Let me help you up.”

      The touch of his strong hands at her waist shot a foreign sensation through C.J. He helped her to her feet and continued to steady her. Inches from her attractive dark-haired savior—she could see that much, at least—she felt her throat clog. That darned tongue of hers must have swollen to twice its size as it often did around interesting men. And when he reached out to right her glasses, which sat crookedly on her nose, her knees weakened.

      “Can you walk?” he asked.

      Glad for the excuse to put some distance between them, she nodded her head and demonstrated. The joints wobbled but worked. Well, perhaps it was more of a teeter than a true walk, but she managed.

      When a few yards separated them, she choked out, “You see? All better.”

      “But I can’t just leave you here.” He looked past her. “Think you can make another half block?” He indicated the hotel ahead. “I can get you there, make sure you’re safe until someone can come for you.”

      She nodded, not bothering to protest that there would be no one to fetch her. No husband. No suitor. Not even a female friend, since she hadn’t been in the country long enough to bond with anyone. But a respite in soothing surroundings was the very thing, she decided. He took her arm in a gentlemanly fashion and let her set the pace.

      Realizing that he was still limping slightly, she said, “Perhaps it’s you who is hurt.”

      “Nah, just an old war injury kicking up.”

      Humor? she wondered. At a time like this? How curious. As they approached the old hotel that had been restored to its former elegance, his stride evened out, so she didn’t think more of it.

      C.J. loved Hotel Boulderado with its domed, stained-glass skylight, cantilevered oak staircase and lovely period furniture. In addition to eating in the hotel’s restaurant, she often wandered through the place and sat in the lobby as if waiting for a friend, when all she wanted was to experience the pleasure of being in someplace civilized.

      Upon entering, she found a chair in a corner, “Oh, yes, this is better.”

      The man’s brow furrowed. “You’re a Brit. Odd…”

      “Yes, I’m surprised to find myself in your Wild West, as well,” she agreed, a sense of euphoria filling her. The aftermath of the adrenaline rush of being attacked, she was certain.

      “No, it’s just that I was looking for this British scientist when I saw that guy dragging you off.”

      Scientist? C.J. gaped. How many British scientists could be working in Boulder, Colorado?

      The man sat in a chair that brought their knees close, making her shift in her seat away from him.

      “We really should report this incident to the police.”

      He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I need to find this guy tonight.”

      “I believe you have. C. J. Birch here.” She extended her hand.

      His piercing blue eyes widened on her. “You’re…?”

      “Exactly. And you?”

      He gave her hand a vitally American shake.

      “Frank Connolly, Montana Confidential. I’m flying you out of here tomorrow.”

      Noting that he hadn’t let go of her hand, C.J. murmured, “How bizarre.”

      “What?”

      She slipped from his grasp and stared at her fingers for a moment. Then she blinked and looked at him. “Why, the way you found me, of course.”

      “I was told you would be having a dinner meeting at the Brickwalk Café. But when I got there…one of your colleagues told me you’d just set off.”

      “Perfect timing, then.” As if fate had taken a hand and stepped in to protect her. Making C.J. feel a bit better about her coming circumstances. “Well, I’m settled down inside now, so perhaps we should make that report to the authorities.”

      “No!” Frank followed the loud retort by scanning the lobby.

      C.J. followed suit. No one seemed to have noticed.

      “No authorities?” she asked. “Why not?”

      “Considering who you are…who I am…it complicates matters.”

      Her turn to go wide-eyed. “You think the attack had something to do with my work?”

      Frank continued peering around the lobby, as if he were now looking for suspects. “Possibly.”

      That thought had never entered her mind. “Then the local authorities—”

      “Might delay your departure. We can’t afford that.”

      “No, we can’t.” C.J. had been brought up to speed about the urgency of finding the antidote to D-5. “But what if…if the attacker indeed was after me. If he could find me on Pearl Street—”

      “He’d know where you live,” Frank finished for her. “I booked a hotel room for the night, but considering what just happened, I’ll be staying at your place. Don’t worry, I won’t let you out of my sight until I get you to the Quinlan Research Institute.”

      “I do hope you don’t mean that literally,” C.J. said, allowing the starch in her voice to thicken. “I do need a good night’s rest. You’ll find the couch in the next room close enough.”

      TOO CLOSE, C.J. AMENDED once she was alone with Frank Connolly. He’d fetched his rental car and had driven her from the hotel to her flat near the university, a one-bedroom in a modest complex filled mostly with grad students who were considerate types. Luckily for her, the place had come furnished, so she hadn’t had to hunt for nonexistent domestic skills; rather, she’d moved right in and had gotten down to her work at the lab immediately.

      Gripping the bedding for the couch to her chest, she entered the living room, thinking how odd a man’s presence in her place seemed.

      “I really couldn’t tell what he looked like under all that paint, Daniel,” Frank was telling his supervisor. “He was a fraction taller than me—probably an even six feet. And he was more muscular.”

      C.J. gave Frank a surprised once-over. Clothed only in a pair of jeans and a soft, sleeveless white T-shirt, he appeared muscular enough. As a matter of fact, she considered him to be quite perfect.

      “Yeah, all right. Tomorrow, then.”

      Flushing