A Silent Pursuit. Lynette Eason
than the thought that they might want her dead. She double-timed her struggle through the sand, praying that whoever was chasing her was having the same problems. Finally, her feet hit asphalt.
Another gunshot. She cringed, expecting at any moment to feel the pain of a bullet entering her body. She pressed on.
She needed a phone.
She needed help.
Where was Ian?
Ian Masterson pressed his foot to the gas pedal. He’d promised Gina he’d be there at 9:00 p.m. It was now 11:45 p.m. and the darkness pressed in on his windshield like dirt on top of a coffin. She’d called him yesterday and asked him to meet her at the beach house. He didn’t have to ask for directions. Gina’s cousin, Antonio Santino; her late fiancé, Mario Anthony; and he, Ian Masterson, had been the Three Musketeers.
Best friends and fellow U.S. Army Rangers—no three men had a tighter friendship. Until Ian moved away. Then Mario had died and Antonio had flown off to Iraq on a mission. Ian was home for the moment and would be until Gina’s troubles were resolved.
But he’d been held up on the way to meet her. He’d had to request emergency personal leave to get out of a last-minute assignment in Pakistan. Fortunately, a buddy with another unit had volunteered to go in his place.
Ian owed him big time.
Only now he was almost three hours later than he’d said he’d be, and Gina wasn’t answering her phone.
He didn’t like the thoughts crowding his mind.
Punching her speed dial button one more time, he offered up a prayer on her behalf.
Her voice mail clicked on again. He hung up and clenched his teeth. What were you working on, Mario, that’s put Gina in danger?
She hadn’t told him much when she’d called yesterday morning asking him to meet her. Just that some men had tried to kill her when she’d walked in on them tearing her house apart in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Now, she’d fled to the coast and trouble had followed her.
His gut clenched as he pictured her face. Dark hair, with upturned black eyes that hinted at Asian ancestry somewhere back in the Italian family line. He clearly remembered those eyes, which hid her innermost thoughts but could flash with compassion or laughter at the drop of a hat. The next-to-the-last time he’d seen her had been about eight months ago, when he’d stopped in to see his old commanding officer and had overheard her in the hallway. She’d been moaning about losing weight so she could fit into the wedding dress she wanted. She hadn’t known he was there. He’d left as quietly as he’d arrived.
The last time he’d seen her had been at Mario’s funeral.
She’d lost the weight.
Ian’s fingers clenched the steering wheel. His molars ground together as he remembered Gina’s devastation at the funeral. He’d gone to her and offered her a hug, but her stares were like daggers cutting through him, the accusation clear in her liquid-chocolate eyes.
She might as well have shouted the words, “If you’d been here, he wouldn’t have died.”
But she didn’t, just hunched her shoulders against her grief and walked away.
And caused Ian a fresh bout of crippling pain.
Ian had envied Mario for a long time but finally had given up fighting his feelings and had requested a transfer to a different base so he wouldn’t run into the two of them together. Not that he begrudged his friend’s happiness; Ian just had a hard time controlling the ache in his heart every time he saw Gina’s smile. The way she tilted her head to the left when she really listened to what you were saying. Or the way she pulled her hair back into a long ponytail that revealed her slender neck. He’d watched her pulse beat there one time and had to leave the restaurant they were in because of his overwhelming feelings for her.
He’d done the unthinkable.
He’d fallen in love with a committed woman.
His best friend’s future wife.
So, Ian had left. Run from it and his feelings, honor and integrity more important than his own selfish desires. It was the only way he’d been able to live with himself.
Now she was calling him for help.
Someone had tried to kill her.
Like she believed someone had killed Mario.
His cell rang and he punched the button. “Hello?”
“Ian?” Short breaths rang over the line, as if she was out of breath. Relief flooded him at the sound of her voice, his protective instinct kicking into high gear at the thought of her in danger. “It’s me. Gina.”
“I know who you are. Are you all right?” he demanded.
“No,” a hitch in her voice clamped hard on his heart. “Someone’s still after me. I’m at the diner on 17.” She didn’t have to explain which one; he’d been there enough times with Mario. “Can you pick me up there? How far away are you?”
“Stay put,” he said. “I’m about three minutes from you.”
“Oh, thank you,” she breathed. He could almost taste the fear flowing from her as she whispered, “Hurry.”
His foot pressed the pedal harder. He’d told her he was three minutes away. He’d do his best to make it in ninety seconds.
TWO
Gina hung up the pay phone and, ignoring the occasional strange look from the diner patrons, scurried to the window. Her breath still came in pants although she’d recovered from her run. It was the terror still quaking through her that stole the air from her lungs. She’d been so careful. How had they found her?
Probably her cell phone. They’d obviously tracked her with no problem and had, no doubt, laughed all the way up the highway.
Mario, what were you up to? What did you hide? And where did you hide it? Who were you hiding it from? I don’t even know if you were one of the good guys now.
Tears clogged her throat at the betraying thought. But she didn’t let them fall. She never would have thought he’d do something to put her in danger, and yet by dying, he’d apparently done just that. It had taken six months, but obviously he’d led the trail straight to her.
Headlights flashed in the parking lot.
Bad guys or Ian?
She looked at the clock on the wall. About a minute and a half had passed. The lights flashed once more. Then again.
Ian.
She bolted out the door into the drizzle, which had started the minute she’d entered the restaurant. Her bare feet slapped the wooden porch, then the steps. The door opened from the inside.
Throwing herself into the passenger seat, she slammed the door just as a bullet pierced the windshield to bury itself in the backseat.
Ian hissed, put a hand on her head and shoved her down in the seat. “Hold on!”
“I’m so sorry I had to drag you into this,” she squealed.
“We’ll get to that later.” He threw the gearshift lever into Reverse and screeched from the parking lot. Another bullet hit the back windshield and shattered it.
Glass flew.
Ian drove.
Gina prayed.
It seemed like hours, but in reality, according to the dash clock, only seven minutes had passed since the last bullet.
“I think I lost them.” He grunted and turned left.
She pushed herself into a sitting position, brushing stray bits of glass from her legs and hair, careful not to cut herself. Turning to the