Lawman Protection. Cindi Myers
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“I’m not a callous jerk, no matter what kind of first impression I gave you.”
She patted his hand, which still rested on the table in front of her. “You still have a chance to redeem yourself.”
By the time the waiter brought the check, Graham felt almost comfortable with her. He debated asking her out for a real date, but decided to wait. He’d be sure to see her again; the case gave him a good excuse to do so.
He walked her to her Jeep and lingered while she found her keys and unlocked the car door. “Here’s my personal cell.” He wrote the number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. “Call me anytime.”
“About the case—or just to talk?” Her tone was teasing.
“Either. Maybe you’d like to give me your number?”
She smiled and opened her purse. But she never had a chance to write down her number. The loud crack of gunshots shattered the afternoon silence. Her screams rang in Graham’s ears as he pushed her to the ground.
Lawman
Protection
Cindi Myers
CINDI MYERS is an author of more than fifty novels. When she’s not crafting new romance plots, she enjoys skiing, gardening, cooking, crafting and daydreaming. A lover of small-town life, she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in the Colorado mountains.
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For Mike
Contents
“Would you rather face down half a dozen reporters at a press conference, or shoot it out with drug runners in the backcountry?”
FBI Captain Graham Ellison gave his questioner, Montrose County sheriff’s deputy Lance Carpenter, a sour look. “Is that a trick question? At least with the drug runners I’ve got a fair chance. It doesn’t matter what I say at these press conferences. The media puts the spin on it they want.”
“If the questions get too tough, just look menacing and tell them the safety of local citizens is your primary concern.” Carpenter clapped Graham on the back. “You’ll do great.”
Graham eyed the crowd of reporters, cameramen and news trucks waiting in the parking lot outside the trailer that served as headquarters for The Ranger Brigade—the nickname given to an interagency task force addressing crime on public lands in southwest Colorado. “The safety of citizens is my primary concern,” he said. “Or one of them. I have a lot of concerns—and I don’t need reporters telling me how to do my job, or wasting my time listing all the ways I’m doing it wrong.”
“I don’t think you’ve got any choice in the matter this time.” Lance studied the gathering over Graham’s shoulder. “Prentice and Senator Mattheson forced your hand.”
Graham let out a low growl and shifted his focus to the newspaper that lay open on his desk. Twin headlines summed up his predicament: Mattheson Calls for Dismantling Task Force read one. Prentice Readies for Battle declared the other. Peter Mattheson, senator from Colorado, was on a crusade to “get the feds out of local law enforcement business” and “stop wasting money on federal boondoggles.”
Richard Prentice, a billionaire who’d made a career out of buying up environmentally or historically