Collision Course (8 page)

As she
leaned closer to him, he caught her tantalizing fresh scent and his groin
tightened. A dark green apron with Half ’n Half on the bib showed the full
curve of her breasts. They were right at his eye level and despite his
problems, his hands itched to cup them in his palms.

My god,
was he crazy? Fear permeated his body and yet he reacted erotically to a total
stranger. Maybe what people said was true—danger distorted everything and made
people react irrationally.

Irrationally
is right, asshole. The last thing you need right now is to ogle some female and
entertain fantasies about her. Get sidetracked and you could get dead.

With a
deliberate effort, he lifted his eyes to her face again. What had she asked
him? Oh, yeah. Food. Coffee.

He
cleared his throat. “Yeah, both would be great.” He noticed a menu stuck in a
holder at the side of the table. “Give me a minute to figure out what I want to
eat, but coffee would be a blessing.”

“No
problem.” She pointed to a chalkboard on the wall. “Care to try one of our
special blends or flavors?”

“No,
just hot, black and strong would be fine. And lots of it.”

“Got
it.” She returned in a moment with a thick mug she placed in front of him and
filled from the carafe. “Haven’t seen you here before. Passing through town?”

“Sort
of. I expect to be here for a couple of weeks.”

Shit.
Why did I tell her that? Now she’ll ask what I’m doing. Way to stay under the
radar, stupid.

“Oh?
It’s none of my business, but what brings you to Connelly?” She grinned, and a
tiny dimple winked at the left corner of her mouth. “It’s not what you’d call a
tourist draw.”

Trey had
to force himself not to stare at the dimple. What was it she wanted?
Oh,
yeah.
What was he doing here? He hadn’t bothered to come up with a cover
story, too rattled about his situation to realize he might need one.

“I’m,
uh, writing a book.”
Good answer, good answer.

“Wow. So
is it a contemporary western?”

Trey
forced himself to relax. A book. Why hadn’t he thought of something else? Of
course she’d ask questions. “No, it’s, um, a historical Western set in a small
town.”

“No
kidding? Well, I hope Connolly fits your description. What’s your name? Maybe
I’ve read something by you before.”

Name.
Give her a name, idiot.

He
blurted out the first thing that came to mind, a nickname from his childhood
before people began calling him Trey. “T.J.” He paused. “T.J. um, Buck. This is
my first book. I’ve had the urge to write for a while,” he added, “and decided
now was the right time to go ahead and have at it. Sort of a shift in
priorities in my life, you might say.”

What
an understatement. But god, he hoped she bought it.

“Oh.”
She shrugged. “Well, good luck with it.”

“Thanks.
You’ll probably see me a lot in here. Soaking up the atmosphere.” He wanted to
lay the foundation for further visits. Like every day. And without rousing
suspicion.
“You’re about the only place in town with Internet.”

She
laughed again. “Some of the homes have it, and the major business offices but
yeah, modern electronics are still seeking their spot here.
Meanwhile,
we get a lot of steady customers because of it.”

“So I
guess you’re stuck with me. I have a lot of online research to do while I’m
writing.”

“About
Western history, you mean?”

“Um,
yeah.”

“I’m
surprised you didn’t decide to work in a city where you’d have library access.
More information available.”

Would
she never stop with the questions? The one good thing about stumbling through
the conversation was he couldn’t have sounded less like a corporate executive,
and thank god for that.

“I’m
getting away from the urban environment. Besides, you can find just about
anything on the Internet now.”

“Well,
I’d better let you get to work. I’ll be back in a few to take your breakfast
order.”

Had she
bought his story? Narrowing his eyes, he watched the waitress as she refilled
mugs at the booth in front of him then headed to the setup at the far end of
the room. Behind the counter, she fiddled with the containers holding the
flavored syrups for the coffee, her movements graceful and efficient. He
couldn’t seem to take his eyes away from her. He certainly had spent time with
his fair share of women but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d reacted to
one this way.

He’d
been so busy trying to control his unwelcome erection and figure out a name and
cover story, he hadn’t even asked for her name. Something he’d do when she
returned with his order.

I’m
just being polite. That’s all. Can’t afford any distractions right now.
Certainly not a woman. Bennett’s men have to be on my trail, and if I’m dead,
all the women in the world won’t do me any good.

Time to
get his thoughts onto what he was here for and what he had to do. Every minute
could bring Bennett and his people closer to discovering him, even in this
little corner of nowhere. Trey picked up the coffee mug and took a swallow of
the rich dark roast. It coursed through his veins, settling his system and
kick-starting his brain.

Focus,
focus, focus.

Casey
set the carafe on the burner and turned to watch the stranger from the safety
of the counter. She’d spotted him the minute he walked into the restaurant.
Connelly was small enough she was acquainted with just about everyone who came
to the Half ’n Half, and she didn’t know him. Tall and lean, with thick
midnight-black hair worn a little long, high cheekbones and a square jaw, he
had a powerful aura of masculinity surrounding him. But it was an aura that
flickered. He’d hesitated at the entrance, his eyes darting around the room,
scoping it for…for what? For whom?

Something
made him wary. Maybe even afraid.

Her eyes
had tracked him as he made his way to the coffee shop side, watching everyone
as he moved until he slid into a booth. Maybe the way he moved had caught her
attention, an air of furtiveness. A man who gave every sign of someone in
trouble. Maybe in danger.

Her mind
began conjuring up the possibility she’d find herself in a situation where her
Special Ops skills would be needed to protect him. Or anyone around him. Talk
about a runaway imagination.

She’d
hoped when she came home to Connelly, she’d left all of that behind. Still,
life had a funny way of playing tricks on a person.

Life.
Right.

She
needed to
get
a life.

When she
approached the booth to take his order, she was stunned by the electricity
crackling between them, almost visceral in its punch. She’d felt as if a full
charge from the power company’s grid had zapped through both of them, indelibly
burning an impression of him into her. Her nipples tightened and unexpected
heat bloomed between her thighs.

Damn!
She’d thought Paul had cured her of that kind of reaction to a man. She hadn’t
felt such chemistry since the last bitter confrontation with her former lover.

It
didn’t help when she saw a shocked look in his eyes and a tensing of his body.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. Did he feel the impact, too?

Great.
Just what she needed. Not. A man in trouble with an off-the-charts sex quotient.
She dug in her brain for the famous line from
Casablanca
? “Of all the
gin joints in all the world, she had to walk into mine.” Of all the
restaurants… She gave herself a mental shake, ordering her mind to stop running
away from her with absurd ideas. What in the hell was wrong with her, anyway?
She didn’t want a man in her life anymore. At all. Certainly not one who looked
as if he’d come to Connelly to hide himself away.

Cool
it, girl. Relax. Take a deep breath. Haven’t you learned your lesson?

She drank
two glasses of ice water before she felt cooled down enough to head to his
booth again. Still, as she noted his breakfast order, she had to grip the pad
hard to keep her fingers from shaking. God! Just call her a teenager!

Now from
a position of safety behind the row of flavor dispensers, she watched him pull
his laptop around and study the screen. Then his fingers began flying over the
keys, his face a study in concentration. Apparently he didn’t having trouble
summoning up ideas for his work in progress.

He’d
referred to this as his first book. Said he was “rearranging his priorities.”
What did he mean? What made a person want to write a book? And where did the
ideas come from?

Maybe
I should consider the idea.

The idea
made her laugh and gave her a strong dose of reality.

When
T.J.’s order was ready, she picked up the plates and carried them to his booth.
As she approached, he tipped the lid of the laptop down and turned it so it
faced toward the wall.

Weird.
Most people usually shove their laptop or tablet to the side.

Casey
made herself smile at him. “I promise I won’t try to steal your ideas.”

“What?”
He frowned. “Oh. Yeah. The book. Well, it’s mostly putting research together
now. Stuff I’m pulling off the Internet. Nothing you’d even be interested in.”

“You’d
be surprised. I’ll bet if the people in Connelly knew you might be writing
about them, they’d be pestering you to death to read what you’ve got.”

Did his
face turn a little pale or was her overactive imagination at work? He scooted
the computer even closer to the wall and picked up his fork.

“There’s
not much for them to see yet. And I’d appreciate it big time if you didn’t
mention it to anyone. No one at all.” His smile turned into more of a grimace.
“Please. I’d hate for them to see something in its raw form and maybe get upset
about it.”

Casey
shrugged. “Sure. No problem. I can respect your privacy.”

Throughout
the morning, she kept an eye on him, careful not to be obvious about it. Every
time someone came into the coffee house side, he looked up and studied them,
tipping the cover of the laptop forward. He practically vibrated with tension
until she either greeted the person by name or whoever it was paid no attention
to him.

By now
every one of her senses was on full alert. She’d learned both in law
enforcement and the Army to pick up on signals, and every signal T.J. Buck had
sent out since he walked in the door reminded her of someone on the run. He had
to be hiding from something, but what? And here? In Connelly, Texas, of all
places?

And who
could be after him? The law? Something worse? And why?

Yes,
Miss FBI/Special Ops, let your imagination run away with you. He said he’s
staying for two weeks. Long enough to do some writing and some research. And
that’s all.

Ben had
scheduled her for an evening shift at the sheriff’s office. She’d steal a
little computer time and check to see if there were any Wants or Warrants out
on him.

Of
course, you idiot, keep in mind the name he gave you most likely isn’t his real
one.

But
maybe she could find one close to it and go from there. Or maybe she’d find
nothing. Common sense told her to leave it alone, but she’d listened to her gut
more than common sense. One of the reasons she’d had trouble both in the Bureau
and the military. To make things worse, her gut seldom steered her wrong.
Something her superiors in both fields swallowed with distaste.

Which
meant she had no intention of ignoring them now. She’d keep a close eye on Mr.
T.J. Buck. Very close. But still keep her distance. If that was even possible.

Chapter Five

Trey
smiled at the waitress as she set his plate in front of him. Better not appear
too unpleasant. Nothing to make people suspicious. He’d had a hard time all
morning, nearly jumping out of his skin whenever someone new arrived, careful to
keep the screen on his laptop shielded. Working in a public place like the Half
’n Half might not be the best idea, but his options were limited. And he didn’t
want to hit the road again until he’d made more progress in his searches. He
just needed to blend into the woodwork.

He
considered himself fortunate to snag the last booth in the row. There was no
booth behind him where someone might sit and catch a glimpse of his screen.

He could
pretty much be guaranteed Connelly, Texas and the people in it weren’t on
Bennett’s radar. Still, the experience he’d acquired negotiating mega business
deals had taught him he could never be too careful.

Trey
waited until the woman refilled his mug before lifting the cover on his laptop
again. Rubbing his damp palms against his jeans, he flexed his fingers and
began typing. He pulled up the Bennett Global web site and cruised around it
while he ate, browsing through the familiar pages. He didn’t know what he
expected to find there. Everything on the site had been posted for public
consumption. He thought—hoped—maybe something might trip a memory in his mind.

Next he
ran a search for the companies and organizations he’d found in the few files
he’d been able to open already. He got exactly what he’d thought—nothing. The
information was a work of fiction.

When the
waitress with the tantalizing scent and flawless skin—Jesus, Trey—had cleared
away his debris, he opened an online storage site. Setting up an account in the
name of Alexandre Dumas—he’d always loved The Three Musketeers—he used one of
the programs he’d downloaded to set up an encrypted password. It would be candy
to a top cryptologist, but the average person—hopefully even Bennett’s IT
person—would have a hard time with it. He’d be storing any information he found
in the folders he created and if someone wanted it they’d have to work hard to
get it.