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He raised a brow. “What? No thank-you?”
“Sorry. My manners tend to go MIA when I’m almost killed for the second time in two days.”
He gave her kudos for a quick recovery. A lot of people would have gone into hysterics after what she’d barely escaped. “I get that.”
“Thank you.” The words weren’t fancy, but he heard the sincerity behind them. “Thank you for showing up when you did.”
Scout looked about, visibly shuddering when her gaze landed on the scaffolding, now scattered like giant pickup sticks over the ground.
Nicco took her arm and tucked her against him, her softer build fitting into the harder planes of his own. “Let’s get out of here.” They’d come back for her car when she was no longer suffering from shock.
“You don’t have to ask twice.”
He steered her to his truck. Halfway there, she shrugged off the supporting arm he’d kept around her and marched forward, as though keeping moving was the secret to maintaining control.
He gave her a boost into the truck. “You’re no bigger than a minute.”
“You know the saying. ‘Good things come in small packages.’”
“I know of a little place not far from here. I don’t know if you’re hungry, but rescuing damsels in distress tends to make me work up an appetite.”
She grinned. “I’m hungry enough to forgive that ‘damsel in distress’ remark, so you’re on.”
He shut the door and rounded the truck. After getting in and buckling his seat belt, he turned to her. “Ordinarily, I’d canvass the area, see if anybody saw anything. But this was a setup through and through. I don’t think we’re going to learn anything. Not here. Not now.”
She gave another shiver. “Frankly, the sooner we get out of here, the better.”
“You got it.”
* * *
The restaurant, barely more than an abbreviated alley in size, was packed. Diners crowded at the counter. Nicco apparently knew the owner, for a large man in an apron that might once have been white greeted them with a smile and a “Hiya, Nicco.”
“Same to you, Phil. You got room for us?”
“For you, Nicco, anything.”
He showed them to a booth. The red vinyl seats and gray Formica counter appeared to be circa 1960s.
Scout didn’t have to think about what she wanted. “A double cheeseburger. Extra-large fries. Chocolate shake. And three chocolate chip cookies.”
“And a heart-attack chaser on the side,” Nicco added with a wry smile.
“You have a problem with my order?”
“No problem. I’m just wondering how someone your size puts away all that food.” His eyebrow hiked. “Or maybe it’s just for show.”
She made a face at him. “Give me twenty minutes and then be prepared to eat your words.”
A fresh-faced waitress, who must have been all of seventeen, showed up to take their order. She never took her eyes from Nicco.
He gave their order to the girl, who giggled and batted her eyelashes at him.
When she left, Scout lifted a brow. “The famous Santonni charm. It’s an education to see it in action.” She was talking too much. Too fast. A cover for the nerves that skimmed just below the surface.
The banter felt good, a reminder that she was alive. If not for Nicco Santonni, things could have turned out differently.
She owed him. Again. “You’ve saved my life. Twice.”
Nicco didn’t say anything, only waited.
The pieces clicked into place. Scout had confided in her best friend Olivia Hammond Santonni about the threatening letters she’d been receiving. Olivia had hired Nicco, her brother-in-law, to protect Scout. It wasn’t a coincidence that Nicco had been at the right place at the right time both last night and today.
“Olivia.” There was both affection and resignation in the four syllables. Olivia was a great friend, but she fretted over Scout like a mother hen over her chicks.
Nicco nodded. “Got it in one. She’s worried about you.”
“Look, I appreciate what you’ve done, but I can take care of myself. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“No?”
“No.” She let the single word stand. “Consider yourself fired.”
“You didn’t hire me, so you can’t fire me.” His maddening logic stymied her. “Olivia would have my hide if something happened to you. According to her, you’ve been receiving some pretty nasty letters.”
At mention of the letters, bands of cold wrapped around Scout’s chest, making her wonder if she were having a heart attack. Of course, she wasn’t. If she was struggling to catch her breath, well, that was only natural under the circumstances.
A shiver danced down her arms, a delayed reaction to the near-death experience. Breathe. The silent reminder had her inhaling quietly, letting the air out slowly. Her mouth had gone so dry at the idea that someone had made a second attempt on her life in less than twenty-four hours that she couldn’t even work up enough spit to swallow.
Nicco pushed a glass of water her way. “Drink.”
She picked up the glass, held it with trembling hands, brought it to her mouth. A long sip allowed her to wet her lips.
Bars of sunlight slanted through ancient blinds. She basked in the warmth and felt some of the chill leave her.
He was talking, and she worked to listen to the low rumble of his voice. “You said a tip brought you to the docks?”
Knowing where this was going, she nodded reluctantly.
“Anonymous?”
“Yeah.”
He raised his brow, whether at her stupidity for following what was obviously a bogus tip or at her one-word answer, she didn’t know.
Another chill shivered through her as she accepted what might have happened if not for Nicco. She hoped he didn’t notice anything amiss. He’d probably never known a moment of panic in his life. He had a reassuring way about him, his calm, measured tones like the practiced strides of the soldier Olivia had told her he’d been. His presence made her feel safe, and she could really use a feeling of safety right about now.
Honesty forced her to admit that it wasn’t only the attempt on her life that had sent a rush of sensation skittering along her nerves. A tiny thrill had whispered through her when Nicco Santonni pulled her from harm’s way. It reminded her of the energy-charged air before a lightning storm struck.
She wanted to believe that the feelings were due to the heightened emotion of the moment, but that was a lie.
“I was following you.” His words confirmed her earlier suspicions. He studied her. “You’re not as cool as you’re pretending. Even hotshot reporters are allowed to have a moment after almost being crushed by a couple of tons of steel and wood.”
Unwilling to pursue the subject of her reaction to the scaffolding nearly killing her, she turned the tables on him. She made no secret of her scrutiny of him, her gaze shrewd and assessing. Last night, he’d been debonairly handsome in a tux.
Today, with cords of well-toned muscle showing to advantage in a gray T-shirt and black jeans, he was even more devastating.
Though not movie-star handsome, he possessed something more basic: raw power. A combination of roughly drawn features, muscular shoulders and a long, lean build imbued him with a presence that made him hard—make that impossible—to forget.
She tore her gaze away from his chest and lifted it to meet his. He scraped a hand over his cheek, drawing her attention to the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw.
He wasn’t as tall or as big as his brother Sal, but there was an inner strength to him, a steely resolve in his eyes. It was that determination that set him apart from other men and put him at the top of the food chain, an apex predator.
Dark eyes were filled with amusement. “You’re staring. What’s the verdict?”
“You left the military but still have a side of hero complex. You’re self-confident but not arrogant. You pride yourself on doing the right thing no matter the cost.”
“Not bad.”
“Not bad or spot on?” she challenged.
“Not bad. Take it or leave it. Tell me what you know about last night.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“What does your gut tell you?”
She put down the menu and sat back, unwilling to share the jumble of feelings that made her stomach feel like it was coated with acid. “Right now it’s telling me that I’m hungry. I went off without breakfast and worked through lunch. You want something from me, you need to feed me first.”
The food arrived, rich and plentiful, redolent with the smells of grilled meat and fried onions.
She closed her eyes. The silent prayer over the food was both comforting and humbling.
When she looked up, it was to find Nicco watching her keenly. “You were praying, weren’t you?”
Her nod was brief. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” At one time, she’d questioned the idea of praying, even silently, in a public place, but had decided she couldn’t worry over the opinions of others. Prayer was an important part of her life. Offering gratitude to the Lord was her way of acknowledging His hand in her life.
“Don’t apologize. It was...nice.” His gaze dropped. “My family always prayed at meals when I was a kid.”
“And now?”
“My parents and sisters still do.” He paused. “And Sal.”
“And you?”
“I sort of got out of the habit.” He popped a French fry into his mouth. “It’s good that you do.”
“You can, too. God doesn’t turn away prayers.” She smiled gently. “No matter how rusty they are.”
“I’m afraid mine are more than rusty. It’s hard to pray when you no longer believe.”
“What made you stop?”
“Stuff.” He left it at that.
The roughness of his voice told her to back off. She lifted her burger, brought it to her lips, and took a large bite. The meat was grilled to perfection. “Why didn’t I know about this place? I thought I knew all the good burger joints.”
“Phil—the owner—likes to keep it under wraps. He always says that if it caught on, he’d be busier than he wants.”
“He’s right.” She took another bite and sighed her pleasure.
“How’d you come to be named Scout?”
“My mother taught English at the university before she left to start writing. She did her dissertation on Harper Lee.”
“Got it. You’re named after the little girl in To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Right. Daddy wanted me to go by my grandmother’s name—Rachel—but Scout stuck.”
“It fits.”
She felt Nicco’s gaze on her, evaluating, like he was trying to decide whether or not to ask her something. “What’ve you gotten yourself into?”
She hesitated. Sharing a story before she had all the facts was trouble. More, it smacked of unprofessionalism.
“I’m not out to scoop you.”
“As if.” Scout did some evaluating of her own. Could she trust him? She’d honed her people-reading skills over the last years, gauging motives and intent by paying attention to body language, facial expressions, and a host of other tells.
Frustration hardened the bodyguard’s sun-weathered face, but she didn’t detect any hint of deceit in him. His gaze met hers straight on with the precision of a laser. Nicco Santonni might try to steamroll over her, but he wouldn’t lie.
When the last fry was consumed and the chocolate shake and cookies only a memory, she gestured to a trash can that was only a few feet away. “You wanted to know why someone’s trying to kill me.”
“It crossed my mind.”
“It has to do with that.”
He followed her gaze. “Trash?”
“Trash. Or, if you want to be more precise, garbage.”
Twin furrows creased his brow before he nodded in understanding. “The garbage/sanitation industry. That’s why you were trying to get to Crane last night.”
“Nailed it. Crane’s a big name in the unions and I’m investigating union murders.” Honesty forced her to add, “Unofficially.”
“If it’s unofficial, why don’t you drop it? Whoever tried to kill you is playing for keeps.”
“So am I.” She swallowed back frustration at having someone tell her to drop the investigation. “Crane’s as slippery as they come. So far he’s blocked every effort I’ve made to talk with him.” She brought her fingers together, leaving only a tiny space between them. “I was this close last night to talking with him when...”
“Someone decided to use you for target practice.”
“Yeah. That. Thanks for the meal.” She stood. “If you don’t mind, I need to get my car and head back to work.”
“Sure.”
He helped her into the truck. At his touch, a zing of awareness raced through her.
Scout turned to him as he steered the truck back to the docks. Pulses of energy flared between the two of them as their gazes connected, jangling her senses. “Seriously, thank you. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
“Seriously, you’re welcome.”
Like most reporters, she was a quick study when it came to people. Nicco Santonni appealed to her on a gut-deep level, making her think of toughness and staying power. She made a decision. “If you have time, maybe you can follow me back to the office. There’s something I want to show you.”
* * *
At her office, Nicco read the letter, then reread it. His lips tightened with every word. No doubt about it, the lady was being threatened. He had no use for those who hid behind the cloak of anonymity. Cowards, the lot of them. “The creep went old school,” he said, gesturing to the words cut out from a magazine. “Cute.”
“Real cute.”
The hum of computers, the bustle of bodies on the move, and the scrape of chairs sliding across the linoleum floor filled the oversize room. Overlaying it was a sense of urgency, fed by caffeine and adrenaline. The atmosphere was one of purpose.
A television reporter had been embedded in Nicco’s last unit in Afghanistan. Against his better judgment, he’d fallen for her. In a big way. It had been a time of whispered exchanges, soft laughter, stolen kisses. They’d begun talking about the future. A home. Children. When an IED had exploded, killing her and two of his men, he’d nearly gone crazy with grief, blaming himself for failing to keep her safe. Shortly after that, he’d resigned his commission. How could he trust himself when he’d allowed the woman he loved to be killed?
Forcibly, he dragged his thoughts from the past. Scout had nothing to do with the incident that had cost the woman he’d loved her life. With that in mind, he turned his attention to how he could help. “Tell me about the other letters.”
“They weren’t bad,” she said, the reluctance in her tone telling him that there was more to come. “At least, not at first. More like a bully’s taunts.”
“Let me guess. They got worse.”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
“How many more?”
“Five.” The reluctance grew more pronounced. She dug through a drawer and pulled out the other letters. Her hand shook as she gave them to him. Her flush revealed her embarrassment at the betraying tremor.
He pretended he hadn’t noticed. “You’re right to be scared. You’d be a fool if you weren’t.”
She thrust out her chin. “I’m not scared. And I don’t run.” Her chin hitched another notch, the defiant gesture drawing his attention to the resolute set of her shoulders, the graceful contour of her neck. From there, his gaze dropped to her small but capable hands, the nails unpolished, the fingers unadorned by rings.
With hair that appeared more red than gold in the daylight, a sprinkling of cinnamon freckles and fair skin, she should have looked delicate, soft even. Instead, there was an intensity to her that caused him to forget that she stood barely over five feet and probably didn’t weigh more than a buck five. The passion in her eyes when she talked about her work made her appear bigger than she was.
“I took this job to make a difference in the world. This story is personal, but nothing else has changed. I’m still trying to make a difference.”
Hadn’t he said the same thing when he’d enlisted and again when he’d joined the Rangers? That he wanted to make a difference? Maybe he and Scout were more alike than he’d thought. He regarded her with new insight, saw the truth and sincerity that shone from her eyes.
Her straightforward approach to life was refreshing, yet there was a wariness about her, as though she was on guard against some danger he hadn’t identified, one that superseded even the threats.
“No? Then you’re not as smart as you look.” She’d seemed plenty scared last night and again at the docks today, but he had sense enough to keep that observation to himself.
He’d never thought she’d turn her back on the story, but he’d wanted to get a read on her. The lady reporter had more than her share of guts if what he sensed about her was true.
“Let’s go back to the beginning. When did the letters start?”
“Six weeks ago.” Pensively, she pinched the skin between her brows. “I didn’t pay much attention when they first started coming. Getting nasty-grams is part of the job.”
He doubted she was aware of her fingers kneading the narrow space above her nose. “Around the same time you started poking around union murders?”
“Yeah.”
“And you think they’re connected to Crane and garbage?” He lifted a brow. “Dirty business.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
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