Profile Durango

It was the nurse who helped her into the chair. “I’ve got my car at the front entrance in the loading area,” Tom said.

“Let’s go,” the nurse exclaimed. As she pushed Callie out of the room she didn’t seem to notice the tension that rippled in the air between her patient and the tall, rip-cord lean man walking beside them.

She chatted about the flu bug going around, the predictions of unusually harsh winter weather set to move into the area and her plans for the weekend with a boyfriend named Jimmy.

By the time they reached the dark sedan parked at the curb, Callie was exhausted, both from the tension of Tom’s nearness and the chattiness of the nurse.

She’d had a headache from the moment she’d opened her eyes that morning. She’d tried to nap off and on throughout the afternoon, but found it impossible. Between the hourly check of vital signs and the visitors who drifted in and out, sleep had been impossible. What she wanted now most of all was the comfort of her own bed and some quiet time.

Tomorrow she’d be back in the lab where she belonged, in a world she understood, a world she found comforting in that there were no shades of gray, only black and white supported by cold, unemotional science.

“Here, take my coat,” Tom said when they reached the car. He began to shrug out of the jacket.

“No thanks, I’ll be fine once you get the heater going,” she replied. The last thing she wanted around her was a coat that smelled of him, that contained the heat from his body.

She slid into the passenger seat, told the nurse goodbye and then watched Tom as he walked around the front of the car to the driver door.

He was thinner than he had been before, although he still radiated with a simmering energy of competence and also a whisper of an edge of danger.

He wasn’t a pretty boy. At thirty-six years old, his features were far too rugged, too boldly masculine for pretty. But he was a man who commanded attention, from men who would be slightly wary and from women who would want to dig beneath the forbidding surface to find the soft center. Callie could tell them, there was no soft center in Tom Ryan.

He got into the car, bringing with him a burst of cold wind and the scent she remembered from so long ago, a clean male smell with a hint of lemon and cedar cologne.

The knot of tension in her stomach tightened. It wasn’t fair that it was he who once again would be protecting her. But, Callie had learned the hard way that life wasn’t fair.

“I can give you directions to my house,” she said once he started the engine.

“I know where you live. I’ve already been by there earlier this afternoon to check things out. Nice place, by the way.”

“Thank you. I’ve been very happy there,” she replied with a touch of fervor. She wanted him, needed him to believe that she was happy, that she’d gone on with her life and he’d merely been a small unimportant blip in her history.

He’d never been a big talker and he was silent on the drive. That was fine with her. She had nothing to say to him, nor was she interested in anything he might have to say.

“How are you feeling?” he finally asked.

“Tired and I still have a bit of a headache, but other than that I’m fine.” She shivered and sighed gratefully as he turned the heater on full blast and warm air began to fill the car.

“Callie, I know this is a bit awkward, but you know you can trust me to do my job,” he said.

A bit awkward? She wanted to laugh. Seeing him again, being in his company was so much more than a bit awkward. Even now a small shaft of pain attempted to pierce through the protective layers that wrapped her heart, but she shoved it away, refusing to dwell on a past that was empty and dead.

“It never entered my mind not to trust you where the job is concerned. Doing your job has always been your number-one priority.” She frowned as she heard the touch of bitterness that crept into her voice. “Hopefully Del Gardo will be behind bars where he belongs in a matter of days and you can move on to the next job.”

“Time will tell,” he replied.

She needed to believe that this time with Tom would be brief, that she could be strong enough to hold back any emotion that threatened to escape with him back in her life.

She breathed a sigh of relief as he turned into her neighborhood. After the flash and gaudiness of Las Vegas, Callie had been drawn to this neighborhood of adobe pueblo-style homes with their clean, pale colors and simplistic designs.

She lucked into the house. The sellers had been a divorcing couple eager for a quick sale in a depressed marketplace. She’d fallen in love with it and had bought it for a song.

It was the first home she’d ever owned and when she’d moved in she’d told herself it was her new start, her clean slate from the pain that had been a constant since the moment Tom had turned his back on her. Her car was in the driveway. One of her coworkers or Patrick must have gotten her keys from her purse and brought it back here.

As he pulled into her driveway she unbuckled her seat belt. It was only then that the reality of the situation with Tom struck her.

He couldn’t very well sleep in his car. In order to do his job properly he would have to be in the house with her. “I have a spare bedroom. I guess you’ll be staying there.” There was little welcome in her voice.

He turned off the engine and turned to look at her, his eyes gleaming in the deepening shadows of night. “I’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible. I don’t want to screw up your life here, Callie. I just want to save it, if it comes to that.”

She nodded and opened her door to get out. “Wait,” he said sharply. “I’ll come around and get you.” She sat back as he got out of the car, grabbed a black duffel bag from the backseat, then walked around to her door.

As she got out of the car he used his free hand to pull her close to him. She knew it was a gesture of protectiveness but it still caused a rush of heat to sweep through her.

When they reached the door, he held out his hand for her key. “I need to clear the house before you come in,” he said. He scanned the area around the front yard as he pulled a gun from a holster beneath his coat. “Stay here and give me two minutes. If you see anyone approaching, sense anyone nearby, get inside the door and scream.”

A new knot of tension balled up in her chest as he unlocked her front door. She looked up and down the street, wondering if somebody was nearby—watching her—waiting for her to return home. Or was it possible somebody was inside her house, lying in wait?

Tom disappeared into the house and the ball of tension expanded inside her. She would recognize Del Gardo anywhere. The last time she’d seen him he’d been distinctive-looking, with his shiny bald head and white beard. Even if he shaved that beard and grew hair, she thought she’d still recognize him.

What she didn’t know was if he’d hired somebody to take her out. A hired killer could look like anyone, a clean-cut young man, a middle-aged businessman, or an attractive woman with manicured nails.

She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until Tom appeared in the doorway. “You can come in,” he said. “There’s nobody here.”

Her breath whooshed out of her as she stepped into the small entry with its niches carved out of the wall for displaying items. At the moment those niches were empty. In fact, even though the house was beginning to really feel like home to her, the furnishings were simple with almost no personal items displayed to indicate who lived here.

They walked from the entry into the living room where a beehive corner fireplace promised warmth on a cold wintry night and benches protruded from the wall along one side. The furniture was understated earth tones and woven rugs decorated the hardwood floor.

There were only two items in the room that were personal. The first was a photo of her mother on top of the television and the second was a picture of some of the people who worked at the lab and it sat on top of a miniature rolltop desk that held her personal computer.

Tom walked over and picked up the picture. “Maybe you could give me a crash course on the players at the lab,” he said.

Reluctantly, she walked closer and tried not to smell that hauntingly familiar scent of him. “The gray-haired man in the back is Jerry Griswold. He’s our firearms expert. The tall, dark-haired young guy is Bobby O’Shea. He’s the one who pulled me out of the building last night.” As she continued to name the people in the picture, her headache became a shooting pain across her forehead.

She knew this headache wasn’t from smoke inhalation. It was the band of tension created by Tom. As he placed the photo back on the desktop, she gestured down the hallway. “I’ll just show you to your room,” she said.

He nodded and picked up the duffel bag he’d dropped on the floor. He followed her down the hallway where she pointed to the first room on her right. “You can use the guest bath. Towels and extra soap are under the sink.” She stopped at the first doorway on her left. “You can sleep in here.”

The guest room was a nice size, with a king-size bed and a dresser with a mirror. He walked in and set his duffel bag on the multi-colored bedspread. “Thanks, this will be great.”

“Feel free to help yourself to anything in the refrigerator, although you’ll find the pickings slim. I don’t eat here much. And now, I’ll just tell you good-night.”

There was nothing more she wanted than to escape from him, to get out of the sight of his enigmatic gaze, to go someplace where she didn’t have to look at him.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

She nodded and then hurried down the hallway to the master bedroom. All she wanted was a long, hot shower and the comfort of sleep without dreams.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that her life was at risk. She definitely didn’t want to think about the new risk that was now living in her house.