âIâm not a callous jerk, no matter what kind of first impression I gave you.â
She patted his hand, which still rested on the table in front of her. âYou still have a chance to redeem yourself.â
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. Heâd 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. âHereâs my personal cell.â He wrote the number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. âCall me anytime.â
âAbout the caseâor just to talk?â Her tone was teasing.
âEither. Maybe youâd like to give me your number?â
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 Grahamâs ears as he pushed her to the ground.
Chapter One
âWould you rather face down half a dozen reporters at a press conference, or shoot it out with drug runners in the backcountry?â
FBI Captain Graham Ellison gave his questioner, Montrose County sheriffâs deputy Lance Carpenter, a sour look. âIs that a trick question? At least with the drug runners Iâve got a fair chance. It doesnât matter what I say at these press conferences. The media puts the spin on it they want.â
âIf the questions get too tough, just look menacing and tell them the safety of local citizens is your primary concern.â Carpenter clapped Graham on the back. âYouâll do great.â
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 Brigadeâthe nickname given to an interagency task force addressing crime on public lands in southwest Colorado. âThe safety of citizens is my primary concern,â he said. âOr one of them. I have a lot of concernsâand I donât need reporters telling me how to do my job, or wasting my time listing all the ways Iâm doing it wrong.â
âI donât think youâve got any choice in the matter this time.â Lance studied the gathering over Grahamâs shoulder. âPrentice and Senator Mattheson forced your hand.â
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 âget the feds out of local law enforcement businessâ and âstop wasting money on federal boondoggles.â
Richard Prentice, a billionaire whoâd made a career out of buying up environmentally or historically valuable properties, then blackmailing the federal government into paying top dollar to save the parcels, had filed a lawsuit to force local authorities to allow him to develop property he owned at the entrance to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park.
Grahamâs bosses in Washington had âsuggestedâ he hold a press conference to address both these issues. âWeâd better get out there before they start making stuff up,â Graham said. He straightened his shoulders, opened the door and stepped out into a hail of shouted questions.
âCaptain Ellison, have you spoken with Richard Prentice?â
âCaptain Ellison, has the death of Raul Meredes slowed drug trafficking in the area?â
âCaptain Ellison, how do you respond to Senator Matthesonâs criticisms of the task force?â
Graham stood on the top step of the trailer and glowered at the gathered media. Flashes around him let him know his scowling face would be in newspapers all over the region tomorrow. More than one news account had described him as âa big bear of a man.â He hoped this time theyâd look at him and think âgrizzly.â He scanned the crowd for a familiar face, some reporter he knew whoâd let him ease into the grilling with a softball question.
A cameraman moved to one side, adjusting his angle, and a woman took advantage of the opening to step forward. Digital recorder in one hand, notebook in the other, she was clearly a reporter, but not one Graham had seen before. He wouldnât forget a figure like hers. She was tall, with a generous chest and curvy hips, a wild tumble of strawberry blond hair and full lips in a perfect pink bow of a mouth. Her eyes were hidden by fashionably large sunglasses, but he had no doubt she was looking right at him. And frankly, he couldnât stop staring at her. Forget the fragile, stick-figure women so popular in magazines and on televisionâhere was a real-live, flesh-and-blood goddess. Here was a woman he could embrace without crushing, one he could kiss without getting a crick in his back, one...