Safe from Harm (Protect & Serve #2)(18)

“Elle?”

She started, realizing that he’d been talking to her. “Sorry,” she said with a little laugh. “I was distracted. Been kinda crazy, you know.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I do. If you need to talk to anyone about what you’re going through… Well, I’ve been there.”

He’d had his battle with post-traumatic stress disorder after he’d returned from the war. She could only imagine the kind of hell he’d experienced and what it had cost him to learn to cope.

“Thanks, Joe,” she told him sincerely. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind. Good luck with the ultrasound. And give Sadie my best.”

He gave her a terse nod that seemed to be a trademark of the Dawson men and offered a wave as he drove off. While Elle waited for the tow truck to arrive, she tried not to dwell on the dark memories that haunted her and instead tried to focus on something positive—like the date she had coming up later in the week with an investment banker who had jokingly offered to take her to dinner in a little seaside spot in southern California after a short plane ride on his private jet. At least, she’d thought he was joking. But maybe not.

Any woman would’ve been flattered to receive such an offer. And she had been. At the time. But every time she tried to picture Brad’s face, all she could see was Gabe Dawson. God, what the hell was wrong with her? Was she seriously so swept up by his heroism the previous day that she was now willing to overlook all his flaws?

The number of goodies being delivered to him was a none-too-subtle reminder of what was in store for her if she hooked up with Gabe Dawson. Because that’s exactly what it would be. A hook-up.

Fortunately, the tow truck didn’t take long to arrive and she was soon distracted from her brooding by a massive man in a mechanic’s jumpsuit with sweat stains under his arms. He was chomping on the stub of a cigar when he rolled up and continued to do so even after she was riding with him in the cab of his truck.

An hour later, when he finally came out from his workshop to talk to her about her tire, she was glad to see he’d ditched the cigar. “Found the problem,” he said, wiping the grime from his hands with a rag as he made his way behind the counter.

“Road debris?” she asked, hoping there was a way that the flat tire and keyed paint could be blamed on something other than someone intentionally vandalizing her car.

He grunted. “Not unless you hit a guy with a tactical knife.”

She jerked a little at his words. “You’re sure?”

“Your tire was slashed, Ms. McCoy,” he informed her. “Whoever did this made damned sure it couldn’t be repaired. And the scratch on the paint’s pretty deep. Then there’s the brakes—”

“The brakes?” Elle interrupted. “What was wrong with the brakes?”

“Been tampered with,” he told her. “I think you might want to give the police a call.”

*

Tom rose to his feet and put his hands on his hips, frowning as he continued to study Elle’s tire. “We can try to get a print, I guess,” he said, “but I doubt we’ll find any except for your mechanic’s.”

She caught the guarded glance he sent her way and could tell he was thinking the same thing she was. Considering the events of the previous day, it was all a little too coincidental. This wasn’t a random act of vandalism. Whoever had done this had specifically targeted her car. Had targeted her. Unfortunately, she had a pretty damned good idea who might want to leave her a very pointed message.

“I’ll see if we can get anything from the hospital security tapes,” Tom continued. “Maybe one of the cameras caught something.”

She nodded. “Thanks, Tom.”

“You need a ride home?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m good. I’ll give Aunt Charlotte a call if Al can’t get my new tires on today.”

He jotted down something in his little black notebook and stowed it in his shirt pocket, giving her a sidelong glance. “You doin’ okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, fine,” she stammered too eagerly. “Yep. I’m good. Just pissed about my tires.”

But he didn’t return her forced smile. Instead, he narrowed his eyes a little, studying her.

Unnerved by his scrutiny, she grasped at some other—any other—topic to divert his attention. “How are you doing? Did you ever go out with that EMT? What was her name…Lindsey?”

He flinched a little at her question but recovered quickly. “No.”

The sudden tension in his expression told her more than he probably realized. Clearly, she’d chosen the wrong topic to get Tom talking. Fortunately, she was rescued from the awkward silence by his cell phone ringing. He snatched it from the clip on his belt and answered with a terse, “Dawson.”

Elle turned away to give him some privacy but came to an abrupt halt when she saw the man watching her from the pickup truck parked across the street from the mechanic’s. He looked familiar. But as her mind raced, trying to figure out how she knew the driver, the truck slowly pulled away from the curb and drove off. Not exactly the hallmark of a person trying to avoid being seen, but then, maybe he’d wanted her to see him, wanted her to know he was watching.

Goose bumps prickled her flesh at the thought that it might be the same man who had so viciously slashed her tires. Worse, she finally realized where she’d seen him before. She could’ve sworn that it was one of the Monroes sitting in the driver’s seat. One of Jeb’s sons. At least that’s what she suspected. She couldn’t be certain, but she knew she had seen him in the courtroom during the trial, sitting with the other family members and looking nervous, as if he were on trial himself.