THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

forward moving a few feet at a time, clogging the flow of vehicles through the massive intersection.
    What would be the point of jockeying across lanes?
    The driver could just be antsy, but what if she was right? Would someone dare to walk right up to the truck while she sat caught in the traffic jam?
    Zane moved into the left turn lane.
    She watched the side mirror.
    The navy blue Yukon was now two cars back – just entering the turn lane, too.
    Don’t panic. Could be nothing.
    Zane shifted to turn the radio on. Late seventies rock and roll poured out at low volume.
    “I hate traffic the Friday before a holiday,” he mumbled.
    Breathing was difficult. She couldn’t answer him. They inched forward as the gap between cars tightened. Their truck sat in a virtual parking lot with nowhere to maneuver if they had to get away.
    She chewed on her bottom lip. If whoever it was took a shot at her, Zane might be in the line of fire this time.
    Zane asked, “Are you okay?” 
    Turning around and shrugging, she said, “Yes, fine. It’s the traffic. I hate it, too.” 
    The longer he studied her, the more nervous she became. She had a strange feeling he anticipated her movements.
    Zane had found her too easily this morning. And he handled a gun like he knew what he was doing. He must have learned about more than flying in the Air Force. That still wouldn’t convince her to stay around him if Mason’s men showed up. But for now, she was going nowhere since she knew Zane had the coins.
    Should she mention the Yukon? Nothing had happened other than her bout of paranoia.
    The minute she gave him reason to worry he’d want to keep her locked up in his apartment. She had to get back to the marina. Maybe she’d change her tactic from offering to rearrange the storage room, which had annoyed Zane, to helping him clean up his boat, which ought to thrill him.
    Especially if she cleaned the kitchen and bathroom, the least favorite areas for most men.
    That plan had potential.
    Feeling relaxed for the first time in days, she threw another casual glance at her side view mirror and did a double take. The passenger door swung away from the Yukon. Someone stepped out, all but his gray pants hidden by the door.
    Her lungs backed up in full panic mode.
    She cut her eyes at Zane who was looking intently at something in his rearview mirror. Were men coming up on his left? She quietly unclipped her seatbelt and dove out of the truck, running flat out.
    At the sound of Angel’s door opening, Zane wrenched around to find himself alone in the cab. He slammed the truck into park, hit the release on his seatbelt and jumped out, running around the front of the truck.
    Horns started blowing with the traffic light change.
    She was already through the traffic jam and disappeared around a corner.
    People were yelling. The beer truck laid on his horn.
    Zane took one look back at the vehicles behind him to see if anyone was pursuing her.
    No. So why had she run?
    He stomped back to the driver’s side and dove in, throwing it in gear and driving through the intersection as the light turned yellow. 
    Damn! She was gone again. He wanted to bang his head against a wall.
    Slapping the wheel, he blew out a breath. At least this time, he’d gotten a break. She’d been too involved with the dog on their way back from Jacksonville to notice he’d taken the cup she’d used to serve Chut water.
    With one good fingerprint he’d finally know who she was—whether he found her again or not.
    The minute he had her identification, he was turning it over to the police and requesting they put out an APB for her safety.
    ~*~
    Zane drove straight to his apartment. The last time Angel vanished she’d gone back there, but the route had been shorter and easy to remember. Ten miles of turns and bridges separated his home and the marina.
    He swung into the first parking spot and wished with every breath he took she’d be waiting at his door.
    Negative.
    Regardless, he dashed into the house just to make sure she wasn’t magically sitting at the kitchen counter eating cold pizza. The further he went on his irrational search, the deeper his disappointment.
    His immaculate apartment appeared undisturbed. And there should be no trace of her. He paced the floor, opened the microwave and shut it, and decided he was losing his mind.
    His perfectly tidy apartment had suddenly become a problem. Now it was as strong a reminder of his compulsive-cleaner houseguest as her