Slowly she realized it had gone. He hadn't stopped. She stumbled to the road and looked in both directions, but the road was empty.
She couldn't believe it had happened. He had deliberately run her off the road, not once, but twice. If the small Mercedes had hit one of the huge pines that thickly lined the road head-on, she could easily have been killed. Whoever the man was, he must have figured the heavier Chevrolet could muscle her off the road without any great risk to himself.
He'd tried to kill her.
It was five minutes before another car came down the road; it was blue, and for a horrible moment she panicked, thinking the Chevrolet was returning, but as it came closer she could tell this car was much older and wasn't even a Chevrolet. She stumbled to the middle of the road, waving her arms to flag it down.
All she could think of was John. She wanted John. She wanted him to hold her close and shut the terror away with his strength and possessiveness. Her voice shook as she leaned in the window and told the young boy, "Please--call John Rafferty. Tell him I've been...I've had an accident. Tell him I'm all right."
"Sure, lady," the boy said. "What's your name?"
"Michelle," she said. "My name's Michelle." The boy looked at the car lodged against the pine. "You need a wrecker, too. Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes, I'm not hurt. Just hurry, please."
"Sure thing."
Either John called the sheriffs department or the boy had, because John and a county sheriffs car arrived from opposite directions almost simultaneously. It hadn't been much more than ten minutes since the boy had stopped, but in that short length of time it had grown considerably darker. John threw his door open as the truck ground to a stop and was out of the vehicle before it had settled back on its wheels, striding toward her. She couldn't move toward him; she was shaking too violently. Beneath his mustache his lips were a thin, grim line.
He walked all the way around her, checking her from head to foot. Only when he didn't see any blood on her did he haul her against his chest, his arms so tight they almost crushed her. He buried his hand in her hair and bent his head down until his jaw rested on her temple. "Are you really all right?" he muttered hoarsely.
Her arms locked around his waist in a death grip. "I was wearing my seat belt," she whispered. A single tear slid unnoticed down her cheek.
"God, when I got that phone call--" He broke off, because there was no way he could describe the stark terror he'd felt despite the kid's assurance that she was okay. He'd had to see her for himself, hold her, before he could really let himself believe she wasn't harmed. If he'd seen blood on her, he would have gone berserk. Only now was his heartbeat settling down, and he looked over her head at the car.
The deputy approached them, clipboard in hand. "Can you answer a few questions, ma'am?"
John's arms dropped from around her, but he remained right beside her as she answered the usual questions about name, age and driver's license number. When the deputy asked her how it had happened, she began shaking again.
"A...a car ran me off the road," she stammered. "A blue Chevrolet"
The deputy looked up, his eyes abruptly interested as a routine accident investigation became something more. "Ran you off the road? How?"
"He sideswiped me." Fiercely she clenched her fingers together in an effort to still their trembling. "He pushed me off the road."
"He didn't just come too close, and you panicked and ran off the road?" John asked, his brows drawing together.
"No! He pushed me off the road. I slammed on my brakes and he went on past, then turned around and came back."
"He came back? Did you get his name?" The deputy made a notation on his pad. Leaving the scene of an accident was a crime. "No, he didn't stop. He...he tried to ram me. He hit my bumper, and I spun off the road, then into that pine tree."
John jerked his head at the deputy and they walked over to the car, bending down to inspect the damage. They talked together in low voices; Michelle couldn't make out what they were saying, but she didn't move closer. She stood by the road, listening to the peaceful sounds of the deepening Florida twilight It was all so out of place. How could the crickets be chirping so happily when someone had just tried to commit murder? She felt dazed, as if none of this were real. But the damaged car was real. The blue Chevrolet had been real, as had the man wearing the black ski mask.
The two men walked back toward her. John looked at her sharply; her face was deathly white, even in the growing gloom, and she was shaking. She looked terrified. The Mercedes was an expensive car; did she expect him to tear a strip off her hide because she'd wrecked it? She'd never had to worry about things like that before, never had to be accountable for anything. If she'd banged a fender, it hadn't been important; her father had simply had the car repaired, or bought her a new one. Hell, he wasn't happy that she'd wrecked the damn car, but he wasn't a fanatic about cars, no matter how much they cost. It would have been different if she'd ruined a good horse. He was just thankful she wasn't hurt
"It's all right," he said, trying to soothe her as he took her arm and walked her to the truck. "I have insurance on it. You're okay, and that's what matters. Just calm down. I'll take you home as soon as the deputy's finished with his report and the wrecker gets here."
Frantically she clutched his arm. "But what about--"
He kissed her and rubbed her shoulder. "I said it's all right, baby. I'm not mad. You don't have to make excuses."
Frozen, Michelle sat in the truck and watched as he walked back to the deputy. He didn't believe her; neither of them believed her. It was just like before, when no one would believe handsome, charming Roger Beckman was capable of hitting his wife, because it was obvious he adored her. It was just too unbelievable. Even her father had thought she was exaggerating.