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point. Apparently he’d decided his redemption lay in protecting her. And he did need her, too. She owed him for that weekend five years ago. She might not have made it through without the confidence he gave her. So much of her survival depended on the mental.
    Something she could give him now.
    “All right, roomie. How fast can we spring you from this joint?”

    Through the café window, he watched the smoldering remains of her car in the lot, firefighters waiting, their foam caking and crackling like an over-baked meringue. Cops were long gone, having already finished their note taking and investigation.
    They never even saw him from his perch in the nearby greasy spoon where he inhaled the scent of frying hamburgers and humanity.
    If he wanted Nola Seabrook dead now, she would be six feet under. But he liked the hunt.
    She always used her remote starter for her car, so he’d known she would thumb the button rather than turn the key. The look of shock, the fear on her face when her car exploded had been well worth the risk of planting the device in open daylight. Of course the thrill, the rush, that’s what this was all about.
    Recapturing what he’d lost.
    She would die—eventually. He had his timetable, but it would be his. He was in control of his life again. He didn’t need his youthful body. He’d learned to dominate with his mind, his brain. Working his way onto the military hospital parking lot had been a rush.
    His street-smart wits combined with his warrior-honed skills made him indomitable.
    The fun was in the cat-and-mouse game. She owed him for the humiliation she’d caused. She wouldn’t get away from him this time.
    He started to leave, but reconsidered. He needed to eat after all. What better way to savor this victory than with a meal while he regrouped for the next stage of his battle plan?
    Apparently he wasn’t the only one watching the rehabilitation center with such interest long past what the burning vehicle warranted. A teenage girl stared at the medical building—the windows, not the SUV. She clutched her cellular phone in her hand, her too-tight jeans slung low on her hips with too many holes in them to be accidental. Why did these youths want to appear poor? He’d been poverty-stricken and it was not fun or trendy.
    She pocketed her cellular phone and sidled up to the linoleum counter. “I’d like an application for a waitress job.”
    The woman behind the cash register shook her head. “We’re not looking for any more after-school help.”
    The girl shoved her hands in her back pockets. “Please, I work really hard and it says right there you need help.”
    “Don’t want no troublemaking teenagers.” The woman—Jo Nell, her tag read—folded her arms underneath her well-harnessed breasts.
    “I won’t cause trouble. Besides, it doesn’t look to me like you can be picky.” The girl’s eyes stayed strong, defiant, but her voice had just a hint of desperation. “How about I work for a trial hour, with no pay? Then you can decide. Looks to me like you’ve got your hands full with all these gawkers trolling in from that car explosion…”
    The man working the griddle leaned into the pass-through window. “Jo Nell, quit your yacking and give the girl a chance. She’s right. Orders are coming faster than you’re filling them.” He pitched a pad and pencil her way before snatching up a spatula again. “Number seven coming up!”
    The teenager snatched an apron and hooked it over her neck. “Thanks a million. You won’t regret it. I’ve got hardworking genes.”
    Tennis shoes squeaking, she wound her way across the room with a single-minded determination that made him grin with memories he had not allowed himself in months.
    Pencil poised over her paper she stopped by his table. “Have you decided yet what you’ll have?”
    “I most definitely have.” He folded the menu closed. “What is your name, chica? ”
    “Lauren, and hopefully that’ll be on my own name tag