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It looked familiar. “I think that’s the Toyota Land Cruiser I saw at the gas station back in Thurlow Gap.”
“Great,” she muttered tersely.
He pulled his Walther from the holster at his waist and checked the clip. He’d transferred a couple of boxes of ammunition for the Walther from the trunk of the Charger to his glove compartment before they hit the road, and he’d seen extra guns and rounds in Amanda’s duffel bag, as well. But if the person in the fast-approaching SUV had backup and bigger weapons, all their firepower might not be enough.
“If they’re up to no good, I don’t think we can shoot this thing out,” Amanda said.
“How are your defensive-driving skills?”
“Rusty,” she admitted, “but I still remember a few things.”
Rick checked the back window. The SUV was about four car lengths back. “This Charger will do 140 miles an hour. I bet we can outgun that land boat back there. If they try to run us off the road or start shooting, just floor it.”
She gave a brisk nod, her gaze flicking back and forth between the light traffic ahead and the rearview window. He saw her shoulders tighten. “Weapon!” she barked.
He turned and saw a large-caliber handgun extending from the passenger window of the Toyota. “Duck and gun it!”
Dropping low in his seat, he held on as the Charger bolted forward, the engine singing with the power surge, and sent up a quick prayer of thanks that his sister Shannon had talked him into buying the muscle car instead of a less expensive, more practical sedan.
Amanda weaved the Charger through traffic, the SUV staying with her for about a mile before it started to fall back.
“I love this car,” she declared, sounding like the Tara Brady he remembered. A rush of pure male hunger surged through him, badly timed but strangely welcome. For the first time in a long time, he felt like the Rick Cooper who’d fallen hard for the sexy American spook.
It was about damn time.

Chapter Four
     
At least it wasn’t a tent in the Sudan, Amanda thought as she surveyed the shabby facade of the roadside motel a few miles outside Chattanooga. After the scare on the interstate, they’d taken side roads and backtracked now and then, which turned their hour’s drive to Chattanooga into five long and tension-filled hours.
“Floozy up, pretty mama.” Rick straightened his jacket, grimacing with pain as the leather rubbed his wounded arm. He unbuttoned a couple of buttons on his shirt, glancing at her. “Come on, if we’re going to sell this one-night stand, you’re going to have to look a little trampier.”
She slanted a look his way, not missing the gleam of amusement in his eyes. He was enjoying himself, the jerk. She wanted to be angry at him, mostly because anger was a lot easier to deal with than what she was really starting to feel, a flicker of the old excitement that used to grip her right in the chest every time she spotted him coming her way.
Their time together had been so long ago. So much had happened since then. Things he didn’t know about. Things she didn’t want to remember.
It’s a job, she reminded herself. If anyone in the world knew how to become someone she wasn’t, it was the little girl born in McComb, Mississippi, who’d hidden from her series of drunk “daddies” and browbeaten mama by pretending to be someone—anyone—she wasn’t. She pushed her jeans down around her hips and started to pull up her T-shirt to tie it into a knot over her belly, stopping just in time.
She shot another quick look at Rick to see if he’d noticed her sudden hesitation. He was scanning the area outside the car, making sure they hadn’t picked up a tail somewhere along the detour route.
She tucked the shirt into her jeans, hiding the scars across her lower back where the al Adar rebels had made her pay for her insolence. Exposed midriff was out. She’d just have to go the more obvious route. “Do you have a knife handy?” Hers was packed in the duffel