Free Roan by Jennifer Blake

backup guard?”
    â€œI didn’t see it as essential for securing our prisoner. Besides, only Allen and I are here, sir.”
    Roan responded to the stiff resistance in the other man’stone with silk-edged command. “It’s essential to me, Cal. I suggest you order backup and stand guard until it arrives. If no one is available, take it yourself.”
    â€œBut I’m the officer in charge.”
    â€œI know,” Roan answered, and punched the off button for the portable phone. Cal Riggs could be such a pain with his stiff jargon, strict adherence to routine and protective attitude toward his authority as second in command. Sometimes, Roan had the patience for it. This wasn’t one of those times.
    He threw the phone into the center of the bed, then finished dressing with the speed of long practice. His wristwatch and his badge lay ready on the dresser. He slipped the watch on, then picked up the star. That symbol of his office had been on his chest for most of his adult life. It carried a tremendous responsibility; many of his decisions had to be made instantly with life or death in the balance. Still, it was seldom that he spent as much time weighing his options or making a judgment as he had in the case of Donna Doe.
    The mystery of her nagged at him. He’d like to put her under a microscope and see what she was made of. Once he had that figured out, there were a few other things he’d like to discover about her, a few that required time, privacy and maybe a bottle of good wine to set the mood.
    Jeez. Where had that come from?
    Getting personal with the prisoner was the last thing he needed. It went against everything he’d learned about maintaining order in his town, against every principle in his private code. He didn’t have time for it right now, probably never would. And that was if his prisoner was willing.
    His prisoner. His, not Cal’s. There was no “our” prisoner about it. The suggestion that Cal might have an interest in Donna raised hackles Roan didn’t know he had.
    He drew a ragged breath and pushed that idea back down where it belonged. Still, the obsession with her wouldn’t go away. What was she, who was she? Poor little rich girl caught in an abduction scheme or well-kept call girl who knew something she shouldn’t? Spoiled daughter out to wring money from Daddy before skipping with her abductors, or silly society chick out for thrills? She’d shown signs of a lot of things, including angel and witch. He needed to find out which she was, one way or another, before it was too late. She’d be gone the minute her memory returned—or the minute she saw that the game was up. She’d scream for a lawyer and bail like everyone else, and that would be it.
    Or maybe not, if he decided it was important to keep her close. The case would come up at the parish courthouse. Judge “Pug” Miller was a cousin on his mother’s side of the family. Settling legal questions between the two of them, often in a bass rig out on the lake, was a way of life.
    To this point, the situation had disturbing echoes reminiscent of the incident with the Hearst heiress from back in the 1970s. Patty Hearst had been abducted at gunpoint. She later claimed she was raped and forced on pain of death to participate in the crimes of the political terrorists who captured her, but a jury had decided otherwise. Part of the reason was because Hearst had not only recorded political propaganda messages for distribution to the public, but was caught on film with a rifle in her hands. It was also, however, because she had no reason or coherent explanation for why she’d acted as she had, seemingly embracing the politics of her captors. If he remembered right, there’d been another factor at work. It appeared her greatest crime had been being born into an elite family that was bent on using its wealth to keep her out of prison. She’d expected