Free Dangerous Race by Dee J. Adams Page B

sleep. She took a deep breath and relaxed her tense muscles.
    Pounding on the door jarred her senses with lightning speed and she sat up, her muscles screaming in protest.
    “Room service,” a man called. It had only been fifteen minutes since she’d ordered and doubt climbed on her back like a monkey hanging on for dear life. Tracey opened the door a fraction and saw a young man pushing a cart. Heat crept up her cheeks as she pulled back the maid’s lock and let the waiter in. He set the food on her desk and left with a hefty tip.
    Ten minutes later, Tracey covered the remains of dinner with her napkin. She stood and stretched sore muscles, the result of her “fan attack” hours earlier. She still couldn’t believe the guy had shown his face after all this time. Couldn’t believe he’d attacked her in public. And to think she’d been worried about John Wallace…
    Although the night was still young, an odd uneasiness weighed her down. The quicker this day ended, the happier she’d be. She threw on her pajamas, brushed her teeth and hair, and tossed the covers back. Someone knocked on the door. She jumped at the sound, cursing her newfound jitters.
    She wasn’t expecting anyone and she really did hate surprises. “Who is it?”
    “Me. Uh, Mac.”
    As if she didn’t know who “me” was from the sound of his distinctive low voice. A voice that hummed through her whenever he spoke. If only they could communicate by mental telepathy. Tracey laughed at that idea. They were so far apart mentally, they couldn’t see eye to eye if they were nose to nose. Although she’d felt a definite change this afternoon. He hadn’t argued with her about the ambulance. He’d held her hand and looked at her in an odd way. He’d seemed genuinely worried about her. Something she really wasn’t used to from anyone other than Joe or Ed. Had it been because of the kiss they’d shared earlier? Hmm…interesting thought.
    Tracey opened the door a crack. “What’s up?”
    “We need to talk to you.”
    Tracey looked around the empty hallway. “We? Have you been drinking, Mac? You’re all alone,” she said, stating the obvious.
    Mac glanced down the hallway as the sound of an elevator bell rang. “Not for long.”
    Detective Hahn rounded the corner and strode toward them. Her stomach took an odd twist and she tried to quell her apprehension.
    “Hi, Trace. Sorry to bother you,” he said, clearly noticing her pajamas and big fluffy slippers.
    “Not a problem.” Realizing this conversation was going to take place whether she wanted it to or not, she opened the door wider and ushered in both men. “What’s up?”
    “Why don’t you have a seat.” The detective indicated to a chair.
    The knot in her stomach doubled. She hated the pussy-footing around. “Because I want to stand.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Someone tell me what’s going on.”
    Mac’s jaw ticked. “He’s not our guy.” He said the words and watched her reaction.
    How was she supposed to react to the stupidest thing she’d ever heard? They were talking about the man who jumped her earlier. “Of course he’s our guy,” she blurted. “Who else could it be?”
    The detective shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s got an alibi, Trace. I’m sor—”
    She put her finger out to stop him. “He attacked me. In front of witnesses. It’s him! How can you think for one min—”
    “Tracey,” Mac said, his voice low and calm as if she were some idiot who wouldn’t understand him otherwise. “It’s not him.”
    She stopped breathing. Air refused to go in or out. Why should she expect any support from Mac? Because he’d kissed her? Because he’d treated her with kid gloves since the guy had tackled her? Because he’d been sweet and seemed to care about her earlier? Yeah, right. She took a measured breath. “What do you mean it’s not him? You saw him attack me, Mac. What—”
    “He says you provoked him,” Mac