Innocent Next Door (Military Men Book 1) by Shelley Munro Page B

pat on the head. She sank onto her chair. What had happened to make him run off that way? She replayed the last quarter of an hour in her mind and came up blank. One moment he’d been acting the jealous boyfriend, then the next he was in full business mode. Then, another thought occurred.
    What if Nikolai was right about Dare? Did Dare know more than he was letting on about the drugs they’d found in Uncle Henry’s study?

Chapter Eight
    Dare’s abrupt defection niggled at her for the rest of the morning, so much so that she had difficulty concentrating on the Sunday paper. She half expected him to call yet heard nothing.
    By two o’clock, she gave up waiting and grabbed the keys for her Mazda and her exercise gear. If she hurried, she could make the Tae Kwon Do class and shop for groceries on the way home. If Dare rang while she was out, too bad.
    Her car started with the usual bad-tempered splutters, and she muttered and cursed before she and the car came to terms and traveled sedately toward Papakura. The traffic became heavier once she neared the motorway turnoff. People heading home after the weekend away. A flicker of loneliness brought a flash of homesickness for friends and family. She slowed at the intersection and indicated a right turn onto a quiet road that would get her to her class and avoid most of the traffic.
    While she drove down the hedge-lined road, she puzzled over Dare’s weird behavior. A screech of tires made her glance in her rear-vision mirror. Another vehicle was rapidly closing the distance between them.
    She gulped when it kept coming, faster and faster.
    Fear dried her mouth.
    The reflection of a four-wheel drive vehicle filled her mirror—black with shiny silver chrome in the front. She pressed the accelerator. Tires shrieked and her aging car shuddered, protesting the demand for speed. The black monster continued to stalk her.
    Every two seconds, like a magnet seeking metal, her gaze was drawn to her rear-vision mirror. A maniac. The driver was deranged.
    She gripped the steering wheel, her heart galloping. If anything, he’d sped up.
    “Idiot.” Strong, colorful curses danced through her head. Her hands tightened on the wheel, while sweat broke out on her forehead, her palms—all over her body.
    A witness. She needed a witness.
    She prayed for a car to come from the other direction. It didn’t happen. Instead, the roaring behind grew louder, more frightening. More threatening. She glanced in the mirror again and caught a glimpse of white teeth, lips curled in a wolfish smile.
    A crash jolted her vehicle. Her car shot forward. Her body snapped toward the windscreen and jerked to a halt at the jam of the seat belt. Air exploded from her lungs, and she wheezed for replacement oxygen.
    The four-wheel drive slammed into her bumper a second time. Metal ground against metal in a horrible, expensive grating.
    Summer’s car shunted off the road, flying over a low bank into a ditch. The branches of the roadside hedge scraped the window and the paintwork. Fingernails on a blackboard .
    Her car plowed to a halt in the hedge, the branches blocking the sun. Her engine cut, and she heard the roar of the four-wheel drive as it slowed, the spray of gravel as it departed. Somewhere close, an animal bleated in fright, then all was quiet.
    With trembling hands, she attempted tried to release her seat belt. A shaft of pain shot across her chest. A soft moan escaped. She had to get out of the car. What if it caught on fire? Or what if that idiot returned?
    He’d rammed her car on purpose.
    He’d wanted to frighten her.
    To injure.
    She reached for the seat belt release again and on her third try the button lowered, freeing the pressure on her breathing. A splash of blood dropped to her hand. She needed to… What did she need to do? It was nighttime, wasn’t it? She’d go to sleep.
    The plaintive moo of a cow jerked open her eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Summer blinked and realized