In The Arms Of Danger

by Jaydyn Chelcee

And he was right. The issue of sex between them was not a good idea. Not because she was frozen to her marrow, but because anything between them would never work. Contrary to what he might think about her, she didn’t do casual sex. She’d had two relationships; one had ended when she caught her fiancé in bed with her best friend. The other ended when Matt Lewis, her partner and second fiancé, had been shot by a poacher while they were in Africa. He’d died in her arms, three years ago.

  Now, she traveled the globe alone. After what happened to Matt, she refused to take anyone with her and risk the loss or grief that could rain down on her in perilous countries. She lived life to the fullest and on the edge, but she didn’t want the responsibility or worry of another.

  Danger’s life was here. Settled and laid back. And although his job placed him in peril, it wasn’t the same as the risks she took in third world countries. She didn’t think Rimrock, Montana was usually a hotbed of crime. Even without these differences in their professions, her life was settled in Georgia. She owned a plantation, a home and land that had been passed down for generations. Someday, all that would be handed down to her children.

  She didn’t think Danger would leave the open plains of Montana for the cotton fields of Georgia—his life, his family was here. She didn’t have any family left, but her roots were in the South. The question strangling her mind was could she give it all up for him?

  And why was she even thinking thoughts like this. It wasn’t as if they had any kind of relationship. He hadn’t asked her to give up anything for him. But she had a feeling if things progressed between them, he’d want forever. She didn’t know if she could do forever anymore. Not with her history.

  So far, the only thing between them had been a gun, a peck of a kiss, and a lot of hostility.

  Yeah. Warm food. Hot liquids. That was a much better idea. They sounded wonderful, and she did need her insides heated up, and not from an encounter with the bulge.

  She hadn’t accomplished a thing by running, other than getting herself injured and nearly killed. She was right back to square one, trying to figure out a way to escape and disappear. Right back where she started, a witness to a murder, a sheriff who could very well be the murderer, and she was once again his prisoner.

  Only, things were worse now, because there was no way she’d escape him a second time.

  “Can you stand up?”

  Lacey jumped. Danger’s voice startled her, snapping her out of her thoughts.

  “I can try.”

  He leaned over her and helped her to her feet. The moment she settled her weight on her injured leg, she swayed like a broken reed and crumpled against his manly chest.

  Danger swore and grabbed her before she collapsed to the ground. As he lifted her in his arms and started to the tent, he glanced down at her white face.

  “Shit, this is not good. You need a doctor. You could have internal injuries.”

  “I think you’ll have to be my doctor.”

  He sighed and laid her gently on the double-wide sleeping bag. “Yeah, I knew you were going to say that.” Whether he liked it or not, whether she liked it or not, he was going to have to stitch up the jagged tear on her inner thigh and on her scalp.

  “All right, little cat, looks like we got our work cut out for us.”

  Lacey nodded and closed her eyes. “Do what you have to do.”

  “That’s my little rebel, tough to the very end.”

  Lacey eyed him through her lashes. “Yeah, that’s me all right. Lacey, the rebel soldier, marching on no matter what.” She gave him a faint grin. “Besides, I’ve never played doctor before.”

  Danger shot her a startled look. “No? First time for everything, honey.”

  He stood up and eyed her for a moment. “Just remember, I’m the doctor. I’ll be right back.”

  Lacey closed her eyes and nodded. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In The Arms Of Danger

  Courage is being scared to death—and saddling up anyway.

  John Wayne

  Montana Backcountry Sat. 7:00 p.m.

  When had he found her?

  Memory floated in a black hole filled with the infinite darkness of space and just as far out of reach. Why did everything seem so hazy? Why did she hurt. . .all over?

  Lacey opened her eyes, scrunched her face as pain invaded every muscle in her body, and tried to recall the answers to the silent questions tumbling through her head, but nothing much came to mind.

  Maybe it was because her head felt as if nails were being driven in one side and out the other that she couldn’t concentrate. Nausea bubbled in her stomach and rose to the back of her throat. She swallowed hard and fought the urge to retch.

  There was nothing in her stomach, but a little of the rabbit broth Danger had insisted she chug after he’d stitched her wounds. Now, that was a memory she’d rather forget. Pain. Endless pain. Every jab of the needle burned like fire. More pain.

  With a sigh, she closed her eyes. Mmm. Now this was pure bliss. She thanked God for allowing her to drift back into the pain-free void she’d spent the last few hours slumbering in. She dropped off the edge of the world into the soft, cottony cloud of no pain and a gap in her memory. She hoped she stayed there until her body healed, and her head no longer felt as if it was splintered into a billion littler pieces.

  When next she opened her eyes, Danger sat outside the tent near a low fire. She could see him through the slit of the open flaps. Early evening shadows closed around the campsite. If anything, his face was grimmer than before she’d passed out.

  She skimmed her gaze over him with something between admiration and disbelief. In place of a shirt he wore a soft, sleeveless doeskin vest. A leather thong with some kind of amulet rested against his dark throat. His black hair fell long and unrestrained past his shoulders. No chicken feathers? No war paint?

  Her brow furrowed. Now, why would something like that enter her mind?

  The dark, smooth flesh of his bare shoulders and sleek muscles rippled like polished mahogany through the flames of the fire. Her hands twitched. She had the strangest desire to stroke her fingers over the unyielding ridges of bronze skin, to tangle her fingers in his glossy, black hair. She didn’t remember him being so warrior-like. So majestic. So splendid. What she recalled was danger. Oh, yeah, his name was Danger. A perfect fit for a perfect specimen.

  But did she know this man? Yes—and—no.

  A woman could live several life times and never truly know a man such as this. He was both savior and nemesis. Predator and protector.

  And he was between her and freedom. Again.

  Why was he always between her and the path she needed to escape?

  Lacey frowned, letting her gaze glide over him. He caressed the shiny blade of what looked like a tomahawk. Alarm spread through her.

  A tomahawk?

  Who did he think he was, Red Chief?

  No, it wasn’t a tomahawk. It was a hatchet.

  Was there a difference?

  Of course, there’s a difference, she told herself. One is for splitting wood— and one is for splitting skulls.

  Big difference!

  Just how he intended to use the one he so obviously admired was the major question in her mind at the moment. She had a feeling she knew the answer.

  Lacey swallowed back the moan that fought to escape her throat.

  Indians didn’t really scalp people anymore. Did they?

  Of course not.

  Then again, she seemed to recall he was angry at her for misplacing his Jeep. Oh, but it was just a little misunderstanding. She was willing to go out of her way to help him find it, for Pete’s sake. How difficult could it be to locate a drowned Jeep in the middle of a flooded valley?

  She bit her lip. But then. . .there was the little matter of her holding him at gunpoint. She’d locked him in jail, and took his clothes. No, he was certainly not happy with her.

  Her eyes drifted down the black j
eans snuggled against his muscular thighs. A wide, brown leather belt rode low across his waist. A gun and holster nestled snugly against his left hip.

  He was certainly prepared for battle. Hysteria bubbled in her stomach and mixed with the uneasy sea of nausea. Who was he prepared to battle? Her?

  I’m no threat to him. Or am I?

  She guessed it boiled down to what he thought.

  She already knew he detested her.

  My God, he’d threatened to drop her back into the icy water and let her freeze or drown. Or both.

  Which was it? Her memory wasn’t too clear.

  Oh, but the psycho war chief hit me.

  She definitely remembered that. He’d smacked her good, right across the cheek. Pow. She eyed his powerful thighs. He was seated on the ground, legs crossed Indian fashion. He stared silently into the flames of the fire, not blinking, but quietly brooding over something known only to him. His brows, thick and dark, were drawn together in a heavy frown of concentration.

  Lacey watched the sweep of his thick black lashes as he reached for the coffee pot and filled a metal cup. There wasn’t a trace of softness in his face. She wondered what could have happened to cause him to wear such a remote and forbidding expression. He wasn’t aware of her scrutiny, and he didn’t know her well enough for it to be directed at her.

  She gave a soft gasp as a dark, menacing shadow took shape near his side. Jesus. A large wolf lay curled at his feet. Quiet growls of satisfaction rumbled from the animal’s dark throat as it contentedly washed one paw with its pink tongue.

  OhmiGod.

  Her lips parted in stunned disbelief. Confusion knitted her brow. Nope, she had to be imagining this. She gave a bewildered moan and her eyelids fluttered closed. She wanted nothing more than to block out Danger’s disturbing image and the view of the fierce animal beside him.

  They would go away. They had to go away!

  She didn’t want this man interfering in her life. She didn’t want to be anywhere close to him or his little pet.

  ***

  Danger stiffened at the sound of Lacey’s soft moan. Issuing a quiet order to the magnificent animal resting beside him, he flicked a glance toward the tent. He could see her face between the flaps. Her bright eyes looked wide and frightened.

  She stared, mesmerized, at the wolf, before switching her gaze to him. Her eyes widened fractionally as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns.

  “You’re still here,” she said, her voice rising. “I thought I was having a nightmare.”

  He lifted his lips in a slow grin. Thank God, she was finally awake and sounded normal, at least, normal for her. Revenge was definitely going to be sweet. He would make her pay for every humiliation she’d heaped upon his innocent shoulders. Just as soon as she got back into the spirit of the battle, that is. He had a sense of fair play. He’d wait until she could hold her own with him.

  She struggled to sit up, but froze when the wolf gave a low warning growl.

  “Don’t make any sudden moves, and Pagan won’t bother you,” he warned quietly.

  “Sud—sudden mo—moves?” She touched her tongue to her dry lips. “No—I— I won’t move.”

  Danger uncurled his legs and slowly stood up. He towered over the campsite like an avenging angel. He issued another soft order. The big wolf rose to all fours and with a disdainful sniff of the air it vanished into the surrounding darkness.

  “Oh yeah,” Lacey muttered. “You can go with your little pet. I’ll be just fine.”

  “That’s not in my plans. Sorry.”

  Danger propped his rifle against a big pine tree. He paused. His eyes adjusted to the darker shadows as he thoroughly searched the outlying darkness. Earlier, he’d felt the presence of another, of someone watching, waiting for an opportunity to strike, but he didn’t think anyone was out there now. Not anymore.

  The hairs on the back of his neck relaxed. The creepy feeling of being stalked had finally left him. Whatever or whoever had been there through the late evening hours was gone for now.

  He turned toward the tent and rested his gaze on Lacey. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I was hit by a truck,” she rasped hoarsely, “then dragged across a sandbar.”

  “Probably did feel like a truck,” he stated flatly. “The wall of water that swept by was powerful enough to slam-dunk anything in its path.” His moccasins crunched against the rough ground as he entered the tent and knelt down before her on one knee. “How’s your vision? Seeing double or blurred? How many of me do you see?”

  “One, thank God! I couldn’t handle it if there were two of you.” Lacey shook her head, then, moaned from the pain caused by the sudden movement.

  He gave her a twisted smirk. “I see you’re your usual gracious self.”

  Lacey sighed. Oh yeah, the man was still pissed at her, but he controlled it, gently raising her head and tipping a canteen to her lips.

  Water trickled over her swollen tongue and down the back of her dry throat like honeyed ambrosia. Using the tip of his thumb, Danger slowly rubbed the excess moisture from her bottom lip. The unintended caress was incredibly erotic.

  Confusion overwhelmed her. Aware of the panic suddenly leaping to claw at the back of her throat, she lowered her gaze, determined to hide her vulnerability.

  Recapping the canteen, Danger stood up and tossed it to one side. “There’s some coffee. Still some soup left, if you’re hungry. Just tell me when, and I’ll get it for you.” Frowning darkly at her, he searched her face. “I’m sure you have a concussion, so no sudden movements or moving about unnecessarily.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “You’re welcome. I don’t want you to get dizzy and pass out on me again. How does your head feel?”

  “Like I’ve had a needle rammed in my eye and out the back of my skull.”

  “Hmm, that’s exactly the kind of answer I’d expect from you.”

  Lacey barely kept herself from rising to her knees, mainly because she knew she’d crash on her face at his feet. Wouldn’t he just love that? Arrogant swine. His voice was fire and ice. One minute chilling her, the next warming the blood that pumped through her body. She flinched as he leaned closer.

  “Where were you going?” he asked softly, but that softness didn’t disguise the thread of steel laced in the question, the hard glitter in his smoke-colored eyes or the thread of anger in his voice.

  Lacey knew he’d run out of patience where she was concerned. The gentleness in his voice was a thin veil that covered the harshness just beneath the surface. He wanted answers. She could not—dared not—give them to him. Nothing had changed.

  “Where are we?” she asked, attempting to delay a showdown between them. Questions of her own whirled like a propeller inside her head. “How long have we been here?”

  “A few hours. We have to move away from here in the morning. Waters rising. We’ll be lucky if it doesn’t go over the banks before morning, but I didn’t want to risk moving you. Hopefully, we won’t have to pack up and move in a hurry.”

  Lacey glanced up at him, suddenly realizing she’d asked the question aloud. The man stared at her. Hard. Apparently he was in a slow burn mode. His silver gaze glowed with seething rage.

  “What the hell are you looking at, Iron Eyes Cody?” Lacey winced at the harshness of her words. But Jesus, the man tramped on her last nerve.

  He arched a brow. Ooo, how she hated it when he did that. She touched her tongue to the rough surface of her cracked dry lips, moistening the blemished lines of her mouth.

  A light film of perspiration dampened her skin. Tendrils of hair drifted across her forehead. She felt like shit. Worse, like hammered shit.

  “My God, woman, where do you come up with all this crap? Even when you’re down, you want to play games.”

  He blew a puff of air between his lips as if to say ‘All right. I’ll play your little game.’ “Iron Eyes Cody, huh? He was an actor who spent his entire life claiming to be a Native American,
although he was of Italian-American birth. He claimed to be part Cherokee and Cree. He was also known as the ‘Crying Indian,’ because of the ecology commercial he appeared in with a single tear rolling down his face after looking at a polluted river. He appeared in more than a hundred westerns and television shows. He died in 1999 at the ripe old age of 94.”

  Lacey nodded then sat halfway up, resting her weight on one arm. A gentle breeze lifted strands of her hair, exposing the bandage he’d applied to her forehead. Silky wisps of hair tangled against the gauze as she raised a shaky hand to brush it back.

  “Don’t do that,” he said firmly, reaching out to gently move her fingers away from it. “The flesh around the dressing is swollen and bruised. You don’t need to be probing at the wound.”