by Anne Marsh
Her backup wasn’t happy with the plan, but they wanted to take down Holm Arthurs as badly as she did. Since she lacked any mechanical aptitude for motor vehicles, Mayne was in the hot seat to get their Humvee operational again. While he worked, she’d take those minutes to search one last time for Holm Arthurs.
He was close. She knew it.
Still, as she headed away from the access road, there were only a few hours of daylight left now, and the wildland fire was definitely picking up. That blue-black plume of smoke punching upwards on her east was broader and higher than before. The flames had found fuel, and the day’s weather report had also served up the promise of wind. Wildland fires in the national parks weren’t unusual, particularly not when summer was winding down, leaving everything dry and burn ready, but she had her own suspicions.
Holm Arthurs liked to set things on fire and then he liked to watch. If he’d caused this, he’d hang back and pull up a chair.
From the corner of her eye, she caught movement.
There. A quick flash of camo and skin, possibly a man pulling back into the thick brush. Palming her gun, she took off after that glimpse of something. Adrenaline pumping, she breathed slowly and steadily, pushing the air in and out of her lungs smoothly as she settled into a hunting rhythm. If Holm was teasing her, she’d bag him for that alone.
Left. Right. Another hard, hard right. He knew she’d made him and he was running hell-bent for leather, but no way she’d lose him now. Instead, she pinned her eyes on the disturbance ahead of her in the woods, where the bushes bent and snapped back into place as he pushed past. Followed by the unmistakable sounds of a man running. Hell, it wasn’t as if she was quiet herself. She was a one-woman parade riding his ass fast and hard.
A minute later, the ground suddenly dropped away. Hell, hell, hell. She cartwheeled, boots skidding downslope through a soft rush of leaves.
She hit bottom, and got up fast, gun out. When she scanned the trees, she saw nothing.
She’d chased her tango and he’d dead-ended her. Maybe. Or perhaps that flash of white had been a fucking ghost. On her right, over the ridge, the dark boil picked up. Smoke choked the air, and she pulled her T-shirt up over her mouth. Not only was her visibility gone, but she could definitely hear the noise of the fire now. It was past time to fall back. Whatever secrets Holm had concealed here were likely gone forever now.
She turned.
The wind shifted and the treetops exploded above her.
Chapter Two
Flames beat at the sides of the access road, the thick sheet of black smoke pluming overhead warning that the day’s fire was headed this way. Down the road, smaller spot fires blazed up as burning embers rained down. Those embers were the real danger. Sure, when the flames found fuel, that fuel went up, but the flying embers, the fiery spray, lit up whatever it touched—and it touched lots.
Still, the road would hold the fire’s press back some and that bought time to shovel the idiots into their Humvee.
Except that the three soldiers grouped around the vehicle showed no signs of budging. Sam wasn’t sure it was the military’s hardware that concerned them, either.
The lieutenant leading the other two soldiers simply shook his head when Sam repeated his demand that the team evac. Now. “No disrespect, sir, but you’re not my commanding officer.”
Yeah, maybe Sam wasn’t top dog on a military battlefield anymore, but he ruled this particular corner of the world. He was U.S. Forest Service and, unless these guys wanted to get into an actual firefight, they needed to follow his orders.
“You want my social? I’m a U.S. forest ranger and the guy in charge of this fire scene. You go when and where I say.”
“We have orders.” Soldier boy’s eyes took in Sam’s yellow Nomex brush shirt. That shirt was partially unbuttoned with a spectacular lack of military precision, exposing the formerly white T-shirt underneath. And his belt sported a Leatherman instead of that real nice arsenal the other man packed. His olive-green Nomex work pants were a sight better suited to their current working environment than Army issue, however.
“You’ve got new orders now, soldier.” He leaned in. “And, even if you didn’t, this park? Is my territory. Out here, I’m in charge.”
“That so?” Soldier boy didn’t look convinced yet.
“Yeah.” Sam jerked a thumb towards the ridge. “Right there? That’s a fuel load waiting to blow. She’s not just rigged, but rigged to go up in your face. It’s not a question of if it burns—it’s a question of when. We’re holding a line a mile north of here and that’s where you need to be headed right now if you’re serious about finishing this job of yours. So you get your asses back into your ride and you get the hell out of my park. I’ll do my job and you’ll live another day to do yours.”
Right on cue, fire laddered up a tree on the other side of the road and the crown went up. “Exhibit A,” he added dryly.
Soldier boy swallowed his fuck you—Sam could almost see the words forming, but had to admire the other man’s ability to prioritize in the face of the advancing fire—and fell back briefly to confer with his colleagues and raise some hell on a portable radio. Maybe the radio silence edict was finally over.
That was fine, too. From where Sam was standing, he could give them one, maybe two minutes to finish up their convo. These boys were sitting smack at the fire’s head, where she was expanding and gaining ground. This road was now the frontline in Sam’s war.
When the good lieutenant came back, he nodded tersely. “Okay. Here’s the sitch. The Humvee isn’t running. We can fall back on foot, take that route you outlined, but first we’ve got us another problem we need to resolve.”
The look on the other man’s puss was a whole lot of not-moving-an-inch. One minute down, one to go. The soldiers might not want to leave, but Sam didn’t care how much firepower they packed. His turf. His rules. These boys did a mighty fine job defending the good old U.S. of A., but out here in Sequoia National Park, he was the first and last line of defense. This was his world. His fight. And civvies were merely a fucked-up wrinkle in the landscape.
“Get in my truck, then argue.” Sam slid into the driver’s side seat. He’d left the engine running—SOP when you might need to beat a hasty retreat. Too many good men had laid down their lives because they’d fumbled a key in the ignition at the wrong moment.
“Can you count?” The lieutenant opened the passenger-side door and motioned for the other two to hop in the bed. “Because as soon as you can count to four, we’re out of here. Our bomb expert is still out in the woods.”
Double hell. Now he had to do both a search and a retrieval.
“This is our target.”
The lieutenant passed him a photo as he got in and Sam got his first eyeball of the crazy. Not too tall, somewhat bland, blond, and smooth-shaven, a face that fit right in with the kind of weekend camper who drove out to the park with a trunk full of L. L. Bean and REI. Once he got past the face, however, the differences were clear. Starting with the full-on military getup and the AK-47.
“Okay.” He reran the plan in his head. He’d turn over his keys to the military contingent and get their asses moving out on the fire road. Then, he’d pack in on foot and find this missing bomb expert. He’d find a safety zone and wait until the fire had moved on or been contained. “Give me a name and a general direction. Then, you leave.”
“And?”
“And I’ve got twenty, maybe thirty minutes to find your missing man before this area is overrun.” He was already out of the truck, motioning for the lieutenant to slide over into the driver’s seat.
“Woman.” The lieutenant shifted, found the gas and pressed, the truck’s motor roaring to life. “Our missing member is a female FBI agent. Olivia Albert.”
Sam froze. Almost a hundred degrees and ice coated his spine. Olivia Albert. Livy. Fishing this agent out of the woods was going to be even more challenging than he’d anticipated.
He knew Olivia Albert. He
kept his face impassive, because Lieutenant Mayne was inventorying every blink and swallow more carefully than the military shrink who’d wanted to discuss how Sam felt about that final, fiery crash he’d mopped up before leaving CFR. The last time he’d seen Livy, they’d been swimming in Big Bear Lake, right before she’d told him she was heading off to college and thanks for the smoking hot summer. She’d been wet and wearing the wickedest scrap of a white crochet bikini known to mankind.
She’d tied him in knots.
He’d wanted to wrap his arms around her and beg her not to leave. Instead, he’d extorted a promise to write and waved her on her way. He hadn’t said half the things he’d wanted to.
Hell. He hadn’t said anything at all.
That probably put him square in bad memory territory for her. Particularly since, when he’d finally screwed up his courage to write, she’d never written back. He’d taken the hint.
She’d gone her way and he’d gone his. Back then she’d been interested in forensics and engineering. Maybe that did translate into a career with the FBI, but it seemed out of character for the girl he’d known. Sure, she’d loved puzzles and figuring things out, but no way he’d imagined her as a federal agent with a permit to carry and a badge.
But things changed.
People changed.
Of course, if he didn’t haul her ass out of the forest pronto, any changes would be moot, because even though he’d still be sorry, she’d be dead.
“Don’t scratch my truck.” He didn’t look back as he started a slow jog into the woods.
“You going to find her?” Lieutenant Mayne put the truck in drive.
“Hell, yeah.”
He’d paddle her ass when he did.
If the fire didn’t find her first.
The fire kicked up with an ominous crackling. Olivia didn’t need Smokey the Bear to deliver the bad news. She needed to beat feet. Now. Unfortunately, the worst smoke was blocking her direct line back to her boys and the Humvee.
She oriented herself, getting her bearings with her handheld compass. There. Three clicks north and she’d be back on the road. She’d have to hope the road was still open to traffic, but she’d cross that bridge when she made it back.
Hurrying was the important part.
Fifteen minutes into her run-hike, a man’s voice calling her name reached her from the other side of a heavily forested ridge. Still far off but closing on her position, those steady, deep tones didn’t belong to anyone on her team.
Run faster . . .
Adrenaline pounded through her, her pulse spiking. Oh, hell. Holm Arthurs was a possibility she had to consider. Still, her tango shouldn’t have known her name.
Shouldn’t didn’t mean couldn’t and she’d worried that the man had been monitoring the airwaves—where he could have picked up intel. Panic wouldn’t help now, though, so she sucked in a deep breath and reminded herself that she’d trained for this. The FBI academy had honed her skills in defensive tactics. She’d practiced an arsenal of control holds and she damned certain wasn’t afraid to hit back.
What she needed was a good spot to wait her pursuer out. Whoever it was moved straight for her. Had she left tracks? She considered the possibility and had to admit she probably had. She was FBI. Not a recon and surveillance scout.
The man yelled her name again. And was that a goddamn it she heard?
Closer. She dropped down, sliding beneath a particularly thick manzanita bush and inched forward on her belly as she palmed her firearm. Tracking 101 to the rescue.
The man emerging from the trees ate up the ground with a sure, confident prowl. He was definitely far too large to be her tango. That big body of his put him at well over six feet, and there was no missing so much as an inch of him. The bright yellow jacket he wore unbuttoned painted an unmistakable target on his shoulders and back. The baseball cap pulled low over his forehead shaded his face and eyes from her gaze. He’d pulled a bandana over his mouth because the air was growing thicker and smokier with each passing moment. Definitely not her tango, but she didn’t know why he was dogging her ass, either.
Keep on walking, buddy.
Work boots drew level with her hiding spot and she got a finger on the gun’s trigger. Before she could sight, however, he dropped fast to one knee, a big, gloved hand reaching for her.
“Come on out,” he growled.
Made. Adrenaline hit her hard and she bucked against his grip.
If this man got his hands on her good, she’d be going nowhere. He swore and she slammed her shoulder up, connecting with a rock-hard abdomen. He was too big, too fast. Before she could blink, he’d pinned her, one arm wrapping around her middle and dragging her up against his body. His other arm came down and grabbed her wrist. She didn’t drop the gun, but the air left her lungs in a fast, hard rush as he squeezed. He had to outweigh her by sixty pounds.
Hotshot. That was the first word that came to mind. The fire she’d spotted over the eastern ridge had the area crawling with the elite wildland firefighters and this one looked fresh from the field. He sported the obligatory Nomex fashion statement, bottle-green work pants and a bright yellow work shirt. He’d unbuttoned the cuffs, rolling the fireproof fabric up to reveal strong, tanned forearms.
Unexpectedly drool worthy.
No. She bucked hard, aiming for his forehead, and followed with a hip check. He flowed with her, off-balance but not letting go. When he finally went down, another gritty curse exploded from his mouth as he took her with him. Onto him, as he shouldered the brunt of the impact. Splayed on his chest, her wrists pinned against the ground and face-to-face with her attacker, she was looking at a whole new kind of trouble.
Sam Clayton.
He’d been beautiful the summer they first met, young and broad-shouldered with a wardrobe of faded cotton T-shirts that clung to each powerful ripple of muscle. She’d watched him hike mile after mile, and she’d wanted him to run. Straight towards her.
Now, he was bigger, his muscled frame more solid. His face wore a layer of experience he hadn’t had before, experience that gave his face harder lines. There were new scars, too, fresh lines beneath the blond curls he’d inherited from his European ancestors and that he cut ruthlessly short. He still had those high cheekbones, though, and the sun-kissed complexion that had had the park’s female visitors dreaming. And, like before, the sight of him set off a sensual fire low in her belly that threatened to burn out of control. Her Sam. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Because, even though this was his park, he was still the last person she’d expected to run into out here.
“You are aware there is a three-hundred-acre wildfire blowing up maybe a mile from here?” He didn’t seem surprised to see her, his smooth, deep voice as unhurried as ever. And wouldn’t you know it, she still got the shivers listening to him, hoping he’d go on talking, when she knew he’d lapse right back into silence as soon as he’d said the bare-bones minimum.
Sam didn’t chatter.
Or fuss.
He got in, he got out—and he always, always got the job done. Sam redefined slow, steady patience. Thorough and intent, he had the fierce focus of a warrior. And he’d been like that in bed, too, God help her.
His grip tightened on her right wrist, and her gun threatened to slip out of suddenly numb fingers.
“Safety’s off,” she said breathlessly, avoiding his question. “This is not a good idea, Sam.”
He leaned up effortlessly on his elbows, as if she weighed nothing. In one practiced move, he relieved her of her weapon, easing her finger off the trigger before returning the gun to her. She’d almost shot him. And yet her body was busy cataloging the feel of him beneath her, the way those powerful thighs flexed as he sat up fully, cradling her on his lap. This close, she smelled smoke and pine, Old Spice, and something unforgettably, indefinably Sam. God, Sam.
He’d starred front and center in her college fantasies until she’d convinced herself her education and her career had to come first. She was en
rolled at a top-notch Eastern university; Sam would never leave the forests he loved. She’d worked hard for her chance, and she couldn’t let it pass her by for a summer romance. They were from two different worlds, pursuing very different goals.
Sam Clayton looked her up and down. “Olivia Albert.”
Just like that, the years fell away and that scared her even more than the fires.
“This park is closed, honey.” He stared at her, like they’d run into each other in the parking lot of a Starbucks and she wanted to know if the place was still open. His yellow Nomex sleeve brushed against her windbreaker. They’d both changed—and it was more than a costume change. She remembered that the last time she’d seen Sam, she’d been sporting a white bikini.
“Really?” she drawled. “Now there’s a news flash.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t make any move to slide her off his lap, though. “So you run along home now.”
The anger was familiar. Anger was better. She’d spent years building her career. No matter how fantastic his body—or the memories—were, Sam didn’t get to talk to her like that. She was a special agent with the FBI. She’d made it through the National Academy. She’d led successful manhunts across two continents. And she knew precisely how to handle Sam.
As he leaned towards her, she moved, wrapping her thighs around his waist and pulling him over.
Sam laughed and rolled. His hands wrapped around her wrists and, for a long moment, she forgot about the fire and the manhunt. Instead, she was intensely aware of the strong male body pinned between her thighs and the powerful pull of his muscles as he wrestled with her. She moved her hands so they shackled his wrists, pinning him in place. Just as suddenly, his body relaxed beneath hers. He didn’t seem worried about the gun, either, but that was Sam Clayton for you.
She felt his deep chuckle in places she’d forgotten about. “That’ll teach me to rile you up, honey,” he said. This time, his hands stayed down.