by Cindy Gerard
She’d also be out of his line of sight at the Hunts’. Maybe then, she’d be out of his mind, too. Right, and a cactus didn’t have needles. Regardless of where she was in proximity to where he was, he was afraid he’d be seeing those big baby blues for a long time to come.
He drew a deep breath, got back to business. They had to get moving. He eyed her cast. “Can you walk in that thing?”
“I suppose that would depend on your definition of walk. Hobble might better describe it,” she admitted with something close to an apology in her eyes.
He stood. “Hobble’s not going to cut it, I’m afraid.” He scrubbed a palm over his jaw, gave her a considering once-over. “So we improvise.”
Careful of her injuries, he scooped her from the bed and into his arms. She felt good there. Too good. So good, he knew he had to do something to get his mind off the sudden, unplanned intimacy.
“Whoa,” he teased and settled her more securely against his chest. “Not exactly a featherweight, are you?”
Actually she was a sleek and silky armful. His heart kicked into overdrive—not so much from the exertion as from the softness of her breast snuggled hot and full against his chest. It was not the reaction of choice, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to dwell on it. What he was going to do was make the lady relax. Another one of those smiles wouldn’t be too tough to take either.
With staged effort, he shifted her higher in his arms and made a big show of being staggered by her slight weight.
“It’s the cast,” she assured him with a tight little scowl and looped her left arm around his neck. “And the case,” she added, referring to the clear plastic case she cradled in her lap that appeared to be filled with the home-going medical supplies.
He grunted for good measure. “If you say so.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, get over it. I thought you cowboy types were supposed to be big and strong and well…heroic.” She glared down that titled little nose of hers in such a regal, aristocratic attempt to look huffy it was all he could do not to laugh.
“Begging your pardon, Lady Helena, but I’ve bulldogged steers that weighed less than you.”
She forced a tight smile, but her eyes held absolutely no trace of amusement. “That just makes my day, doesn’t it? I’ve been compared to a lot of things but never livestock. How charming.”
He grinned, but, still aware that she was far more nervous about this business than she was letting on, made sure she understood she could count on him. “It’s going to be all right. You can trust me, okay?”
When those expressive eyes held his gaze, and she softly murmured, “I do,” a long-repressed Tarzan gene made him want to beat his chest and carry her off to some vine-covered treetop hideaway. Since, for more reasons than one, that wasn’t an option, he gave her a quick wink instead and headed for the door.
The hall was devoid of reporters as they slipped cautiously out of the room. He shook off the floor nurse’s offer of another wheelchair and carried Helena to the bank of elevators marked Staff Only. Once at ground level, he negotiated a series of twists and turns as he carried her through the hallways to the rear exit.
“You seem to be rather good at this skulking business.” She tightened her arm around his neck. “Makes one wonder if there might be a bit of a shady past one might need to get a bit nervous about.”
He ignored the warmth of her, the woman scent of her and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. “Old American saying—One shouldn’t look a gift rescuer in the mouth.”
She gave a delicate little sniff. “Oh, by all means, rescue away. You’ll get no resistance from me.”
He smiled. “Here’s where we see just how good a sleuth I really am.” He rounded the last corner and the rear exit came into sight. “It’s show time. Cross your fingers, countess. We’re going to make a run for it.”
“I’m not a countess,” she said breathlessly as he shouldered through the revolving door and sprinted down the steps.
“Close enough.” He looked both ways and made a break for the parking lot. “My pocket,” he said, striding along the asphalt. “See if you can fish my keys out of my pocket.”
Bad idea, he realized belatedly as her small, seeking right hand stole down, felt around for his trouser pocket opening and finally slipped inside. He suppressed a groan as the warmth of her fingers connected with his hip, then his thigh, then, oblivious to what she was doing to him, accidentally brushed something else that threatened to stand at immediate attention.
With steel will, he ignored all the pulse-altering groping going on south of his belt buckle. At least he tried to.
Way too late—or way too soon—she gave a victorious tug and pulled the keys free.
“I got them.”
“Thank you, Jesus, Joseph and Mary,” he muttered through gritted teeth, and sincerely hoped she hadn’t noticed what she had unintentionally done to him.
“Click the lock release.”
Her slender right hand gripped the keyless remote, the tip of her index finger poised on the red button. “This one?”
“That’s the—” horns and sirens bleated into the relative stillness in absurdly loud and frantic blasts “—alarm,” he finished unnecessarily.
Wide blue eyes met his with startled comprehension. “Oops.”
He glanced over his shoulder to see what kind of attention they’d attracted—and caught her expression instead.
She looked a little mortified and a lot fearful of getting caught. What could he do but smile at her and try to make that look go away?
“It’s not a problem, okay? It’ll just make our getaway more interesting. I’m going to set you down now. Can you support your weight on one leg for a second?”
“Considering that in your estimation I weigh roughly the same as a Hereford,” she enunciated over the irritating drone of the alarm, “it will be a challenge, but I’ll give it my all.”
He hugged her then. He hadn’t meant to. He knew she would bristle right up at the notion, but she was just so darned cute with her upper-crust attitude and her put-upon pride that he acted before he thought, and then it was too late to do anything but make nice.
She merely blinked at him, big and bright and, if he chose to believe it, a bit shyly.
With another glance over his shoulder, he relieved her of the keys, neutralized the alarm, and hit the lock release. “In you go.” He quickly opened the passenger door.
Very carefully, he helped her get comfortable then stowed her bag in the back seat. “Do we need to put that foot up?”
“It’s fine. Let’s just get out of here before they figure out they’ve been fooled.”
“I’m with you on that one.”
He sprinted around the vehicle, jumped in and slammed the door behind him. “Fasten your seat belt and hang on to your hat. We may be in for a wild ride.”
A long beat of silence passed. “Well,” she said quietly. “I’d like to do both. The problem is, I don’t have a hat. And at the moment, I’m afraid that seat-belt issue is beyond me, too.”
One hand on the wheel, the other on the ignition, he glanced her way—then realized his insensitivity. She couldn’t fasten the belt.
From the moment he’d walked into her room, he’d not only been profoundly aware of her as a woman, but he’d sensed a self-consciousness about her hand that he suspected she’d never admit to. He’d tried not to stare, but now he did and fully realized what she was up against. Her left hand was covered in a snug, protective mesh glove, her fingers extended at a stiff, unnatural angle.
When she cupped her injured hand protectively with her right, he could have kicked himself.
“I’m sorry.”
Her chin notched up a fraction. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s not you who can’t manage this contraption.”
No. It wasn’t him who couldn’t manage, although there were a few things giving him his own share of trouble at the moment. One of them was that kissable mouth of he
rs. It was lush and full and just begging for someone to kiss her and make it all better.
He couldn’t make it better though. And kissing her was out of the question. His job was to protect her. If he didn’t get her out of here soon, he wasn’t even going to manage that.
“May I?” he offered gently.
She stared through the windshield. Gave a clipped nod.
Her breath caught—he swore it did—when he twisted at the hip and leaned toward her. By sheer force of will, he kept his gaze from connecting with hers as he reached across her body for the seat-belt strap—and then he was the one struggling for an even breath as the soft whisper of hers feathered against his jaw.
Her generous breasts rose and fell beneath the silk of her blouse as he fumbled with the belt like a horny teenager before finally managing to buckle her in. In silence, he absorbed it all, the scent of her, the heat of her, and the pride that she was having a difficult time clinging to. Then there was the very obvious fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and his suspicion that something other than the mild March chill had caused the tips of her nipples to harden like tiny buttons and strain against soft gray silk.
He eased away, far too aware of the absence of all that delicious heat no longer snuggled against him. And way too willing to taste those full, lush lips.
Squared up behind the steering wheel, he thumbed back his hat, rolled his shoulders. Well. That was interesting. And stupid. There was no way he was going in that direction with her. For a lot of reasons. None of them having to do with how vulnerable she looked. Most of them having to do with lessons learned about high-maintenance women. Women who lived, breathed and required a lifestyle that was well within his means, but not within his disposition to provide.
Without a word, he shifted into first gear and eased out of the lot just as his cell phone rang. Relieved to have the diversion, he opened the console that ran between the bucket seats. Snagging the phone, he punched the button on the second ring.
“Walker.”
“Matt. It’s Greg. I take it you made it without incident?”
Matt let out a breath he’d probably been holding since he’d made the mistake of looking into eyes so blue it made him think of bluebonnets under a summer sky. Without incident? Not quite.
“Close enough.” He hooked a left turn at the corner of Market and Fifteenth. “We’re headed for Casa Royale now.”
“Sorry, but that’s got to be a negative. Once the troops figured out they’d been hoodwinked, they decided to divide and conquer. Half of them tore back into the hospital. The rest are following Anna and me to the ranch. You bring Helena here right now and they’ll hound her like a wolf pack.”
Matt swore under his breath.
“What is it?” Despite her attempt to conceal it, enough tension to string a guitar hummed through Helena’s breathless question. “What’s wrong?”
He glanced from the street to her face. If possible, those telling eyes of hers had grown bigger and more apprehensive. It was looks like those that made him forget why he didn’t want to get involved with her.
“It’s all right,” he assured her and returned his attention to Greg. “Okay. We regroup. Any ideas?”
“I don’t see too many options except the obvious. You’re going to have to take Helena to High Stakes for a few days until this settles down.”
Like it or not, Matt didn’t see any options either.
“Anna and I will lead them around by the nose for a while. Give you a little more time. We’ll be back in touch, okay?”
“Bet on it,” Matt said with certainty and disconnected.
“What’s happened?”
He glanced her way, then back at the street. What had happened was that his perfect plan to tuck Helena out of sight and out of mind had just blown up in his face like a shotgun with a jammed barrel.
“The press. Half of them are still looking for you at the hospital—the rest are following Greg and Anna like a jet trail. They probably figure you’ll eventually end up at Casa Royale.”
A long silence passed before she uttered a very controlled, “I see.”
He glanced her way again, trying to read her reaction. “I’m sorry, Helena. But it looks like you’re going to be my guest for a few days, until they back off. I hope you don’t mind.”
Her eyes widened a bit with an emotion he couldn’t quite decipher before she looked away. “I don’t mind.” Her voice was very soft. “I don’t mind at all.”
Well, he was in for it now, wasn’t he? Matt thought as he headed down the final mile to High Stakes. He’d gone and brought the countess—or whatever she was—to his home turf.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. There was nothing to do about it for now. Until the timing was right to transport her to the Hunts’, he’d simply have to be the gentleman his mother raised him to be and offer her a safe and secluded harbor. This didn’t have to turn into anything more than what it was. He was her protector. It ended there.
Right. And he didn’t want her in his bed so bad he ached with it.
It didn’t make any sense, and yet, there it was. For the past two months he’d been able to keep his unwanted attraction for her, if not at bay, at least in check. In the last hour things seemed to have snowballed way out of control. Maybe Justin was right. Maybe he was suffering from sleep deprivation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d caught more than two or three uninterrupted hours of shut-eye.
He rotated his head on his neck, then rolled his shoulders. What he had to remember was that while Helena seemed vulnerable now, she would recover. Sure she was hurting—even though she tried to hide it behind that subject-to-peasant look that did little to disguise just how fragile she was.
So, he would be compassionate. He would be considerate. And all the time, he would remember who she was, what she was, and that in a few days she’d be gone.
And still, he wanted her.
Okay. He was a big boy. He could deal with it. He understood lust. It was clean and honest and totally independent of emotion. Emotion. There was the crux of the problem, now, wasn’t it? He’d seen too much at the hospital. Witnessed, a little too often, her pain. And he figured he understood, a little too well, how important it was to her to hide it.
She was a great pretender. He suspected much of who she was was based on pretense and figured she must be digging deep right about now to make sure no one knew how frightened she really was.
Maybe that’s the difference he sensed between Helena and Jena. When his ex-wife had been unhappy, everyone had known it. And everyone had suffered.
He’d made himself think about Jena a lot lately. Made himself remember why he needed to fight this attraction to Helena. Jena had taught him a valuable lesson about high-maintenance women. The Earl of Orion’s daughter might be a charming and beautiful rose of a woman, but, like Jena, she would never be a desert rose.
Eyes dead ahead, he flexed his fingers on the wheel. That’s why he knew better than to even think—however abstractly—about getting involved with Helena. A high-ticket woman like her ladyship here and ranch life would mix about as well as hurricanes and hand grenades.
He let out a deep breath. And got a slippery grip on some much-needed perspective. Reality check: he wasn’t marrying Helena Reichard. He was just giving her a place to stay. Temporarily. A few days, tops. For the next couple of days, he couldn’t think about the sparks that had flashed between them that night as they’d danced. He couldn’t dwell on this notion that there had been something about her—a reckless spontaneity, an honest charm. And he’d forget that he’d sensed an interest she’d returned, along with an undeniable awareness that she had been as baffled—and as shaken—by the attraction as he’d been.
So the rush of desire he’d felt when he’d waltzed her across the room had been as potent and as pure as his private blend of bourbon that Riley had always made sure was stocked in the club’s bar just for him.
Riley. His thoughts sobered abruptl
y. Riley was dead. The diamond was still missing. And the woman looking so lost and so lovely as she stared through the windshield was in need of nothing from him but his protection.
It all came back to that. And despite all of his rationalizations, he wished to hell that he were a little more upset about the fact that she was going to be with him, and not with the Hunts.
Just until the press backed off, he reminded himself staunchly. Then he’d escort her royal-whatever-she-was to Greg and Anna’s, and he’d get on with his life. A life he liked fine just the way it was, thank you very much.
No sooner had he grounded himself in those absolutes and pulled into the drive at High Stakes than another thought hit him double-barrel.
He groaned. “Lois.”
Speaking of hurricanes and hand grenades.
Beside him, her face pale and pinched with fatigue and what he strongly suspected was pain she’d never admit to, Helena turned her curious gaze to his. “Lois?”
He blew out a breath, resettled his Stetson. How did he explain Lois? “Lois is my…housekeeper. Sort of. Ah, look. I should prepare you. Lois is, well, Lois is—”
“Your lover?” she concluded with a stiff little arch of her brow. “I assure you, Mr. Walker, your personal life is no concern of mine. I apologize deeply for any incon—”
“Hold it. Just…just hold it, okay?” Both amused and intrigued by a reaction that smacked of, for lack of a better word, jealousy, he studied her china-doll profile. Jealousy? No way. He wasn’t even going to go there.
“Lois is not my lover.” He couldn’t help it. A chuckle slipped out. “And she’ll offer to wash your mouth out with soap for even uttering such a suggestion. Lois is, well, she’s more like a fixture at High Stakes. She’s also a little gruff sometimes. She means well so don’t let her bull-headedness and snorting bother you.”
“Bullheaded? Snorting? How interesting. Is this a Texas thing—all these livestock references?”