Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  She was so accustomed to being alone that the mere presence of another human being heightened her awareness. Wasn’t he just a normal man? A lost city slicker?

  No, this man was special. This man was arresting and alluring.

  “What do you do?” she asked him as they waited for the water to boil and the coffee to perk.

  “Do?” he said blankly.

  “Yes. For a living.”

  “I’m in—pharmaceuticals.”

  “Salesman?”

  “Er—yes.”

  “You were heading toward Naples?”

  “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “Do you live in Fort Lauderdale?”

  “Well, actually, I live in New York. I was just—transferred down here.”

  The water boiled. Wendy turned off the burner and poured the water into the teapot. When she felt him watching her, a warm sensation surged through her blood. So this was it, she thought. This was the way it felt, that spark of attraction. She wasn’t sure if it was right or wrong, or if it was painful or pleasant. He was a pharmaceuticals salesman from New York whose name was Bill Smith. He’d literally stumbled into her life, and she was feeling alive for the first time in years.

  She spun around. He was studying her, his eyes warm, sparkling with a strange tenderness. He shook his head, smiling. “How did you get here? Do you really live here all the time? What do you do for a living?”

  “Once upon a time, I was a nurse. Then I met Leif. He was an environmental scientist. This was his home. I came out here to be with him.”

  “And you’ve stayed?”

  “It’s home. I love it.”

  “How the hell can you love the swamp?”

  “There’s much more here than swamp, Mr. Smith.”

  He cleared his throat. “Someone who has seen me in less than briefs is still calling me Mr. Smith?”

  She flushed but kept her chin high. “This is a beautiful place, Bill. You haven’t looked. If you spent time here, you’d see the magic, and you’d understand.”

  He didn’t believe her, not for a minute. He hated this place: the quicksand, the reptiles, the stinking insects. And yet, there had already been magic in the night. The fact that he was alive was a miracle in itself. He had awakened to see her standing above him, blond and petite and beautiful, an angel of mercy, protecting him from the darkness.

  Now it was time for another miracle: getting his man, and getting out of here alive. He sobered quickly, hoping that Michaelson and his men had really given up. He needed to see a newscast, without Wendy around.

  Wendy. He even liked the name. It suggested the clean coolness of a breeze, the exciting rush of a storm. A fitting name for this tempestuous angel.

  Whoa. He couldn’t let his mind wander. He had to find out what else had happened that day. He didn’t think that Michaelson could have followed him here, into the thick of the marshy wilderness. Michaelson wasn’t any good at navigating the swamps. But still, he’d have to be careful—very careful.

  If he could just keep her away from the newscasts, he would be in a good position.

  He reached out and touched her cheek. It was as soft as silk, golden tan against the nearly white halo of her hair. “Are you going to let me stay here?” he asked her softly.

  “Once I picked you up, there really wasn’t much choice,” she told him. She cleared her throat. “There’s—there’s a spare bedroom next to the bath.”

  “Maybe in the morning you’ll show me why you live here,” he said. “Good night.”

  Wendy watched as he retreated into the dark bedroom, his words an echoing whisper that stirred and rustled in her heart.

  2

  When he slept, he dreamed of her.

  It was probably natural. His last conscious thought was of her, of those beautiful, silver-blue eyes, sparkling with determination when she’d sent him off to the guest room. She’d stared at him with a blunt honesty and self-assurance that he had found admirable. She wasn’t a coy woman; she wouldn’t play games. She lived here alone, she was damned vulnerable—and he knew it. But hers was a calculated risk. If she hadn’t assessed him quickly and decided that he was a trustworthy character, he wouldn’t be here. She would have invited him back into the airboat and right now he would be standing on the roadside with a bandaged forehead and an upturned thumb.

  And of course, she was perfectly safe with him.

  But that didn’t stop him from dreaming.

  Sweet dreams.

  She was an acre of heaven in a godforsaken wasteland, a diamond among pebbles, a bolt of silk among bales of burlap. He didn’t know what it was about this woman that had seeped inside him so deeply, so quickly, but she had penetrated his world.

  Even her voice was music—a smooth, lyrical melody, accented with tenderness, infused with laughter. In his dreams she walked to him, and he watched her, fascinated anew by the easy sway of her soft blond hair, hypnotized by the sparkling beauty of her eyes. He smiled and he reached for her, imagining how her supple body would feel in his arms. She moved in a night mist, a dusky fog that reminded him he was dreaming.

  For now, a dream would suffice. She would be perfect, with a slim waist and smooth breasts that just filled his hands, firm breasts with dark rose nipples. Her hips were rounded, too, slightly flared beneath his hands. They didn’t know each other very well, but they knew the really important things about each other, things that couldn’t really be said but could only be sensed in another person. He wanted her, and he wanted her just this way—in tacit understanding, in sweet, ardent, mutual yearning.

  She moved closer, and he exhaled. His entire body tensed and he reached out to touch her. He felt the bed sink as she curled her long, supple legs beneath her and sat there, staring at him. He could almost feel the warmth of her breath against his face.

  Suddenly the subconscious realms of dream gave way to reality.

  He wasn’t imagining the weight at the foot of his bed.

  Slowly, still struggling against the enticing darkness of sleep, Brad opened his eyes.

  For the longest time he lay still, awake but perfectly still—and absolutely amazed.

  There was a creature at the foot of his bed. It wasn’t Wendy; it wasn’t a woman at all. And it was certainly not the stuff of dreams.

  It was some kind of cat. An enormous, fierce-looking cat.

  At first, Brad thought of a tiger, but he knew that tigers weren’t indigenous to this swamp. The creature had tawny gold fur and menacing yellow eyes. It stared at him for a moment, then curled back its lip and let out a bloodcurdling noise.

  His blood seemed to congeal, but he remained perfectly still, staring at the hundred-pound monster. Great! He’d eluded Michaelson and escaped the perilous reptiles of the Everglades, only to become catnip for some giant feline.

  “Bill?”

  He heard Wendy’s voice just as light flooded the room.

  “Wendy, no! Get out—and shut the door!” he warned her. Standing in the doorway, with her hair a soft, golden cloud about her fragile features, she even resembled an angel. Her eyes shimmered with concern.

  He wasn’t about to let her become cat food.

  Brad sprang up on his knees, ready to meet the teeth of the animal, ready to grab for its throat. He’d never come across anything quite like this in his training, but what the hell, a man couldn’t live forever. If he could get to the cat before the cat got to her...

  “Baby!” Wendy chastised, striding into the room.

  “Wendy! I said—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith.” She marched in, heading straight for the animal at the foot of his bed. “Baby has her own little door in the back of the house. She comes and goes as she pleases. Guess I forgot to warn you about her.”

  Crouched by the pillow
and clad only in the borrowed briefs, Brad arched a brow. Wendy sat down by the cat, scratching the animal’s ears, flushing ruefully as she glanced Brad’s way. “I am sorry. Did she frighten you?”

  “Uh, no, not at all,” Brad lied blandly. “Baby, huh?”

  “She’s a Florida panther. An endangered breed.”

  And she should be! Brad thought, but he didn’t think that Wendy would appreciate the sentiment. Slowly he slid back under the sheets and pulled them up to his waist.

  “Baby, huh?”

  “Well, she was just a cub when I found her. Someone had made an illegal game hunt of her mother, leaving her an orphan. We kind of called her ‘the baby,’ and the name just seemed to stick. She’s really very affectionate and very, very sweet.”

  “I’m sure,” Brad agreed.

  Baby let out another sound that was something between a roar and a purr, and Wendy flashed Brad another of the smiles that seemed to cascade into his libido—and his heart.

  “Honest. She’s gentle, I swear it.”

  Tentatively, Brad stretched out a hand to pat the cat on the head. “Nice kitty.”

  Baby licked her chops. Brad decided that Baby’s teeth could have belonged to a saber-toothed tiger.

  But she didn’t nip at him. She merely stretched out on her back, thrusting all four paws up in the air.

  Wendy laughed. “She likes to have her stomach scratched.” Brad watched her slim fingers move over the silky pelt and he longed to tell her that he liked to have his stomach scratched, too. The very thought of it made a certain heat suffuse his veins. He wondered if his thoughts were revealed in his eyes. With one glimpse, Wendy blushed and pulled at the cat, hauling her down from the bed.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “Come on, Baby. We should let our company sleep awhile longer.”

  When the door closed softly behind her, Brad exhaled, realizing just how damned tense he had been, and just how knotted and hot he still felt. His fingers were curled into fists, and the sheet didn’t provide much cover for his body. Maybe she had noticed more than the message in his eyes.

  Groaning softly, Brad tossed away the covers and rose. A soft stream of pink was filtering into the guest room through the soft cream-colored curtains. Brad walked over to the window and pulled them open.

  The early-morning air seemed to be colored by the sunrise in shades of glittering gold and fairy-tale pink. From the window he could see that they were on a rise of higher ground, that trees and flowers and a little fenced-in garden surrounded this side of the house. The sun reflected off a pool of water beyond the trees, though, and Brad imagined that they were probably on a hammock that stretched out perhaps an acre before giving way to the canals and muck and saw grass of the swamp.

  The view from the window was pleasant, though. Wild orchids grew in profusion over the cluster of trees, in shades of lilac, yellow and pink. Closer to the house, there was a garden of roses and a bougainvillea. The flowers provided an aura of silence...and a curious sense of peace.

  Brad gave himself a mental shake. The last thing that surrounded him, he reminded himself bitterly, was any semblance of peace. He had to get dressed and get moving and decide what the hell he should be doing.

  With that thought in mind, he quickly donned his borrowed clothing and stepped out of the bedroom.

  A glance down the hallway told him that Wendy was already in the kitchen. She was wearing denim shorts and a tank top, socks and a pair of sneakers. Her blond hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail that fanned over her shoulder as she poured water into the coffee machine.

  Brad smiled at her as he ducked into the bathroom. “You could have gone back to sleep!” she called.

  He stuck his head out and grinned. “Naw, I’m awake now.”

  He washed his face studiously and used the toothbrush she had given him. Then he stared at his features. The gash in his head was ugly, but he could arrange his hair to fall over it. He probably should have had a few stitches, but he wasn’t going to die from the lack of them. With a shrug, he splashed water over his face again. He had to know what was going on. He probably needed to act, but he didn’t know what he should be doing. He really needed to talk to the boss. Hopefully, Wendy would take him to civilization, where he could make a phone call and find out what the hell was happening.

  A little hammer seemed to slam against his heart.

  Well, then, that would be it. His blond angel of mercy would drop him off, and that would be all. So much for dreams. So much for sweet images of her coming to him in the night, smiling, reaching out to touch him...

  So much for dreams of reaching out and cradling the fullness of her breast in the palm of his hand, of tasting her lips.

  “Damn!” he muttered out loud, shaking his head, dousing his face again in the water. He had to break this spell, get away from this woman.

  But he still needed her help.

  He turned off the water and combed his hair back with his fingers, carefully pulling a lock over the ugly reminder of the gash.

  Outside the kitchen, the aroma of cooking bacon filled the air, and the scent was making him ravenous.

  Baby was nowhere to be seen and Wendy was poised by the counter, looking out to the living room. Brad saw that the television was on, tuned into one of the popular, national news shows. National news...

  Was he safe? he wondered. He hoped so.

  She turned away from the television to greet him. “Hi. Sorry you were woken up.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not a late sleeper anyway.”

  She smiled at him, and again, he liked her lack of guile. “Want some coffee?” she asked.

  “I’d love it. I’ll help myself.”

  As he stepped into the kitchen, she brushed past him, going to the stove while he headed for the coffeepot. There was a beautiful scent about—something clean and fresh and light. He was tempted to grab her, sweep her into his arms, bury his face in the perfume of her hair.

  But if he did so, he thought, grinning, he would probably end up wearing his coffee rather than drinking it. He poured himself a cup, then contented himself with leaning against the counter to watch her. He studied the golden hair that played over her sun-browned shoulders, the natural sway of her hips, the easy grace that seemed to rule her every motion.

  Sensing his thorough observation, she turned to face him. “How do you like your eggs?”

  He grinned. “I always feel lucky if I get them cooked,” he told her.

  She grimaced. “Scrambled, over easy, sunny-side up?”

  “However you have yours,” he said firmly.

  With a shrug, she cracked an egg into a frying pan. He was having his eggs sunny-side up.

  “As soon as we’ve eaten, I’ll take you to the garage. There’s a phone there. No use rushing, though. The phone is inside, and the garage doesn’t open until nine.”

  “I’m not in any hurry,” he said softly.

  Wendy not only heard his voice, she felt the timbre of it. He hadn’t really said anything, yet his words seemed to wash over her in a gentle, beguiling caress.

  Nudging an egg with the spatula, she wondered why he had such an effect on her. She couldn’t forget that he was lying about his name. And men just didn’t lie about their names without a reason.

  But her initial instincts had been right. She had trusted him in her house, and he had proven that he deserved that trust.

  Face it, Wendy! she taunted herself. You don’t know a damn thing about him, good or bad. The real truth is that you’re attracted to him, and though you’re incapable of going about a simple sexual relationship, you just want to hold on to him and think about the possibilities....

  She swallowed, trying to ignore her unhappy thoughts. The eggs were done. She strained them with the spatula and slipped them onto plates. Her
guest was right beside her, ready to take them from her.

  Glancing his way, she couldn’t help but admire the planes and angles of his face. He was handsome, but a far cry from pretty. The texture of his skin was masculine, as were the muscled structure of his sinewed form and the calluses that lined his strong palms. Idly she wished that she could have him unconscious again. Now she would be fascinated just to explore him from head to toe.

  To touch him.

  He set their plates down on the table a little too sharply. Wendy frowned, aware that the television had drawn his attention.

  And then she heard it.

  The newscasters were still reading the national news, but it seemed that her small part of the world had gained national attention. Wendy forgot her guest for a moment, trying to concentrate on the words of the announcer.

  She and Brad both rushed toward the television set at the same time.

  “Stop!” Wendy ordered.

  For a moment, he paused and glared at her. Wendy could feel his eyes boring into hers.

  Danger emanated from him, hot, desperate danger, sweeping around her, encompassing her.

  Yesterday, there had been a shoot-out. “A violent exchange of gunfire,” according to the Fort Lauderdale police. A federal agent had been killed, and law-enforcement officials were still looking for the gang of men involved, a gang of drug traffickers, arms dealers and murderers.

  “You don’t want to hear this.”

  He tore his gaze from Wendy’s and strode toward the television. She began to protest, but when her mouth opened, a horrified gasp escaped instead as Brad’s picture suddenly flashed upon the screen.

  There were five men in the picture. One tall, blond man, three medium, darker men and Wendy’s guest—Mr. “Alias” Bill Smith.

  “Son of a bitch!” he swore. Too late, he turned off the television.

  Wendy stared at him, her gaze wide and brilliant—and condemning.

  “Wendy...” He lifted a hand to her imploringly. He wished he hadn’t lied to her. The whole ordeal was going to be difficult to explain. Even worse, the look of betrayal in her eyes was going to be impossible to soothe. Those shimmering, beautiful, silver-blue eyes of hers, gem hard with hatred and reproach.