Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  And fear.

  He raked a hand through his hair, wondering how to explain. “Wendy—”

  She spun around, ready to escape. He couldn’t let her do that. He couldn’t let her leave him stranded here, and he didn’t dare let her risk a panicked run back to civilization.

  God only knew who she might run into.

  “Wendy, please wait!”

  But Wendy had already begun to flee. She was at the door, tearing it open.

  Freedom, she thought. Another second and she would be free. All she had to do was fly out the door and reach the airboat. She didn’t need much of a head start. The swamp would slow down the unwary man, the one who was unprepared.

  She threw open the door.

  It was abruptly slammed shut before she could begin to get out. Acting on reflex, she swung around to face Bill Smith—or whoever he was! Now his handsome features bore a chilling countenance. She was frightened. This man was an impostor, a liar. The way he had slammed the door had proven his speed, strength and agility. He would be a powerful adversary.

  “Wendy—”

  She ducked beneath his arm and raced down the hall to her bedroom. Perhaps she could escape through a window....

  All the while she could feel him behind her, following close. Gasping, she flew through the door to her bedroom, slammed it shut, locked it and leaned against it, panting.

  Her heart caught in her throat as she felt him try the knob. “Wendy! You have to listen to me—”

  “Stinking bastard—liar!” she retorted...her eyes surveyed the room. If she was lucky, the screwdriver would still be by her dresser, where she had left it after trying to fix a brass handle that had come loose.

  “Wendy, I admit that I lied to you, but you have to give me a chance to explain.”

  The screwdriver was there, right on the carpet. If she could pull out a screen, she could escape through one of the large windows above her bed. She just had to keep him talking for the time it would take her to do so.

  “So go on! Explain!” she snapped. Carefully, silently, she moved away from the door. She picked up the screwdriver and approached the window. “Explain!” she shouted back at him as she jumped up on the bed and set to work.

  “Wendy, I’m not a bad guy. Honest.” She heard his voice, coaxing, sincere, from the other side of the door.

  Yeah, sure.

  He’d fooled her once already. He must be thinking that she was the most naive creature this side of the Mason-Dixon line.

  The first screw fell away in her hand. Holding her breath, she started on another. Her fingers shook. Oh, God. The FBI and the DEA were after him. An agent had been killed. This was serious business; her houseguest was a member of a drug mob.

  “I should have told you the truth from the beginning. I was trying to protect you, and at first I didn’t know whether I could trust you or not. I lied about my name to protect you. I was afraid of what the media would be saying. You’ve got to understand. The boss can’t give out the real information because he assumes that I’m still with Michaelson and his group. But they found me out when they caught Jim. Jim is the one who was killed.”

  What the hell was he rambling on about? Wendy wondered. The third screw gave way in her hand and the screen came careening down. She caught it as it crashed against the wall. It was harder going now. She had to hold the screen and unscrew at the same time. Concentrate! she berated herself.

  She probably deserved this. If she wasn’t so frightened, so close to tears, she would laugh at herself. Maybe she shouldn’t have stayed here, holed up alone in the Everglades. Maybe she had spent too much time mourning the past and licking her wounds. Because right out of the blue she had picked up a stranger, admired his face and form—lusted after him, Wendy girl, admit the truth! she chastised herself in silent reproach—trusted him and made a complete fool of herself. If she’d stayed a little nearer civilization, she might have been smart enough to smell a rat beneath her very nose.

  The fourth screw finally gave way. He was still talking, but she had been too breathless to hear him. She set the screen down carefully, then silently hiked her rear up on the sill. With a groan the glass pane eased open, allowing her to slip through the window and fall onto the soft grass below.

  “Wendy, do you understand?” Brad pleaded softly. There was no answer. Too late, with sudden, definite clarity, intuition warned him that no one was listening.

  He slammed a muscled shoulder against her door. The flimsy lock gave way instantly and he stepped into her room. There was only a screen leaning against the wall and curtains that billowed in the gentle breeze from the open window.

  Bolting across the room, he leaped onto the bed and propelled his body out the window. He fell to the grass and rolled.

  On the path below, Wendy was running as fleetingly as a young doe, trying to reach the airboat.

  “Wendy!” He tore after her, catching her just as she neared the water.

  Caught by the arm, she flailed and kicked like a trapped animal. Her small, clenched fist caught him in the shoulder. Then she delivered a blow to his right eye, a punch that hurt like hell.

  Now he was probably going to have a shiner to go with the cut in his temple.

  Then she landed a hefty kick. He could only be grateful that she had aimed for his shin.

  “Wendy—”

  She wasn’t listening. He was pleading; she was swearing. Brad ducked low, sweeping her over his shoulder. He ignored the hands that pounded against his back and the nails that scratched him through his borrowed shirt. Striding quickly, he entered the house by way of the front door. He had to calm this woman down.

  He didn’t stop in the living room, but proceeded to her bedroom at the end of the hallway, where the door with its broken lock hung open. He barged into the room and unceremoniously dropped her on top of the bed. Her fists were still flying and her hair tumbled over her shoulders in a golden cloud.

  “Damn you, I’m not trying to hurt you!” Brad cried.

  “And how am I supposed to believe that’s not just another lie?”

  “Wendy!”

  There seemed to be only one way to calm her. He crawled over her, straddling, pulling her arms high over her head and securing her wrists. Her hair fell in front of her face; she tried to blow it away, growing silent at last but continuing to stare at him with a look that could definitely kill.

  “You liar!” she shouted.

  “I lied about my name. I’m sorry. It’s Brad. Brad McKenna.”

  She lay still for a minute. Her body relaxed slightly, but the suspicion never left her eyes. They seethed up at him with simmering skepticism.

  His heart ached for her, for the feelings of betrayal she was suffering. He still liked her, so damned much. And he was still so entranced by this silver-eyed angel. Her breasts rose and fell with agitation, and he could feel her warm body caught between his own thighs.

  “Honest. Give me a chance to start over. Mrs. Wendy Hawk, meet Brad McKenna. Oh, Mr. McKenna, so nice to meet you. The pleasure, Mrs. Hawk, is completely mi—ine! Hey!”

  She wasn’t amused, not in the least. She bolted against him in a powerful surge that almost sent him flying, despite all his well-trained reflexes.

  “Wendy!” He laughed. “Please, give me a break!”

  “I gave you a break! I plucked you out of the mud and I brought you here and I fed you—”

  “And bathed me,” he supplied.

  Her eyes narrowed and she barely skipped a beat. “Fed you and clothed you and gave you a roof over your head! I should have left you for a reptile feast!”

  Brad inhaled and exhaled slowly. Deep inside, he was in anguish. What the hell difference did it make? he asked himself bleakly. So, she hated him. So what? She was going to take him to a phone, and she would never see
him again anyway.

  There had never been anything for him here at all. An undeniable attraction wasn’t always worth pursuing. He didn’t indulge where he couldn’t turn his back and walk away with a clear and easy conscience.

  It would be difficult to walk away from this silver-eyed sylph. But it would be devastating to know he’d caused her pain. And right now, she was hurting because of him. She had to understand. He didn’t want her hating him.

  “Wendy, please.” He eased his hold on her arm. “I know I don’t deserve your trust, but I really need it. I need it badly.”

  She didn’t say anything; she didn’t fight him. She stared at him defiantly. And for a moment, her mind wandered. She saw the familiar comforter on her bed and the walnut, antique dresser sets she and Leif had stripped and repolished themselves. She saw the daylight streaming through the cream curtains, and she felt the man above her.

  Once she had lain like this, and laughed. And the man above her had been no threat. He had been her husband, and she had loved him. And now a stranger straddled her as Leif once had, asking her to trust him. It seemed a sacrilege.

  Yet even with that thought, she realized that the panicked beat of her heart had slowed. Despite herself, despite everything she had seen on the news, she wanted to believe him. He couldn’t be lying to her, not here.

  And he couldn’t be such an awful criminal. He could have already killed her if he’d wanted to. He could have strangled her easily, and there were plenty of sharp knives in the kitchen. There was even a double-barreled shotgun hanging on the wall.

  She twisted her face aside, not wanting to look into the tawny gold eyes that pleaded so eloquently with hers. More than his words, more than the tenor of his voice, his eyes swayed her. His gaze poured into her, like a liquid warmth, promising honor and truth and even security, when there should have been none.

  She swallowed and spoke softly. She couldn’t have him touching her. She didn’t want to feel the power in his thighs as they locked around her, and she didn’t want to feel the warm whisper of his breath. She didn’t want his hands so gently but thoroughly locking her own.

  “If you don’t want to hurt me, then let me go.”

  He hesitated, then unwound his fingers from her wrists and moved away.

  Quickly, Wendy edged away from him, absently rubbing her wrists while she stared at him. He idly sat at the end of the bed and met her gaze.

  “Brad McKenna?” she said doubtfully.

  He nodded gravely. “I’m with the DEA, I swear it. My partner—the man who was killed—and I were working undercover. We had infiltrated one of the roughest gangs running cocaine, marijuana and hashish out of South America. This area’s a target zone for us—especially since the drug traffic has increased. It’s hard to stop—there are just miles and miles of coastline and an endless supply of pilots willing to risk their lives for the monetary rewards of bringing in one big supply. Anyway, Michaelson—the head honcho in this little group—caught on to us. He meant to perform a quick execution, but we’d gotten some word in about our location. We’d assumed that he was planning an exchange with the buyers. It all came down too fast.” He hesitated, locking his jaw and swallowing painfully. “Jim was killed. I was next in line, but I stole a Chevy and took off down the Alley. The engine died on me, and Michaelson and his boys almost finished me off. But you found me instead.”

  She stared at him. “Pharmaceuticals?”

  “What?”

  “You told me that you were a salesman. Pharmaceuticals.”

  He shrugged. “I’m telling you the truth now, I swear it.” He wanted so badly to reach out and touch her. He wanted to assure her.

  He wondered if that look of contempt would ever leave her eyes. “Wendy, for God’s sake, I’m telling you the truth now. Please, can’t you believe me?” He reached out to stroke her cheek, but she twisted away.

  “If you’re telling the truth,” she demanded, “why were you in that picture with the smugglers?”

  He sighed. “I told you, I was working undercover. They can’t reveal my identity at the office until they know for sure that my cover has already been blown.” He paused. “Michaelson is wanted for first-degree murder as well as drug smuggling. If he gets a chance, he’ll kill me.”

  Her arms were locked around her legs defensively, and she observed him warily from narrowed, long-lashed eyes.

  “Wendy! You’ve got to believe me!”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he told her quietly, “I still need your help. I have to have your help.”

  She kept watching him in silence. He held his breath, then expelled it slowly. “Well?”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  He lowered his head, smiling. “Thank you,” he murmured. He reached out to stroke her cheek with his knuckles.

  “But don’t—don’t even think of touching me again!” she said vehemently. Slipping away from him, she rose from the bed and strode, slowly and regally, from the room.

  3

  Are you coming?” Wendy demanded coldly. She was waiting for Brad in front of the house.

  Brad closed the front door, eyeing her suspiciously. Where was that drat cat, Baby? He had forgotten about the animal when he had chased her outside. Baby was probably more useful against unwanted prowlers than a pair of well-trained attack dogs.

  “I’m not sure that I trust you, Mrs. Hawk.”

  “You’re not sure that you trust me?” she demanded indignantly. He didn’t answer her. “Well of all the nerve!”

  “Where’s the panther?”

  “Baby?”

  “Your deadly kitty cat.”

  “How on earth should I know,” she replied sweetly. “Any cat is difficult to find, and as you might notice, Baby has a big backyard!”

  Brad issued an oath at her sarcasm. Forgetting that he had promised not to touch her, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. Her body was warm and soft against his. He felt the taunting fullness of her breasts against his chest, the smooth silkiness of her golden tanned skin. When he inhaled, her fragrance was clean and sweet, more haunting than any tormented dream.

  Afraid that she could sense his heated reaction, he wanted to drop her wrist and push her away. And he wondered what she was thinking, for she didn’t fight, she simply cast her head back and scowled at him with that unique silver magic in her eyes.

  Brad gritted his teeth. “What I want to know, Mrs. Hawk, is if that cat of yours is slinking around somewhere, poised to attack.”

  She hesitated just a minute. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What do you want—a sworn statement?”

  “Yes!”

  “Dammit, I’m the one who deserves one of those!” she protested.

  “I asked you to trust me.”

  “But you don’t trust me!”

  He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to know if the heat that raged in her eyes would warm her mouth and fuse their lips together. The temptation was ungodly. His fingers trembled with the desire to snake into her hair, his body shook with the very force of his longing. Maybe it was the wild, primitive appeal of the ground he stood on. Maybe it was the defiant challenge in her beautiful eyes. He had never wanted a woman more. And he had never wanted one so passionately, so suddenly. He closed his eyes, praying that God would get him out of the swamp and grant him some sanity.

  Then he released her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hawk. You’re right. I am asking a lot of you. Forgive me. Shall we go?”

  For a moment she stared at him in silence, then she turned with squared shoulders and started for the airboat.

  Brad followed her onto the vehicle, releasing the secure rope she kept tied around a tree. As she started up the motor, Brad let the sights and sounds of the swamp fill his senses. The
day was bright now, and growing hotter. He could hear the drone of insects again. A light breeze caused the distant saw grasses to bend beneath it, and the vista did, indeed, appear to be a green sea, with ripple after ripple of wave listing through it. He heard a ruffling sound and turned to see a long-legged, awkward-looking crane soar to beauty and elegance as it took flight from the ground and entered the arena of the powder-blue sky.

  Wendy seemed to be deep in thought, staring straight ahead. He smiled; she seemed so small and fragile on the airboat, like an angel driving a two-ton semi.

  What kind of a love had kept her here, in the deserted marshes, all alone? Could anyone, man or woman, be so self-sufficient that he or she needed nothing but the earth and sky to survive? The land, the air—and memories?

  He quickly realized that she knew this land well. Having been unconscious, he hadn’t seen where he had come from last night. He could determine their direction from the sun, but he’d be damned if he understood how anyone could navigate a swamp with no distinguishing landmarks. Or were there subtle, natural landmarks, evident only to those who sought them? A clump of trees that bowed at an angle there, old trees that had surely survived countless storms. A wide vista of the grass, to the right, and to the left, a sudden profusion of color where a hammock rose from the swamp to provide a home for scores of wild orchids and tall, blue-toned herons.

  Birds burst out of the foliage before them—the airboat’s motor was loud. He didn’t know how fast they were going—maybe thirty-five miles an hour, tops—but still the breeze became a wind that whipped by them, fierce, challenging, invigorating. Brad closed his eyes, savoring the feel of the wind on his face while the sun beat down on his back. The scent of the swamp that had repulsed him yesterday now seemed rich, redolent.

  When Wendy slowed the airboat, he thought they were idling near another hammock of high land. On closer inspection, he could see that strands of high grass hid the planks of a series of small, weather-beaten docks. Wendy tossed him the rope, and he secured the airboat.