Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  How long were they destined to be together? he wondered bleakly.

  Maybe time didn’t matter. They both knew it already. There was something between them now, simmering and steaming, wild and explosive.

  They were heading home; fate had thrown them together. He suddenly knew that he would have her, would touch her, would love her, just as surely as he knew that the sun would set in the west. Despite their individual dreams and fears, their shared destiny was inevitable.

  She turned to tell him something, to point out some landmark, but when her eyes met his, her words seemed to freeze in her throat.

  Their eyes remained locked together, silver melding with gold, and surely creating some ancient alchemist’s magical treasure. Or perhaps it wasn’t magic at all. Perhaps it was a simple pattern of nature and life, as basic and raw as the need of a man for a woman.

  When she found the strength to turn away from him, neither of them cared that some vague thought was forgotten. Among soul mates the pretense of words was unnecessary.

  4

  The house seemed smaller. Brad didn’t know how, but the house had shrunk, closing in around them.

  Wendy threw out the breakfast that they hadn’t eaten and started cleaning up the kitchen. He would have offered to help her, but he was certain that she didn’t want his assistance now. The kitchen had gotten smaller, too.

  Brad turned on the television. It was nearly noon. He tried different stations until he found one of the major networks. A soap opera seemed to be in the midst of its final, anguished, tear-jerking scene of the day. Brad hunched down and waited. He swallowed, realizing that he was watching the soap Jim used to watch. His partner had never known quite how and when he had gotten hooked, but he had. And whenever things were slow, whenever Jim and Brad were stuck on surveillance, sitting for hours and hours, drinking coffee and waiting for something to happen, Jim would dramatically recount all the latest episodes. Of course, he had missed the soap’s broadcast most of the time, but he videotaped the show religiously.

  Jim wouldn’t be watching any more soaps.

  They hadn’t worked together long. Not even a month. Brad’s old partner, Dennis Holmes, had left the DEA when he’d married the college sweetheart who had waited for him for ten long years. He was teaching in Boston now. Funny, Brad thought, he and Dennis and Jim had all agreed on one thing—their line of work and marriage just didn’t mix.

  But Jim would never have a chance to marry. The thought cut Brad to the quick. Jim had been shot down in the prime of his life. Damn Michaelson! He would pay for Jim’s life. Like a cowboy in the Old West, Brad would give his eyeteeth for a walk down a long and dusty path, and the simple chance to best the man. But this wasn’t the Old West. He couldn’t meet Michaelson that way. The law needed Brad alive to testify. Then the judicial court system could determine Michaelson’s fate. Brad knew the rules. But for once, he’d relish the opportunity to take justice into his own hands.

  Brad started, aware that the images on the screen in front of him had changed. The soap opera was over; the news had come on. He tensed, then relaxed as the personable blonde went on in grave tones about the Michaelson smuggling case.

  First Jim’s picture was flashed onto the screen. Brad smiled even as a bitter sadness pierced his heart. The picture had been taken at a Labor Day picnic. Jim was wearing an old football jersey. His hair was all mussed up and he was smiling unabashedly for the camera. He looked so young—far too young to be dead.

  The pretty blond newscaster announced that his body would be returned to his hometown in Delaware for burial.

  Then Brad’s picture flashed on the television screen. The photo had been taken the same day. He was wearing a football jersey, too, and cradling a football in his arm.

  In his other arm, he cradled a buxom redhead.

  Where the hell had Purdy come up with these pictures? What would have been wrong with a simple ID photo showing him in a blue suit and tie, a stoic, mug-shot expression and combed hair?

  Leave it to Purdy.

  In this snapshot, he looked like one of the good old boys. You could almost see the beer cans in the background. His hair was tousled and his eyes reflected the sultry laughter in the pretty girl’s gaze.

  Funny, but he couldn’t even remember the redhead’s name.

  The reporter explained that Brad and Jim had been working undercover and that the previous incorrect information about Brad McKenna had been released to protect the agent’s cover. However, it was no longer necessary. Brad had been found out. According to the newscast, Brad was missing, and authorities feared that he was dead. But Purdy had been true to his word to exonerate him—at least he was presumed dead as an agent rather than presumed dead as a drug smuggler.

  The picture left the screen. The blonde came back on to state that the police and other government agencies were searching for Michaelson.

  Brad realized that Wendy was behind him. He heard her exhale in relief. He was aware that she had been believing in him on instinct alone. Still hunkered down on the balls of his feet before the television, he looked up at her. Now, at least, her instinct had been somewhat vindicated.

  “See, I am legit,” Brad told her with a mild note of reproach.

  Her gaze flicked down at him.

  “Now I don’t know what to think,” she murmured. “They can say anything they want on the news, and we’re obliged to accept the information.” She smiled sweetly, and went back into the kitchen.

  He rose slowly and turned the television off, suddenly feeling very awkward. What the hell was he going to do here—except try like hell to keep his hands off her?

  “Hungry?”

  The question came from the kitchen. He almost answered it with a sexual innuendo, yes, hungry like you’ll never know, hungry for you. Instead, he forced himself to smile casually. “Yeah. Sure. We never did get to breakfast.”

  An accomplished cook, Wendy didn’t seem to mind being in a kitchen. She flashed him a quick smile and reached into the refrigerator. Brad assumed that she was reaching for the makings of sandwiches or the like. She brought out an opaque white container and handed it to him. He frowned, then opened it up. A bunch of broken shrimp stared up at him sightlessly.

  “What—”

  Wendy smiled, turning away. “Let’s go catch lunch.” She opened the closet near the refrigerator and pulled out two fishing reels. “It’s our bait.”

  Brad looked blankly from the fishing gear to his hostess. He grinned slowly. Thank God, they were going to get out of the incredible shrinking house. Fishing. It sounded great. “All right. In the airboat?”

  She shook her head. “There’s a little canoe around back. We’ll try for some catfish. I’ve got a great Cajun recipe. You like spicy food?”

  They were staring at each other again. Wendy flushed, walked past him and started digging beneath the counter. “I’ve a cooler in here somewhere,” she muttered.

  “I’ll get the ice,” Brad offered quickly.

  In another ten minutes, they were ready. The cooler was filled with beer, ice, a block of cheese and a stick of pepperoni. Wendy had decided that they might get hungry while waiting for the meal to come along. Besides, when the meal did come along, it would more likely be closer to dinnertime than lunch.

  The canoe was out back. When they walked around, Brad saw that the road was just barely discernible behind a patch of tall saw grass growing on the opposite side of the canal.

  “How do you get to your car?” he asked her, puzzled.

  “I take the canoe.”

  “You have to take your canoe to get to your car?”

  Wendy laughed. “Yes. It isn’t that difficult. And I don’t drive that often. Most places I want to go around here are easier to reach by airboat.”

  “What a way to live,” Brad murmured.


  Wendy paused, cocking her head as she watched him with a musing smile. “It’s really not so bad, city slicker. Everything that I could want or need is very close.”

  She stepped past him, carrying the fishing rods over to the canoe. Brad stared across the water to the saw grass and the road, trying to memorize the area and achieve a sense of direction.

  Suddenly, Wendy screamed. By reflex, Brad spun, reaching to his waist for his Magnum. Then he remembered that it wasn’t there, that it was lost. Without it, he felt naked. And Wendy was screaming...

  He ran to her, ready to protect her with his bare hands. But even as he neared her, she was sitting back, laughing.

  “Wendy, what happened? What the—”

  “Baby!” she sputtered.

  The great panther rose from the floor of the canoe, growled, then stretched against Wendy like any of her smaller feline cousins, seeking affection. Wendy scratched her ears, then shoved her away. “Baby, get out of here! You scared me to death.”

  The cat crawled out of the canoe. When she shimmied past Brad, he petted the panther’s sleek coat. His heart was still pounding crazily.

  Still laughing, Wendy looked up at Brad. He was not amused. On the contrary, he appeared a little gray and cold, and the contours of his face were hard-set.

  “Is that shotgun the only weapon you’ve got?” he asked her brusquely.

  She hesitated.

  “Is it?”

  Wendy shook her head. “I’ve got a police model Smith & Wesson .38 in one of the dresser drawers.”

  “When we get back, I want it,” he told her. He lowered himself into the canoe beside her, shoving off in a fluid motion. For several moments, they drifted in silence. Wendy stared at Brad from beneath the shelter of her lashes, and she wished studiously that she had never told him the truth. She hated guns, hated them with a passion. She wished that Baby had not startled her so, and she wished that she hadn’t screamed.

  And she nervously wished that she had never, never suggested that she bring Brad McKenna back home. It was awkward already, and she had a feeling that it was only going to get worse. He didn’t seem to understand that she had brought him back here just because her house was so damned isolated. No one could find him here; there was no danger here. He didn’t need a gun.

  The sun beat down on them. For miles the only sound seemed to be the dip of Brad’s paddle against the water. Wendy realized he knew something about canoeing. His strokes were slow, steady and even. He’d rolled up the sleeves of the shirt, and with each of his movements she could see the muscle play of his arms beneath the bronze flesh. Deep in concentration, his face was handsome, but harsh.

  It had been different in laughter, she decided. In the photo they had shown on the news, he had seemed young, and easygoing. He had appeared happy and relaxed. And ready, able and willing, she finished dryly. Who had the redhead been? The sudden thought chilled her.

  “Brad?”

  “Yeah?” He had been paddling strenuously, becoming accustomed to the land around him, the river of grass, the calls of cranes and loons and herons. He was growing acquainted with the stillness of the swamp, punctuated by the occasional, startling cries of the birds.

  “We’ve gone plenty far,” she said. He set the paddle inside the boat. They were drifting idly. Balancing herself from years of experience, Wendy reached forward and grabbed her pole. She checked her weight and hook and secured some bait from the white bucket. All the while she could feel him watching her, silently, broodingly, watching her every movement.

  “Live shrimp are much better bait,” she murmured. “But these will do, I’m sure.” With a skillful arm, she cast her line.

  Brad took his time setting up his fishing rod. After his line hit the water, he reached into the cooler for a beer. “Ready for one?” he asked.

  Wendy shrugged. “Yes, I guess so.”

  He popped open the can before handing it to her. She hadn’t realized it was quite so hot out until she sipped the icy cold beer. It tasted good, but it hit her stomach with a churning swirl. She remembered then that they hadn’t eaten anything.

  She glanced across the canoe at Brad, who was staring at the water, pole in one hand, beer in the other. He wore Leif’s jeans and denim shirt well, she thought. She would never forget how she had found him, not a full day ago, struggling through the swamp. A lot had passed between them since then.

  Nor could she forget the way he had caught and held her this morning. She realized that her emotions were alternating between gloom because he had interrupted her peaceful life, and elation, because he excited her so. He was making her feel again. He was making her blood whistle and sing. Maybe it was wrong since he was such a stranger, but she didn’t know whether she wanted to fight it or not. In one way, she felt the gravest sense of security around him. Brad McKenna would never take anything from a woman that she didn’t intend to give—wholeheartedly.

  But then she met his gaze and her mind grew wary, her heart raced in fear. He’d been thinking about her—physically, sexually—and that scared her. She could almost read his precise thoughts, and awareness of those desires caused her to tremble and burn deep, deep inside.

  “Brad.” She was startled by the huskiness of her own voice, dismayed by the sensual undertone of it. But she had a question that had to be answered.

  “You’re—” This was ridiculous. She had to moisten her lips to keep talking, and the breathless quality would not leave her voice. She shook her head, then she smiled in a rueful confession, because he was staring at her again, seeing into her, penetrating her thoughts. “You’re not married, are you?”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “No.”

  “Who was the redhead?”

  Again he paused. A dry, pained smile crossed his features, and he winced. “Honest? I don’t remember. I think her name was Chrissy.”

  “Oh.”

  He set his beer on the seat beside him and wedged his pole beneath a thigh. Reaching forward, he caught her face between his palms.

  She couldn’t move, and she couldn’t breathe. She could feel his callused touch against her flesh, and it warmed her from head to toe, just as the sound of his voice seemed to feather inside of her, touching her everywhere.

  “I’m not married, Wendy. And I’m never going to be. Do you understand?”

  She wanted to jerk back. Hurt and confusion raged in her heart, and still she couldn’t move. The sensations that warred against her flesh would not leave her, and she sat dead still. A mocking, chilling smile curled her lips. “Well, now, McKenna, I do remember asking you if you were married. But I do not remember going so far as to ask you if you wanted to change your status.”

  She was glad to see that he flushed slightly. “Wendy, it’s just that you have been married.”

  “That’s right,” she drawled softly. “Have been, past tense. And I don’t intend to marry again, Mr. McKenna.”

  Suddenly the atmosphere between them was tense and explosive, and hotter than the midday sun that beat down mercilessly upon them. He still touched her, held her with his hands. Their knees brushed, their breath mingled.

  “Why is that, Wendy? Was the experience too good—or too bad?”

  “Too good, McKenna. It could never, never be matched.”

  Silence swept and swirled around them, as stifling as the shimmering heat.

  “Well, remember that, huh?” Brad murmured. “I wouldn’t want you forgetting it in the future.”

  “I doubt if there’s a chance of that.”

  “Really?” His lips moved closer to hers. “You’d better be careful. Very careful. I wouldn’t want you to care too much.” He moved his thumb, drawing it in a slow, sinuous line over her lower lip.

  “And maybe you had better be careful, too, McKenna. I wouldn�
��t want you to care too much. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Watch out for your heart, Wendy.” And then his lips touched hers.

  Bold and brash and commanding, the sensual, intimate contact was still as gentle, as tender as a brush with morning dew. His touch was sure and steady. Wendy wondered if making love came naturally to him. The ultimate effect was devastating. Wendy didn’t think about the words that they had exchanged, nor did she think about what he did for a living, nor did it even occur to her that she had known this man for less than twenty-four hours.

  All she could think about was his kiss. All that she could feel was the sweet, subtle, sensual pressure of his lips against hers, his mouth, artfully claiming her own. The tip of his tongue explored her mouth, plundering the richness of it, filling it. She savored his lips and the smooth surface of his teeth, and every little nuance of passionate movement.

  His kiss evoked feelings deep inside of her, where he did not touch her. She felt warmth invade her like showering rays of the sun. Passion curled and undulated in the center of her being, steaming through her limbs, sweeping into her breasts and hips and thighs. This was desire, liquid and sweet. She longed to drop everything and throw her arms around his neck. She yearned to press her body against him and feel the length of them touch and duel, as did their mouths.

  Just in time, she remembered his words of warning. And she remembered that when she loved, she loved very deeply. Even if she sometimes felt desperate to reach out again for a pale facsimile, a pretense, of what she had known, this was not the time or the place.

  And this cocky, overconfident city slicker probably wasn’t even the right man.

  His lips parted from hers. She opened her eyes and stared into the sharp, questing depths of his. Their breath still mingled. And, she noted with some satisfaction, his breath seemed to come faster than her own. Did the thunder of his heart outweigh the tremor of her own?