Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  “I must have given you the wrong impression. I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to.”

  He watched her, his jaw hard and set. “You didn’t mean to give me the impression that I could fix breakfast—or that I could sleep with you? What is the point that we’re making here?”

  She set her juice glass down carefully, staring at her plate instead of him. Forcing her voice to remain pleasant and calm, she explained, “You’re a guest here, McKenna, nothing more.”

  “I’m a guest here because you invited me. And I can leave. No problem.”

  “You really are one rude bastard, you know that? I should have left you in the muck.”

  “Oh, yeah! Let’s bring that up again.” He bolted out of the chair and stood before her. Wendy swallowed. There was a pulse ticking away at his throat, and she sensed the pulse of his heart beneath Leif’s old Miami Dolphins T-shirt. She closed her eyes, trying to remember Leif in that shirt. She couldn’t.

  When she opened her eyes and looked up, Brad still had his jaw set in that way of his that clearly spoke of anger and hostility. His eyes were gleaming, gold as a cat’s. Bracing one hand behind her on the stool and one against the counter, he leaned close to her, warm and near and threatening.

  She felt his breath against her flesh, sensed the rapid pulse of his anger. “Want to leave me in the swamp, Wendy? We can go right back out there if you want. This wasn’t my idea, remember? You offered. Were you that desperate to have a man in the house?”

  “Oh!” She spun on the chair, ready to slap him, but he was too quick. He caught her wrist and glared down at her. Using all her strength, she wrenched free from him and slid off the stool. Ignoring him, she sped through the house to her bedroom. She found her purse and headed back down the hallway, frantic to reach the door.

  “Where the hell are you going?” he called after her. When she didn’t stop, he chased her, finally catching her arm and swinging her back to face him.

  “I’m going out.”

  “Out where, damn you?”

  She freed her arm again and backed away from him. “I’m going into work.”

  “Work?”

  “Yes, work! People do work.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  She didn’t want to answer him for various reasons: sheer perversity, perhaps, or the bubbling black cauldron of her temper, or the raw wound of hurt and rejection. “I work for Eric!”

  “You work for Eric—where? Doing what?” he demanded suspiciously.

  Wendy hesitated, feeling her anger sizzle and whirl inside of her again. It was the most awful feeling. She was being so unreasonable, but now she was trying to salvage something of her pride by leaving.

  “I’m not one of your suspects, Mr. G-Man,” she retorted, but he took another step toward her, grabbing her arms, wrenching her against him.

  “I’m not a G-Man. Now tell me, where do you work for Eric, and what do you do for him?”

  “My God, what does it matter to you?” She pulled back her wrist, but he wouldn’t release her. At that moment she realized just how strong he was. He could be powerful and ruthless when he chose.

  “I asked you a question,” he hissed. “Why didn’t you tell me that you worked? Why didn’t you go to work yesterday?”

  Wendy sighed, making a great show of exaggerated impatience. “I work for Eric, but I only go in a day or two a week. He spends some time working with the tribal council, but he also sold a book last year on Andrew Jackson’s campaign against the Seminoles. This year he’s doing one on the relationship between the Seminole Indians and the Miccosukees. I’m his research assistant.”

  “What?”

  “There are two tribes down here, McKenna. Not just Seminoles. The Miccosukees have some tribal land south of here, fronting the Trail. But I’m sure you didn’t know or care. This whole place is just an infested pile of wet mud to you, isn’t it? Muck and savages, huh?”

  Her cutting remark caused his lip to tighten. He pulled her even closer. “That’s another thing. Why didn’t you tell me that you had been married to an Indian?”

  “What?” Wendy said blankly. Something inside of her ticked and then exploded. “Because I don’t owe you any explanation! I didn’t tell you that he was Norse, either. Did that matter? Does any of it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters! Had I known the details, I wouldn’t have gotten into a fight with your brother-in-law. I wouldn’t have been frightened half out of my wits, thinking I’d enticed a criminal to your home!”

  “Bigot!” Wendy snapped, trying to wrench away with all of her strength. It did her no good.

  He gritted his teeth and held her even closer. “No, Wendy, I’m not a bigot, and you damn well know it. I may be ignorant about a few things that you surely know backward and forward, but that doesn’t imply any lack of respect for a people. Honest to God, Wendy, I think that you do know that. Now would you mind telling me what this morning’s fiasco is about?”

  “I’ve got to go. Get your hands off me.”

  “Not until we straighten this out. Okay, you’re mad. You’re furious at me over something. You did invite me here. And I have a hard time believing that this whole temper tantrum thing is over the fact that I made breakfast! So what can it be? Oh, I know. I disappointed you last night. You thought you’d invited some stud in, and you didn’t get quite what you really wanted.”

  “Damn you, McKenna, let go of me!” Wendy warned him. Her temper began to cool as she realized that his had risen. His eyes sparkled with a menacing sizzle, and every muscle of his body seemed to have tightened.

  Wendy tossed back her head, narrowing her eyes. “I want to leave the house, all right? You’re a guest. I asked you to stay. Foolish me, I thought that you might consider your life to be a valuable quantity. Now—let me go!”

  He didn’t let her go.

  Instead his mouth bore down on hers with a startling and savage determination. His lips encompassed hers, his teeth grated against hers until she surrendered with a little whimper. His tongue plunged into the depths and crevices of her mouth so intimately that she shuddered, feeling as if her very soul had been invaded. Blind rage turned the world black to her, but then that blackness dissipated. His fingers threaded through her hair, forcing her against him.

  But, despite herself, she melded to him. Despite herself, she felt her heart race, beating raggedly. Despite herself, she inhaled the scent of him, marveled at the sweet tension of his body, surrendered to the fierce and yearning power of the man.

  His ankle twisted around hers; suddenly she was off her feet, swept to the floor. He lowered his weight over her. He stared at her for a moment, then his fingers plunged into the wings of her hair, and he held her still while his mouth ravaged hers again. His body was hard against her. Rigid and hard.

  Hot tears played behind her eyes. She wanted him, but she didn’t want the commitment. She was afraid to get to know him, afraid that she’d enjoy the smell of shaving cream in the bathroom, or tremble at the sight of a wild orchid beside her plate. She was deathly afraid of loving him...

  Wendy twisted away, breaking the kiss. “Brad! Brad, damn you, this isn’t right, this isn’t...” Her voice trailed off painfully.

  He went dead still. For endless moments, she felt only the soft, heated whisper of his breath against her throat. Then he moved. He hunched to the balls of his feet and then stood. He offered her a hand, and when she didn’t take it, he reached for her, pulling her up to stand in front of him.

  Wendy couldn’t face him. She lowered her head, wishing that he would free her fingers. Suddenly, he dropped them.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her until she felt compelled to face him, eye to eye. “This isn’t what?” he demanded bluntly.

  She shook her head. “I—”

  “It isn’
t what you wanted, right?”

  “Brad, please! Can’t you just leave me alone to be humiliated in peace!”

  He stared at her and shook his head slowly. The tension began to ease away from him, and a rueful smile worked its way into the line of his mouth. “No. You shouldn’t be humiliated. Come here, Wendy.” He reached for her, gently easing her into his arms. Tenderly, he kissed her nose and lips.

  “Did I ever thank you?”

  “What?”

  “Did I ever really thank you? You did save my life.”

  “It was nothing,” Wendy murmured raggedly. Her hand fell against his chest and she stared up at the gentle smile on his lips. “Still, I think I should go to work today. You are very welcome to make yourself at home. I just have to get out for a while.”

  He stared into her eyes and nodded. “I understand,” he said softly, and she thought that he did. He grinned ruefully. “Think that the food is still edible?”

  “This is the second breakfast we’ll have to trash, I’m afraid,” she murmured. “Well, maybe it’s still edible, but I don’t think that I can eat.”

  He nodded. “Well, worse things can happen than breakfast trashing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wendy, seriously, where are you going?”

  “Not far from here. Eric has a house on a plot of land that he owns.”

  “On the main road?”

  She frowned, wondering at the question. “Well, the land itself fronts the main road. But the house is far back.”

  He stared at her, then sighed. “I should come with you.”

  “Not today!” she whispered.

  “Wendy, Wendy!” He pulled her close, moving his fingers through her hair in a fervent massage. Then he held her away, searching out her eyes again. “Wendy, I really shouldn’t be here. I’m afraid for you, Wendy. And I’ll be afraid for you until this is over.”

  She smiled, touched by the timbre of his voice. “Brad, no one knows who I am. If your Michaelson character happened to be looking for you, he wouldn’t know me. I’ve never seen him, he’s never seen me. And I won’t be passing any public places on the way. I go near the small family village where Eric and Leif’s grandparents still live, but that’s all. I’ll be very safe.”

  He stared at her a moment longer, then exhaled slowly and nodded.

  “All right.”

  “I need you to move away from the door,” she told him.

  He nodded again, but it took him a minute to move. Then, when he did, he pulled her into his arms.

  “Wendy,” he murmured seriously.

  “What?”

  He gently smoothed back a wild strand of hair. “We are going to make love.”

  “Are we?” she queried, raising her eyebrows.

  “Yes.” He opened the door for her and grinned. “And don’t worry. I’ll be sure to let you know exactly when.”

  “Pompous ass!” she muttered to herself, hurrying to the airboat.

  She didn’t realize he was behind her until he caught up with her. He was laughing as his hands descended upon her shoulder. She swung around to face him.

  “I heard that.”

  Wendy Shrugged. “Well, it’s true. You are decidedly too sure of yourself.”

  “Shouldn’t I be?” he demanded innocently.

  “You’ll tell me when,” Wendy mimicked. “I just might change my mind about this whole thing, you know.”

  He shook his head. There was a grave expression on his face. “You won’t.”

  She set her hands on her hips, cocking her head at an angle as she returned his scrutiny. “Ah, yes! You think I’ll fall apart and fly into your arms by darkness again.”

  He shook his head, that slow smile lifting his lips. “No. It will be broad daylight, lots of light—or not at all.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Really.” He started to return to the house. At the door, he paused and called back to her in a sensual drawl. “Don’t worry about it. As I said, I’ll make sure to tell you when.” He grinned and closed the door.

  Not sure whether to laugh or refute him, Wendy merely turned away and continued down to the airboat.

  7

  Wendy stared down at the page she was reading and shook her head in annoyance. A history book lay open before her, and the information in it was inaccurate. She flipped back to the front of the book, looking for the copyright date. When she realized that the book had been written before World War II, she was able to take some of the misinformation more philosophically. The U.S. government hadn’t recognized the two different and distinct tribes living in the Everglades back then—why would a white schoolteacher-turned-author know any better?

  She set the book on the table and scratched out a note to Eric. A glance at the cypress clock on her brother-in-law’s handsomely paneled study wall indicated that it was well past six. She should be heading back.

  Just the thought of going home made her palms begin to sweat and her stomach churn. It was her house! she reminded herself. She had every right to go home.

  She straightened all of her materials on the desk, turned off the computer, covered it—and sank back into the chair. She gnawed idly on her thumbnail. It was her house. Yes, the rights were hers. But she didn’t have a right to act the way she had been acting. She had invited Brad to stay.

  She’d actually invited him to a whole lot more. He was right about one thing: she needed to decide exactly what she was willing to offer.

  The front door opened and closed. For a moment, Wendy sat up in panic, thinking that she’d been an absolute fool not to lock the door. But then, peeking down the long hallway that led to the front of the house, she saw that Eric was coming in.

  “Wendy!” he called, spotting her from the end of the hall. She waved to him, smiling. He wore jeans and a colorful Seminole shirt, woven in various shades of red. The color contrasted with the warm bronze of his face and the startling shade of his eyes.

  You need someone, too, brother-in-law, Wendy thought suddenly. He was a special man, so striking in appearance, so proud and ethical, so warm and generous to those he trusted.

  Like Jennifer, his wife.

  “Let me get something cool to drink,” he called to her, “and I’ll be right with you.”

  She heard the refrigerator door open, then seconds later, he appeared carrying a Sol for himself and a wine cooler for her. She smiled, thanking him. Eric knew her. Beer for fishing, wine with company dinner, ice tea or water if she was thirsty. Diet soda if she was determined on a diet, but her diets would seldom last long because she loved the taste of real sugar. She had known her brother-in-law for a decade. All those years bred real friendship, real closeness.

  And Brad, who would go away very soon, wanted to know her birthday and her middle name. He should have been a dream, she thought. An imaginary lover, tan and sandy and agile and beautifully formed. A midnight visitor who would dissipate with the morning light of dawn.

  “What are you doing here? I thought that you weren’t going to come over while you were hosting the DEA.” Eric studied her with frank curiosity.

  Wendy shrugged, but she couldn’t keep her eyes level with Eric’s. “I—uh—I don’t know. I guess I needed a little breathing space.”

  He took a long sip of his beer, set his booted feet comfortably upon the edge of his desk and leaned back. He surveyed her from beneath half-closed, jet lashes, then closed his eyes completely and smiled. “Sparks are flying too hot and wild for you to handle, huh?”

  Wendy stared at him until he opened his eyes again. She wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but she shrugged instead. “No. I just needed some space.”

  “Get out of the kitchen if you can’t take the heat,” Eric quoted gravely.

  “Eric,” Wendy moan
ed.

  He sat up, letting his feet fall to the floor. Reaching over, he tilted her chin upward. “There’s something there, Wendy-bird,” he teased her lightly. “I could feel it all night long. Palpable, thick.” He released her, rose and stretched with the grace of a cat. His back was to her when he said, “So did you run over here because you did go to bed, or because you didn’t?”

  “Eric—”

  “Well?”

  He turned to look at her, and she felt the depth of his concern for her. She smiled. “Because I didn’t. Eric, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what I feel. I mean, he’s going to go away again, right? He’s just here for a few days. Until they catch this Michaelson character, or until something else breaks. I like him a lot, Eric—”

  “So do I, for whatever that’s worth.”

  “I hate what he does for a living. And he doesn’t intend to get married—”

  “Well, if you haven’t made it into bed yet, why are you worrying about marriage?”

  “I’m not! I don’t want to get married again.”

  “So?”

  She shook her head, then blurted out, “So then why doesn’t it just happen? Why do we have to go through twenty questions?”

  Eric stared at her for a long time. At last he spoke very softly. “Because he does care, Wendy. Because he didn’t meet you on a bar stool, because he thinks highly of you.”

  “But he said—”

  “Trust me, Wendy.” As he sighed, a skeptical glaze clouded the lime color of his eyes. Wendy could almost see time rolling away in the shadows of his eyes. “Trust me,” he repeated hoarsely. “When a man just wants solace, none of it means anything to him. Not the day or time or date, the color of the woman’s eyes or her hair. Hell, her name doesn’t even matter.” He sensed her staring at him. He was remembering his own wild pursuits, just after Jennifer had died. Ultimately, he’d found little peace in physical satisfaction. “He cares about you, Wendy, and I’m damned glad. I know this sounds sexist, but hell, I’m an Indian, and we always had our trouble keeping up with the times. If he weren’t a decent man, I’d probably be over there trying to throw him off your property. Maybe you won’t ever marry him. Maybe you’ll never even fall in love, but—”