She sat sideways to the table, propped on one elbow, studying him with the intensity of a laser trained on a target. Her eyes remained fixed on his upper arms while her tongue flicked out to moisten parted lips. “Purr-fect.”
Judas Priest. All those triceps presses had backfired. He pulled the ribbed cuff to his wrist. “You need to get in bed where you can lean back. You need rest.”
“As you wish, Sir Knight.” Mischief shone in her eyes. “Turn your back. I’m not wearing my dirty jeans to bed.”
But she’d be wearing those silky panties. “I’ll find another book. After you’re settled, I’ll put the kerosene lantern close to you for easier reading.”
The bed creaked.
“All settled. I’ll stay in bed to read, if you’ll join me.” She patted the side closest to the fire.
Full lips parted and brows raised, she didn’t need to utter the dare.
Grant sighed. One way or another, a long evening stretched ahead. “In a moment, you’ll realize the slanted ceiling meets the cave wall we’re built into. In the summer, it keeps the place cool, in winter, it becomes an icebox. You need warmth from the fire.”
She skootched her butt back toward him. “Sure. You get the icebox.”
Wouldn’t help chill him tonight. “Here, hold the books. He thrust them at her and then climbed over her legs, crawling to the side by the cave’s wall. “Ow.” He rubbed his head. “Didn’t judge the clearance to the wooden beams.” If he tipped his head toward her, he’d avoid splinters.
“You can sit closer to me, I don’t bite.”
Her earlobe looked good enough to nibble. “Book, please?”
She handed him one and opened hers to the index. Her finger stopped. “Hmm, let’s see if I remember the first verse of The Spider and the Fly. ‘Will you step into my parlor? Said the spider to the fly, ‘tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.’ I memorized this poem in the fourth grade. No wonder I wasn’t too popular with boys.”
Laughter rose from deep in his gut. He’d walked right into her web. Keeping from becoming rolled in her silky strings became harder by the moment. “Your classmates were idiots, unless they’ve watched a spider bundle its prey for a later feast.”
“Mother nature at her finest.” She yawned and set her book on the night stand. “Read to me, please?”
He flipped through several pages and found a wildflower poem. While he read, she sank into the bed. Her eyes no longer fought to stay open, her breathing became slow and steady.
The emerald-eyed gardener had fallen asleep, laying on her side, facing him. He whispered the last few lines, “She’d pricked his heart, at first a nettle. Now she blossomed, filling him, filling him. Her sweet love softer than a daisy petal.”
Lifting the bedspread, he pulled it over her shoulders while judging the distance between the slanted roof and her body. His chest wouldn’t clear the space without bumping her, no matter which way he twisted. Essentially, she’d trapped him in her parlor, unless he wanted to wake her.
Circles under her eyes meant she needed rest. She probably hadn’t slept a full night since the shooting.
He slowly reached over her to shut off the lantern, not brushing a hair on her head.
Off came his shirt. His jeans stayed on.
“You won this round, princess. I’ll be ready next time.” He brushed his lips against her forehead.
The grit and determination of a true survivor dwelled alongside her rare beauty. She deserved her own family, married to a lucky guy. What would she say if he woke her and asked if he had a chance? He rubbed his empty ring finger, the question burning deep inside.
~ ~ ~
A distinct sensual warmth enveloped Grant’s body. He opened his eyes and watched his breath create thin clouds. His face remained chilly, while the rest of his body blazed from under the covers.
Miranda still faced him, with her full length plastered against him.
One of her arms lay atop the quilt.
He snuck it under their blanket and laid it across his chest. Her lips quivered and throaty noises of contentment puffed out, reminiscent of a kitten he’d once rescued.
Picture a fluffy kitten, Morley, not the sexy bed partner. He couldn’t. Damn, her contended breaths slammed into him like a sledge hammer through plywood.
He uncovered his left leg, needing the chilly jolt from the nearby rock. Witness, think witness. He silently recited the alphabet backwards.
Why hadn’t he stopped to talk to her in the lobby? Maybe his sixth sense had kicked in, knowing her very essence would etch into the barriers around his programmed life, established for solo success.
He’d come too far to risk a compromise. But she challenged his mind, even while he fought off images of incredibly sensual possibilities.
A deadly combination.
~ ~ ~
Soft lips touching her forehead and a whispered promise hovered through Miranda’s dream world. She woke from a deliciously warm slumber, her fingers rising and falling to a steady beat. Her forearm rested on a smooth beach.
She cracked open one eye, half-aware of a familiar spicy male scent. Through shuttered lashes, she recognized the sculpted torso inches from her nose.
Crapola. She was splayed across Grant with her cheek resting on his solid bicep and her arm slung over his bare chest. Her leg lay draped over his thighs.
Searing heat crept up her neck. She withdrew her fingers from dark chest hair.
Slowly, she lifted her ankle, inching off his blue jeans. After a painfully long time, she’d withdrawn her treacherous limbs.
The bed creaked, and her heart pounded. No other noise disturbed the room except his continuous deep breathing.
With a final teeth-clenching movement, a slender gap lay between them. She let out a long breath, her body still flushed from his heat. Every inch of her pulsed to return.
She laid still, eyes closed. Considering her track record, this might be the closest she’d ever get to a honeymoon.
Her fingers ached to nestle again in the finely curled hair on his chest. She lifted her hand.
~ ~ ~
The torture had ended, each disturbing moment well worth Grant’s wait. The caress of her baby-soft skin sliding off his chest in slow motion maxed his restraint to seam-bursting.
He’d give her a couple minutes to presume she’d succeeded. Always better to catch your target off guard.
Paybacks were a bitch.
“You forgot to tell me to throw another log on the fire, Miss Whitley. At some point, parts of you must’ve gotten cold.”
Her eyes burst open, and her lips parted in dismay.
“I took the liberty of moving your arm across me,” he said. “It seemed the polite thing to do. Your leg followed of its own accord.”
She scooted to her edge of the bed. “I guess I failed to tell you—we Whitley’s don’t have a knee jerk reaction. We have an elbow to knee response. You move one, and better expect the other to follow.”
He grinned. A two-point return. “Good to know. Now you’re awake, I’ll make an extreme sacrifice and venture out into the cold.”
“Sacrifice oozes from your government-sanctioned pores.”
Smart ass. His chest skimmed hers as he slid out. Knowing what he’d touched, his pulse revved to action mode. “No sense starting a fire if you’re well enough to ride.”
“I’ll be fine to ride.” Judging by the set of her jaw, she’d clamp a stick between her teeth if necessary.
Threads of dawn filtered through the shade. “We’ll get those stitches checked today. Old Doc’s expecting us. No dawdling.”
“I’ll miss this cabin,” her voice dropped, “and my first time sleeping with . . . “ She couldn’t turn fast enough to hide a deep blush.
<
br /> Seriously? A virgin? Maybe she’d meant sleeping with him. “You must be beating men off with those well-aimed branches back in Seattle.”
Her face turned beet red. She pulled the quilt to her chin, grabbed the book from the night stand, and held it close to her nose.
“Hey, that came out wrong. Your personal life isn’t my business. It’s just, you’re mighty—”
“Corrin and I spend free time together. We both had horrible dating experiences, so no Tinder hookups.”
Too many jerks, or had she been sexually assaulted? Bile rose in his throat.
He stuck her sweater and jeans under the covers to get warm. “I’m sorry. If something bad happened to you on a date, you may want to press charges and consider counseling.” He took a step back. “I have contacts to assist with both.”
“It’s not like that. And I’ve done therapy, without great results.” She lowered the book and squirmed into her clothes. “Your offer’s kind. Not many people are willing to get involved.”
“It’s an honor.”
Her gaze traveled around the tiny room. “I’ll hold memories of you rescuing me and this mountain’s beauty in my heart.” Her voice trailed off, and she closed her eyes.
There had to be an explanation for the disparity in her description of Detective Karpenito. If it wasn’t a disguise, he’d figure out why her version differed, whatever the cost. “Yes, there’s unusual beauty here.”
Their verbal jousting seemed hours ago. Sadness rimmed her eyes while she reached out to the vase of serviceberry on the nightstand and fingered one of the branches.
After the case closed, he’d find a counselor to work through whatever had happened to her family. Miranda wasn’t a thug. He’d known it from the start. Hell, he’d trusted her with his loaded Glock.
Losing his heart posed a worse threat, and she affected him like no other woman. Her gentle touch pierced deeply and left a fiery imprint. His partner, Bo, had warned him this day would come, and damn it, he’d been right.
A loud bray ruptured the still morning air.
“It’s Red.” She threw off the covers, her eyes wide. “His alarmed mule—”
In one movement, Grant put his hand over her mouth and grabbed his handgun. “Get under the bed. Now!” he hissed.
While she slid into the tight space, he crossed the room and cracked the shade.
Twenty feet out, a hooded figure moved behind the shed.
He grabbed his rifle from behind the door and knelt by Miranda. “Shoot if it’s not me.” He placed the Glock near her arm. “Aim for the chest.”
He cocked the rifle. The figure had moved to beside the woodpile.
Adrenalin pulsed double time. He flung the door open and fired.
The man jerked. A bullet pierced the door above Grant’s ear.
Grant fired again, sending wood chips flying.
The second shot from the intruder ricocheted off the latch.
Miranda yelped.
“You hit?” he whispered, while crouching in the doorway.
The limping man had disappeared.
Nothing from Miranda.
“You okay?” he called over his shoulder.
No answer.
His heart raced in his chest. “Miranda, are you hit?” He stayed low, backed to the side of the bed, and peered under.
Her motionless outline remained still.
“No. No. No.” He reached under, and grabbed her arm.
“Are you hurt?” she asked in a shaky voice while she inched out. “The second bullet hit a few feet away.”
“You scared the crap out of me. I’m fine.” He pulled her to her feet and put his palm against her cheek. “I need to track the gunman.” He pushed her to sit on the bed and put the gun in her hands. “Keep it pointed at the door. If it’s not me, use it.”
Weary eyes met his.
“Okay.”
He pulled the door shut. Snow crunched under his feet. Blood stood out against the snow at the base of the wood pile.
Uneven footprints and crimson drops led onto a deer trail.
Grant jogged, rifle poised, every sense on alert.
Crashing brush broke the morning stillness. A horse whinnied from downhill.
Would the gunman circle back? He couldn’t leave Miranda alone.
If only he’d had a clear shot to nail the bastard. His jaw clenched.
Killers could be anywhere. Waiting.
~ ~ ~
Venom glanced over his shoulder, his short breaths creating white puffs into the frigid morning air.
No Mule Guy following him.
He leaned back in the saddle and twisted the stick on his thigh, pressing his belt into skin. Damn bullet hole had him bleeding like a stuck pig. And damn bad luck for taking so long to find the hidden cabin.
The reins tightened in his hand. Three mules had been tethered outside.
If Whitley had been found alive, she would’ve talked. If she’d fallen off the mule, he still had to confirm her dead. Screwed either way.
He wiggled his phone out of his pocket. Two service bars, the only good sign in the last two days. He punched in Karpenito’s number. “Get a couple boys on the plane into Three Falls today, packing guns.”
Now he’d wait for the perfect shot. If Mule Guy left the cabin this morning, it’d be his last trip.
~ ~ ~
Miranda plodded out the door and stood on the porch. Blood splotches dotted the snow. Grant’s news that his gunshot wounded their attacker had brought her relief. She grimaced. Her new world sucked. How much worse would it get before she’d feel normal again?
With a thud, Grant closed the door on the tiny cabin. Noise from the lock made it final.
She’d always been safe in the woods. Until this trip. Dad’s tender voice echoed in her head. When she’d been distressed as a kid, he’d told her to plan out deliberate steps.
Venom had pushed her three leaps backwards—emotionally and financially. Cleaning out her savings account would barely pay Corrin back for the cost of the trip.
“Let’s go.” Grant pulled a faded bandanna from his pocket and tied it around his neck.
“Expecting a dust storm?” she asked.
Grant’s face softened for a moment. Next to the pale purple, his hazel eyes turned a smoky shade of green. “Not exactly.”
She studied the animals. “Won’t we be easy targets?”
“Not many options. Storm’s coming from above and tracks showed the gunman’s heading downhill at a good clip.”
Gunmen and bullets. Her own personal hell. And Ike’s. Her feet grew cold in her cowboy boots. “And he knows where we are.”
“There’s more than one route on the mountain.” Grant tightened Brasso’s girth strap and untied the rope holding the mules.
She lifted the bridle hanging from Red’s saddle horn. “I can get him tacked, but I’ll need a leg up to mount.”
“You’re not riding alone.”
“Venom could shoot you by accident.” She stomped in place to warm her toes. “I’m sore, but Red will keep me aboard.”
He slid his rifle into its scabbard. “You gave me a good idea yesterday to protect us both.” He unfurled his grandpa’s coat and shrugged into it, holding the front out.
She rubbed her mittens together, staring at Grant’s solid chest. “What’s your plan?”
“You sit in front of me, and I wear the duster over both of us. Give it a try?”
She rested her cheek against Red’s neck. “If nothing of me shows. Won’t I be too heavy for a long ride?”
“We’re willing and able.” His color deepened. “Aren’t you Brasso?” He turned away. “I’ll put you aboard before I get your undercover costume in pla
ce.”
“You’ll have oats soon, Red.” She patted him first and moved to Grant’s bay-colored horse.
“Here, shove this on the saddle horn.” Grant handed her a sheepskin glove.
How often had he ridden double and provided a padded cushion over the horn for his girlfriends’ tender areas? Her mouth tightened. “How considerate.”
“Might help, won’t know until you try.” His hands surrounded her waist, and he lifted her to sit astride in the saddle. “Boy Scout’s creed, be prepared.”
Nope, not a hint of boy. Her body stirred from contact with a hard-muscled man’s strong, determined, and damn sexy hands.
She scooched forward, until her legs straddled Brasso’s shoulders and her belly pushed against the glove.
In an easy movement, he’d swung behind her, heating her back before he pulled the cowboy duster around them both. His knees pushed into the backs of hers, while her butt rested on . . . Not the time to picture that.
He carefully fastened each button of the big coat, closing her into a Grant pouch. Long panels of fabric topped their legs.
“If I move my eyes into position, I can see through the gaps between buttons.” She stifled a nervous giggle. “Kind of mimicking the short man on a tall guy’s shoulders in a circus act.”
“You need to stay hidden.” He lifted the bandana to cover his mouth and nose. “We whisper from here on out.”
Circus clowns didn’t have a hitman lying in wait. Sweat broke on her forehead.
Venom would kill Grant, too.
~ ~ ~
Grant rotated his head, examining the open area beyond the trail. Listening. Waiting.
Nothing.
He used his calf to nudge Brasso’s side. The horse led the three mules out of the protective trees and onto the main path leading downhill. No longer would he consider the ponderosa pines a privacy barrier.
In the summertime, their bark smelled like vanilla. Today, fear hung in the air, both his and Miranda’s.
Her body stayed pinned against him in the exact position from when he’d secured Poppy’s coat. For an instant, his chest felt heavy, his arms weary. “Comfortable?”
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