Borrowed Angel

by Heather Graham

  If he hadn’t meant to kill her before, he probably wanted to do so now. She wanted to say something more, to explain, but he was already turning away from her with that disdain he had previously shown her. Undeserved disdain, she thought, and her temper soared. She was at his mercy, even if he wasn’t the murderer, but she wasn’t about to sit still for his attitude problems.

  She strode to the kitchen and reached for his shoulder, spinning him around. She was glad to see the frown that furrowed his brow and the sharp narrowing of his eyes. She smiled sweetly. “You’ve a chip on your shoulder a mile wide, Mr.—sir. You’ve no need to take it out on me.”

  He picked up her hand from where it lay on his shoulder. Ashley knew he meant to drop it, but he didn’t. His fingers curled over hers as he stared at her. She looked up into his eyes and a startling whisper of heat seemed to settle over her. She felt it first in her fingertips, felt it sweep through her limbs, then streak like laps of fire down the length of her spine. She should have pulled away from him. But she didn’t.

  There was very little space between them, and she felt that she really saw him for the first time. His skin was so bronzed it was nearly copper, and her own tan seemed pale next to his. His scent was clean and both rich and subtle, and so overwhelmingly masculine that she was aware of him as a man as she had never been aware of any other man before. She was fascinated by the square contour of his chin, the arch of his brows, and his eyes, so vividly green against his bronze skin. She was even aware of his breathing, faster now, like her own. She was aware of his heartbeat, aware of her own pulsing faster and faster with the sound of the wind and the rain, as if the earth itself had found a rhythm within her. Color mounted onto her cheeks.

  They were alone. This man had carried her here. He had stripped away her sodden bikini bottom and he had dressed her in the shirt. He was a stranger who knew her intimately. He was a man who frightened and compelled her. She had felt his arms around her, and she had no doubt of his strength of muscle or strength of will. He confused her; he made her hot and breathless. She didn’t know him at all!

  Suddenly she jerked her fingers free, as if she had been burned. She pulled away, turning her back to him, staring over the candlelit counter. “I’m sorry. I’d just like to leave if I could, please.”

  “Leave?”

  “Leave. If I can’t call for a cab, I’ve some friends—”

  “Phone for a cab!” he repeated incredulously. Ashley spun around indignantly. He was laughing at her, his perfect teeth flashing white in the candlelight. “Don’t you understand yet? There’s a killer—”

  “A killer!”

  “A killer storm out there, Miss Dane. Most of the people out here have moved into shelters. The phones are already out; the electricity is gone. The swamp is swollen, the canals are swollen, and I assure you, not even the gators are moving. There is no way out of here right now. No way at all.”

  “But—”

  “Lady, this has become a full-fledged hurricane. Cara, that’s her name, if you’re interested.”

  “Cara,” Ashley murmured. She couldn’t stay here. Not with this man. Not after what she had seen. She needed to get to the police. She needed to get away from him. “But—”

  “Can’t you understand? There is a storm—”

  “But it wasn’t that bad when we came out.”

  “What it was before doesn’t matter. If you’d had the sense to leave instead of running around—”

  “Running around!” Ashley protested furiously.

  He was reaching into his dark refrigerator, but he paused, turning to look her way with a brow arched in question.

  “I was not running around in your stinking swamp!” she hissed.

  He shrugged, pulled out a can of beer and hesitated. “Want one?” It almost sounded as if he begrudged her a drink! Ashley gritted her teeth and didn’t answer him. She was starving; she was thirsty. She was miserable.

  Damn him. Let him begrudge her to his heart’s content!

  She walked over to him and icily took the beer from his hand. “Thank you. Thank you so much for your charming warmth and hospitality. I’d like to thank you personally, but since you haven’t bothered to introduce yourself, I can’t quite do that.”

  He watched her. She thought that the hint of a smile tugged at his lips, but he didn’t move, and he didn’t speak right away. Then he reached for a second beer and popped the flip top. “It’s Eric,” he said.

  “Eric?” She should have shut up while she was ahead, but his attitude had gotten to her. “Eric? It isn’t Running Brave or Silver Arrow or—”

  “Hawk,” he interrupted her very softly. “Eric Hawk.” He said it with tremendous menace.

  Ashley went still, inhaling deeply. She walked back to the living room and sank down on the sofa. Her tailored shirt rose and she tugged the tails down. She swallowed several mouthfuls of the beer; her head started to swim instantly. She hadn’t eaten for hours. She didn’t even know if it was day or night. It had been such a long day. First she had been attacked by Harrison, then she witnessed the murder in the swamp. Then she had run into this brick wall of a man, and now she was stuck with him.

  And he might be the murderer! He might be the very man she had been running from!

  He was behind her again, she realized. She hadn’t heard him move, she hadn’t heard him come, but she knew that he was there. She swung around, her hair flying around her face and shoulders. She swept it back from her forehead, leaped nervously to her feet and stared at him. “What? What is it?”

  He grinned at her. “Do you like your burgers rare or well-done, Miss Dane?”

  “What?” she asked blankly.

  “I have the sterno going for dinner. Hamburger it is, though, I’m afraid. How do you like yours?”

  “Oh. Rare. Please.”

  He nodded and walked away. Ashley watched him go back into the kitchen. She hesitated a minute, then followed him. She didn’t speak to him. She didn’t offer to help, and he didn’t ask for her assistance. She pulled up one of the bar stools and sat at the counter. The smell of the ground beef searing in a frying pan was irresistible.

  “What time is it?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “Around midnight.”

  “Midnight!”

  “Yes, around midnight,” he repeated.

  “Then—then I was really out a long time.”

  “Yes. I tried to find your friends, but they were gone. Some people do have the sense to get out of the rain.”

  Not all of them! Ashley almost said. But she couldn’t mention the murder to him. Not when she still didn’t know whether he was the murderer or not.

  “My friends,” she murmured. “So you knew about the shoot?” she asked him.

  His gaze lifted from the frying pan to meet hers. “Yes. It was my land you were on.”

  “Oh.” Absently she rubbed her earlobe.

  “Your earrings are in the bedroom,” he said sharply.

  “I know.”

  “I thought you were imagining me a jewel thief.”

  “You do have a chip on your shoulder.”

  “Actually I haven’t. I like everything that I am.”

  “Do you? I haven’t known that many people who take pride in being hostile and rude.”

  He stiffened, and Ashley smiled sweetly. “I said rare, if you don’t mind?”

  He flicked the burgers out of the frying pan and onto a plate. His eyes were hidden in the shadows, so she couldn’t tell if her remarks had angered him or not. She saw the bowl of salad greens on the counter, and he served that along with the hamburgers. Ashley kept her eyes lowered and thanked him.

  “What were you doing running around in the swamp?” he asked her. “What were you running from?”

  She glanced up. His eyes were so sharp, so piercing. She was tempted to reach out and touch him. She wanted to run her fingers over his cheeks and his jaw.

  Except she was certain he didn’t want to be touched. And she
still didn’t know anything about him. He had been in the swamp, too. He was probing her carefully. Maybe he just wanted to know what she had seen.

  She answered with wide eyes and innocence. “You allowed Rafe to film on your property. You know what I was doing there—a commercial.” To emphasize her words she reached into the V of her shirt and pulled out the emerald pendant. His eyes fell upon where it lay in the valley of her breasts.

  He impatiently waved a hand in the air. “You know what I mean.”

  “Why should I? You’re treating me like a featherbrain.”

  He hesitated, then bit into his hamburger and chewed. He was leaning over the counter. Too close to her, Ashley thought. Why was it that she became unnerved whenever he was near? He was rude and hostile.

  He was also unlike any other man she had ever met. She liked his low voice. She even liked the way he moved in silence. She had liked the feel of his arms, muscles rippling, as he had picked her up in the swamp. He was tall and lean, but he was like steel. Yet he was warm to touch….

  He was staring at her intently again. She swiftly reminded herself that killers were often very regular-looking people, even attractive.

  “What were you doing in the swamp?” he repeated.

  She sighed. “The director is not a friend of mine. He insisted on having a conversation. I didn’t like the way the conversation was going. I ran.”

  His eyes flicked over her. She knew that he was remembering how she had looked when she had crashed into him. There was a certain amusement tinging his words when he spoke. “Maybe he didn’t mean to…frighten you. Maybe he just got a little carried away himself. Maybe he believed that you needed ‘nothing, nothing at all but the primitive earth and your Tyler jewels.’”

  Ashley gasped and leaped to her feet. He had been there for the shoot, she realized. And he was assuming that because of it, Harrison had had a masculine right to attack her.

  She tried to control her temper. But she had always thought—with remorse—that the saying about redheads having bad tempers was true. She just couldn’t take the taunting remark.

  She shoved her plate toward him with a vengeance. The china slammed into his and sent it sliding off the counter, right into his lap. Then it fell on the floor and broke.

  Guilt struck her. She hadn’t meant to cover him with his dinner. The plate had simply moved with great speed and violence.

  He was looking down at the chopped beef and lettuce leaf that fell on his knees. Then his eyes came up to hers. Her throat went dry and her knees threatened to give. She fought for the return of some courage.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that you have no right at all to make assumptions about me. You’ve been incredibly rude and hostile, and I don’t deserve any of it!”

  “I just said—”

  “I know what you said! And I know what you’ve been thinking every step of the way!” Her temper was back.

  She spun around, not sure of what she intended to do, but anxious to be away from him. She strode toward the living room, but she hadn’t taken two steps before he was behind her and whipping her around by the shoulders to face him.

  “I’m rude! You come crashing out of the bushes screaming for help and pass out in my arms. I bring you in out of the storm, dry you and dress you, feed you and offer you a safe harbor, and you call me rude!”

  “Yes!” she flared, staring at him. “Yes! You just acted like…you acted like—oh, never mind! You wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t begin to understand. You don’t have to offer me ‘harbor’! I didn’t come here to disturb you on purpose. And I have no desire to be here whatsoever!”

  “You’re acting like a featherbrain!” he told her furiously. “Don’t you hear the wind and the rain?”

  She could hear them raging and roaring. But she suddenly felt that the tempest outside was no greater than the one within her. She couldn’t begin to understand the feelings that played havoc with her heart. One second she was shivering, wondering what manner of man he might be. The next second she was feeling warm, wondering what he would look like without his shirt, and what it would be like if he took her into his arms. She trembled, thinking that he would kiss a woman with fire and demand, that he would be fierce and tender, and that his touch would consume all thought and all reason.

  She tried to jerk free from him. She could not. His powerful hands were fast upon her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “I really am. I just know that you don’t want me here, and I’m trying to tell you that it isn’t my fault at all.”

  He sighed deeply. “I know that it’s not your fault. But there’s nothing to be done about it, Miss Dane. Not now, not for quite some time.”

  Her teeth were chattering. “I’ll stay away from you, all right? I’ll just keep out of your way.”

  “Perhaps that would be best.”

  “Fine.”

  His hands dropped away from her, and he walked back toward the kitchen. Once he had turned, her courage came flooding back in a vehement stream. “Arrogant, redskinned bastard!” she muttered beneath her breath.

  He heard her.

  He turned around very slowly and stared at her with a burning gaze. “Come here, Miss Dane. If you would be so kind.”

  She shook her head.

  He arched a brow and spoke softly. “If you don’t, you just might regret it all of your life.”

  Her pride somewhat salvaged her courage.

  “Oh?” she said. “And just what will you do if I don’t?” It was an outright challenge. She never should have issued it, not unless she was ready for the next battle, and she certainly wasn’t.

  His smiled deepened, his eyes narrowed. “Why, I’ll scalp you, Miss Dane.”

  He took a step toward her. Panic surged through her, and she turned to run for the bedroom.

  She realized that he was right behind her, running silently. Her pace quickened. She thought only of reaching the safety of his bedroom and slamming the door.

  But the hallway was too short and he was too fast. She was just reaching the room, breathless and almost triumphant, when she was suddenly lifted off her feet. She landed flat on the floor with him on top of her. Her shirt rose high on her thighs and his denim jeans were rough against her bare flesh. She writhed and struck at him to free herself, but he caught her hands and leaned down close to her face.

  “Get off me!” she charged.

  His jaw twisted. “What the hell is the matter with you? I just wanted you to help me pick up the pieces!”

  “What?” she gasped.

  “I said—”

  “But you came after me, as if you were assaulting me!”

  He laughed suddenly. “The assault and battery was on my dishes. Did anyone ever tell you that you have a dangerous temper, Miss Dane?”

  “You provoke it,” she said quietly.

  He started to smile, and she suddenly felt the anger and the fear within her drain away. His fingers were still wound around her wrists. He was straddling her, but he didn’t hurt her—he held his own weight. She wished that they were still arguing. She was suddenly and keenly aware of her near nudity and his touch. She felt the heat and power of his thighs, and she felt the magic of his eyes.

  Then he wasn’t holding her at all anymore. His fingers threaded through her hair. He spread the thick, rich tresses out, his eyes a green fire of fascination as he watched his own handiwork. Ashley caught her breath, watching him in turn. She should protest but she couldn’t. She was completely mesmerized by his hands upon her. She lay completely still, and again the desire to touch in return came to her. She wanted to stroke the hard and handsome planes of his face, to touch his ebony hair and feel the coarse strands against her fingers.

  He moved his hand away suddenly, as if her hair really were fire and it had burned him. He straightened, and Ashley quickly pulled down the tails of the shirt.

  He started down the hallway in silence.

  She bit her lower lip in consternation, then got to he
r feet and followed him.

  When she walked into the kitchen he was busy with a broom and a dustpan, picking up the mess.

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “I caused it.”

  “It’s already done.”

  “But I don’t want to make you mad again. I, uh, I really don’t want to lose my scalp.”

  He paused. He actually seemed to smile, his lashes falling over his eyes. Then he looked at her, and his smile deepened. “Miss Dane, that mass of red hair is glorious where it is. I wouldn’t dream of denuding you of it.” His gaze ran over her, from head to toe, lingering along the way.

  Then he continued with his task. Ashley held still, startled by the compliment. She finally stepped forward and bent down to pick up the large pieces of plate. “Where’s the garbage?” she asked him.

  “In the closet.”

  She opened the closet door, found the trash can and pulled it out. He swept up the small pieces and dropped them into it. He turned away, walking toward the counter, and smothered the sterno.

  Ashley stood still, watching him. Then she nearly panicked. Her breath caught in her throat; her heart beat like wildfire.

  He turned toward her with a huge butcher knife. The razor-sharp blade glittered and shone in the candlelight. He took a step toward her.

  He would never reach her. Her heart was beating so frantically that she thought she would simply drop dead, and he wouldn’t have to kill her.

  He took another step. Her scream rattled in her throat; it refused to burst from her lips.

  “Could you hand me the dish detergent, please?”

  “Wh-wh-what?” she gasped.

  “The dish detergent.” He tossed the knife into the sink and walked past her to the closet door. “I’ll let this stuff soak in cold water,” he murmured, picking up a plastic bottle of pink dish soap.

  She was going to fall to the floor. She felt so relieved and so weak.

  He set the soap on the counter and reached for her shoulders, holding her carefully. Concern narrowed his eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m—” She paused, moistening her lips. “I’m fine. Just fine. Honestly.”