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1
Oh, God. This is it. I’m going to die in this paddock.
Agathe Santos snapped her clouded gaze to the arrow lodged in the gum tree behind her, nock still quivering. Her heart squeezed. She wanted to be sick. Holy hell! This wasn’t how her night was supposed to end! As medieval and whimsical as death by arrow point sounded, she wanted to stay firmly alive in modern times.
She spun around, panting and blood coursing through her; the smell of midnight damp rose from the ground. A high-pitched whoosh had skimmed past her ear, followed by a small gust of air, which could only mean one thing. The freaking arrow had only just missed her head.
A sudden chill shuddered through her veins. The loss of her contact lenses meant she couldn’t see shit, all because she’d been forced to rub smoke from her eyes due to the mismanaged fire pit at Uncle Raymond’s annual family reunion. A family reunion she would have gladly missed for the fifth year running.
“Who’s there?” Her voice cracked.
Despite her squinting, no one stepped through the night, and her active imagination conjured thoughts of a vigilante marksman with lunatic tendencies, a person searching isolated fields for someone to murder at arrow point. That someone being her.
Her stomach clenched, threatening to spill her half-digested pinot from the party. If only she could see properly. If only she hadn’t been so eager to earn another four years of freedom from her family’s sympathetic looks and their questions about her well-being…
And sure, her Argentinean relatives meant well, but unlike them, she wasn’t in a hurry to forget.
Why on earth hadn’t she just stayed in Melbourne? This was exactly what she got for leaving the office. For traipsing out to the sticks and listening to people who complained about her long work hours. What the hell did they know? They weren’t the ones getting shot at.
The sleepy town of Roseford sure as heck was no place for a city-loving woman like her.
If only she’d just freaking ignored them and hadn’t misplaced her cabin key, then she wouldn’t be this poor sap fumbling about on a near-freezing autumn night, with some crazy lurking nearby, now would she?
A silhouette appeared in the farthest reaches of her vision. A man bounding toward her. She unlocked her knees, ready to fall. Ready to plead for her life.
“Are you okay?” The voice echoed toward her. A deep voice. A strong voice. One that held a refined English accent and rumbled across the electrified surface of her nerves.
Her world froze, but she forced a shaky nod. She couldn’t appear weak. Refined accent or not, the silhouette’s verbal show of concern didn’t lull her.
The backs of her eyes ached, and she squinted for more detail. Pale skin glowed through her defective vision. Thick, espresso-dark waves curled over a square hairline. An archery bow dangled from the tips of long, brawny fingers.
Her muscles turned to loose jelly. She waited for an apology, some sign he wouldn’t hurt her. All she got was the crunch of leaves under his feet, and Pale Man moving closer.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” His rough tone halted her breath; his full, dark brows furrowed. She had near-perfect detail now, and bottle-green eyes glinted in the moonlight.
“Keys.” She waved her tiny handbag with so much vigor, the entire contents clanged to the ground. She offered a cutesy cringe, vying for mercy, while a cold sensation ran through her body. “I lost my keys during a walk out here earlier today, and now I’m locked out of my cabin.”
The hollowness in her voice sent an imaginary fire through her chest, awakening her natural tendency for defense. She’d spent four years wishing she were anything but alive, so now that her existence seemed at risk, maybe she had room to push her luck. She jutted out her chin and threw down her challenge. “And what the hell are you doing out here?”
She stared him down, or more precisely up, since her five-feet-seven inches didn’t compete with his six-foot-plus build.
He returned a heated glare, one she imagined could set water to fire if he concentrated hard enough, and he blinked. One. Two. Three times before his attention flicked over her body.
She went numb.
Maybe she shouldn’t have tested this madman’s conviction.
Maybe she did want to live after all.
Though even having that desire added churning to her queasy belly.
“I own the main house across the paddock.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “That makes me your weekend host.” The main house was, in fact, in that direction. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came out here for a walk and some archery.”
Her shoulders drew back, and she turned toward the arrow-pierced tree. Archery? Who in the age of high-speed internet and self-driving cars still did archery?
Maybe that arrow had hit her after all. Maybe her sanity had finally snapped. Or maybe what she was experiencing some tragic, Robin Hood-themed hallucination.
She patted the side of her head and found no signs of blood. Pity. She’d have to settle for being just plain old, out of her ever-flipping mind.
She spun back to Pale Man, and despite her tormented past, or maybe because of it, her usual sass bubbled past the edge of her buckling restraint. “You need to work on your aim. And can I suggest any future practice not be at one in the morning or aimed at my head?”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ll keep your suggestion in mind.”
Cold night and lost key be damned, her nerves weren’t strong enough to deal with this man, with his too few words and pointy glares. She’d sleep on her cabin’s veranda if she had to, or find some other place to hide. Anything to avoid spending more minutes wanting to pitch her guts at the feet of her socially awkward weekend host.
She tilted up her chin, unable to keep from sticking it to him one last time. “Well, if you’re done trying to kill me, I’ll go now.”
“I’m not trying to kill you.” His words were tight and deliberate. “And you haven’t found your keys. Where will you sleep?”
The pinch in his scowl made him look more annoyed than murderous, and still, her bravado fled enough to drag her voice down to a raspy whisper. “If you’re not trying to kill me, then drop the bow. You’re scaring me.”
Tension slid from his face, smoothing out the wrinkles across his forehead and around his eyes. Just as quickly, his fingers sprang open, and the bow thudded onto the leaf-covered grass.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think…” He shrugged the carrying case of arrows off his shoulder, his voice dimming with a husky edge before he took one long step forward. “Let me make it up to—”
“Stop.” Her hand shot out, a reflex more than anything. The sudden movement sent her off-kilter, and she stumbled back, almost falling.
Though his apology and lack of weapons made him seem distinctly safer, a sudden coldness hit her with swift violence. She resented the shiver this man brought to her bones. The hard impact of what had happened, of how badly this could have gone, made her want to curl up in a ball. Worse still, she couldn’t understand why she even cared about the risk he’d posed to her safety.
He stopped, as asked, and an ashen look of abject hopelessness took over. “I’m going to turn around now. You were right, I should go.”
His mouth compressed, accentuating the sharp corners of his jawline, but despite his promise to leave, he didn’t move.
His attention fell to the ground, and he frowned. “I must have gotten my dates mixed up. I’ve only just taken over this property, and I promised t
he previous owners I’d honor the final few cabin bookings.”
The skin over his strong cheekbones tightened in stark contrast to his full, wide mouth. Even through her dazed thoughts, she found herself weighing up his masculine yet gentle features—dazzling, contradictory features that drew out emotions she had no business feeling.
First, there was the dark stubble shadowing his chin, the way his hair ruffled at the ends and looked soft enough to make her want to reach out and touch it. You know, just to confirm that softness. A softness so at odds with his tall, thick frame…
“I would have stayed at my main residency in Melbourne if I’d known you’d be here.” Those green eyes relaxed, and his general aura of danger eased too. Her focus slipped to the casual blue flannel shirt and black leather sports jacket, even his clothes hinting at approachability. “I never meant to ruin your weekend. Again, I’m sorry.”
His softened stare seemed to ponder her stillness, all while she weighed up the cost of trusting his story. The price of trust could be soul-crushing; she knew that for a fact. But the subtle light in his eyes said she’d be a heavy-handed shrew if she didn’t relax even a little. Besides, how much longer could she keep bringing bitterness and dread to every surprise encounter?
“If you are who you say you are” —she gave a tight nod, recalling the reason she’d come to this creepy, dark paddock to begin with— “then you’ll have a copy of my cabin key.”
“It’s in my front pocket.” He held a stiff stance. “I’m afraid to move. You know, in case I freak you out again.”
She flattened her tone. “You shot an arrow at my head. If you ask me, my ‘freaking out’ was downright low key.”
He paused, before giving a small, casual shrug. “You’re right. Though I didn’t know you’d be here, remember?”
She rolled her eyes. “Just give me the key already.”
“So, you believe me now?” His tone mirrored her dry response.
Meanwhile, she opened and closed her fingers, unwilling to reveal anything about her feelings or beliefs. “The key, please.”
He pulled a bundle of keys from his front pocket and ever so slowly detached one. “Only if you let me walk you to your door.” Despite her outstretched hand, he wrapped his fingers around the key in quick possession. “As you know, it’s not the best idea to wander around out here alone.”
She nodded to her open palm, indicating she still wanted that key.
Screw this guy and his attempt to baby her. She was a grown-ass human being, fully capable of walking a hundred meters to her cabin door. Even if it was cold. And dark. And she’d already managed to get herself shot at.
“I’ll walk myself, thanks. Besides, you’re out here wandering alone too. What’s the difference?”
She glared, daring him to point out that being a woman made her somehow fairer game for arrow-wielding loonies.
He did no such thing, returning her glare with the press of his chiseled jaw. “You know, for someone stranded in a paddock, you sure are rude.” He snatched back his hand and pulled the key farther from her reach. “And technically, this is my key. You lost yours. Remember, Agathe?”
Her eyelids pulled wide. “You know my name?”
“Yeah.” He huffed out a laugh. “And just to prove myself once more, I know your name because it was next on the list of expected guests.”
She pressed her hands to her side, anything to keep from offering to slap away his smug grin. “So you have a knack for names, but not dates?”
“And aren’t you glad?” His eyes glinted in a way that said he found her more comical than daunting. “Otherwise, I’d still be in Melbourne, while you’d be out here sleeping on the cold ground tonight. Certainly not in that cozy four-poster bed I so graciously left in your cabin, even though it’s much nicer than the one I’m currently using in the main house, by the way.”
Her insides fluttered at his mention of her bed, much less that he’d at any point been anywhere near it.
“Way to spin almost killing me to your favor. Now, you keep mentioning this key, but I still don’t see it in my hand.”
His eyes twinkled again, his attention glancing down her body. “You’re right, I’m stalling, mostly because… Sos la mesa más bella que he conocido.”
She stumbled back a half-step. Was this man fully jacked, or what? “Sorry, but I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Pardon me.” He grinned wider. “I thought with a surname like Santos, you might speak Spanish.”
“Yeah, I speak Spanish.” She straightened, wiping her damp palms against the front of her oversized, sage cardigan, a laugh attempting to bully its way through. Idiot. “But you just called me the most beautiful table you’ve ever met.”
The pale man’s cheeks flushed red against his, on closer inspection, delightfully ivory-cream complexion, his jaw slack, along with the rest of his face. She bit her lower lip, unwilling to give him anymore encouragement with her grin.
“I meant ‘mujer’, as in ‘woman’. Not ‘mesa’, as in ‘table’.” His smile grew to impossibly large proportions, perfect white teeth stoking a stealthy, tingly sensation within her. Looks like I don’t need the extra encouragement either. “God, I bungled that one up. I don’t know whether to feel happy or embarrassed you understood.”
Despite his dumb attempt to flirt and the corny pickup line, her devious heart fumbled.
She lowered her gaze and frowned, her thoughts grating over one painful question. When was the last time I let a man seduce me?
The excruciating answer was never. Or at least as close to never as humanly possible, if six years was some measure of never.
She lifted her attention to his flawless smile and those welcoming eyes. His analytical stare held an air of intelligence, one not so easily defined, while the hard-set jaw, the one that seemed almost habitual, gave an impression of someone not so easily fooled.
Heat washed over her face and neck, and her tummy clenched with the needling suspicion that maybe he already saw through her bluster. And even as her body made up its own mind, with its prickly nerves and hot flashes, her actual mind urged her to leave him here in this field.
His potential as a deranged murderer might have faded, but even emotions, such as the ones taking light within her, held a truckload of risk. The fact he made her feel something–anything—didn’t bode well.
His flirtations felt way too good, his light teasing awakening her from a lengthy hibernation, one she hadn’t yet decided she wanted to leave. And even if this guy was Prince Charming incarnate, she had no place being with him. All she had was her ability to meet her basic daily needs. And even then…
So, perhaps this man, with his shaky grip on the Spanish language, had a point. Maybe she did have more in common with an inanimate table than any red-blooded woman. Heck, in a world where not even her divorce registered as a real loss, where she’d long become numb to men and their advances, maybe her life really didn’t have room for anything more than dark tragedy.
So, yeah, she had no time for Prince Charming. Much less this guy. Especially when getting attached would mean giving up the last thing in her life to hold any significance. The one person who’d trusted her completely. The one person she’d failed.
Elsie.
She drew a hard breath, her face scrunching into what she assumed was a grimace. The man’s piercing gaze held an open invitation, his unyielding stare leaving no doubt his words about her supposed beauty extended far beyond empty flattery.
He wanted her.
And from the heat pooling in her lower belly, perhaps on some totally illogical level, she wanted him, too.
Though maybe she’d taken his flirting far too seriously; he’d complimented her, not proposed. Maybe it was time she answered the questions his flirting stirred. Questions such as: Was she ready to let a man flirt with her? Touch her? Had she atoned enough to deserve a trace of pleasure and distraction?
And if she did want to apply a resolute yes to t
his situation, to test whether the years really had corroded her down to nothing more than a mass of cells, minus any real shred of womanhood, how the heck would she go about inviting this man into her bed?
2
“If it puts you at ease…” Luke held out his hand and waited for Agathe’s dark-brown gaze to fuse with his. “My name’s Luke.”
He couldn’t help but steal another look at her. Her captivating hair, a mix of deep chocolate and fine, sandy-blonde streaks, fluttered in the night breeze. Her light-bronze skin, along with her delicate facial features, gave off a forest-nymph aura, mysterious and birdlike. She was slight and elegant, even if she did wield a strong amount of snark. Meanwhile, the air cracked around her like high-voltage lightning, especially as her gaze dropped to his outstretched hand, and she glowered.
“I’d say it’s nice to meet you” —she reached out all the same, her slender fingers curling around his, a fragile heat trailing from her soft skin— “but under the circumstances, I’d be lying.”
Despite a natural desire to laugh at her cynical reply, his gut clenched, and sickness rocked his insides. The gloom in her eyes reminded him that he’d almost shot her. That a decade in the British military would have counted for nothing if his earlier arrow hadn’t gone astray.
He pulled his hand back and rubbed his palm over the scruff of his two-day-old re-growth. Crossbow practice should have been safe at this ungodly hour and on his own land, but if Agathe had been hurt… Or worse…
Her split-second rustle of movement had veered his aim and saved them both. The gum tree he’d shot would recover, but she wouldn’t have.
He swallowed at the thick clump in his throat and vowed he’d used his bow for the very last time. Firearms practice had gone long ago; it wasn’t as though he was in the service anymore, so he could live without archery, too. “If there’s anything I can do… Please, let me make amends.”
The Last Heartbeat Page 1