Animals would run the other way, frightened for their lives, but these smartass city guys? Chance doubted they were that bright. Their ears would be bleeding in seconds. By then he’d be on them, and York would be short a couple bodyguards.
Chance rubbed his gloved hands together, warming his frozen fingers. It was OK Corral time. He armed himself with the two pistols out of his bag, a six-inch knife in his boot sheath, and a back-up pistol up his sleeve. Brass knuckles went under his insulated gloves. Hand warmers and the thermal pad went into his jacket pockets.
He stuffed three bottles of water inside his flannel shirt and against his skin to prevent them from freezing. Dehydration was the biggest killer on arctic ops. Eating snow made it worse. Not only did it chill a guy’s body from inside, it denied precious moisture. People died when they made greenhorn mistakes.
As an added precaution, he tied one end of one of the ropes he’d brought up with him over his jacket and around his waist, the other to the table leg for a lifeline. He wasn’t normally directionally challenged, but the whiteout could mess with a man’s internal compass and he didn’t take unnecessary risks. With his back to the wind, Chance headed due east to the only place York could be.
Modular shelters were the ideal set up for rough terrain. Chance wasn’t sure which he’d find, the heavier trailer-sized kind or a tent, a fiberglass igloo or, knowing York, a micro-camper unit with plumbing and heating, caviar and bubbly in the fridge.
It was interesting York had lied to Suede to get her all the way up here, though. The missing pieces of that puzzle irked Chance. What the hell did Sullivan have to do with this creep? What was so urgent that Sullivan broke his own rules to end the guy? Why here?
Chance paced off nineteen yards toward the clearing, then twenty before a black shadow evolved out of the driven snow and turned into a cylindrical overnight unit on tripod legs, not unlike a semi-trailer minus the semi. The unit had one point of egress and a silent generator, both portside. Interesting layout, but adequate for the weather, if that generator had been up and running. Heavy-duty hooks stood like giant eyes at the top of the rig, testifying that a chopper had transported it, but the generator was oddly silent. Didn’t make sense.
Getting inside would be a definite no-go, but Chance hadn’t planned to. Instead, he unwrapped the acoustic amplifier listening device he’d concealed inside his inner jacket pocket. Wiping a circle of frost from the wall of the aluminum-shielded rig, he attached a listening device with a built-in amplifier, the ceramic head of the microphone at its core, to the smooth surface. Trading one of the two earpieces that linked him to Pagan for half the stereo headset, he hunkered against the rig and out of the wind to eavesdrop.
Hell, it was cold as a witch’s tit up here, and getting colder. He planned to be back inside that ugly little cabin by sunset. Chance tugged his bandana over the mouth of his balaclava for extra protection and adjusted the volume of his ‘ears’, his senses focused within the trailer.
Between the whistling wind and the moaning trees, it was a difficult listen at best. Finally, a deep male voice growled in Spanish, not a language Chance understood but for a few colorful swear words. Another voice, this one more alto than baritone, responded, but both were muffled. Chance set the device to record for later translation when another voice lifted above the others. “In English. You know I don’t understand that crap.”
Must be York. The German super star had hired muscle from South America. Interesting.
“I said I hate snow,” Baritone complained with a rich Hispanic accent. “It’s cold in here. Why can’t we turn up the thermostat?”
“This storm can’t last forever.” York again. “We have to conserve what fuel we have in case things get worse.”
A light bulb flashed over Chance’s head. Freezing to death would certainly take care of Sullivan and Suede’s problem, but Sullivan had been clear. Make it hurt.
“Jesus Christ, how long before the chopper comes to get us?” That from Alto, the other whiner and another Hispanic. “I’m wearing two jackets and I’m still cold.”
You should’ve hired help from the motherland, not the southland, mused Chance.
“You have her ring.” York sounded pissed. “What more do you want? A Jacuzzi to bask in while we wait out the storm?”
Chance snapped to attention. Alto had Suede’s ring? What’d York do, divvy up her things with his posse? Good to know.
“And you.” York must’ve turned on Baritone. “If you’re so damned cold, put her jacket on. You’re small enough. It should fit.”
Alto snickered, but neither man argued. Didn’t matter. Chance canted his head, cracking the vertebrae in his neck at the mention of Suede’s winter jacket. Suede. Forced to undress. Up here in the bitter cold? He needed to hit something as the image of the nearly lifeless body he’d so recently pulled from the pond came to mind. Baritone and Alto might live the day, but York? No way.
Chapter Fifteen
Showered and shaky, Suede limped out of Chance’s bathroom a new but exhausted woman. Why he had a blow dryer in there she didn’t know. He surely didn’t use it, but it was a godsend for a woman fighting what felt like bronchitis settling in her lungs. Wet hair would only make everything worse.
Her plan to escape had been put on indefinite hold. All she wanted now was to climb back into his bed, pull the covers over her head, and feel sorry for herself.
The steam from the shower had loosened her lungs, but man, standing to shampoo, rinse, lather, and repeat was a lot of work. She’d removed the gauze on her fingers, which stung at first. By the time her knees were about to give out, she’d used his body wash, rubbed a dab of toothpaste over her teeth when she couldn’t find an extra toothbrush, and left her damp towel on the counter. Enough was enough. She had to sit before she fell down.
The waterproof wraps he’d left on the counter to keep her bandages dry were helpful, although she hadn’t used one on her backside. Too gross to save, she’d ripped that bandage off and tossed it. The open wound stung, but the burning lump she’d dealt with for days before this debacle, was gone and that was relief enough.
Damn. That big bed of Chance’s looked enticing and safe. Trembling, she rested her hip to the edge of it. She’d brought a hand towel to catch any infection still draining from her left butt cheek, but other than that, she felt better. Tired as hell, but clean. If only he were there. She wouldn’t mind his help. In fact, she might enjoy watching his reaction to her request to re-bandage her derriere. He embarrassed easy, not what she’d expected from a guy his size.
“Are you okay in there?” Pagan asked at the closed door. That was nice of him NOT to barge in when she was still wrapped in a bath sheet and holding onto her rear. Chance’s clean shirt waited on the bed for her to shimmy into it. One thing at a time.
“I’m good,” she called out. At least she tried to call out. Her sore throat didn’t have the volume she’d intended.
Sure enough, Pagan either hadn’t heard or chose not to. The knob turned, the door opened, and he about dropped his teeth. At least, his mouth fell open so wide he could’ve lost his teeth when he gaped at her.
“Do you mind?” she hissed, drawing up to every last bit of her five-foot-one-inch indignant height. She snugged the towel up to her chin. This was not the Sinclair brother she wanted ogling her.
“Ah, ah, yes, I mean no, ah… shit.” Red-faced, he slammed the door.
“I’ll be right out,” she called as she dropped the towel and drifted Chance’s shirt over her arms and head. The hem of it settled at her knees, but the smell of it. Ahhhh. Suede closed her eyes and hugged herself, imaging those were his arms around her.
Wouldn’t you know? When she opened her eyes, Pagan was standing at the door again, still red-faced. Gawking.
Suede dropped her arms, embarrassed he’d caught her acting foolish. “What do you want?” she asked, her nose in the air. She refused to be intimidated by another man for as long as she lived.
His head jerked to the side once, then again. She nearly laughed. Pagan looked like he had a bad tick or was having a minor seizure.
“Umm, lunch is served.” His palm came up as if to placate her. “If you’re hungry, that is. Unless you want me to bring it in here. I could do that, you know. I’m here to serve, and you should, umm, probably get back into bed. To sleep, I mean. Just to sleep.” His head kept bobbing like he needed her to agree with one of his more than kind options.
Suede couldn’t help it. He was as handsome and as shy as Chance, but his shoulders were wider. Dressed in comfortable looking faded jeans and a white short-sleeved T, Pagan waited. His wavy hair was the identical shiny, ebony black, but longer, and his eyes were green, a deep crisp emerald green instead of warm amber. If anything, he was endearingly cute. Best of all, he hadn’t been rude. “How about if I eat with you instead of by myself?” she asked.
“With me? Ah, sure. You bet.” He spun on the ball of his foot, then turned as if he’d forgotten something. “You’ll probably need help walking, huh?”
“Just a strong arm to lean on, that’s all.” Chance’s arm would’ve been better, but Pagan’s would do.
He flew to her side, his elbow cocked and an impressively inked forearm presented for her to hold onto. She clutched it as a wave of dizziness swarmed up from the floor. By then, she’d been on her feet a whole thirty minutes that felt more like hours. “I’m just a little unsteady,” she assured the gentle giant at her side as she shuffled through the door and out into the real world. I will not faint or fall down. Only sissy girls do that.
Suede took a moment to take in the rustic, male appeal of Chance’s magnificent log home, at least the massive overhead timbers and joists were constructed of logs, although the wall looked like any other wall. Wow. For a cabin, this place was breathtakingly huge.
One hallway stretched to her left, another to her right, both lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the still snowing blizzard quite perfectly, if you liked frigid, wintery pictures. The rich burnished glow of hardwood floors combined with partially peeled logs beckoned her into a lavish family room with several leather couches, a high chandelier of deer antlers or… She squinted at that amazing piece of art in the rafters. Those clever things could be moose antlers for all she knew about North American wildlife.
A stone fireplace dominated the wall just outside her door, umm, Chance’s door. A kitchen filled with copper pots and pans hanging over a stainless aluminum range glowed beyond. A huge black bear, stuffed of course, stood in the far corner near the entry with its claws raked high and a butterfly on its nose. Cute.
Cabinets and closets lined the double doors at the entry, itself a carved masterpiece of bounding deer, bears, and pine trees set in a thick rough-hewn frame. The entire room had been done in evergreens and browns, mimicking the décor of Mother Nature’s forests. Delightful. Simply delightful in a masculine, guy sort of way.
Gallo lay on a rug by the fire, completing the cozy picture. He opened one eye, thumped his tail a couple times, then went back to sleep.
“Here you go, Princess,” Pagan murmured as he stepped lightly around her, seating her in the corner of the couch. He took a minute to tuck a plush blanket over her lap before he stepped back and nodded as if he agreed with himself. “Are you warm enough?”
“Yes, thank you.” She smoothed the wrinkles out of the blanket. “This place is, wow, really nice for a cabin.”
“It is,” he agreed, rubbing his hands. “Umm, lunch. I made lunch. Broccoli cheese soup. I’ll, um, get a bowl for you. Toast tips?” he asked on his way past her to the kitchen.
“Yes, please,” she called over her shoulder, projecting her squeaky, scratchy voice so he wouldn’t think she was close to passing out. Exhausted was more like it. Suede curled her knees to the couch, careful of her hip and… Oh damn. She’d lost track of the towel for the open sore on her ass. By now, it had to be seeping through Chance’s shirt and the blanket and onto this beautiful leather couch and...
Unsteadily, she lifted to her feet and twisted around to see what was going on back there. Wrong move. The cabin tilted and down she went, only she didn’t get far. Strong, capable hands lifted her off her feet before she hit the floor. Suede found herself pressed against a warm chest, the heart beneath it pounding like a jackhammer.
“I’ve got you,” Pagan murmured, gulping so hard she could hear the muscles in his throat constrict. “Are you okay? You didn’t hit your head, did you? Chance will beat my ass if I let anything happen to you while he’s gone.”
She shook her head, embarrassed at her quandary. Do I tell him? But if I do, I’ll have to show him my bare butt and… Suede stalled, worrying her bottom lip while she weighed her options.
His brows clenched when his gaze hit the red streaks on the leather cushion. “You’re bleeding,” he said, his voice quavering with male trepidation. Silly man. He thought it was that kind of blood, when it was only—blood.
“I couldn’t reach the hole on my ass to bandage it.” Okay, that didn’t come out like she intended. “I mean” —Suede drew in a deep sigh and confessed— “I had a bad infection, and Chance lanced it, and I took the bandage off when I showered, but now… but now…” But now tears brimmed at yet another helpless predicament. “Can you help me?” Without ridiculing me or making me feel worse than I already do?
“You need a pressure bandage,” he said like he knew what he was talking about.
“Okay. Sure.” That sounded good. He hadn’t called her ‘dumb bitch’ or ‘stupid cow’. “As long as it won’t leak, and…” One tear got away, and that was all she-wrote. Suede lowered her lashes, tired of being the damsel in distress. This is so not me! I refused to cry in front of York. Why am I falling apart with these guys?
The answer seemed obvious. York bullied her. Chance and Pagan didn’t. They treated her with undue respect, and she didn’t know what to do with that.
Pagan eased her back down to the couch. In two seconds, he returned with a first-aid kit, a fresh T-shirt, and a clean blanket from Chance’s room. “Don’t worry. I’ve dressed plenty worse wounds in my time. I’ll be gentle.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she breathed. “It’s just that…”
‘Way to go, loser,’ her mother’s voice snapped to life as if she were there in Chance’s log cabin. ‘Act like a worthless child and you’ll always be treated like one.’
I’m not worthless! Suede screamed at the domineering witch in her head.
“Of course you’re not worthless,” Pagan muttered, his brows pinched in dismay and his eyes on the backside he was about to treat. “I never said you were. Are you okay?”
Did I say that out loud? Suede bit her bottom lip and nodded, her cheeks flooded with heat. “Sorry, umm, yes. I’m good.” Just fucking great. I mean, oh hell, darn!
Embarrassed to death, she hooked her palms over the wide leather armrest and looked away while Pagan lifted the blanket and took care of her south end. He didn’t say another word, just swiped her butt cheek with an antiseptic wipe before he pressed a squared bandage over it, which had to be easy to find as quickly as he finished. He tugged the soiled shirt back over her rump and stood. “I’m going to the kitchen. While I’m gone, change shirts, and when I get back, I’ll clean the couch and trade blankets, deal?”
She nodded, embarrassed for having treated him like he was an imbecile before. Pagan had a soft touch and he seemed to care. And he’d made soup! What guy does that for a woman he doesn’t know?
Tears glimmered again, and she swiped a quick finger under her eyes before they fell. “Thank you,” she said, and this time, she meant it from the bottom of her heart.
He retreated to the kitchen. She traded shirts. Before she knew it, the smear on the leather couch was wiped clean, the soiled blanket was replaced, and she was warm and cuddled in another plush blanket. Talk about an exhausting morning.
Pagan served her a small cup of rich, creamy soup. He’d c
ut the broccoli into tiny niblets and the toast tips were done to golden perfection. He settled into the easy chair at her right, his long legs eating up the real estate between his chair and the coffee table.
The Sinclair boys were both out of some men’s magazine where bodies were wide and rough-cut, muscled and massive. His boots had to be size twelves, at least, and his hefty biceps stretched the sleeves of his short-sleeved T. Like Chance, he wore the uniform of a man used to hard labor outdoors. Jeans. Calluses. A deep tan.
But Suede’s ears were tuned for the stomp of another man’s work boots on the porch. No matter how she fought the inclination, her traitorous eyes stole to the front door at every creak of Pagan’s leather chair.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked, his much larger and empty soup bowl on the table, his hands on his knees as if he’d spring to his feet at her bidding.
Suede startled, her mind up on that mountain again. “No, I’m good,” she said. What a lie. She wasn’t good. She was in trouble once more, only this time it felt different. This thing she felt for Chance seemed real. Solid. The difference between junk food and meat and potatoes. She swallowed hard and set her soup spoon in her empty bowl.
“You like him?” Pagan asked out of the blue. “My brother. Chance.”
“No. He helped me. That’s all. I’m just very grateful.” She shook her head, then added. “To the both of you.”
His head nodded, but his lips pursed. His brows slanted as if he was thinking. “He’s my older brother, you know. There’s three of us, Chance, Kruze, and me. Mom had us eleven months apart, then she stopped.”
Hadn’t that woman ever heard of birth control? “Sounds like a smart decision.”
Angel: An SOBs Novel Page 12
