by Lori Foster
Enraged that anyone would try to hurt Clint, especially when his current duty was to protect her, Julie instinctively reacted. She groped on the floor of the jeep, found the wooden stick, wrapped her fingers around it, and then launched herself out of the car and onto Clint, protecting him with her person.
She’d keep him safe, or die trying.
Chapter Eight
When he landed flat on his back, Clint lost his breath, then lost it again when a soft, warm weight bounced onto his abdomen. His guts felt smashed. His brains felt scattered. And a dull ringing filled his head.
Surprise faded, and it took him less than five seconds to realize he’d been attacked, and that Julie could be at risk.
Not about to let anyone hurt her, he dismissed his pain, shoved up to his elbows—and found himself staring at Julie’s ramrod-straight back while she straddled him, crouched atop his lower chest, her legs on either side of his ribs. She wielded the Hanbo as if she actually knew how to use it.
Peering beyond her, Clint saw that one man had a gun aimed right at her.
Rather than retreat, Julie shouted in a mean, believable voice, “You won’t hurt him! I won’t let you. Now go away.”
Clint wondered if the knock on his skull had left him delusional. “Julie, move.”
“I can’t.” She kept her gaze on the man in front of her. “He wants to shoot you.”
Clint narrowed his eyes and summoned his own dead-serious tone. “If he doesn’t get that fucking gun out of your face right now, he’ll be damn sorry.”
Smirking, the man glanced at Clint—and Julie used that moment to whack him hard in the thigh. The Hanbo, a martial arts weapon made of laminated wood thirty-six inches long and one inch in diameter, required special training for proper use.
That didn’t slow Julie down. Her aim was dead-on, and the bastard with the gun let out a yell as his leg buckled.
Taking advantage of his painful distraction, Clint tossed Julie to the side. She yelped, but with her out of his way, Clint swept his right leg across the man’s feet to knock him off balance. He dropped the gun, and it skidded out of reach. As he stumbled, Clint planted his boot in his face to finish him off.
The poor schmuck went down in a boneless heap.
Driven by adrenaline and a need to protect Julie Rose, Clint bounced to his feet and snatched up the .45 semiautomatic. Still somewhat unsteady, he stuck it in the back of his jeans and regarded the other man, who looked wide-eyed with awe and ready to bolt.
Clint shook his aching head. “Don’t even try it. If I have to chase you, it’s really going to piss me off.” He put a hand to the back of his head and discovered an enormous goose egg. Damn it, he didn’t have time for this.
The guy backed up. “We wasn’t gonna shoot ya. We jus’ wanted yer wallet.”
Shit. Brought low by a two-bit punk. Disgusted, Clint barked, “Well, you’re not going to get it now, are you?”
Climbing awkwardly back to her feet, Julie held the Hanbo aloft over her shoulder. “Want me to hit him?”
The guy scrambled farther back.
Clint said, “No,” and with one quick grab caught the man by the front of his shirt. Before the queasiness set in, he needed to secure the scene. He jerked the guy forward to throw him off balance, at the same time pulling the front of his shirt up and tucking it over his face so that it caught on the back of his head. Holding him by the back of the neck, Clint retrieved a piece of rope from the jeep and quickly tied his hands. Unable to see and without the use of his arms, the man was hobbled enough to satisfy Clint.
He tossed his cell phone to Julie and relieved her of the Hanbo. “Call 911.” He gave her his address to relay to dispatch.
After shoving the second man down to sit by the first, Clint leaned on the jeep, willing his stomach to settle. If he puked now, he’d never live it down.
After several deep breaths, he still felt a little unsteady and a lot stupid. Talk about getting taken off guard…If he didn’t watch it, his distraction with Julie Rose would be the death of him.
He heard her say, “Oh, yes, it’s under control. Clint kicked him in the face and took his pistol. No, Clint won’t shoot anyone. He doesn’t need to. Yes, of course the man is bleeding. Actually he’s knocked out. Clint is very good at this sort of thing.”
He forgot about his weak stomach. Damn. Maybe he shouldn’t have had Julie call after all. She might end up getting him arrested.
She continued, saying, “Well, I hit him first. Yes, with a stick.” She nodded, smiled, and said, “Thank you.”
Clint held his head. This was incredible to the point of being bizarre. Julie Rose was unlike any woman he’d ever met—and that might not be a good thing.
“They’re on their way.” After disconnecting the call, Julie limped over to Clint and put a hand to his jaw. Her eyes were warm, her brow drawn in worry. For him. “Do you need to be sick?”
Oh, for the love of…Looking at her made Clint uneasy, so he gave all his attention to the two punks. “No.”
“Are you sure?” She didn’t look at all convinced.
“There’s a nice grassy spot right over there.”
“I’ll live.” He dropped the Hanbo back into his jeep. No need to go flaunting specialized weapons to the cops—not that they’d necessarily recognize it as a weapon. But Julie apparently had. “How about you? Did I hurt you? How’s your ankle?”
She mimicked him, saying, “I’ll live.” Then she added, “But you landed on the ground awfully hard.” Her fingers brushed past his ear, and she stretched up to touch the back of his head. “Oh, Clint,” she whispered, her normally strident voice filled with concern. “You have an enormous bump back there.”
“It’s nothing a few aspirin won’t fix.”
“It must be terribly painful.”
“It’s not,” he lied.
“You need some ice. You should be sitting.”
Emphasizing his words, Clint said, “I’m fine.” He caught her hands and put them away from him. “Quit fussing.”
If he looked weak to the two bozos on the ground, they might try rushing him. He could handle them, no problem, but he really just wanted to stand still until the pounding in his brain subsided.
As if reading his mind, Julie turned to glare at the men. The one Clint had kicked was just coming around with a lot of groaning and moaning. His nose was quite obviously broken.
Damn. Clint pressed a hand to his lurching stomach and breathed through his nose.
The other guy, still hidden beneath his dirty shirt, just hunched his shoulders and muttered to himself.
Propping her hands on her hips, Julie glared at them both. “You’ll get no sympathy from me. If Clint hadn’t hurt you, I would have. How dare you threaten him. Maybe this will teach you that crime doesn’t pay.”
The injured guy opened one eye, took in Julie Rose’s display of fury, and rolled to his side—away from her.
Clint rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a bitch of a headache coming on. “Don’t torment them, Julie Rose.”
She made a credible fist, shaking it toward them. “I’d like to strike them both again.”
To spare his attackers, Clint pulled her into his side. “Hush, baby. Leave them be.” He realized Julie didn’t seem the least bit flustered or upset. He didn’t know what the hell to make of that. His mind churned with a tumultuous mix of emotions. Shock that Julie would try to protect him led the pack. She couldn’t weigh more than one-fifteen, but she’d deliberately put herself between him and danger, with only a Hanbo for protection.
Rage tempered the shock, because the little ditz could have been shot in her absurd efforts. Didn’t she realize she was a scrawny schoolteacher with no experience in fending off goons?
But even as Clint told himself she’d been foolish, he admired her bravery and quick thinking. Most women would have cowered in the jeep, screaming and crying and carrying on.
Not Julie Rose. She wanted to protect him. She wanted to mot
her him.
She definitely wanted to sleep with him.
Still in defensive mode, Julie kept her gaze on the two men. Riding an adrenaline high, she looked ready to jump them if they moved too fast.
Clint shook his head, caught between a moan of pain and rib-tickling amusement. He gave Julie a one-armed squeeze and smothered both reactions, but he couldn’t smother the rise of sexual awareness.
The fact that Julie wasn’t falling apart made him doubt his earlier assessments on her delicate sensibilities. Maybe she hadn’t been all that devastated over the kidnapping. Sure, she’d been upset—any intelligent person would have been. But totally, emotionally devastated?
Thinking back, he remembered that she’d only cried that once, and since then she’d been a real trouper.
Even during the worst of the situation, when she’d been tied up with Petie harassing her, she’d had the backbone to spit on him. Imprudent, but damn gutsy all the same. Definitely not the act of a frail woman.
So maybe, just maybe, she really did want him—just for him—and not because she saw him as her rescuer.
Police sirens split the air, intensifying the pain in Clint’s head and making his stomach roil. Seconds later two patrol cars pulled in behind the jeep. Four cops swarmed out, guns in hand, but at least things were nearing an end. As Clint put his hands in the air, he thought about getting Julie Rose alone. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted a whole lot more—like everything.
He accepted that they’d eventually end up in bed. How soon that’d happen was still up in the air.
Slurring a curse, Petie Martin shielded his eyes from the late afternoon sunshine as he staggered from the bar. The thick, muggy air closed in around him, adding to the sour state of his temper. A nasty scowl on his twisted face warned drunks and sober men alike to stay out of his way.
Thanks to that son-of-a-bitch who’d attacked him, almost got him arrested, and royally fucked up his plans, he’d have his jaw wired for several weeks. Reduced to sucking whiskey through a straw made it damn difficult to get rip-roaring drunk, but he’d managed. The doc warned that his jaw would bother him for months, that chewing and even the weather could make it ache, when it hurt enough now to make his hands shake.
The booze, mixed with his pain meds, helped, but not enough. Nothing would help except revenge. And when he located the bastard who’d done this to him, he’d be smart enough to sneak up and shoot him in the back. He deserved no better.
If smiling didn’t hurt so much, Petie might have grinned over the image of the big man hitting the ground face-first. Before drawing his last breath, he’d know that Petie Martin had escaped the cops through the woods. He’d sacrificed his friends, left them behind to be handcuffed and booked, so that he could find the man responsible and make him pay. He might have gotten the better of Petie back at the cabin, but Petie always got even.
Digging his keys out of his pocket, Petie stumbled and staggered to his car. Just as he reached it, a slight human form took shape in the alley at the side of the old run-down saloon. Holding back, the figure was disguised by heavy shadows. Petie stared harder, and as recognition came, he stiffened with outrage.
“You,” he hissed from between his wired teeth.
Graceful even now, the individual avoided contact with the rusty metal Dumpster and the crumbling brick wall of the building, silently waiting for Petie to approach.
Shaking with rage that amplified with each agonizing throb of his jaw, Petie stalked forward.
“Where are the others?” Petie was asked.
“Where are the men you worked with?”
“All in jail!” Petie wished he could open his mouth and raise holy hell, but he could barely squeeze the words out around all the metal on his teeth. “Because you set us up,” he accused, crowding closer, hoping to intimidate. “But not me. I got away. And believe me, it wasn’t easy, not with my jaw broke and my body on fire.”
“The others might talk. They might tell the police about me—”
“And get hit with a kidnapping charge?” Petie laughed. “No, your ass is safe. From them.”
A sigh, then, “Good. That’s good.” Very little emotion showed in the gentle face that Petie had stupidly trusted.
Petie’s eyes narrowed. “But if I don’t get my fucking money, I might start talking.”
“You didn’t follow directions.”
“You didn’t pay me my goddamned money!” Petie didn’t bother to point out the obvious: he’d lost the choice to follow directions.
“We made a deal.” The words rang with icy fury.
Petie drew up short, appalled by the uncharacteristic loss of composure when normally all he got was moderate, almost shy, instructions.
Something had gone seriously wrong.
Once stylish clothes were now disheveled, the usual flawless appearance marred by strain. Petie took in the pale face and saw the biggest change in the eyes, now bloodshot and filled with worry.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Petie muttered. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“If everyone else got arrested, then where is she?”
Petie scowled. Did he look like a fool? “Where’s my money?”
“You didn’t follow orders. I told you to follow orders…” Sounding defeated and distraught, the individual sighed—and produced a .38, fitted with a silencer.
It pressed into Petie’s gut.
“What the fuck?” Petie yelped, stunned spitless by the turn of the situation. He hadn’t figured this one to be the violent type. “Where the hell did you get the gun?”
Blank eyes met frightened ones. “The same place that I got you, Petie. Off the street.”
“Now, wait a minute!” Panic raced through Petie. “Just hold up a second. I can explain—”
The slugs hit him before he realized the gun had been fired. One in the gut. Another in the chest. Ah hell. Stumbling backward, Petie fell to his ass. Blood oozed everywhere. His vision blurred.
The gun was now held in both hands, aimed at Petie’s head.
Dear God. “No, wait—”
“You should have followed orders.” With no emotion whatsoever, manicured fingers squeezed the trigger. Petie never heard the shot that ended his miserable life.
By the time the cops left with the confiscated pistol and the would-be thieves in tow, Clint’s stomach had settled. His head wouldn’t ease up anytime soon, but at least he wouldn’t puke.
With Julie Rose fussing at his side, they climbed the long flight of stairs to his second-floor apartment. He wanted to carry Julie, to spare her ankle, but even if she hadn’t refused him, he couldn’t trust himself to manage it.
Carry her? He snorted at himself. She limped along beside him, bracing her shoulder under his arm as if she’d somehow be able to steady his weight if he went off balance. She’d even wanted to carry his bag and her own, but he’d won that tug-of-war.
More than a little aware of the peeling paint in the hallways and the rickety stairs, Clint fell silent. A few years past he’d had a prosperous life.
But that was before the incident.
Now he lived in near squalor, and though he knew he had a shitload of money in the bank, almost enough to start over, Julie Rose wouldn’t know it.
Strangely enough, she seemed unfazed by her surroundings. Even when three rough, chain-wearing, tattooed youths came barreling down the stairs toward them, she didn’t appear uneasy. She just tried to shield Clint with her body so that he wasn’t jarred.
Clint had hoped to make it inside without any confrontations with his colorful neighbors, but it wasn’t meant to be. And Marlin, Dwayne, and Emilio were more colorful than some.
The teens stumbled to a halt. Dwayne bumped into Marlin, and Emilio bumped into Dwayne. They stared. Dwayne, the youngest one, about fifteen going on fifty, suddenly sported an ear-splitting grin. His gaze on Julie, he drawled, “Hey, dude. What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Clint tried to take another step, but they blocked him.
Julie shooed them away. “Go on now, children. Clint can’t visit right now. He’s hurt, and he needs to lie down.”
They stared at her like she’d just grown another head. No one had called them children in years. For all intents and purposes, they weren’t kids. They were punks in the making—but Clint had tried to change that.
So far, he had no idea how successful he might have been.
Marlin was the tallest and had the most tattoos. They twisted up and down his arms, onto his neck, and even over the left side of his face. Normally he looked very intimidating, but now he wore an expression of comical shock. “No shit?” His dark-eyed gaze moved to Clint. “You got whacked?”
“Watch your language,” Clint warned. “Not in front of the lady.”
“Yeah,” Emilio said, elbowing Marlin hard.
“Clint’s got a lady. Make nice.”
They all snickered.
Julie rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Clint has said much worse in front of me, so he has no right to lecture. But it’s a fact that foul language is a sign of an empty mind. And children especially should refrain from profanity.”
Emilio pulled back. “She’s insultin’ us.”
“No,” Julie countered, “I’m instructing you.”
Clint gave Emilio his patented don’t-go-there smile. “Thank her, boys.”
With varying degrees of disbelief and antagonism, they muttered, “Yeah, thanks.”
“Sure, yeah.”
“Right.”
Julie nodded. “Being that you’re all so friendly, might I ask that you stop forcing Clint to loiter in the hall? He hurt his head, and he needs some rest.”
At the end of his rope, Clint expanded on a deep breath. Too many more deep breaths and he’d pop. “For the tenth time, Julie Rose, I’m fine.”
In a conspiratorial whisper, Julie addressed the boys. “He insists on being macho. You understand. But I’m afraid he might have a concussion.”
“Ain’t possible. Clint’s head is made of stone.” Flashing a gold tooth, Marlin reached for the bags. “I got these.” He wrested them right out of Clint’s hand and began backtracking up the steps.
