Call It Magic

by Janet Chapman

  So was there a reason he hadn’t made plans beyond meeting Miss MacBain? Such as what he intended to do if he actually liked her? Not liking her was as simple as jetting back to Shelkova to throttle Jane, then going to hang out with Anatol and his womanless tribe of nomads until he gained back at least some of his faculties.

  Except half the men were no longer bachelors. Markov had also told him that Anatol, with his rusty manners, freshly barbered hair, and weatherworn but still manly physique, was still trying to charm Irina into leaving behind family, social stature, and most of the trappings of civilization for the elemental freedom of nomadic life. The really scary thing was Markov had said that even though his aunt was leading Anatol on a merry chase, it appeared the old bear was actually making progress.

  So, what was up with everyone he knew all of sudden pairing up, anyway? Hell, when he’d called last month, even Aunt May had prattled on about some handsome widower who’d just purchased the house at the end of her street. Gunnar hadn’t bothered to check out the guy, though, because he was pretty sure that within a week of moving in May had known more about her new neighbor than the handsome widower knew about himself.

  Gunnar chuckled, guessing that should teach him for introducing May to the World Wide Web eight years ago. What he’d only intended to be a means for them to keep in touch when he was hunting down bad guys had damn near started a small war when the neighbors had realized their Internet access was unusually slow because May was hogging the bandwidth. So, he’d flown back to Reykjavik and quietly persuaded—and paid for—the cable company to run a propriety fiber optic cable directly to May’s house. And the woman still complained it was too—

  Gunnar stilled at the sound of an angry shout, immediately followed by a distinctly feminine scream that ended abruptly, both having come from somewhere beyond the two-story camp—which, if he remembered correctly, was where Russo had sent Gretchen and Katy.

  Gunnar tore off at a run, catching sight of Niall and Jake and Ike and Welles rushing out of the woods from various directions as they also headed toward the unmistakable sound of a solid object repeatedly hitting flesh, followed by pained grunts. The obvious assault made Gunnar’s heart pound in dread as he envisioned the unresponsive male patient rising up from near death and beating the crap out of Katy or Gretchen.

  He rounded the corner of the building three strides behind Jake, only to find Niall MacKeage planted in place. “Nay,” Niall snapped, snagging Jake’s arm and then Gunnar’s, effectively bringing the other men also rounding the camp to a halt. “If we don’t want to find ourselves on the wrong end of that rake,” Niall said calmly over everyone’s heavy panting, “I suggest we let the lass finish.”

  Gunnar actually dropped to his knees in relief when he realized that Gretchen was safely out of the fray, that the grunts came from a large, wild-eyed man, and that the solid object triggering them was the handle end of a garden rake, which Katy used to repeatedly knock the guy to the ground every time he rolled away and tried to get to his feet again.

  “Stay down,” she told him.

  “Go to hell,” the man growled as he struggled to his feet.

  Once again, Katy applied rake to rib cage, and the man went sprawling.

  Gunnar couldn’t tell how tall he was, since the stupid bastard never made it any higher than rising to one knee, but he had the shoulders of a linebacker and looked to outweigh Katy by at least a hundred pounds.

  No, all he could do was stare at the surreal scene, remotely aware of more men arriving only to find themselves equally transfixed by the sight of Katy MacBain relentlessly driving the cussing, combative guy farther away from—

  Gunnar shoved at Russo’s leg. “Gretchen,” he said, nodding to their right.

  “Shit,” Russo muttered, heading to their downed medic sitting slumped against a tree. One hand clutched her throat and the other held something to her face as she also stared wide-eyed at the one-sided battle.

  Gunnar looked over at Katy again as he tried to reconcile the fact he’d been rushing to her rescue only to find himself thinking he should probably rescue the idiot. “Ah, I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be saving people,” he said to no one in particular, “not beating them up.”

  Niall crouched to his heels between Gunnar and Jake, who had also dropped to his knees in either relief or disbelief or both. “When Michael MacBain would have been schooling his daughters on how to defend themselves,” Niall said, “he’d have taught them the importance of not letting up until their assailant could no longer get up.”

  Well, Katy obviously hadn’t missed any lessons. Less than a minute had passed since Gretchen’s scream, but it felt to Gunnar like time had slowed to a crawl. And he’d swear that, instead of a battle between a drug-hyped gorilla and a woman armed with only a garden rake, he was watching a precisely timed, perfectly choreographed, and strangely beautiful . . . dance.

  He stiffened when Katy suddenly backed off enough for the guy to make it to his feet, peripherally aware of Jake quietly drawing his weapon and aiming it at the visibly weaving, still wild-eyed, still combative idiot. And then the fine hairs on Gunnar’s neck rose when he heard a soft, feminine growl. Katy swung the business end of the rake in a low, sweeping arc that ended with the tines snagging the back of the idiot’s ankles one second before her left boot slammed into his chest.

  “Holy sweet Jesus,” someone whispered.

  Yeah. That. What he said.

  The ensuing howl came out in a whoosh as the gorilla shot backward, his disappearance followed by a series of heavy thuds that ended with a muted splash. Katy walked to the edge of the shallow bluff and looked down, then dropped the rake, turned, and ran past her stunned audience on her way to Gretchen.

  Gunnar made a mental note to remember that, in the hands of an avenging angel, a garden rake could be just as lethal as a shotgun.

  “And that, gentlemen,” Niall said with quiet pride as he stood and headed toward the bluff, “is how Scots women deal with contrary men.”

  Jake slipped his gun back in its holster as he looked over at Gunnar and grinned. “I think we’re asking the wrong gender for permission.”

  “Have you given that mouse in your pocket a name yet?” Gunnar asked as he stood to go check on Gretchen and turned straight into an oncoming fist.

  His head snapped back in an explosion of pain, and even as he dropped like a stone, Gunnar at least had enough brain cells left firing to remember to stay down once he hit the ground. Except Cole Wyatt apparently hadn’t been schooled by Michael MacBain, and the bastard gave Gunnar a couple of kicks, then landed on top of him and pummeled his ribs.

  Time slowed again as Gunnar heard the surprised shouts of his crew, footsteps rushing forward, and even Jake Sheppard’s heavy sigh before the punishing stopped and the weight lifted away. He rolled onto his side and cradled his ribs as he tried to catch his breath through spasms of coughing.

  Oh yeah, he really needed to stop being an ass.

  “Holy cripes, Chief,” Welles said, dropping down beside him. “Are you okay?”

  Hearing more grunts and growls and fists hitting flesh, Gunnar rolled onto all fours then straightened to his knees in time to see Niall and Ike rushing into the free-for-all and attempting to gain control of their respective men. Because, of course, the firefighters took offense to someone beating up their chief, and, of course, Jake had taken offense to them beating up his longtime partner. Gunnar made a grab for Welles when the kid suddenly charged straight into the fray, then hissed out a curse when the wasted effort made him fall to all fours. He took several slow breaths as he stared at the ground, then cursed again as he staggered to his feet—partly because this wasn’t their fight, but mostly because he was worried Katy would show up holding that rake.

  “Hey!” he roared, albeit too late to save Skip Mason from taking a blow to the jaw when Jake didn’t even bother to pull his pun
ch. He was also too late to save Paul Higgins from getting tossed through the air just as the firefighter’s fist was about to connect with Wyatt’s face, although Paul only flew a couple of yards when Niall MacKeage let go in mid-toss and turned in unison with everyone else.

  “Leave him alone. Wyatt’s, uh, he’s an old buddy of mine.”

  “Where I come from,” Mason said gutturally, holding a hand to his jaw, “buddies don’t sucker punch buddies.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Gunnar drawled to cover up the fact he could barely breathe as he looked directly at Wyatt. “They might if the last time they saw each other a misunderstanding landed one of them in the hospital.”

  Wyatt stared at him for several crawling seconds, then silently turned and walked away.

  Gunnar sighed, deciding that had actually gone better than he’d expected, seeing how he was still alive. And for payback that had been so long coming, he’d gotten through it pretty fast.

  He looked around the dusk-darkened yard at the mess of lawn chairs, coolers, towels, various items of clothing, and even a few hastily abandoned purses; at the smoke wafting up from the charred remains of something on a charcoal grill; and at the picnic table loaded down with enough liquor bottles to fill the backbar at the Bottoms Up. “Has anyone noticed we seem to be the only ones at this party?” he asked, even as he wondered if he could still mark this down on the stats sheet as a call.

  Then again, with the exception of Katy and Niall—coincidently the two Scots—most everyone else could probably be considered patients. Hell, even Welles had the start of a shiner.

  Ike Russo dabbed at his swollen lip, scowled at the blood on his fingers, then glanced around him. “We better make sure we haven’t overlooked any stupid people before we clear the scene. Besides us,” he clarified, bending over to swipe a flashlight off the ground, then flicking it on as he walked away.

  Jake headed toward the porch, where Wyatt sat on the steps with his arms resting on his knees, spitting blood on the ground between his feet. Niall walked over to the deputy sheriff, whose badge dangled from a torn shirt pocket, the two of them then heading toward the bluff where gorilla man was lying on his side in handcuffs . . . napping.

  Higgins and Bean and Mason, all sporting their own various battle wounds, each walked to one of the lit flashlights illuminating the grass where they’d been dropped. Gunnar heard each of the firefighters mutter a curse as they headed off in different directions—Mason limping while gingerly probing his temple, Higgins sucking on his knuckles, and Bean wiping his mouth with the back of one hand while cradling his ribs with the other.

  “You okay, Chief?” Welles asked.

  “I’m good.”

  The boy walked over and picked up one of the two remaining flashlights, then turned and faced him again. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “How come you didn’t fight back? I saw you,” he rushed on. “You just let that guy beat on you without even defending yourself.” He took a step closer. “I bet you could have taken him, but you didn’t even try.”

  Gunnar started to respond but stopped. “There are times when not fighting back can be a silent form of apology, and I . . . well, tonight was one of those times.”

  “But wouldn’t it be easier to just say you’re sorry?”

  “Not when you know it’s going to fall on deaf ears. Go catch up with Ike.”

  Gunnar waited through Welles’ hesitation, and then for the kid to enter the woods, before hugging his rib cage and slumping over with a groan as he looked around for a relatively soft place to land.

  “I’ve got you,” an avenging angel said, lifting one of his arms and carefully tucking her shoulder into his armpit while wrapping her other arm around him and grabbing his belt. “Your choice,” she continued as she took some of his weight. “You want to lie flat on the ground or semi-sitting on the edge of the table?”

  “Upright.”

  She guided him over to the picnic table, turned them both around, then backed up until he felt the table. “Wait,” she said over the sound of several bottles crashing onto the ground. “Okay, sit on the edge and then straighten until you find a comfortable position.”

  “How’s Gretchen?” he asked to keep from hissing at having to support his own weight again.

  “Angry. Stubborn. Embarrassed.” Katy gently clasped his jaw and turned his head slightly, then leaned in to squint at his cheekbone. “And delusional enough to actually thank me.” She dropped her hand with a snort and dug in a pocket on her cargo pants. “And apparently far more charitable than I am, considering her patient woke up and backhanded her head hard enough to send her flying, then started choking her.”

  Her hand emerged with a small penlight, which she clicked on while using it to gesture toward the bluff, where he could see Gretchen kneeling beside gorilla man. “She has a cut on her brow that needs to be sutured, and her neck’s already so swollen she can barely talk, yet she insisted on tending the bastard when I told her I don’t patch up people I beat up.”

  “Speaking of which, what happened to letting the guys with the guns be the heroes?”

  “The thing about heroes,” she murmured while gently opening his swollen eye, “is that you can’t always count on one being around when you need them.” She aimed the beam at his pupil, moved it away, and brought it back, then slid it to his cheekbone. “So every Saturday morning from the time we could walk, our father taught me and my sister, Maggie, how to save ourselves by using anything we could get our hands on for a weapon.” The tiny beam gave enough light for him to see her smile. “He told us that men will expect a woman to struggle, but not for her to become the aggressor. So the element of surprise, along with a stout stick and calm mind, should get us out of any trouble we might find ourselves in.”

  “You must have thought my warning the other day was rather patronizing, since you’re obviously more than capable of handling your teammates.” He chuckled, only to immediately regret it when a sharp pain spiked through his chest. “Not that any of them will be in any hurry to bother you after today—including Gretchen.”

  Her smile vanished as she dropped her gaze, but not quickly enough for him to miss the flush in her cheeks. “I have to lift yer shirt,” she said rather huskily as she stared at his chest. “And see if any ribs are broken.”

  Then again, maybe she wasn’t so much embarrassed as aware—as in her realizing they were alone, in the dark, and she was about to run her wonderfully feminine hands all over him. Gunnar bit back a groan that had absolutely nothing to do with his injuries. His five-month fantasy was about to come to life.

  Not wanting her anywhere near the lower half of his body, he pulled his shirt out of his pants and gathered the material high enough on his chest to expose his ribs, only to flinch when her delicate fingers gently brushed over his skin—making every drop of blood in his body rush straight to his groin anyway.

  “Sorry,” she murmured with a throaty chuckle as she shut off the light. She shoved it in a pocket, then positioned herself in front of him and looked him level in the eyes. Well, in the eye that wasn’t swollen nearly shut. “I’m going to have to poke and prod to the point it may hurt a bit,” she said as she splayed her hands on both sides of his torso just above his belt. “So, I’d appreciate ye not taking a swing at me.”

  Oh yeah, definitely aware, if that hint of a brogue was any indication.

  “Trust me, I excel at learning from other people’s mistakes,” he drawled—the last part coming out in a gasp when her fingers slowly walked up his sides. “Your hands are really hot. Their temperature,” he added lamely, even as he wondered if he could reach down and tug on his pants without her realizing why he needed to adjust them.

  Except she didn’t appear to be listening, much less worried about what his hands might be up to, as he was pretty sure her eyes were closed while she focu
sed on him, on moving her hands over him. His ribs—on feeling his ribs. Wait, was that a smile?

  So was the woman checking out his injuries or bringing her own fantasies to life?

  Her fingers nearly scorched him now, making each rib they touched feel . . . funny. Sort of shivery, as if they were moving inside him. In fact, he felt hot and shivery all over. The way it felt before two bodies came together in bed—sharp and bristling with energy. But different, somehow. Soothing.

  He’d swear the higher those fingers climbed, the easier it was for him to breathe and the less he hurt. Hell, even his cheekbone quit throbbing.

  Guess lust was an effective painkiller.

  If he leaned forward just a few inches, he could kiss her. She wouldn’t even see it coming because her eyes were closed. And with her being so tall and him semi-sitting on the table, their mouths were at the same level. And she couldn’t call him out on it, because he was hot and shivery and not really thinking straight after taking a sucker punch to the head.

  They might have met only a few days ago, but he’d been imagining this moment since the first time Jane mentioned her very beautiful, very best friend in an email—thoughtfully including a photograph—nearly five freaking months ago. Except he hadn’t been beaten up in his fantasies, so he couldn’t exactly relive them by sweeping Katy off her feet and carrying her off . . . someplace private.

  Even if he felt her lips for only a second, it would be enough.

  Hell, he didn’t care if she slapped his face; he just wanted to taste her.

  Gunnar froze in mid-lean when her eyes suddenly opened, appearing unusually bright considering it was totally dark now. “Nothing’s broken.”

  Yes. Yes, it was. He was broken. And he’d spent all this time and energy and traveled thousands of miles looking for a wilderness angel handing out life-saving kisses.