The door vibrated with a sharp knock. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”
Emily jumped away from the door. She recognized the voice, even though she’d heard him speak only four words. Get down. Stay put. It was the big man, the one who had tackled her. She ran back across the room and grabbed the phone.
The doorknob rattled. The man spoke again. “I’m sorry for frightening you, ma’am.”
At home, the first speed-dial number on her phone was 911. Same with her cell phone, but she hadn’t been able to get it to work here. She didn’t think Rocama had 911 service anyway. And this phone was an old black rotary model. No push buttons or programmed numbers. She dialed the front desk.
A cheerful, female voice came through the phone, greeting her in Spanish.
Emily cupped her hand around the receiver. “I need the police,” she said. “I’ve been attacked. I’m in room 307. The honeymoon suite. Please, help me.”
There was a pause. “No hablo inglés, señora. Momento, por favor.”
“Policía,” Emily yelled. “Help me!” She got no response. She’d already been put on hold.
Something scraped outside her door. The lock clicked and it swung open to the limit of the chain. Emily watched, horrified, as the door kept moving. The bracket that held the chain slowly pulled out of the wall. A tall, blond man stepped over the threshold and nudged the door closed with his boot heel.
This was the man who had tackled her, all right. Those were the same worn black cowboy boots she’d seen beside her nose. A pair of jeans draped his long legs, a pale yellow golf shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and ropy muscles contoured his arms. His body looked just the way it had felt. Big, solid and very male. The only thing she hadn’t been able to feel when he’d pinned her to the floor was the rifle that was slung over his back.
Finally, Emily did scream. She dropped the receiver and ran for the bathroom.
The blond man caught her from behind before she’d gone two steps. He slid one arm in front of her waist, lifted her from her feet and backed up so he could hang up the phone. Then he clamped his free hand over her mouth. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I can’t let you call the police.”
She twisted her head, trying to bite his hand, but he moved one finger under her chin to keep her jaw closed. She wriggled and kicked backward. One of her heels connected with his kneecap. Her elbow hit his ribs. And both her breasts rubbed and jiggled against his bare arms.
“Ma’am.” His voice was strained. “This is not a good idea.”
She could see that. Although his grip wasn’t hurting her, it was solid enough to leave no doubt that he had her overpowered. Her struggle was getting her nowhere. It was only proving how strong he was. And how naked she was.
Oh, God. Maybe this was a nightmare and in another few seconds she would wake up in a heap of half-eaten strawberries and spilled champagne…
“No problem,” he said. “It’s under control.”
Under control? Anger gave her a spurt of strength. She lifted her arms, aiming her nails at his face. He ducked his head behind hers, and she grabbed a handful of his hair instead. She yanked hard.
His grip didn’t loosen. “Does anyone have him?”
She continued to flail as she tried to make sense of his question. He hadn’t let go of her mouth, so he likely wasn’t expecting an answer.
“White shirt, tan pants. No hard hat or tool belt. He left them on the first balcony.”
It sounded as if he were describing the short man, the one who had struck her. But why? He didn’t even seem to be talking to her.
“There was a civilian in the room. He opened fire. I lost him when I knocked her down.” He spoke beside her ear. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”
What kind of criminal worried about the welfare of his victim? Or referred to her as a civilian? He was oddly calm about all this, too. As if he chased armed men through hotel rooms every day.
He had been chasing the guy who’d hit her. He’d tackled her when the bullets had started flying. And so far he hadn’t retaliated to any of her jabs or kicks, other than to restrain her. If he’d wanted to harm her, wouldn’t he have done it by now?
It took a few seconds for the facts to click. It took a little longer than that for Emily to regain control over her body. She dropped her arms and went still.
He hesitated. “You’re not hurt?”
She shook her head against his palm. “’m ’kay,” she mumbled.
“I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. Don’t scream again.”
She nodded an agreement. “’kay,” she repeated.
Maintaining his hold on her waist with his other arm, he lifted his hand a scant half inch.
She inhaled as deeply as his grasp allowed. Which caused her breasts to rub across his arm again. She had to ignore it. He apparently was. Not that she had much there to keep a man’s interest…
Focus! she ordered herself. This man might be able to overpower her physically, but he’d freed her mouth, and to Emily, words had always served as her best defense. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Are you a cop?”
“My name’s Tyler Matheson.”
“Who was that short man? Why were you chasing him?”
“That’s confidential.”
“You sound American. What’s an American cop doing in Rocama? Why don’t you want me to call the police?”
“It’s for your own safety, ma’am.” Still holding her suspended against the front of his body, he moved beside the bed. Then he pulled off the top sheet, gave it a flick to get rid of the bits of glass, and set Emily on her feet. “It’s better if you don’t get involved.”
The ease with which he could sling her around was alarming. Panic tugged at her once more, but she fought it down. She had to use her head. That was easier said than done, considering the Tilt-A-Whirl still working away in there. “Who were you talking to before? Do you have a radio transmitter? Are you undercover or something?”
He draped the sheet around her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not at liberty to answer your questions.”
She spotted a coiled wire trailing from what looked like a receiver in his ear. He had to be law enforcement of some kind. She’d seen enough cops lately to recognize the discipline in his bearing.
But she’d never met a cop who looked like this. In spite of the conservative golf shirt, with those boots and jeans he looked more like a cowboy. His hair wasn’t merely blond, it was sun-streaked and seemed permanently wind-tossed. His face had the lean, chiseled lines of someone who spent a lot of time looking into the distance. His eyes were dark blue. No, wait. There was a rim of brilliant cerulean around the irises. They only appeared dark because his pupils were dilated. His nostrils were flared, too, as if he were having as much difficulty drawing breath as she was. Her senses sharpened. She caught a whiff of lime aftershave and warm, male skin.
She fisted her hands in the sheet. Her pulse hadn’t yet steadied, and now it accelerated again. It was probably the residual effects of the magnum of champagne, or maybe her brain was scrambled as a consequence of being knocked down, shot at and scared half out of her wits. Yet even with her limited mental faculties, she realized that Tyler Matheson was the sexiest-looking man she’d ever seen.
But a man, especially a handsome one, was the last thing Emily Wright wanted to see right now. She’d flown a few thousand miles to escape the havoc wreaked by the last one.
Tyler wiped his palms on his pants. This woman was making him sweat worse than the tropical heat. She was only half a head shorter than he was, so their bodies had fit together as if they’d been made for each other. He could still feel the imprint of her breasts on his arm and her buttocks against his groin. How could any man be coherent in those circumstances?
But covering her with that sheet wasn’t proving to be much of a help. The image of her going after El Gato armed with nothing but an empty bottle had been burned into his brain. Her freckled sk
in, her long legs, and her cloud of wet hair flying around her face… Damn, she’d been magnificent. Like a Valkyrie from one of the stories his Grandpa Lindstrom used to tell. Were there redheaded Valkyries?
“El Gato’s spooked,” Duncan said. “Unlikely he’ll give us the chance to pick him out again in this crowd.”
“Odds are he scrubbed the hit,” Jack commented. “For today, anyway.”
“Or he could be setting up along the route,” Duncan said. “I’ll give Lang and Gonzo an update. Meet you at the car, Jack.”
“On my way now. What’s the status of the civilian, junior?” Jack asked. “She need medical attention?”
Tyler forced himself to consider the woman objectively. He’d had a good look at every inch of her, and she hadn’t appeared to have any injuries. He’d tried to cushion her as much as possible when he’d taken her to the floor. The redness that dotted the freckles above her breasts looked more like hives than rug burn. She hadn’t moved as if she were hurt. She had a surprising amount of strength in her slender form, though she hadn’t been able to wriggle free of his grip. Her attempts sure had made things interesting….
“Hey, Tyler?” Jack prodded. “You still there?”
He touched his fingertip to the red spot on the woman’s cheek. “This needs ice. Do you have any other injuries?”
She shook her head, then winced as if she were in pain.
“Ma’am? Do you have a headache? Jack, she could have a concussion.”
She freed one hand from the sheet and made an erasing motion. “It’s not a concussion. I’m fine. Who are you talking to? How big an operation is this?”
He surveyed the room. It was in shambles. He spotted an overturned ice bucket near a dented room-service cart. Only a few wafers of ice remained. The rest had melted into a puddle beside a heap of red lace. He glanced at the king-size bed. Champagne. Sexy underwear. A naked woman. Someone appeared to have had a good time here the night before.
He’d assumed she was alone, since there was only one suitcase, and there was no sign of a man’s clothes strewn around the room. He glanced at the open door to the bathroom. If whoever had shared the bed with her was still here, they wouldn’t have let her fend for herself. He couldn’t imagine a Valkyrie like her putting up with a coward. To be on the safe side, though, he went to check.
As he’d suspected, the bathroom was empty. It appeared only one of the towels had been used. If she’d had male company, he hadn’t stayed the night. He grabbed a washcloth, returned to the puddle of melting ice and picked up a few of the larger pieces. He wrapped the ice in the washcloth and held it to her cheek. “This should keep the bruise from swelling.”
She seemed startled by his action. But then she took the improvised ice pack from him and narrowed her eyes. “Who’s going to clean up this mess? Your department better pay for the damage.”
“We’ll see to it.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Someone from the hotel will repair your doors.”
“For all I know, the milkman shot up my suitcase. There could be bullet holes in my clothes. Are you going to pay for that, too?”
“Most of the shots hit the wall.”
The woman moved the ice pack to her forehead. “You’re ignoring my questions.”
She was right about that. He saw no reason to reply, since her demands were probably an attempt at bravado. It was a common coping mechanism, and far easier for him to deal with than hysterics would have been.
Yet her questions weren’t all he was trying to ignore. The sheet was gaping apart where she’d freed her arm, giving him a glimpse of shadowed skin. He didn’t know why he found the view so compelling. He’d seen it all mere minutes ago.
“The major reported the ETA for the envoy’s plane is fifty-five minutes,” Duncan said. The background noise had changed from chickens to the sound of a revving engine. “Jack, where are you?”
“Here,” Jack said. There was the sound of a car door slamming. “Junior, unless the civilian needs medical attention, you’d better wrap things up there and get over to the palace.”
Tyler stepped backward. His heel came down on something soft. He suspected it was the red underwear.
“Look, Mr. Matheson or detective or whatever you are, I’d like some answers.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He turned toward the door.
“And forget all the ‘ma’ams.’ I’m not in the best mood this morning. I’m not feeling exactly charitable toward men in general, either. You can’t just burst into someone’s room and then treat them like they don’t exist.” She dropped the ice pack, gathered the trailing edge of the sheet and followed him. “I’m thinking I shouldn’t take your word that you’ll pay for all this damage. Let me have your badge number.”
“Ma’am, you’ll have to trust me.”
“Trust you? Right, sure. Like I’m going to trust anyone with a Y chromosome. Especially where money’s concerned.”
“Sounds as if she doesn’t like you much, junior,” Jack said.
“Maybe he needs reinforcements,” Duncan said.
“Maybe he’s flirting.”
“Then he does need help. Anyone give him the birds and bees talk?”
“Nah. I thought we should wait until the boy hits puberty.”
No one could mistake Tyler for a boy. He had just turned thirty, and at six foot four and two hundred and fifteen pounds, he was the largest man in Eagle Squadron. But he was also the newest, so he’d been subjected to this kind of razzing for nearly a year. It was hard to overcome his status as a rookie with a team this tight. “Give it a rest,” he muttered.
The woman’s face went red. “Me? Give it a rest? I—”
“No, not you,” Tyler said. He turned his head and pointed to the receiver in his ear. “Party line.”
“Okay, then let me speak to your supervisor.”
He reached for the doorknob. “Sorry. No time.”
“Right, just like a man.” She grasped his arm. “You’ve got enough time to screw up my life but then you waltz out without footing the bill. Not this time, buster. I want to see a badge right now or I’m phoning the Rocaman police.”
This was more than bravado. There was genuine anger here. She hadn’t known him long enough to dislike him this much, so she must be thinking of someone else. He looked at her hand. She wore no jewelry, yet there was a band of pale skin at the base of her ring finger. Was it from a wedding band? Had she come to Rocama to celebrate her divorce? Or to cheat on her husband? Whatever her story, her touch on his skin felt good. Almost as good as when her breast had rubbed over that spot…
Yet again, he jerked his attention back to business. He sorted through what she’d said. “You called him the milkman.”
“What?”
“The man I was chasing.”
“So what if I did?”
“Why?”
“He reminded me of someone.”
Tyler let go of the doorknob and put his hand over hers. “Then you got a good look at him?”
“He was hard to ignore.” She moved her jaw from side to side. “I got a good, close-up look at his fist, too.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
She nodded. “I never forget a face.”
“Hold it, junior,” Jack said. “If she can identify El Gato…”
Tyler had already turned and was leading her back across the room. “I’m way ahead of you, Doc.”
Halfway there, she yanked free. “Look, cowboy, it’s bad enough that you’re carrying on a conversation with people who aren’t here instead of answering my questions. If you need me to testify or something, that’s fine, as long as it doesn’t cut into my vacation. But that doesn’t mean you can haul me around like a sack of last year’s potatoes.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I’m in a hurry.” He picked up her suitcase and emptied it on the bed.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Finding you some clothes.” He pu
shed aside a pile of silk and lace. Hadn’t she packed anything besides underwear? From the looks of her wardrobe, she’d been planning to spend most of her stay in Rocama in her hotel room.
But he couldn’t allow himself to be curious about her any more than he could acknowledge the warmth he still felt on his arm from her touch. He spotted what looked like a dress, or at least something with more fabric than the rest of her garments. Unfortunately, it had a neat, round, thirty-caliber hole in the bottom. He tossed it to her anyway. “This is a matter of national security, ma’am. You’re going to have to come with me.”
Chapter 2
Tyler Matheson wasn’t a cop. He was a soldier. Emily decided to believe that much of his story, since the man who claimed to be his commanding officer was wearing what had to be a genuine army uniform. An impressive array of ribbons and medals decorated Major Mitchell Redinger’s chest, and the shine on his shoes would put a mirror to shame.
Yet even if the major had been in blue jeans and a golf shirt like Sergeant Matheson, he couldn’t have been mistaken for anything else. His dark hair was cut military-short, he kept his back and shoulders military-straight and he radiated the quiet confidence of a natural leader. In fact, with his granite jaw and the distinguished touch of silver at his temples, he was so army that he could have posed for a recruiting poster.
Fine. Good. Emily could accept that they were American soldiers, but the rest was more difficult to absorb. If it wasn’t for the bruise on her jaw and the persistent hangover that throbbed at the base of her skull, she might be tempted to suspect she was still back in her hotel in a champagne-induced coma. This kind of thing just didn’t happen to people from Packenham Junction.
They were meeting the major in the family wing of the governor’s palace. According to her travel brochure, the three-story structure was centuries old and a showpiece of Spanish Colonial architecture. There were guided tours of the public areas like the grand ballroom and the reception hall, but this area was off-limits to tourists. Not that she’d had the chance to sightsee as Tyler had rushed her through a side door and down a portrait gallery. Still, this room he’d brought her to was breathtaking enough. It was all dark wood beams, pale peach-tinted plaster and floors of glazed terra-cotta tile. Lush bouquets of tropical flowers rested on delicate, gilded tables. A long couch and several chairs upholstered in ivory brocade were grouped in the center of the floor.
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