by Wendy Rosnau
“I think you should take off.” Jacy walked to the window to consider the weather. “It’s not so bad that a chopper can’t get in and pick you up. In fact this would be a good time. The forecast is predicting a measurable snowfall by this evening. If you wait you could be snowed in for a week.”
“Your houseguest is going to be moving slow for the next few days, but she’s strong. She’ll recover. The biggest concern I have is keeping her leg clean and free from infection. The rest of her scratches and bruises are superficial. Like the sprain, it’s just going to take some time. But give her a week and she’ll be chasing you around the couch.”
Jacy looked over his shoulder and gave Vic a set of raised eyebrows. “Was that supposed to be funny?”
“You have to admit she’s a pretty young thing.”
“Too young for you or me.”
Vic shrugged. “Age is a state of mind.”
“Too young, with no memory.”
“You can still look and dream.”
And he’d been doing plenty of that, Jacy mused. “Do you think she’s playing us straight?”
“I don’t have an answer to that. Amnesia isn’t my area of expertise. But what reason could she have for lying?”
“A good question. Billy said he didn’t find anything at Marty’s office that would identify her. But then I’m not surprised, knowing how Marty managed his business.”
“You seem moody. You feeling all right? How’s the knee?”
“Stiff.”
“Sorry about that. At least you’re up and moving.”
“Up and limping,” Jacy corrected, trying not to sound bitter.
“Anything else you want to talk about?”
“I can’t put my finger on anything specific.” Jacy rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t going to go into what was really bothering him.
The bottom line was his houseguest was too young, too beautiful, and upsetting his disposition. She had the power to get to him too damn easily. Normally he could control his male urges, but he’d found out on the ride down the mountain with her seated in front of him that he wasn’t infallible. To say he’d been hit hard below the belt line was an understatement. For a man who had believed he was always in control, he’d learned an important lesson two days ago—the words never and always didn’t mean a damn.
Still he was a man who knew better than to mess with fire. Women were as dangerous as a live match tossed into a box of kindling. Knowing that—that they required a home, commitment and most often a monogamous relationship, why would any man with a brain want to play with matches?
Men were about open air and variety—and getting out of Dodge the minute they felt flames licking at their boots.
So if he was such a man—with a brain—how had this pretty young thing been able to raise so much havoc inside him so easily?
She was trouble, the kind of trouble he normally stayed away from. He was tired of fighting fires and trying to survive the games he’d been forced to play at Onyxx. All he wanted to do was hide out in his cabin, alone. If he had an urge to squelch, he was fine handling it himself. And when he felt like talking to someone, there was always Matwau and Weeko ready to listen. And Koko and Tate across the lake.
“So should I call Merrick and tell him to send someone to get me?”
Jacy nodded. “Call him. Someone could be here in two hours.”
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right.”
“I want to thank you for sticking it out when Merrick brought you here a few months back. I didn’t make it easy.”
“No, you didn’t. But that’s you. I knew what I was getting into. You’re the man, a rat fighter used to kicking ass.” Vic grinned.
Jacy grinned back, then stuck out his hand. “It’s been good getting to know you, Vic.”
“Same here. I’ve learned a lot. Of course I don’t plan on adopting a wild animal any time soon, or entering a wood-splitting contest, but it’s been an education I’ll never forget.”
“You take it easy, and stay in touch.”
Jacy was as good a cook as any woman. That was because he liked to eat. He’d learned early that unless he wanted to go hungry, he had to learn his way around a kitchen.
Supper hot on the stove, he knocked on his houseguest’s door, and when she didn’t answer, he swung it open to find her curled up asleep on the bed, the green bedspread pulled over her. One bare foot peeked out, the taped ankle she’d sprained in the crash. Add a slender calf and a sexy knee to the picture, and Jacy was gifted with another unexpected urge that had him setting his jaw.
He wondered if he should wake her. She needed sleep, but she also needed food to keep up her strength. She’d skipped lunch and Vic had said she had sent back her breakfast half-eaten.
The Onyxx chopper had flown in an hour ago and picked up Vic. Jacy wasn’t used to people underfoot, and it had taken him more than a little patience to adjust to Vic sharing his space the past three months. The place was his again—he would no longer be forced to share his bathroom, or his kitchen with Vic’s culinary talents.
But possibly he had a bigger problem on his hands now.
He spotted Weeko curled up on the pillow. How the raccoon had gotten into the room, he didn’t know. He’d rescued the animal from a steel trap a month back. In the spring the coon would leave. She would be a year old, give or take a few months, and nature would call her back to the wild. He was fine with that. He had never wanted to own anything, or anyone.
The thought sent his eyes to the sleeping beauty. He walked over to the bed and carefully laid a hand on her shoulder. The minute he touched her, she woke up with a start.
“Easy,” he said. “Supper’s ready.”
She rolled onto her back, the bedspread falling away to expose her bare legs. His shirt was hiked and, unaware, she flashed him her narrow hips and a pair of blue bikini panties.
“What time is it?” she asked groggily.
“After five.”
“I slept the day away?”
“Like a baby.”
She sat up slowly, moaning and arching her back. The crash had knocked her around good. She had a dark bruise on her chin and one the size of a grapefruit on her thigh.
“I can bring you a tray.”
“You don’t have to wait on me. Besides, I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat.” He saw her shiver and he bent down and scooped her up into his arms, taking the green bedspread along with her.
“Wait. I’m not dressed. I can’t go out there like this.”
“It’s just you and me here. Vic’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“He was supposed to leave yesterday morning. But the plan got screwed up.”
“By me.”
“It worked out fine.”
Jacy strolled out of the bedroom and started down the hall as she snuggled close and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her womanly scent filled his nostrils. She was light as a feather. Soft and lush. He told himself not to go there. But it was damn hard not to notice how sweet-smelling she was, or how easily her body could tease his into high gear.
He carried her through the living room, where a fire raged in the stone fireplace, through a wide archway into the kitchen.
“Let me know if you’re not warm enough. I’ve got an endless supply of wood.”
“I like fireplaces. When I—”
She stopped in midsentence. And as Jacy eased her onto a chair at the table, he said, “You remember where you live?”
“…no. But the fireplace… I must have lived where there was one. It’s familiar to me.”
She was explaining too much, and she had averted her eyes. He was sure she had remembered something, but he decided to let it slide for now.
“That’s a good sign. Maybe you’ll start remembering something real soon. Your folks will be relieved when they get a call.”
“My folks?”
; “There must be someone out there waiting to hear from you.”
She didn’t comment. He left her in the chair and limped to the stove. He had put together a beef stew. Nothing fancy, but he knew it would taste good. He didn’t eat anything that was tasteless unless it was a matter of life or death.
He turned around with the pot of stew, then stopped when he saw her staring at the doorway with her eyes wide. Matwau the wolf dog that had befriended him ten years ago stood sniffing the air.
The animal stalked into the kitchen in his normal arrogant fashion, his steps light and predatory, his nose catching more than the scent of the stew.
Jacy hadn’t explained to his houseguest about the animals—though Vic had said Weeko had paid her a visit yesterday scaring the hell out of her. But the coon, as unpredictable as she was, was far less intimidating than Matwau.
“He’s normally easygoing. Just don’t make any sudden moves and you’ll be fine.”
“You have an interesting family, Moon. I met your raccoon yesterday. And now a wolf?”
“He’s only part wolf. I’m not really sure what all he’s got in him. He’s a mixed breed like me.”
“Like you? Your grandmother said she was—”
“Blackfeet. So was my mother. But my father upset the genetic pool by being German and English. He was a forester for the park. That’s how he met my mother.”
“And do they live around here, too?”
“My father died not long after my mother. Koko claims he died of a broken heart.”
“I believe that’s possible. When you lose someone who means the world to you, a part of you dies with them. I know—”
Again she stopped without finishing the sentence.
“You know what?”
“That life is full of sorrow and unexpected tragedy. Look what happened to Marty. Did he have a family?”
“A father and a sister.”
“I’m sorry for them.”
The conversation lagged, and suddenly Matwau’s curiosity put him next to her chair. He sniffed, then a low growl filled the kitchen.
“Is he going to bite me?” she asked. “Am I on his menu, or can I talk him into being friends?”
“Friends, I think.”
“You think?”
“He would be taking a bite out of you by now if he didn’t like how you smell.”
“How I smell?”
Jacy smiled, not willing to admit that he liked how she smelled, too.
“Can I touch him?”
“Let him sniff your hand first. Then go ahead. Move slow.”
She did as he told her and soon Matwau had relaxed on his haunches to accept the attention. Before long, he’d dropped his big head into her lap and closed his eyes.
Jacy set the stew in the middle of the table then went back to the counter. “Coffee, tea or milk?”
“Tea.”
“Regular or flavored?”
“Green. Do you have it?”
“I do. With or without sugar?”
“Without.”
“Done.”
When Jacy finally sat across the table from her, he signaled Matwau to go lie down. The animal obeyed, but not before he’d circled the table and sniffed the stew.
Jacy dished up a plate of beef, potatoes and carrots, saying, “We need to come up with a name for you. Have any ideas?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it. Do you think I look like a Mary, or maybe Ann?”
She didn’t look like either. At a loss for words for what might be the first time in his life, Jacy said, sinking his fork into the meaty stew, “I think you look like you need to eat. A stiff wind could blow you over.”
The stew was good, but the remark he’d made about her being a lightweight had frankly pissed her off. It was like saying she was shapeless and too skinny.
She didn’t know why she cared, or why it should matter what he thought, but the remark had dampened her spirits. Not that they weren’t already low—she hurt all over, had lost her father’s gun and was stuck in a cabin with a stranger she felt oddly attracted to.
Her mother had been thin, but not her Aunt Nadja. Her aunt was bold and beautiful. Strong and confident. A real woman. When she’d met her aunt months ago she had secretly hoped as she got a little older she would grow into a few more curves and larger breasts.
What had happened to Nadja that day on Glass Mountain? Pris had often wondered about that. Had her aunt been there when her mother had died? Otto hadn’t mentioned Nadja when he’d delivered the news about her mother. And when she’d asked, he’d said he didn’t know. He just handed her a letter from her father, relaying the ugly details. Telling her that Bjorn Odell had killed her mother and that he’d been captured by the opposition. That he needed her to become his replacement, now more than ever.
He’d called on her loyalty to family and the cause, and she had felt both honored and trapped at the same time. She had wanted to do the right thing—would do the right thing. Her family had been taken from her. The right thing was to avenge them.
Replacing him had demanded she become an assassin, and with it came the hideous task of killing people. She had thought she could do it, but it was altogether different from shooting holes in a paper target.
But as Otto had said, government assassins were expected to make sacrifices. They had a job to do.
I think you need to eat. A stiff wind could blow you over.
“I’m small,” Pris whispered, “but I’m strong in body and mind. You have no idea how strong.”
“Did you say something?”
“No, nothing.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen cleaning up.”
She didn’t answer. After supper he had carried her to the couch near the stone fireplace. Pris drew the blanket up around her where she sat, wishing that earlier in the day she had struggled into a pair of jeans. But she’d been so weak and sore, all she had wanted to do was sleep.
She watched Matwau enter the living room. He stalked to the couch and boldly climbed up and settled beside her. She let him sniff her hand, then stroked his head. She closed her eyes, and suddenly she was drifting off to sleep again. She had no idea how long she slept until she got the overwhelming feeling that she was being watched. When she opened her eyes, Moon was sitting in a chair a few feet away.
“Vic says I need to change the bandage on your leg morning and night. We should do it before you go back to bed.”
“I can change the bandage myself.”
“But you don’t need to because I’m here. I was the one Vic left the instructions with.”
“It can’t be that hard to change a bandage,” she said, still angry with him over his comment about her size.
He stood and reached for the blanket wrapped around her. She grabbed it back, startling Matwau, and he came awake with a sudden growl.
“Don’t ever move fast around wild animals.”
“I’m not ready to leave the couch. And when I am, I’ll change the bandage. It’s my leg. And I’ll get myself back to bed, too.”
“Like I said, you don’t need to. Did I say something wrong? Offend you?”
“You didn’t,” Pris insisted. “That would mean I care what you think of me, and I don’t. I’ll carry my own skinny ass to the bathroom, and anywhere else I need to go, thank you.”
“Skinny ass?”
“Forget it. I appreciate the shelter and food, but you know nothing about me. Let’s just keep it that way.”
She had tried to insult him, to back him off, but it hadn’t worked. Instead of backing away, he stood his ground, a small smile parting his lips. He motioned for Matwau to get off the couch, then quickly scooped her up along with the blanket before she could push his hands away.
In his strong arms once more, pressed against his chest, she endured being carried back down the hall. To keep her balance she was forced to wrap her arms around his neck.
“Billy was going to come by to talk to you tonight. We had set it up for seven. He
must have gotten held up. Maybe he’ll show tomorrow.”
And maybe he won’t, Prisca silently hoped, but she didn’t voice her thoughts. She was still angry with Moon, and so she let that hurt color her words.
“Does my weight bother your weak leg?”
“No, why would it?”
“Vic said you had a bad accident, and now you’re…what would be a good word? Disabled.”
“What else did Vic say?”
He had stopped in the darkened hall, the soft living-room light backlighting him in a warm glow. She saw that her comment must have struck a nerve. His jaw was tight, his dark eyes narrowed.
Good. Let him see how it felt to be fit into a mold and labeled.
“I asked what did he tell you?”
“That your leg injury required surgery and physical therapy. I saw the wheelchair, and the picture in your bedroom yesterday. Is that how it happened? Were you in a motorcycle accident?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know.”
He was staring at her—at her mouth, and so she stared back at his. She didn’t want to like him, especially not after he’d pointed out her flaw that she was too thin and shapeless. He probably liked big breasts, too.
“I used to ride that bike years ago.”
“Who is the other man in the picture?”
“My brother, Tate. We joined up together. You’ll probably meet him one of these days.”
“Joined up?”
“With the Hell’s Angels.”
Prisca frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”
He was looking at her as if she was crazy. “You’re serious?”
It was obvious that whatever the Hell’s Angels were, they were notable enough to cross the ocean. But she’d lived in Austria all her life, and she knew nothing about angels who rode motorcycles.
Still, she could see that she had made a mistake in the admission. She scrambled for an excuse. Said, “Do you think it might have to do with my memory loss?”
“Maybe.”
“So are you going to tell me what a Hell’s Angel does?”
“It would bore you.”
Nothing about this man could possibly be boring, Prisca decided. The private admission made her even more uncomfortable and angry with herself. She wanted to stay mad at him, to do whatever she needed to do to keep her distance. But as she looked at his lips once more, she suddenly wondered what it would be like to be kissed by this man. By a Hell’s Angel.
