His grandmother nodded and eased her foot to the floor. The thick, double ropes of salt and pepper colored braids that hung to her waist swung back and forth like pendulums as she wobbled unsteadily on her feet. “Beware of the white tiger with yellow eyes.”
She held up two white feathers and shuffled closer.
Danger jerked his head out of her reach. “Grandma, what are you doing?”
She gave a deep huff, her way of expressing her impatience, and boxed his ears. “Sit still! I am tying turkey feathers in your hair. They will ward off evil spirits. Stop the white tiger from coming to get you.”
“Those are chicken feathers.” Danger knew before he said it, he was wasting his breath.
“Turkey feathers.” She narrowed her raisin dark eyes at him, daring him to argue with her. With unsteady hands, she tied the feathers in his long hair with a leather thong and flashed her toothless grin at him when she finished.
Papa Joe nodded his head in approval and went back to his drumming.
“Heya.Heya.Heya.Heya.”
His grandmother resumed her dance routine around the table. He stroked the two feathers dangling over his right ear and rubbed a hand down his face.
Beware of the white tiger.
What was he supposed to do, tickle it to death with the chicken feathers? Hell, as far as he knew, the closest white tigers were in Las Vegas, several hundred miles away, living the good life at the White Tiger Habitat at the Mirage Hotel and Casino. Somehow, he couldn’t see Siegfried and Roy turning the rare animals loose on the citizens of Rimrock, Montana.
As soon as his grandmother drew near him again, he stood up, grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her, leaned down, and pressed a kiss against her aged cheek. “Thank you, Grandma,” he said humbly.
She gave him that toothless grin he loved, nodded, and went back to dancing. He knew his grandparents meant well and were only trying to protect him from harm. As he headed to his bedroom, he gave a two-fingered salute to his grandpa, who was busy shoving the buffalo horns back in place and untangling the drumsticks from his hair.
Danger closed the door behind him, shutting out some of the racket his grandparents made. If it helped them feel better, then he would wear the ‘turkey’ feathers.
What did it hurt to give them some peace of mind?
He just hoped Papa Joe finished his drumming soon so he could get some sleep. He wasn’t used to working nights. His body hadn’t adjusted to the change yet, and he found it difficult to get enough sleep during the daylight hours.
Danger kicked off his moccasins, stripped to his black boxers, and tossed his clothes in the laundry basket standing in the corner. A deep yawn surprised him. Fatigue melted into his bones, weighed him down, and lured him to the bed.
He jerked back the top sheet and crawled onto the lumpy mattress. Stretching full length, Danger piled two pillows beneath his head and tugged the sheet to his waist.
White tiger.
Jesus, where did his grandparents come up with this crap?
He closed his eyes. Closed his mind. Yawned. And drifted to sleep.
***
An hour later, Papa Joe peeped around the door to check on his grandson. He took one step inside the dimmed room, then backed out and closed the door quietly behind him. He drew his wife into his arms and patted her broad shoulders.
“She is coming for him. The pale tiger with yellow eyes will take him from us. We must do all we can to stop her.”
Shalene nodded her understanding of her husband’s perfect English. “I’ll get more feathers from the chicken house.”
Papa Joe sighed. “I think it’s going to take more than feathers. I saw the tiger point a gun at him. She means him harm. Her eyes glowed like pools of yellow flames. Her face burned with anger. Her words were shouted in a strange tongue, English, yet it was foreign English.” He grinned. “Like those Amazon Pygmies off the Discovery Channel.” His eyes glinted with determination. “We must stop this woman from harming our grandson.”
Shalene nodded her gray head. “How are two old crows like us going to stop the white tiger from devouring our grandson?”
“We’ll think of something. Maybe stake her on an anthill. Pour honey on her.”
“When is she coming?”
“I don’t know. But soon, I think. Very soon.”
In The Arms Of Danger
Chapter One
“Talk low, talk slow, and don’t say much.”
A reputed acting tip from John Wayne to fellow actor Michael Caine.
Rimrock, Montana Sat.1:00 a.m.
“Sheriff’s Department. Halt. Make another move and you’re dead.”
It wasn’t just the fact the man’s voice sounded low, hard, and full of authority that halted Lacey Weston’s long and purposeful strides, but that quicker than a rattler, he struck from the shadows of a dark, narrow doorway.
There’d been no chance to escape the steel-hewed arm he closed tightly around her waist. No time to react or to even draw a breath before he started to drag her deeper into the opaque blackness of the alley.
The unreliable glow from the sliver of moon that floated across the night sky had worked entirely to his advantage. The fact he claimed to be from the Sheriff’s Department didn’t comfort her, but increased the need to be cautious.
Dear God, he would murder her there in the shadows.
Terror trickled down her spine and chilled her blood. Her heart hammered a rapid ditty. The inside wall of her chest felt as if it was being pulverized by the paddles of a ceiling fan whirling at top speed, whumpwhumpwhump. Fear, a bone-dry powder, coated the back of her throat. It filled her lungs like chalk dust from an eraser, gray, gritty and flavored with the stench of death.
It had taken him hours to catch up with her, but now that he had, it was all over. He would kill her now. She’d die simply because she’d seen and heard too much.
Why did she always seem to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time? Dammit. She didn’t want to die. Not because she’d witnessed a brutal murder and now been captured by the murderer. Dark mist crept over her vision. If she didn’t do something, if she gave up, folded like an accordion, then yes, she’d die.
Suck it up, girl. You have two choices. Fight and live. Or fight and die, but whatever you choose, do it now.
Lord, she was such a coward.
She looked around, searching the night for someone, anyone to help her. There was no one. She dug her nails into his forearm and dragged them through his skin. Her hot pink, carefully manicured nails broke. He’d pay for that. When this was over, she promised herself a mint julep on her front porch.
A scream rose to the back of her dry throat like a thirty-foot tidal wave in a hurricane. It was abruptly cut off by a callused palm snaking around from the other side and clamping her mouth shut.
“Eeeek.”
“Don’t. I’m warning you. Don’t make a sound. And stop struggling.”
The sneaky dog, she’d barely let out a squeak.
Her one shot at rescue and he foiled it.
He tightened his grip around her waist.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t break free of his powerful hold. Why, it was pitiful how weak and faint-hearted she felt. No use denying it. She was a meek, mild-mannered woman—like that Superman person, Clark Kent— only female, without the superhuman alter ego.
A delicate flower of the South—that was Lacey Weston all right—a genteel lady who shouldn’t have to hear the raspy sounds of her own labored breaths leak between his fingers. She shouldn’t have to hear those ragged little wheezes burst free, faster and faster, until her chest burned as if a blowtorch seared a blistering path across it.
Abruptly, the man flattened his palm tighter across her mouth and nostrils, cutting off the meager amount of air she managed to drag into her starving lungs.
“Be still,” he ordered in an icy voice.
The sheer terror of her situation literally left her limp. The muscles in her
calves quivered like Jell-O. If he wasn’t holding her so tight, she thought her legs would just melt away like butter in a hot skillet.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
The refrain played in her panicked mind like a reel in a silent movie rewinding itself over and over and a voice repeated I’m going to die.
After a long night spent avoiding captivity, it was hard to swallow the bitter metallic taste of defeat.
How many hours had passed since she witnessed the woman’s demise?
How many miles had she traveled on foot? Lost? Alone? Scared half to death?
She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember.
In her desperation to avoid captivity, time and distance lost its meaning. The only thing she knew with any degree of certainty was, even if this man relaxed his hold long enough to allow her to attempt an escape, at this point, she simply couldn’t do it. She was too exhausted to run any further.
It was plain ludicrous to wonder how the bastard had managed to get ahead of her, when he’d been behind her all night—stalking her.
The red and blue Atlanta Braves ball cap wedged tightly on her head struck just beneath the man’s chin. It enforced the fact she was smaller and frailer than the man who gripped her. She was at his mercy—and from the way he’d murdered the young woman, she knew mercy was the one quality he lacked.
Lacey stiffened as he suddenly removed his arm from her waist and locked it around her neck in a painful hold. He drew her closer and held her against his lower body. If he was trying to intimidate her with his sheer size and strength, then he’d succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
She was scared, all right. Terrified even.
Acutely aware of the solid tautness of his powerful thighs pressed intimately against her bottom, cold, sticky sweat popped out all over her body. She closed her eyes and fought the sudden lethargy that floated over her like a shroud.
Don’t faint. Don’t faint.
If she fainted, she knew she was history.
Okay. So he was bigger. Stronger. He was damned sure stealthier and worse than a blind snake, but the hot blood of the South flowed through her veins. Rebel born and bred right down to her painted toenails, she’d be damned if she would make this easy for him. Lacey Weston, freelance photographer from Atlanta, G.A. might be a delicate flower of the South—she might not be brave, but she was a survivor.
Rage whipped through her, the emotion powerful and strong enough to fill her with the will to fight. She refused to surrender, not without a struggle, not this little Southern belle. She might go down, well, yeah, most likely she’d go down, but she’d bet her mama’s prized Georgian silver she’d take a piece of him with her.
With little effort, he quickly choked off the shallow breath she managed to draw. It left her lightheaded and feeling giddy again.
“Don’t fight me, boy. I have no desire to hurt you, but if it comes down to you or me, I’ll do exactly that. You understand me?”
Boy?
She didn’t know if he really called her that or if her oxygen depleted brain imagined it. Had he sounded just a little like Clint Eastwood in his ‘Dirty Harry’ roles?
Go ahead, boy. Make my day.
Splat.
You’re just a memory, boy. Mission accomplished.
Enough! She had to calm down. Becoming hysterical wouldn’t do her a bit of good. But hell, she was calm. If she got any calmer, she’d be dead.
No. This was not the time for calm. This was the time for blood-curdling screams, only she couldn’t—
“Do-you-understand-me?” he reiterated harshly.
Lacey groaned, barely able to nod her understanding. He forced her around and flattened one side of her face against the rough surface of a building. Raw pain lanced her right cheek as it scraped against the cool brick wall.
But he loosened his hold enough so the sweet, sweet air rushed into her starving lungs. It filled them and obliterated the black and yellow spots that danced across her vision. A strangled cry escaped her dry throat and she tried to wriggle clear of his grip.
“By God, I said don’t fight me,” he snapped.
One strong hand closed around the back of her neck. It smashed her cheek against the abrasive surface of the brick building. Tears rose. Her nose and eyes watered. He jammed a knee to the small of her back and kept her pinned against the wall like an insect in a display case.
There was nothing gentle about this man. Nothing soft. He was all honed muscle and steel power. She couldn’t so much as wiggle while he patted her buttocks and thighs with brisk efficiency, then skimmed his fingers across her stomach and ribs.
A large hand closed firmly around one breast.
“Get your filthy paws off me, you—you—perverted molester.”
“What the hell?” He dropped his hand abruptly as if he’d latched onto a hot potato. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he jerked her around to face him.
Lacey narrowed her eyes, but the darkness in the alley was thick as black smoke and almost totally concealed his features. She caught only a brief glimpse of piercing eyes and a wedge of tense jaw.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
Suddenly she realized he had no better advantage than she did. If she couldn’t see him, then he sure as sweet hell couldn’t see her. If she somehow managed to escape, he couldn’t describe her. Yes, indeed, that suited her just fine.
The man manacled both her wrists in one big paw and tugged. Whoa. This she did not like. He practically dragged her down the obscured alleyway. Escape no longer appeared to be a viable option. She dug her heels into the pavement, hampering his progress as much as possible.
“Let go of me.” She clawed frantically at the fingers bracketing her wrists. “You worm! Let go—or—or—I’ll have to hurt you. I’m warning you. I know Judo, Karate, and—and—FooManChu.”
He whirled around but didn’t let go of her wrist. In fact, he did just the opposite and tightened his grip. His fingers bit into her flesh like steel. “Quit clawing me. You keep this up and I’ll handcuff —”
“Whoo hoo,” Lacey belted out the whoop when the toe of her heavy hiking boot connected sharply with his shin.
“Ouch! Jee-sus Christ, you little hellion.”
“That’ll teach you to attack a helpless lady in the dark.”
“Lady, you’re about as helpless as a wounded bear.”
With neither finesse nor consideration for her delicate sensibilities, he hauled her off her feet, swung her over his shoulder, then proceeded down the alley limping with his burden, namely—her.
Her head drooped to his lean waist like a wilted flower. Her booted feet dangled several inches above the ground—useless, humiliatingly useless.
Lacey bellowed out a scream. She slapped wildly at his legs, but it was hard to do much damage to his kneecaps. If she could just get her face a little closer. There. She clamped her teeth onto his inner thigh and latched on like a newborn babe suckling for the first time.
“Let go! For crying out loud, turn loose.” He slapped the back of her neck over and over, as if he was beating ants off his leg. “Turn loose or I’ll smack you a good one.”
Her face slammed hard against the solid ridge of his thighs and it broke her hold on him. She figured she resembled a crippled insect with her arms flailing about and her legs churning and kicking in all directions, as though trying to get in gear. It was impossible to claim a smidgen of dignity with her butt hiked in the air like it was too. Damn him. It was more than any woman should have to endure.
He gave a grunt and moved forward, half-carrying, half-dragging her through the stygian gloom. “Lady, you’re worse than a rabid skunk.”
“Wha—” Lacey’s objection was cut short when he slapped her on the rear. “Be still or I’ll drop you on your head.”
His ragged breaths filled the air. Good. Maybe she’d get lucky and he’d topple over dead from lugging her around like a bale of cotton. It would serve him right.
He su
ddenly halted and kicked a door. The door crashed inward, the resounding pow loud enough to wake one from eternal slumber.
Lacey shrieked, terror grabbing her by the throat.
“Stop that damned caterwauling. Christ, lady, you sound worse than a bawling heifer in a hailstorm.”
“Wounded bear, bawling heifer and rabid skunks?” Lacey huffed indignantly. “You loathsome perverted—stop comparing me to insane animals!”
He lowered her to her feet and shoved her forward through the doorway. She supposed she should be grateful he didn’t drop her on her head.
In The Arms Of Danger Page 2
