Red Hot Santa

by Cherry Adair

  And suddenly she looked adorable, and it took so much effort not to go to her, not to place a hand on her head and tell her it was all right, that he was flattered.

  And turned on.

  “Look. Obviously you’re exhausted. That’s why you’re reacting to me the way you are. I’m exhausted, too. I’ve been watching your place for days.”

  And fantasizing about her the whole time.

  Shut up, Chance.

  “You should get some rest.”

  Wanna share the bed?

  “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

  What the hell is wrong with you, Owens?

  But he knew. He’d watched her for days. Watched her walk clients out to their cars. Watched her lavish love and affection on the animals she cared for. Watched how great she was with people, especially kids. They were alike in so many ways. She had no family, very few friends. In fact, the woman seemed to devote herself entirely to her four-legged friends, just as he did, only his four-legged friends were all horses. She was adorable, he’d realized on the second day. That had mutated to gorgeous by the third. And now that he knew there was a hot body beneath the lab coat he was truly fascinated.

  Cripes.

  “I’ll be outside.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Pleasant dreams.”

  But as he slowly closed the door, he couldn’t resist teasing her one last time.

  “About me,” he added.

  He had a feeling she would have thrown another pillow at him, if she’d had one. And as the door closed behind him, Chance felt a chuckle vibrate up his throat, emerging into a full-fledged laugh.

  Holy crap, she was beyond adorable.

  Yeah, a voice said. And since when did assignments become adorable?

  The answer to that question came sure and fast.

  Never.

  Chapter Four

  IT WAS NOT A RESTFUL NIGHT. THEN AGAIN, CONSIDERING the fact that she jumped at every sound, that was to be expected.

  Worse, the police never called back.

  At six in the morning she got up the nerve to call them back. Once again she was transferred around. This time she was connected to a woman.

  “Dr. Logan? Oh, yeah, I see a report filed right here,” the woman said. “What can I help you with?”

  Kait’s heart pounded like a stereo cranked on high. “Did an officer go by my place of business?”

  “Hmm,” the woman murmured. “Yeah. It looks like someone did. Around twenty-two-thirty,” she said, and it took Kait a moment to convert that into nonmilitary time.

  Ten-thirty P.M.

  “Everything normal, the report says.”

  “What?”

  “Everything appeared fine, Dr. Logan. Probably a passing car kicked up a rock and broke your window. These things happen.”

  “A car—” Kait said, breath catching. But then it came out in a rush. “It was not a rock. Someone shot at me. With . . . with . . . things. They shot tear gas inside my office. Things were very definitely not ‘fine.’ ”

  “Are you sure you gave the officer the right address?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Do you think after eight years of private practice that I don’t know my own office address?”

  She was beginning to sound hysterical. She knew it and the woman on the other end of the phone knew it. Kait could tell the moment she said, “Ma’am, maybe you should just calm down—”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “Or on drugs.”

  “I never said that, either.”

  “But you’re thinking it.”

  “No. I’m thinking if you’re really upset about this, come down to the police station and give us a statement.”

  “Are you sure you had the right address?” Kait asked.

  The woman read her the numbers. It wasn’t wrong. Kait would have hung up if the door suddenly opening hadn’t made her shriek.

  “Ma’am?” she heard from the other end of the line. “Ma’am? You all right?”

  It was Chance, his wide body blocking the doorway. He didn’t come into the room. Well, not all the way. He stood by the door, his tall form framed by white light that turned his body into a dense shadow.

  “I’m fine,” she told the officer.

  “Come down to the police station,” the woman said.

  “I’ll think about it,” Kait said before hanging up, the phone beeping as she rang off.

  “What’d they say?” he said, his tree-stump arms crossed in front of him so that they bulged.

  “That everything looked fine.”

  He didn’t move, just stood there, his silence all the “told you so” she needed.

  “It has to be a mistake,” she murmured.

  “It’s not a mistake,” he said, chin swinging left and right once. “These are professionals, Dr. Logan. They probably had a cleanup crew out there the moment we left.”

  “Cleanup crew?”

  “People whose job it is to mop up crime scenes like yours. They’ll replace broken glass. Clean up the mess. Mop up blood.”

  She looked away at the mention of blood, the image of that man on the ground forever burned into her mind. Her stomach rolled. “But how can they do that?”

  “Simple. They arrived prepared. They knew a window would be broken, probably had one ready to slip into the old frame. They might have figured on casualties, might even have had a way of getting the body out unseen. These are scary people, Dr. Logan. Anything is possible.”

  “Why?” she asked. “And who?”

  “We think it’s a militant faction out of Libya, but we can’t be certain. Frankly, it could be anybody, including Al Qaeda. As to why, you have something they want. A biological weapon such as the world has never seen before. Better than any drone plane, better than any unmanned anything, because it’s completely innocuous. Nobody will suspect a bird flying in the sky.”

  “But all my birds do is fly in a straight line. That’s it. Nothing more.”

  “That’s enough,” he said grimly. “They’re probably hoping to perfect the technology, probably thinking they might be able to program birds to do exactly what they want, in which case the possibilities are endless. Tiny cameras could make the birds the ultimate eye in the sky. An airborne virus could be given to them. With enough birds and enough virus, you could wipe out an entire city. Or how about turning the bird into the avian equivalent of a suicide bomber—”

  “Stop,” she said, holding up a hand, her stomach tightening to the point that she felt ready to throw up.

  “Make no mistake, these people mean business. Like as not they searched your office for your research and, failing to find anything of use, decided to go directly to the source. If they’d caught you they’d have taken you, tortured you, then dumped your body so it would have looked like a senseless crime.”

  And all because she’d wanted to help an endangered species. What type of sick human beings took her idea and twisted it? And what would they have done if they’d found her research? Luckily, it had been at Dr. Grey’s house, Kait having asked her colleague to review her work and check it for errors one last time. What would have happened if she’d kept it instead? She shivered.

  “What do we do now?”

  “You call your office manager from a pay phone on the road. You tell her you’re sick. Then I’m going to take you to Fallon Naval Air Station. You’ll be in good hands there.”

  She nodded, feeling a sudden urge to go home, to crawl into her bed and pull up the covers.

  Don’t cry, a stern voice warned her. Do not cry in front of him.

  But the edges of her vision blurred anyway. Damn it all.

  She heard him move, heard him because she’d closed her eyes, and it was funny because she knew intuitively where he was. She knew that he stopped near her left shoulder. Knew he stared down at her, not touching, not daring to do that because there was still this . . . this thing between them.

 
“I had a sister in your shoes once.”

  That made her eyes spring open, made her look up at him.

  She knew in an instant that what he admitted was difficult and deeply personal, and that he only did so because he thought it might help.

  He wanted to help.

  Why did her heart melt at that?

  “Is that why you do what you do? Work for this—” She shook her head a bit, trying to put a name to what he did. “—organization?”

  “It is.”

  Eyes gone dark with a need for understanding stared down at her. She noticed then that he wore his chaps, his shirt as black as his eyes, his dark hair looking wet, shadows painting the damp strands blue.

  “Did she die?” she found herself asking, not really wanting to know, but knowing she needed to hear the answer just the same.

  The way his eyes flickered was all the answer she needed. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It was an accident, one that won’t be repeated. I made sure of that when I went after the bastards who killed her myself.” And though he didn’t straighten away from her, it felt as if he withdrew. Gone was the softness; in its place came the steely-eyed look of a warrior.

  She shivered.

  “We should head out,” he said. “I had a friend bring you something else to wear. I’ll wait outside while you change.”

  She emerged fifteen minutes later wearing a black shirt that covered considerably more of her than yesterday’s. She’d brushed her hair, too, obviously having found the toiletries in the bag.

  And damn it all, Chance had to stop from going to her, from tipping her chin up and telling her everything would be all right.

  “Thanks for the clothes,” she said, blue eyes blinking against the sunlight. She handed the empty duffel bag back. And when he moved away, she stopped him with a hand, her fingers landing on his skin, fingers shockingly cold. That’s why he flinched. Not because he felt any sort of jolt.

  “Look,” she said softly. “I just wanted to say thank you. I don’t know who you work for. I don’t know why you’re helping me, but thank you.”

  His gaze caught on her lip, Chance wondered what she’d do if he bent down and lightly grazed her lips with his own.

  He’d been dying to do that since last week.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, having to fight the urge to do exactly as he fantasized. “Come on.”

  Last night he’d moved his bike out behind the bar, out of sight. This morning sunlight glinted off the spotless chrome, sending a beam of warmth across his face. He slid onto the black leather seat, pulling his helmet on at the same time he tipped the bike up. He pretended to be busy with his helmet, but the truth of the matter was, he had to brace himself for the feel of Kait’s thighs clasping his own. And when at last he felt that warmth, when at last her thighs pressed into him, he almost gasped.

  He wanted her.

  And it was time to admit that his attraction to her was beginning to border on obsession.

  Son of a—

  “Ready?” he asked, hands dropping to the handlebars.

  “Ready,” she answered, those tiny fingers of hers slipping under his arms and clasping his side.

  She’d had a wet dream about him last night.

  He’d be having wet dreams about her for the next several nights.

  The bike roared to life after a wheezy chugalug, Chance pushing the thing off the kickstand so fast he almost tipped them over. He felt her thighs clasp him even harder and almost groaned.

  Okay, best to get this over with. PDQ.

  The drive to Fallon would take less than an hour. With any luck, she’d be off his hands in fewer than two.

  He gunned it.

  She clutched him harder. His jaw muscle began to ache; when he shifted gears and her upper body pressed against his back, he just about closed his eyes.

  Son of a—

  “Loosen up,” he told her, turning onto a side road that’d take them to 80. “We’re not going to wreck.”

  “I don’t like motorcycles,” she yelled into his ear.

  “You didn’t mind them yesterday.”

  “Yesterday some guy was shooting cattle prods at me.”

  He felt his teeth dry as he momentarily smiled. “We’ll be there soon, Dr. Logan. Just try to relax.”

  Maybe you should take your own advice.

  But it was hard. She held on to him like a kitten on a ball of yarn. His teeth ground together. To be honest, he almost wished the bad guys would spot them. At least then he’d have something to focus on.

  They arrived in record time, mostly because Chance pushed the speed limit as much as he could. As they approached the base’s guardhouse, his mood began to improve. Desert scrub sent up the sickly sweet smell of sage, sand, and rocks stretching on for miles and miles around them, flat, nothing but blue-gray mountains in the distance.

  Chance saluted the SP on duty, his front tire nudging the red-and-white crossing arm that blocked the drab brown base from entry.

  “Name?” the man asked.

  “Chance Owens.”

  “Nature of business?”

  “I’m delivering one Dr. Kaitlyn Logan to the base commander,” he motioned behind him.

  “ID?”

  Chance fished inside his front pocket, pulling out his Nevada license.

  The white-helmeted guard gave the chopper and his passenger an arch look. “Does he know you’re coming?”

  “He does.”

  The man went back into his bulletproof booth. Kait leaned toward Chance to say, “Look, Chance. I just want to say thank you once again. I’m grateful the American public has people like you around.”

  “Just doing my job,” he said, even though inside the words were Don’t suppose you’d like to show me just how grateful you are?

  “Sorry, sir,” the SP said a minute later. “I spoke to the base commander and he doesn’t know a thing about you or a Dr. Logan.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll have to pull through the gate then back around while we check this out.”

  “There’s nothing to check out. I was told to bring Dr. Logan to Fallon and deliver her to the base commander, whoever that is. Maybe you should talk to the battalion commander.”

  “Already did. He’s never heard of you either.”

  And to be honest, the guard looked a little testy, likely because a black-clad Hell’s Angel look-alike wasn’t exactly someone who garnered sympathy.

  Okay. He needed to think this through. Maybe someone had failed to deliver the message up the chain of command.

  But fifteen minutes later, that notion was dispelled, too, and by then a Hummer full of SPs had arrived, their fifty calibers looking mighty serious.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  “You know,” Chance said as Kait stood anxiously off to the side. “Why don’t I call my commander and ask what this is all about?”

  “It would help if you could tell us what branch of the military you’re with.”

  “Look, Seaman First Class . . .” Chance’s eyes shot down to the man’s brass name tag, which was hard to read with sunlight arcing off of it. “Rodgers,” he finally made out. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Really,” Chance said. “So we’ll just be on our way.”

  “On our way,” he heard Kait echo, obviously flummoxed.

  “Get on the bike.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “What about leaving me here?”

  He pinned her with a glare. “Kaitlyn,” he said softly. “Please get on the bike. I need to make a few phone calls, and I can’t do that here.”

  “Can’t I stay with them while you do that?” She pointed to the men with the fifty calibers.

  “Negative,” Chance said. “They won’t let you.”

  And when she glanced at the SP for confirmation, he only nodded. “Security.”

  “Maybe you should just call the police instead?” she said.

 
“We already tried that, remember? Let me just make a call and try to find out what happened. It could be the base commander hasn’t gotten the communiqué from my commander. It shouldn’t take but a few minutes to sort things out.”

  But he could see the indecision floating through her eyes. He’d be indecisive, too, if someone promised him something and then didn’t deliver.

  Son of a—

  But then she said, “Okay.” And when he looked into her eyes, he saw acceptance—acceptance and something else that made his insides go jiggy.

  He saw trust.

  Chapter Five

  HE TOOK HER TO A SPOT WITHIN SIGHT OF THE GUARDHOUSE just in case there was trouble. Kait didn’t want to know what “trouble” might be and so she appreciated the precaution.

  So far, she could tell his conversations hadn’t gone well. Actually, there hadn’t been any conversations at all. She could see him a few hundred yards away, dialing one number, then another, stabbing the off button with more and more force. Finally, she heard his raised voice, but he must have been leaving a message because he walked toward her less than ten seconds later.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, his eyes as dark as the scrub that surrounded them. “I can’t get ahold of anybody.”

  “Maybe you’re dialing wrong?”

  He gave her a look.

  She lifted her hands. “Just a thought.”

  He squinted as a car approached. Every time someone came near them his hand hovered near his waistline. The shirt he wore didn’t have any obvious bulges and protrusions, but she assumed he had a gun tucked somewhere.

  A gun.

  To protect her.

  “So what do we do now?” she asked, hating that she sounded worried and maybe even a little scared. Amazing how quickly she’d come to rely on him.

  “We regroup.”

  “And where do we do that?”

  “Maybe back at Hog Heaven.”

  “No offense,” she said, “but I’d really rather not go back there.”

  “And I’d really rather not take you there. Better to keep on the move. Less chance of someone ambushing us that way.”

  “So how about a hotel?”

  “Negative,” he said. “They’ll be keeping an eye on them.”