by Leslie Kelly
Hell, maybe Hunter would have done the same thing in Lucas’s shoes. He didn’t have a sister, but he knew the pain had to be almost unbearable. Especially for someone like Lucas Wolf: someone whose senses were especially…heightened.
Hunter needed the truth. For his own sake, for his mother’s. Hell, even for Lucas’s. Because Hunter being the one to take him in could mean the difference between Lucas Wolf’s life and his death. No matter what, Hunter didn’t want the man killed by an angry cop who’d rather take Lucas down than take him in.
He wanted to do it here. Tonight. Because if he missed Wolf here and was forced to go traveling, his schedule would get a whole lot tighter. He’d have tonight to get to his destination. One—two at most—to hunt. And one to get back. Or else he’d be stuck there for weeks until the moon completed its eternal cycle and began to swell again. The veil of mist between the lands became sheer enough to slip through only when the moon was either full, or nearly so.
He had been waiting near that mysterious border all week. Leaving his truck parked miles away to avoid detection, he had hiked in. He’d camped in the woods, living in silence, lighting no fire that might betray his presence in the dark night. Lucas might expect him to be here and would be wary. Strong and dangerous at any time, Lucas would be especially formidable now, so Hunter had done all he could to melt into the bayou, to disappear from sight, from scent, from sound.
He lived like a wraith. Waiting.
Then that patience paid off. He sensed movement in the trees, felt the air part as someone moved through it. Heard the cries of the night animals disappear as if extinguished—on alert because of the predator in their midst.
There. A shadow. Time to end this.
It’s over, Lucas. Your vigilante days are done.
But suddenly, he was almost blinded by bright lights that seemed to come out of nowhere.
“No!” he snapped, catching only a glimpse of the dark-haired man as he leapt across the road. The shadowy form was silhouetted against the lights, then it disappeared, racing with animalistic speed toward the border.
Cursing, knowing the advantage would change over there, Hunter began to give chase. But he stopped abruptly at the jarring, horrific sound of brakes screaming and metal slamming. Glass shattered and the night air seemed ruptured with the violence of the unfamiliar noise.
The car that had so shockingly wandered into this nowhere that existed at the edge of two worlds had just crashed.
“You fool,” he snapped, turning to glare at the car, which hung off the edge of the road. Its front end hugged a massive oak. Its back had swung around, nearly sliding off the gravel altogether. It clung to a narrow patch of soft earth just a few inches above a swampy mess of muck. “Damned fool.”
Because only someone with no common sense would drive out here on this trail impersonating a street. It had no lights, no signs, no painted lines and no civilization within miles. That the driver had even found the path amazed him.
Unless the car was being driven by another traveler.
Leave him. Hunter’s inner voice tempted him to simply abandon the stranger to his fate, and pursue the far greater danger.
Something inside him, however, couldn’t do it.
Shoving his weapon into its holster, Hunter darted toward the car. The rear tires were losing their grip on the soft ground, sliding slowly toward a quick descent into the swamp. He had no idea how deep the water was, if the car would sink and the occupant drown. He only knew he didn’t want to find out. Given the slithery sounds and the croaking, he had no doubt the water moccasins and ’gators were licking their chops in anticipation.
Still cursing the crazy occupant, he ran for the driver’s-side door. He yanked at it, but it didn’t budge. Looking inside, he saw only a sea of red, and at first, he thought the driver had to be dead given the amount of blood. But he soon realized he was looking at a billowing coat.
He noted one more thing. The lock stood upright. Meaning the crash had bent the frame and jammed the door shut.
“Hold on,” he yelled. “And stay down.”
The windshield was crackled and shattered into a thousand spiderwebs, but still held together in its frame. He considered smashing it in, and might have to if there was no other option. But showering the driver with glass wasn’t his first choice.
He quickly assessed those options. Hunter couldn’t get around to the other door, there wasn’t enough ground to walk on. Even if there were, he couldn’t risk the driver shifting his weight onto that side to get out.
It had to be the top.
Pulling his broad hunting knife from its sheath, he stabbed through the soft convertible top. The back tires slid another inch. “One minute, just give me one minute…”
He hated to add his own weight to the mangled wreckage, but there was no other way. Carefully, he climbed onto the hood, feeling the shift and sway of the metal beneath his knees. Hoping his added weight on the front end would help keep the vehicle up, he knelt over the windshield and finished cutting through the soft top.
Thrusting the thick fabric out of the way, he peered inside. The dim dashboard lights remained on, illuminating the driver, who was slumped over the wheel, against the already deflated airbag. The driver with the long blond hair.
“A woman,” he muttered, wondering why he was so surprised. Maybe because he just couldn’t imagine why any woman would be out there alone. And she was alone, a quick glance confirmed that.
“Can you hear me?”
Nothing. Damn. More careful than he’d ever been, Hunter stretched further, hearing the crackle and snap of the windshield glass. “I’m trying to get you out. Stay still, okay?”
Knowing he couldn’t reach her seatbelt buckle, he slid his knife under the belt and sawed through the thing. The back of the car lurched, not just an inch this time, but several before it paused again. He was out of time, out of options. “No choice, cher,” he murmured. “Keep your head down and your eyes closed.”
Tugging the hood of the woman’s raincoat over her head and face, he hoped it would be enough protection. Then, using the blunt end of his huge knife, he punched the broken windshield. The glass burst inward, showering the interior of the tiny car.
The blow had knocked the vehicle even further, but the slow slide didn’t halt this time. He actually felt it when the back passenger tire left the earth and slid out into nothingness before the rear lurched downward.
Operating on pure adrenaline, Hunter knelt on the broken glass, reached down and grasped the woman beneath the arms. Hoping like hell that her legs weren’t caught beneath the dashboard, he yanked with all his might.
She groaned. Alive. But she didn’t come off the seat.
The car picked up speed. The second tire was heading over. He nearly fell off the hood. He had one more shot at it. “Come on, woman, I’m not going into that water for you.”
Getting a moment of resistance from the seatbelt he’d cut, he feared they were both about to go for a swim. But with one more surge of strength, he heaved and watched the cut ends of the belt slid through the fasteners, freeing her at last.
She came out of the driver’s seat like a rag doll, almost weightless, sending both of them flying. They hit the ground hard mere seconds before the convertible slide down the embankment into the swamp.
It was completely submerged in the water in under a minute.
The still-working headlights sent twin beams of weak, muddy illumination from beneath the surface. Through them, he spotted the heads of two alligators. Then the lights flickered out and it was gone. The car had disappeared as if it had never existed.
Disappearing. Huh. That wasn’t such a rarity around here.
Hunter lay panting on the ground for a full minute, willing his heart to stop racing. Beside him, the woman softly groaned, and he rolled toward her. The moon reflected brilliant sparkles on her coat…glass. “Sorry, darlin’,” he murmured, reaching to push the long strands of blond hair off her bloodied face
.
He plucked a few errant bits of glass from her cheeks, then spread her unbuttoned coat to look her over, from top to bottom. Her brow was bloodied and a lump had already started forming; she’d obviously banged her head in the crash.
Carefully running his hands over her shoulders, limbs and midriff, he checked for broken bones. And because he was a half-decent guy and she was unconscious, he managed not to notice how attractive she was, or that her body was enough to make a man howl at the moon—if one was into that sort of thing.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he told her. Because other than the lump and the cuts from the glass, she appeared intact. She’d been wearing her seatbelt, and the airbag had deployed, so her shoulder, chest and collarbones would probably be sore as hell when she woke up. But, nothing appeared broken.
If he hadn’t been here, though, he imagined her situation would have been very dire indeed. She would have gone into that water unconscious. The only question was whether she’d have drowned before the alligators paid a visit. Or after.
“What am I going to do with you now?” he whispered.
The reality of his situation was just starting to sink in. He was on the ground with an injured, unconscious woman, deep in the bayou, far from any help.
His truck was parked five miles away. He could carry her, but it would take a while. And even then, they would still face a long drive to anything resembling civilization.
One thing was certain. He would never make it back here before dawn. Not with the way time operated in these parts.
There was only one alternative. He could take her somewhere close. Very close. Somewhere safe and warm where swamp became stream and the bayou a welcoming green forest. He knew of a place just like that, less than a mile through the veil. In it were bandages, medicine, clean water and comfort. Safety.
If she’d been badly injured, he wouldn’t risk it. But she didn’t appear to be. He’d had enough accidents and mishaps of his own to recognize a simple concussion and a cut that might require a stitch or two at most.
So…take her to a hospital? Or take her over there?
One way would send him far off course and put him a full day behind his quarry. The other risked exposure of something this woman could never possibly understand.
She doesn’t have to know.
Right. She never had to know. A hunter’s cottage looked much the same on either side. He’d take care of her, leave her to recover, and go finish his job tomorrow night. Then he’d bring her back here after it was all over, being very careful to limit where she went and the things she saw in the meantime.
And if she did see anything she shouldn’t?
“It’ll be a dream, darlin’,” he whispered. “Just a dream.”
CHAPTER 3
SCARLETT was having the nicest dream.
She dreamt, oddly enough, about being in bed. She was tucked into the most comfortable one she’d ever felt, covered by a blanket of pure softness. It gently caressed every inch of her, rubbing against her naked skin, silky and smooth.
And she wasn’t alone. A man with big, strong hands and a deep voice was with her. He touched her, stroked her, each movement tender, as if she might break if he was too rough. There was no sexual element in the contact, yet with every brush of his fingertips on her brow or his palm on her shoulder, the drugging, sensual awareness increased.
She’d had erotic dreams before, but they’d always included actual erotic content. She’d never felt her sex moisten and her nipples harden in anticipation of a longed-for caress unless some seriously hot activities were happening in her dreams.
They weren’t. Not yet.
She wasn’t deeply asleep, but in that place where consciousness almost seemed able to control the unconscious. A voice deep in her head ordered the dream to change, demanded that it shift into something erotic and wild.
Then came another voice, this one more distant. “Can you hear me?”
She frowned, not wanting to hear more than sultry whispers.
“I know you’re at least partially aware of what’s going on,” the voice said, sounding much too harsh to be a lover. “So listen, lady, you’d better wake up and stop me. I’m a total stranger and my hands have been all over you tonight.”
Was he kidding? Why on earth would she want to stop him? Or to wake up at all? She sighed and burrowed deeper into the delightful bed. “Touch me,” she whispered to her dream lover.
“It’s the herbal tea,” he snapped. “I spooned a little into your mouth while you were unconscious. It’ll make you feel better, but it can also hype you up and make you horny as hell if you’re not used to it.”
The angry tone, and the sudden lightness of the bed—as if the person sitting on the edge had gotten up—began to penetrate the mist in her mind. The dream faded and reality gained a stronger hold.
Not yet. Please.
She focused on the last thing he’d said—horny as hell. God, yes, she was. She ached, deep down, feeling hollow and empty. She needed an orgasm, but she needed penetration even more. Her hips thrust up in silent demand.
She shifted on the bed, kicking at the covers, wanting nothing touching her, nothing on her skin, unless it was a man’s hands. That man’s, the one with the deep, accented voice and the strong but tender stroke.
Her own touch would be a poor substitute, and she knew it. But the need was tremendous. She slid one palm across her stomach, the other to the bottom of one breast. Both slowly began to move farther, one up, one down, but were suddenly stopped by the clamp of strong fingers around her wrists.
“Huh-uh, lady. I might be one of the good guys but I’m no damned saint.” His tone was a mix of frustration and anger and just a hint of throbbing sexual desire.
And that was when she realized she was no longer dreaming.
Her eyes flew open as she realized the truth. Strong hands were wrapped around her wrists. A big, powerful-looking man was at the other end of those hands, leaning over her, though her vision was blurry and she couldn’t make him out clearly. She did, indeed, lie in an incredibly comfortable bed, against silky-smooth sheets that felt so good she wanted to roll all over them. Most shocking of all, she was nearly naked—wearing only her skimpy panties and a sheer, lacy bra.
Oh, yeah, and she was definitely hornier than she’d ever been in her life.
“What’s going on?” Despite the sensual awareness that had her legs shaking and her breath coming in short gasps, Scarlett tugged her hands free and struggled to sit up. Grabbing for the sheets, she pulled them up to cover herself, because, physically aroused or not, she had no idea where she was or who the hell she was talking to. “Where am I?”
“You had an accident.”
“Oh, and all my clothes were ripped right off my body?”
The man stepped back from the bed, his hands up in a nonthreatening pose. “You were covered with glass. So were your clothes. I took them off so I could shake them out and clean them, as well as tend to your cuts. I needed to make sure you didn’t have any other injuries or broken bones.”
Scarlett blinked rapidly, her flash of anger at being nearly naked in a strange bed dissipating with the realization that she had been hurt. Her body ached, her head throbbed. Her collarbones felt as if they’d been pulverized and her left shoulder felt as if it had been used as a punching bag.
“You’re sure nothing’s broken?”
He nodded. “I’m sure. But you’re gonna have some bruises, especially where you flew against the seatbelt and got a face full of airbag.”
“Seatbelt…airbag?” she murmured, trying to remember.
“You don’t remember crashing your car?”
The car. Oh, God, yes, the car! She’d been driving on that crazy, tunnel-like road, plowing on even though her every instinct had been screaming to turn around. And then she’d…what? The recollection got fuzzy and dim. She remembered something moving in the trees—a shadow. Then nothing.
“I saw it happen. You were almost ’g
ator bait,” he said. “A minute or two later and you would have gone into the swamp with your car. You were unconscious. I had to break the windshield in order to get you out.” He gestured toward her face and shoulders, where she could feel the sting of tiny nicks. “That’s why you got a little cut up. Sorry ’bout that.”
“Don’t be, you saved my life. Thank you.”
And he had. He’d saved her life. She could have died.
Next time, don’t stray from the damn path.
“Road,” she mumbled. “Don’t veer off the main road.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” She lay back on the bed. “Who are you, anyway?”
He remained a few feet away, in the shadows. Though her vision was clearing as she pulled herself farther and farther from her fuzzy sleep, she still couldn’t see him well. And she wanted to. Remembering the dreams she’d been having, she wanted to put a face to the voice, a body to the touch. Right now, all she could tell was that he was very tall and very broad. And had a great voice.
“Hunter.”
“You’re a hunter?”
He chuckled softly, for some reason. She modified her assessment: he had a great voice and great laugh.
“I’m Hunter Thibodaux.”
“Cajun.
“N’awlins born and bred, cher.”
God, she loved Cajuns. She’d moved to New Orleans ten years ago because she’d been so enraptured by the city. And, she had to admit, also by the sexy, mysterious quality of the men it produced. Men like this one.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name’s Scarlett Templeton.”
“Scarlett?” he asked, sounding disbelieving. Her name sounded especially Southern when spoken with his lyrical accent, which seemed to lengthen and soften each syllable at the same time. So hot.
One other thing she noted—he hadn’t reacted to her name because he’d recognized it. That was good. He’d merely sounded as though he thought she might be lying. “You’ve got a lot of room to talk. I guess Hunter’s the next Bob, right?”
