by Sylvie Kurtz
Reflexively, Grady whirled Ironsides in the shot's direction. As he ducked for cover, he scanned the growth of young oaks along the wall, searching for movement. Breathing hard from his run, Ironsides trembled beneath him, waiting for a command.
Another shot cracked, whizzing past to their right, missing both horse and rider. The gelding jumped sideways. As Grady settled his horse, a glance over his shoulder showed him Melinda was once again in control of Red and protected by the squat mesquites at the far end of the field.
He inched Ironsides along toward the spot where the shots had originated. The sound of running steps caught his attention, then a blur heading for the dirt access road.
The shooter was getting away.
Grady urged Ironsides into a gallop. He didn't intend to let this would-be murderer get away twice.
A stone wall stood between him and the road. Without missing a beat, he jumped it in time to see an unfamiliar rusty pickup speeding away, a cloud of dust obstructing the license plate. Grady swore hotly as he slowed Ironsides to a halt.
He whirled back over the wall, and headed toward Melinda. On foot and leading the mare, she strode toward him.
"Are you all right?" she asked, a bit breathless, eyes wide with worry.
"Fine. He got away."
"Red's hurt," she said, pointing at the top of the mare's hindquarters.
Ignoring the burning pain in his own thigh, he drew alongside the mare and examined the bleeding wound. "Looks like just a scratch." As was his own injury. "Hop back on and let's get her home."
Deliberately keeping his left side from Melinda's view, Grady led the way home. She had enough to worry about. He glanced at her. She looked pale and scared, but seemed to handle the second attempt on her life in one day with amazing calm. He, on the other hand, burned with rage. He wanted—needed—to punch something, someone. But he didn't want to scare her with the magnitude of his anger. So he ground his jaw until his back teeth hurt.
He'd promised to keep her safe and he'd almost lost her. Right in his own backyard.
Melinda tied the reins around the hitching post, then examined the torn flesh on Red's backside. Grady tied his own horse and disappeared inside the barn. First-aid kit in hand, he came back out and plopped it at her feet.
"Can you handle putting the horses away?" he asked, using Red's neck as a shield. "I've got to call this in."
Already busy at work untacking the mare, she nodded. "Sure. No problem."
"The hose is around the side." Although the gunman was long gone and probably wouldn't be back anytime soon, he hated leaving her alone outside. Exposed. But he also sensed keeping busy would help her deal with the trauma.
Her gaze met his across the mare's neck. "Do what you have to do, Grady. He's gone. I'll be okay."
* * *
His calls completed, Grady was struggling to get out of his bloody jeans when Melinda walked into the house. "I'll be out in a minute."
Threads of the ripped material had stuck in the drying blood, and when he tugged the denim from the wound, a grunt of pain escaped him.
"Grady?" she called from the hallway. "Is everything all right?"
He tried to close his bedroom door, but wasn't fast enough; she spotted the blood on his thigh.
"You're hurt!" She gasped and pushed her way into the room.
"It's nothing." He shrugged, turning away from her toward the closet.
"It needs to be looked at. Who's your doctor?"
"I can handle it." He pulled the closet door open and yanked out a fresh pair of jeans.
"Oh, yes, whatever was I thinking. Of course, a macho man like you can handle a little thing like a bullet. I'll bet you like cold showers and raw steak, too."
"On occasion."
He thought she would back down and leave. Instead, she grabbed the jeans out of his grasp and flung them on the bed. With both hands on his chest, she pushed him backward. When his knees hit the back of the bed, he swayed, trying to hold his ground, then toppled into a sitting position.
"First-aid kit?" she asked, moving to the foot of the bed at his side for a closer look at his bloodied thigh. Her tone left no room for argument, and he found he didn't have the will for one. Besides, with the angle of the wound, having some help would make cleaning it easier.
"In the bathroom."
She came back out armed with a package of gauze, medical tape, a tube of antibiotic cream, a wet cloth and a dry towel.
Kneeling at his side, she washed the raw flesh with the cloth as if tending a half-naked man were a normal task. This from woman with a house built for one. He tried to ignore the brush of her fingers against his skin, the maddening tingling surrounding the throbbing flesh that spread through him like a fast-moving infection. He was thankful the long tails of his shirt hid his stirring reaction, and fervently hoped she wouldn't look up.
"Red's going to be fine," she said, seemingly unaware of the chaos she caused with her diligent nursing. "I think she was more surprised than hurt. She's grazing peacefully now."
"Good," he said, aware of his pulse quickening with each brush of her skin against his.
"Ironsides, on the other hand, is going to be a mess."
The spring scent of her teased his nostrils. "He rolled as soon as you let him into the paddock."
"You got it. His coat was still wet, so now he's caked with mud."
"Typical." Sweat beaded along his forehead.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, frowning down at the side of his thigh.
"No." It burned like hell—the wound, his whole body. And his determination to remember he was a cop and she a witness was smoldering into a pile of ashes.
"I still think you should have this looked at by a doctor." She dabbed around the wound with the dry towel, then slathered antibiotic cream, its coolness a foil to the warmth of her touch. And suddenly, a roomful of high-priced lawyers hell-bent on cross-examining his questionable testimony seemed a cozy alternative to her alluring proximity.
"Was the bullet meant for me or for you?" she asked, not quite able to hide her concern.
Her gaze concentrated on his wound, but her hesitation, her guilt, and her question hit him like a bucket of ice water, bringing him back to the reality of their situation. She was in his care. He had promised to protect her. And had failed. This house was no safer for her than her wrecked haven. "Hard to say. He wants to silence you. I'm in the way."
She covered the wound with a gauze pad, anchoring it in place with medical tape. As she admired her handiwork, a deep frown formed on her forehead. Slowly, deliberately, she traced the flesh around the bandage with the tip of her finger, then leisurely bent down and kissed the same area of sensitive skin. His reaction was instant, fiery and heavy. His fingers curled into the comforter and he sucked in a breath. His skin grew hot and damp despite the ceiling fan whirling above him.
Her hair fell forward in a blue-black cascade, causing a tortuous satiny tickle against his leg. He couldn't decide whether he was in heaven or hell.
With one hand, he cupped the nape of her neck and with his thumb under her chin raised her face to meet his gaze. "Melinda?"
She grasped his hand in one of hers, frowned at the healing bite mark she'd inflicted. She lifted his palm to her mouth and kissed it. Her mouth slid to the inside of his wrist. Her lips, warm against his thrumming pulse, turned his thoughts to mush. The room narrowed to just her and her touch and his growing need. The sweet curve of her breast stood only a breath away from his forearm. A simple wish would place its peak against his flesh. As if reading his thoughts, her nipple strained against the thin material of her silk shirt, branding him with fierce desire. Closing his eyes, he swallowed his frustration.
He wanted her. But it couldn't happen.
Not for him.
Not with her.
She gently let go of his arm and stood. Helpless, he opened his eyes and followed her movement. A sensual fire burned in her dark eyes. His chest rose and fell in hard, deep breaths as h
e fought to retain his control.
Bending forward, she brushed her lips lightly against his cheek … took his face in both her hands … put her lips on his … and pressed gently while looking full into his eyes. He could not mistake the invitation, the naked desire.
He knew then, as he'd instinctively known from the first time he'd gazed into the mystery-deep darkness of her eyes, that he could get lost in them. And when she closed her eyes to heighten the passion of her kiss, he followed where she led—a willing prisoner. He couldn't stop himself. With a groan of surrender, he gave in and let her carry his better judgment away.
* * *
As Grady returned her kiss, Melinda's stomach quivered. A ripple of pleasure purled through her, ignited by the desire so raw and intense in the blue of his eyes, so sweet and hungry under the crush of his lips.
He put his hands on her legs, spread his fingers wide, and slid them slowly upward. The heat of his touch penetrated the thick layer of denim covering her skin. When he reached her waist, he tugged her forward until she pressed against his chest. Desire coiled hot inside her, making her soft and pliable against him. She slid down his body until her knees touched the floor.
Holding her possessively, he trailed his lips down her throat, deep into the open vee of her shirt to the rise of her breasts, and back up again. She moaned a protest. Hands strong on both sides of her jaw, thumbs stroking the corners of her mouth, he tilted her face to his. In the burning blue of his eyes, in his silence, in his held breath, was her chance to turn back.
This was stupid, foolish, for both of them. But she needed this—the warmth of another human being touching, loving and affirming life. She needed him, his strength, to fill her completely, leaving no room for the fear worming into every corner of her life. She wanted to forget the nightmares, the blank spaces, and the death suddenly so close and constant. She craved him, yearned to melt against him, feel the solidity of his body. Running her hands into his thick, brown hair, she kissed him as fiercely as he'd just kissed her, giving him his answer.
He groaned and shivered. He pulled her onto his lap and held her tightly, then rolled sideways into the downy softness of the black-and-navy comforter.
He peeled away the layers of her clothing like the petals of a daisy, his gaze intense, his fingers sure. He loves me, he loves me not … It didn't matter as long as he didn't stop. The last scrap of cloth fell away, leaving every inch of her skin exposed to his admiring gaze.
She reached for the silver buttons of his chambray shirt. He trapped her fingers and pushed them away. As he lay propped on one elbow, the fingers of one hand wound themselves in her hair while the other hand explored the female landscape he'd just discovered. Never would she have guessed that the simple stroking of her hair could prove so erotic. Never would she have thought a touch could arouse such an ache of need. Her insides coiled tight like a wound spring of boundless want.
"Grady." How easily the name rolled off her tongue, how comfortingly it rumbled in her chest. "Please …"
"Are you sure?" he asked, and his big hand paused on her belly.
"Yes." Her voice quavered, her need as open as his in the single word.
"Why?"
She reached up and stroked the edge of his face, feeling the rasp of five o'clock shadow on his jaw. His pupils dilated further, making her body feel jittery in the distance separating them. Closer, she wanted to say. Come closer. "Because I need to feel alive?"
"Is that all?"
"Because I trust you." She held his gaze steadily. "Because I choose to."
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice raspy and low.
For a moment the question took her aback. Then she understood the power he was handing her, the determined strength it took to tamp his hunger and give her a choice. He'd shown her his need, shown her she had the ability to shake his control. A potent thrill quivered through her. She curved toward him. Inhaling the spicy scent of his musk, she pressed her breasts to his chest, her hips to his, her lips to his ear. "I want you," she whispered. "Inside me."
He shuddered. The thunder of his heart beat strong against hers, drowning the whir of the fan. The flat, golden light of late afternoon glowed on his glistening skin. "One night," he said huskily. "That's all."
No empty promises. No false sheltering. No lies. Honesty, plain and simple. She could deal with that. "I'll take whatever you want to give."
And with those words, the control she'd so longed to see shatter did. With a growl low in his throat, he shed his clothes, reached for protection, and rolled onto her. As she stroked the solid muscles of his back, he thrust inside her, driving her to the edge of insanity with every stroke. Eyes closed, rocking to his rhythm, she arched back, reaching with yearning for the release he promised.
"Look at me, Melinda," Grady said, voice gruff.
Tremors tightened, torqued inside her at the unexpected pause, at the gritty fierceness of Grady's voice, at her own unforeseen blazing passion.
She opened her eyes, meeting the deepening blue of his gaze. He moved inside her again. Slowly at first, then faster. He restoked her fire, driving her closer to the golden explosion of release. She wanted to hang there, let the moment linger on the edge of possibility.
"Let yourself fall, Melinda."
And she did, becoming nothing more than a contented heated river, flowing at the mercy of his whim. When his own release came, their skins melded together, their spirits seemed to touch, their souls to unite. One night would never be enough. Forever, she would yearn for a repeat of this moment of perfection.
When she could refocus, his face told her he hadn't expected to fall so hard himself. His stomach rose and fell in a rapid kneading rhythm against hers. She held him, completely sated. Completely secure.
And for the first time in twenty years, she didn't see the nightmarish explosion of colors as she fell asleep—only the golden glow of their spent passion. Securely spooned in the cocoon of his arms, she was safe from the rest of the world.
For now.
Chapter 13
The beeper bleating on his night table jarred Grady awake. The noise sent his heart thundering and his mind racing. For a moment, in the darkness of night surrounding him, he couldn't remember where he was. Then Melinda snuggled closer to his side, her hand sliding proprietarily across his belly, firing a primitive hunger he thought he'd sated completely earlier. And he remembered. Eyes closed, he fumbled for the beeper. Squinting at the small plastic square, he cursed under his breath at the number in the window.
The station.
The effect was a shocking wake-up call he hadn't expected to face until morning.
Even as Melinda's curves fitted more snugly into his side, a mixture of anger and regret had him slipping away from her. A small whimper of protest escaped her. He tucked the sheet around her shoulders. Away from the warmth of her body, he shivered under the air-conditioning's rumbling blast.
What he'd done was unforgivable, unprofessional, unethical—not to mention very, very stupid. He was a cop; she was a witness under his protection.
Once again, he'd let his lust for a woman affect his judgment.
As he punched the numbers into the phone and waited for someone to answer the ring, he realized he'd crossed a dangerous boundary. He looked at Melinda's sleeping features softened by the moonlight streaming through the window. Yet, even knowing this could cost him his promotion to chief, he knew he'd take the risk again, and blasted himself for his weakness where she was concerned.
Glad for the pain in his thigh that burned with each of his movements, he reached for his jeans on the floor and gave himself a mental bracing.
Jamie had proved to him that thinking with his heart instead of his head could lead to trouble. And without a clear head, not only was his future at stake, but so was justice for Angela, and possibly even Melinda's life. To keep her safe, to catch this elusive killer and solve this case, he had to push her away, had to curb his feelings, had to concentrate.
&nb
sp; "Sloan," he barked into the phone when dispatch answered.
"We just got a call about trouble at the Jackalope Acres. Thought you might want to know," the dispatcher said, then hesitated. "The Crews kid called it in himself."
Grady swore. Carson would never call unless the situation had gotten out of control. "I'm on my way."
He shook Melinda awake. "Get dressed," he said, more tersely than he'd meant.
"What?" Melinda stretched out and rubbed her eyes.
Her unconscious movement exposed her creamy skin. The sight of it was like a feast to a hungry man, making Grady salivate, though he couldn't eat. And knowing he couldn't have her again brought an aching sadness more poignant than he could have imagined.
Steeling himself against the need for her growing strong again, he turned from her and reached into the closet for a clean shirt. But not event the scent of fabric softener on the garment could mask the spring freshness of Melinda's perfume still clinging to his skin. He could never get enough of her; not in one lifetime. "There's some trouble I have to take care of. I can't leave you here alone."
Her head fell back to the pillow. "I'll be fine."
"After those shots this afternoon, I can't take the chance." He reached for her and drew her up. "Up you go. You've got less than a minute to get dressed."
When they reached the trailer park, he could hear Jackson's drunken rage from three rows down. Grady shoved the truck into neutral, jerked on the parking brake, and left the engine running. "Stay here and don't move. Got it?"
Melinda started to protest, then wisely nodded.
A group of neighbors, in various states of dress, huddled near the Crews' trailer, speaking in urgent whispers. At the sight of Grady getting out of his truck, a collective sigh of relief arose.
A gray-haired matriarch pushed forward, tightening the too-short belt of her pink terry robe. "It's been goin' on for near a half hour. You've got to stop him before he kills the kid. Don't understand why it hasn't been done already."
Rules, Grady wanted to explain, but didn't. There was no point.
