Playing For Keeps (Montana Men)

by Jaydyn Chelcee

  Rafe nodded, weakening. “You’ll do exactly what I say?”

  “Yes.”

  He thrust his fingers through her damp hair. “Swear you won’t leave me for Danger?”

  She smiled. “Never. I love you, Rafe. I loved you before you ever touched me on Christmas day. My feelings haven’t changed. You make me whole. You’re good for my wounded soul.”

  “Sweetheart.” He pulled her into his arms and pressed a light kiss against her forehead. “You make me feel humble and so honored to have your love.” Rafe sighed and squeezed her waist. “Where the fuck are we going to stay? I refuse to go back to Danger’s ranch.”

  “We won’t have to. There’s a motel in Rimrock.”

  “Lace, that place isn’t fit for human habitation, and we have no idea how long we’ll have to remain once we return. We need a temporary home, not a motel room.”

  “We can stay at Danger’s grandparents’. Since both of them passed on last year, the house has stood empty.”

  “You think Danger will let us stay there?”

  “If he wants me to return to Rimrock, he has no choice. I’ll call him and make the arrangements.”

  “Okay. I’ll take a shower while you pack. And Lace?”

  “Yes?” She turned to face him.

  “Don’t take any of his verbal abuse. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Yes, I have, but not nearly as much as he has. I promise I won’t take anything from him. I owe him nothing.”

  “I hate the thought of you being anywhere near where Smitt Davis might be.”

  “I know.” Lacey reached for his cell. “We have to kill him, Rafe.” She pressed a hand against her stomach. “We have to kill Smitt Davis. If we don’t, he’ll come after us or fixate on some other woman who won’t have a clue he’s out there.”

  He nodded. “We’ll get him, baby. I swear it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Let justice be done, though the heavens fall.

  ~Legal Maxim

  Ohio

  Motor Lodge Motel

  February 17, Tuesday

  Nine hours after the assassination…

  Oh, God. He was dying—or worse—already dead.

  Flayme stared at the downed cowboy and felt a trickle of icy fear settle in her stomach. He wasn’t stirring, not even an eyelash. She squirmed in the chair, terrified that he’d keeled over, dead as a post.

  And it was all her doing.

  She’d fry for this, she thought. Yep, they’d strap her in an electric chair, shave her head, wet her poor, bald scalp with a super-sized sponge, screw a metal bonnet to her skull and turn on the zippy juice. Bzzz! Snap-crackle-pop! Good-bye, cowboy murderess. Good-bye, world! She’d become tomorrow’s history—yesterday’s news.

  God, she was a sick puppy thinking thoughts like this. “Get your mind on business, Flayme.”

  She needed to help him, but damn, how could she with her wrists locked behind her and the cuffs linked around the back spindle of her chair? This was just not right. How was a lady supposed to help or make good her escape when the kidnapper kept restraining her to anything handy? Determined to gather her wits, Flayme drew a sharp breath and slowly exhaled. Think, damn it!

  How had he unlocked the cuffs? Maybe he carried a spare key in one of his boots? Boy, even if he was awake and alert, he was so not going to share his secret hiding place with her. She eyed him, then eyed the hard floor, and knew tipping over her chair and falling was going to hurt like hell.

  “Another black mark in my book against you, cowboy. Yeah, that’s right. The list is growing quite large. Hell,” she muttered, “like you give a crap.” Flayme tilted her chin in that stubborn way she knew she had of defying everything and everybody, and rocked the chair. Might as well get it over with, she told herself. She couldn’t just sit here and wait for his passing. She had to find that key and get free. Rocking the chair, it only took her a second to accomplish her task. “Ooof!” She lay there panting. Boy, her chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe. “You really know how to show a lady a good time—knocked the wind right out of my sails.” Not only that, but she’d cracked her left knee against the hard floor. “I can’t just let you die. I hope you’re damn well worth the pain I’m going through to help you, cowboy.”

  “I am,” he moaned.

  Flayme blinked. No way. No way in Hades he’d spoken those two little words.

  “Don’t just lay there glaring at me,” he growled. “Get the key.”

  “Gee, what do you have to be so ticked off about?”

  “You, lady, you’re a walking nightmare.”

  “I’m also the one with a sore foot, a banged-up knee and bruises from head to toes. And I’m the one who was shot at and handcuffed!”

  “Is that all?” he said with a sour look. “Try getting stabbed and clobbered over the head with a phone, then complain. Help me, for Pete’s sake!”

  Crap! He really was conscious. And here she’d been bemoaning the fact that he was half dead. Between stabbing and knocking him silly, she thought she’d done permanent damage—death-like permanent damage. “You trust me to help you?” she asked hesitantly.

  A sigh. “Do I have a choice, woman? I’m too damn weak to fight you. At the moment, I feel so gawd-awful, I don’t even care if you stab me again.”

  Flayme dragged herself closer, ignoring the way the chair scraped the floor and grated on her nerves. “You don’t?” She leaned as close to him as she could manage. Practically nose-to-nose, she detected tiny gold flecks swirling in the deep green of his eyes.

  “No.” He searched her face. “But please, if you’re going to kill me, make it fast.”

  She nibbled at her lower lip and struggled against bursting into tears. So much blood. Heck, his shirt was plastered to his chest with it. How much of the precious red liquid had he lost? Too much, her mind screamed. No doubt, she was going to burn in hell. “I’m not going to kill you,” she whispered, bursting into tears. “But if you die on me, I swear to God I’ll make you wish you were dead.”

  “I know there’s some sense in that statement somewhere, but I fail to find it.”

  “Tough! Now where is the key to the cuffs?”

  “Right jeans pocket,” he said.

  “For real?”

  “Yeah, and don’t cop a feel.”

  Flayme choked, then snickered. “Don’t make me laugh. I need to pee in the worst way. You make me laugh, and I promise both of us will be very sorry.” She hesitated, then moaned. “This isn’t going to be easy. I have to turn my back to you, because some idiot locked my wrists behind me. You’ll have to get up close to my…er—”

  “Ass?”

  “Yep, that’d be it,” she said, “so don’t you cop a feel.”

  “Just get the damn key. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a chair between me and your ass.”

  “Trust me, I’ve noticed,” she said with a hint of derision. “What do I do with the key once I have it?” She wasn’t responsible for the fact that her breasts rubbed against his chest when she flipped over, fumbled, then fished around for the key.

  His soft groan sent a spear of delight hurling through her body. Amazingly, she discovered she was smiling like a moonstruck baboon. Why the hell she was grinning like an idiot was beyond her. Alive! He was still alive. The knowledge filled her heart with gladness—until it hit her. “You jerk,” she screamed.

  “What?” He looked puzzled, and she just knew, damn it, she knew he was playing her. “You let me flip this dang chair, flip, flop, and roll and get as close to you as I can when you can simply reach inside your pocket and get the key? It’s not like you’re cuffed or anything. That would be me.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, it would.”

  “You are one low-down, sneaky rat.”

  “That I am.” He closed his eyes and lay there as still as death. Then his chest rose and fell in soft little ragged breaths.

  Flayme frowned. Maybe he hadn’t been faking it after all. Maybe he
wasn’t quite with her and didn’t have the strength left to dig the key out of his pocket. She’d be the first to admit he looked awful, pale as a ghost floating above a gravestone, and he just lay there, so still, beside her.

  She grunted, edged her body as close as she could manage and worked her fingers inside his jeans pocket.

  “I told you not to cop a feel.”

  She gasped. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying—”

  “Have you got the key or not?” He sounded frail, but impatience threaded his words.

  “Yes. I have it. Now what?” She waited for an answer. Total silence filled the room. Oh, God. Had he stopped breathing? She couldn’t hear those ragged sounds of him inhaling and exhaling. How was she supposed to help him with her hands cuffed behind her back? She couldn’t even help herself. She lifted her gaze so she could see his face. Oh, heavens. He was dead. Anyone that pale and still had to be dead. “Hey!” Flayme shouted the one word. Her voice trembled with terror.

  “What?”

  “Oh! You’re still alive?”

  “Jesus, woman, didn’t I just answer you?” He flung an arm across his face and moaned. “Leave me alone. Can’t you?”

  “No. And yes. I know you’re alive…now. You aren’t going to be, if you don’t tell me what to do with this key.”

  “You have to manage to work it into the slot and unlock the cuffs.”

  “I can’t do that,” she said on a hysterical note.

  “Then let me die in peace.”

  “No. I want to help you.”

  He moved his arm away from his face and opened one eye. There wasn’t a smidgeon of humor in his hard gaze. “Help me? Lady, if I get any more help from you, someone will have to bury me.”

  She puffed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Glare all you want, but you don’t exactly look threatening all sprawled out here on the floor barely breathing, and bleeding like a menstruating monkey.”

  He pushed himself into a sitting position, then gradually rose to his feet. “Good God. Where the hell do you come up with such sayings? You and my brother Jace would hit it off. He’s always coming up with crap like that.”

  “What?” She blinked, uncertain what he was referring to. And if he was nearly dead, how the heck did he just manage to rise to his feet?

  “Never mind. And no, I won’t let you help me. The kind of help you offer, I can do without. Do you honestly think I’m fool enough to give you another chance to cold-cock me with something or stab me?” He jerked the key out of her hand. “You’ll remain cuffed.”

  “Are you insane? Did you just play me? Again?”

  He grinned. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m an idiot who ought to know better than to trust anyone from D.C.”

  “I’m not from D.C.”

  Flayme clenched her jaw. “You let me tip over my chair onto this…this stupid, hard-ass floor and crawl to get to you. I rolled with it three―no, four times, and you don’t need my help? You loved that. Didn’t you? Lying there and pretending to be weak and helpless?”

  “I wouldn’t say I was pretending.”

  To her surprise, he unlocked the cuffs and tossed them on the nightstand. She stared at him, afraid to move. He was the first man she’d ever met whom she couldn’t read. He’d been yanking her chain, and she’d fallen for it, more than once just like a stupid goose. Anger scalded her blood. She rose to her feet and hobbled toward the bathroom. “I hope you had fun at my expense. All I wanted was to help you. I swear. You need help.”

  “What I need is for you to clam up. Where are you going?”

  “Where does it look like I’m going?”

  “Don’t try anything funny.”

  Flayme silently counted to ten. “The only thing funny in this room is you. If you just have to have a minute-by-minute accounting, I’m going to pee!” She opened the bathroom door and slammed it behind her.

  * * * *

  Duel stood there waiting, listening. It’d be just like her to crawl out the bathroom window. He should have nailed it shut. Hindsight, he thought. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

  Mumbling.

  He grinned. At least she was still there.

  “I’m peeing now! Wiping, pulling up my drawers, fastening my jeans, washing my hands—let’s see, anything else?”

  “All right! I get the picture. Get back out here.”

  Flayme returned, only to stand there and glare at him. “I want a shower.”

  “Later,” he snapped. “I’m tired. I wanna get some rest.”

  “Look, all I wanna do is…God, I’m sorry I hurt you. Okay?” Surprisingly, she sounded sincere. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore or inflict more injuries.”

  “No?”

  “No. I’ve pretty much reached the conclusion you have no intention of harming me. Okay? Can we call a truce?”

  “No, it isn’t okay. I haven’t concluded you don’t intend to harm me.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she said.

  “I’m serious as a heart attack. You assaulted a government agent…twice.”

  “I didn’t know you were an agent, at least not the first time. How could I know such a thing? I thought you were the man who shot at me.”

  “And who was that, exactly?” He sank onto the side of the bed. “Why was he shooting at you?”

  “Swear to God, if I was able, I’d punch you right in the nose. You have to be the most stubborn man I’ve ever had the misfortune to tangle up with.”

  “And you, my lovely, evade telling the truth.”

  “I can’t tell you something I don’t know.”

  He snorted.

  “I swear I don’t know his reason for shooting at me. How could I? It all happened so fast. Maybe it was a good day for taking potshots.”

  “Well,” he released a hard breath, “I’ve learned when someone is shooting at another someone, there’s usually a pretty damn good reason. What did you do to piss him off, stab him in the balls?”

  “Certainly not!” she denied. “I’d never seen him before,” she said indignantly.

  “So a stranger shoots at you for the hell of it? Wanna try another one before that one gets cold? What makes you so important that a hit man is willing to risk getting caught by breaking into the CIA building? Then shoot at an ordinary secretary? Hell, scratch that. There’s nothing ordinary about you.”

  “Thanks…I think,” she returned dryly. “I don’t know why he shot at me. I’m not important.”

  “Oh, I think you just might be.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  Duel leaned toward her and clasped her arms. He studied the purple bruises that banded her wrists. Gently, he rubbed her skin. He glared at the bruises, then at the cuffs. He snatched up the cuffs and dropped them in the trash can. “No more,” he said softly. “If you wanna go, go. I’m not putting those damn things on you again.” Gently, he stroked the discolorations, drawing tiny, imaginary circles on her skin with his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  A tingle started in her lower spine and spread to her stomach. Her womb clenched with need. “So you’ve decided to trust me?”

  “No. I’m just too tired to worry about what you might do next.”

  “You need my help with your wounds?”

  “No. I told you, I’m beat.”

  Flayme eyed him. “I didn’t peg you for a man who gives up easily.”

  “I’m not giving up, just giving out.” He didn’t even flinch when she brushed the damp hair back from his face. “God, you’re burning up,” she said. “I should get you to a hospital.”

  “No.” He proved he wasn’t quite out of it by clamping his fingers around her wrist.

  When she moaned, he let go. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I should have realized you were sore. No matter what happens, don’t take me to a hospital. They’ll ask too many questions. Go take your shower, then I’ll take one. Then, you take care of me.”


  * * * *

  Flayme blinked, wondering at his innuendo.

  “My wounds,” he clarified. “You can take care of my injuries.”

  “But…I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a nurse. You need antibiotics. You need stitches, for heaven’s sake!”

  Duel nodded. “The first aid kit that clerk gave me has medicine, a suture kit, and about anything else I might need.”

  “You expect me to stitch your wounds?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “Hey, anyone who can wield a knife the way you do can damn sure sew up a wound.”

  “Yuck! Stabbing you was fast. Sewing you up is going to take some time.”

  A faint grin twisted his lips. “Good.”

  “You’re an ass. Aren’t you?”

  His mouth quirked. “Nah.” At her accusing look, he nodded. “Okay. I suppose I can be. My brother, Jace, would certainly side with you on the subject.”

  “Suppose?” Flayme smoothed her shirt. She figured that was as close to an admission of guilt or apology she’d get from him. His gaze tracked her movement and settled on her breasts. She hesitated, then dropped her arms to her sides. “So can I.”

  “Don’t I know it?”

  “I was perfect until you came along. You know how to try a lady’s temper.” She turned to leave the room, dreading stitching his injuries, but if she didn’t, he was likely going to die on her. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in a federal pen.

  “I think you might be the key to this entire mess,” he said, “or at least a big piece of the puzzle. Someone wants you dead. So, run away, if that’s what you still wanna do. I won’t stop you. I just wanna sleep. So don’t stab me again or slit my throat…or cuff me to this bed.”

  She studied him for an intense moment. Certainly he was handsome, when he wasn’t in such a banged-up shape. Even though she might not want to be, she was attracted to him. “I’m not going to run away, or kill you.”