Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  “Eric is a good friend.”

  “I noticed. You’re close.”

  “Yes, we are, but not like that. I mean, we could never be involved. He’s really like a brother in the truest sense. Since I haven’t dated since Leif died, you see, and—not that we’re dating or anything—but I think it was just hard for Eric to leave with you and me here alone. And, well, the way you made a point of coming in here, I...” As her voice trailed away, she stood there, wishing to God she didn’t feel quite so foolish.

  “Or anything?” he queried softly.

  “What?”

  “We’re not dating, or anything?” he repeated, and she noticed a rueful smile on his face. “Come on, Wendy, we’re doing something together, aren’t we?”

  She smiled, glad that he had a way of making her feel comfortable.

  “Hey. Come over here,” he said softly.

  Slowly, she began to walk toward him.

  She paused when she reached him. The light was still shielding his eyes, while it played over the rippled muscles of his bronze shoulders. There was a rich spattering of tawny hair covering his chest. She wanted to touch it.

  She did.

  She laid her palm flat against his chest.

  And that was when he kissed her. Threading his fingers through her hair, he lowered his head over hers. For the longest time his breath seemed to tease her lips. Tentatively, she gazed into his eyes, soft gold and fascinated as they searched her. Then his lips touched hers, very gently. Her fingers curled into his chest as she felt the force of his mouth upon hers broaden, sweeping her away. His tongue bathed her mouth in a sweet, warm invasion.

  Even with her eyes closed, she saw the man, knew the man. She felt his hands, and his kiss.

  A delicious weakness overcame her. It would be so easy. So easy to give way to the liquid in her knees and fall. He would catch her, she knew. He would catch her and sweep her away to bed, where she could surrender to the darkness of night.

  His lips parted slowly from hers, hovering above her. She felt the golden probe of his gaze again.

  “Wendy...” he murmured.

  They were spellbound, locked in a magical moment. She used her free hand to smooth the tendril of hair that had fallen over his forehead.

  He inhaled, and then exhaled, shakily. With stony resolve, he lifted her hands and kissed her palms. “Go to bed, Wendy,” he told her.

  She lowered her eyes, nodding. Neither of them was ready. “Good night.”

  She started walking to the door.

  “Wendy!”

  In an instant he was beside her again, and she rushed into his arms. This time he kissed her with passion and fire, and then his hands slipped deftly beneath her oversized shirt, finding her bare breasts beneath it. As his palms caressed her nipples a jagged sob escaped her lips beneath the sweet and savage force of his kiss.

  And then, just as she had imagined, he swept her off her feet, heading with purpose for the bed that loomed huge and enticing in the shadows of the night.

  6

  With grave tenderness, he eased her down upon the bed. She could feel the urgent hunger in the heated length of his body as he lay down beside her. His kiss continued to sear her, and his touch lingered upon her. His hands were everywhere, holding her face, stroking her shoulder, caressing her bare back. He was staging an onslaught against her senses, and she wanted desperately to hold on to each feeling, to each nuance of emotion and reaction. He was awakening sensations she had forgotten, feelings she had forsaken when Leif died.

  His passionate assault was like the sudden surge of the tide; swept into that tide, she found that thought was difficult. She explored his chest with her fingertips, marveling at the warmth of his flesh, the tension in his muscles. She loved the coarse feeling of the short, whorling hairs that teased her fingertips, and most of all, she loved the evocative feel of his body over hers, so much of him eclipsing so much of her.

  She seemed to drown in his kiss, for it was never ending, although it evolved. Fiercely, he claimed her lips...then pulled away to press his mouth against the pulse in her throat, or the hollow of her collarbone. The inner circle of his palm fell gently against her breast, and his fingers closed slowly around the full weight of it, exploring and caressing sensitive areas.

  Minutes passed...or aeons. She breathed in the enticing male scent of his bare flesh, and she arched to meet his kiss. It was easy to respond, far easier than she had expected, for she had not known that she was starved. The darkness quietly shielded her from any sense of reality, even as the full bulge growing against his denim jeans warned her that she was plunging, falling downward into a tempest from which she could not rise. She was falling into the forbidden realm, a realm of pleasure, where loneliness was masked, and thirst was sated.

  But then, abruptly, without a word, he pulled away from her. The only sound was the belabored rush of his breath. She knew from the heat of his flesh and the hardened feel of his body that he had not lost his desire for her. But it was over. Whatever it had been, he had ended it.

  In the dim light his eyes seemed to gleam like a great cat’s, sizzling and gold. He rested upon an elbow and stared curiously down at her. Wendy bit her inner lip, wondering what had driven him away.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her words a whisper.

  He drew the tip of his thumb over her cheek, staring pensively at her face. He shook his head. “This—I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “But I came to you!”

  They remained still. The only movement was that of his thumb, the callused pad stroking her flesh. She could read no emotion in his eyes; she had no idea what he was thinking or feeling.

  Suddenly, her emotions crumbled, stung by the rejection. She had laid herself on the line. She hadn’t been dreaming of the past; no ghosts had drifted between them. She had offered herself—and he had refused her. He’d dealt the supreme blow to her confidence.

  “Oh, dear God!” she muttered. Humiliated, she shoved against him. Apparently, he hadn’t expected her to touch him, at least not so vehemently. She pushed him so hard that he rolled right onto the floor.

  “Wendy! Dammit, wait, listen—”

  Brad’s kneecap hurt where he’d slammed it onto the floor. His head had bumped against the bed frame and, all in all, he felt like an idiot.

  It seemed that a guy just couldn’t win. He had known he was bound for trouble, wanting her as he did. But he’d expected her to be angry with him for taking advantage of her, not for trying desperately, with a restraint that went above and beyond, to respect her. “Wendy!” Muttering to himself and wincing in pain, Brad scrambled back to his feet.

  Wendy was desperately fighting the urge to burst into tears—not a little rivulet of damp tears, but a thunderous storm of wet, sloppy tears. She tore into her own room, but there was no way to lock the door against him—he had broken the lock that morning.

  Wendy slammed the door anyway.

  It didn’t do any good. “Wendy!” Brad knocked on the door. When she didn’t answer, he opened it and waited in the doorway, still breathless. She sat at the foot of her bed, her back to him, fiercely cradling her pillow. Soft light spilled in from the hall, falling over her, striking her hair with a golden glow.

  “Wendy! I want to talk to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Wendy, please, listen to me.” He stood behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, surprised to discover how much she was trembling.

  She tried to shrug him away, but he sat down behind her. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t touch me,” she said stiffly.

  He let go of her shoulders but remained behind her. “We’ve got to talk,” he said hoarsely. “Wendy, if you would just turn around and talk to me—”

  She spun around t
hen, putting distance between them. She jerked the band out of her hair and golden locks tumbled down to her shoulders. She shook them out in absent vehemence, staring at him with shimmering silver eyes that reflected light like diamonds. “What? Talk. Say whatever it is and then go away.”

  He sighed. “Wendy, you’re not making this easy.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll forgive me. It isn’t very easy from my side, either. I’m not good at this to begin with. I’ve been out of practice for some time.”

  “Wendy, that’s just the point.”

  She inhaled, holding back a sob. He reached out to touch her cheek again, and he felt the warm, liquid tears there. “Wendy...”

  “Stop it! For the love of God, will you stop it?”

  He pulled her into his arms. She fought him, tensing and straining against him. He couldn’t let her go, so he held her until she stopped fighting him, until she collapsed against his chest and let him wrap his arms around her.

  “Brad, please,” she murmured against his chest. She could taste the sweet salt of his flesh when she spoke; she could feel the beat of his heart, strong beneath her cheek.

  He smoothed back her hair, somewhat awed by its color in the night. Angel’s hair. So soft, so silky, so beautifully blond. “Wendy, I want you so badly, don’t you see?”

  She stiffened again. “No, quite frankly, I don’t.”

  In the darkness, he smiled. “Wendy, it’s just too quick. I want you, but I want it to be right. I don’t want you to wake up in the morning and be sorry. I don’t want to be a substitute for your husband, and I don’t want you to regret what you did in the darkness. I want you to want me.”

  She kept silent for a moment, warmed by his embrace, feeling ridiculously secure, since she knew he offered her no real security. On the contrary, he offered her danger, in many different guises. “I did want you,” she said at last.

  “Did you? Did you really?” He kissed her forehead. Then, very gently, he kissed her lips again and smiled at her. “You’re a very special lady, Wendy. And we are going to make love. Here I’ve been racking my head all day trying to figure out how not to drag you into bed. And to top it off, you wander into my bedroom when I’ve been a damned saint and shut myself up for the night. I’ll never be able to leave you without knowing what we have to share. But I care too much now, Wendy. I care too much about you to not take it slowly. That’s what we really want, what we both deserve. A night of passion with no regrets in the morning.” He finished off his words with another kiss, a slow, languid kiss.

  She felt as if her heart still beat a hundred miles an hour, as if her blood still raced through her system painfully. She pushed away from him, groaning softly as she twisted her head. “Brad, if you have any feelings for me, please! Leave me alone now.”

  “No.”

  Incensed, she tried to break free from his hold. He caught her arms and held her close. With one deft, sure movement, he pulled her back onto the bed. His shoulders and head rested against a plump pillow, and her head was tucked against his chest, her hair splayed in a lustrous array upon it.

  He longed to touch that hair. He longed to do much, much more. But he was afraid to release her. He kept his arm around her, aware of the tension in her, aware that she could easily bolt.

  “Wendy,” he murmured, “want to know my middle name?”

  “What?” He could see her bewildered frown, but he also felt some of the tension ease out of her. Daring to ease his powerful hold, he stroked the golden hair that spilled over his flesh, haunting his senses.

  “Michael. Brad Michael McKenna. I’m a Scorpio.”

  She started to laugh, twisting around to sit in his arms. “Brad, this is my bedroom, not a singles bar.”

  “All right, well, that makes things a little more intimate. What was your maiden name?”

  She frowned again, then a slow smile curved her lips. “Harper. Wendy Anne Harper.”

  “And how old are you, Wendy Anne?”

  “That’s damned nosy, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “You can’t be that old.”

  “Thirty-one,” she told him. “And you?”

  “Thirty-five, next November. When is your birthday?”

  “February fourteenth.”

  “Valentine’s Day baby, hmm? Do you like sushi?”

  “I hate it.”

  “Well, I love it, but I suppose that’s a minor detail. You live in the Everglades, but you hate sushi?”

  She laughed. “What does that have to do with it?”

  “You’re surrounded by fish.”

  “That doesn’t mean that I have to eat the things raw.”

  She settled down, nestling her head against his chest again. Her breath fanned against him, just as her hair tantalized his naked flesh like a feather tauntingly stroking skin. He inhaled deeply, breathing in her perfume, the scent of her shampoo and the sweet female scent of her body.

  She was gentle against him, soft and relaxed. She brought her hand against her mouth, stifling a yawn. He kept stroking her hair. “What’s my name, Wendy?”

  “What?”

  “My name? What’s my name?”

  “What is this game? Brad. Brad McKenna. At least, I think it’s your real name.”

  Her eyes—shimmering, liquid silver—rose to his. A painful desire jolted through him again. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the clamoring demands of his masculinity.

  “Yeah, it’s my real name. But it isn’t my whole name.”

  She twisted her jaw slightly, half smiling, half frowning. “Brad Michael McKenna.”

  He nodded, pleased. “That’s right, Ms. Wendy Anne Harper Hawk, who hates sushi and lives with the gators and creatures and became thirty-one last February fourteenth. Oh—and who likes the Beatles and keeps a wonderfully neat, hospitable home.” He touched her chin, drawing her eyes closer to his. “Wendy, it is nice to get to know you.”

  She smiled. He touched her lips with his fingers, and she eased her head down against his chest again.

  He didn’t remember saying anything else—nor did he think that she did. They fell asleep that way and woke up beside one another, in her bed, but fully dressed.

  Awakened by a stream of early-morning sunshine, Brad mused that it was a damned unusual way for him to start the day.

  But then, Wendy was a damned unusual woman. Unique.

  Special.

  He leaned over, kissed her forehead and rose. She looked like a sleeping angel, with a serene expression on her beautiful features and wisps of blond hair clouding around her. He kissed her again, then quietly closed the door.

  An hour later, when Wendy awoke, she could smell the enticing aroma of sizzling bacon. She didn’t rise right away, but remained in bed, pondering the night.

  She didn’t know what to think. She liked Brad more than ever; she admired him. There was a streak of honor in his character, a quality that was rare and unusual, and she appreciated it. But, then again, the hell with honor. It could have been so easy—a pair of consenting adults indulging in a quick affair inspired by circumstance.

  But no. The man who cared nothing about marriage just had to get to know her first.

  Who would have ever imagined...he was a lot like Leif in that sense. Leif had always had his particular sense of ethics, and nothing could ever sway him. Bright and every bit as striking a man as Eric, Leif could have traveled anywhere and accomplished anything, but his heart was pledged to his tribe and his land. Despite rich opportunities elsewhere, this had been his home.

  And Leif had moved slowly with her. He would have never forced her into anything. He had just let her fall in love with him first, and then with the curious, subtle beauty of the swamp.

  Yes, there was something about them that was alike, she thought, no matter how stra
nge. Her dark, patient husband with his love of the landscape, and this tawny-haired, cosmopolitan drug agent with his total disdain for muck and mud.

  A tap on the door roused her from her thoughts. Brad stood in the doorway, freshly shaved and showered, and looking as young and cheerful as a college student.

  “Breakfast is almost on. You’ve got time for a shower if you want.”

  Wendy nodded. “Thanks.” He returned to the kitchen, and she stole into the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

  The scent of shaving cream was still fresh in the bathroom. He had wiped down the tile in the shower and cleaned the mirror and the sink. And yet, a hint of his presence lingered there. Absurdly, Wendy felt like crying again.

  It was reassuring, this lingering reminder of a man in the bathroom. A second damp towel, a second mug on the counter...

  A second body in bed at night.

  She stepped impatiently beneath the hot spray of the shower.

  Damn Brad McKenna! Things should have been left to take their course. They would have enjoyed a swift, fleeting affair of mutual passion—and nothing more. She didn’t want to wonder what it would be like to live with the man longer.

  By the time she came out of the shower, her mood had brewed into a volatile tempest.

  Brad awaited her in the kitchen amid the aromas of coffee, fried bacon and tomato-and-pepper omelets. Two places were set at the counter. He’d done a nice job of arranging things, with place mats, napkins and even a wild orchid nestled between the plates as a peace offering.

  But Wendy just didn’t feel very peaceful that morning. Brad seemed too at ease, too proud of himself.

  “Mrs. Hawk?” With a flourish, he pulled back one of the rattan counter stools for her. Wendy sat, watching him as she carefully unfolded her napkin. He slid into the chair beside her.

  “Made yourself right at home, I see,” she said sweetly, eyeing him over her juice glass as she took a sip.

  He stiffened. “I guess I did. Sorry. You’ve led me to believe that I was welcome to anything here—anything at all.”

  Wendy didn’t know what was simmering inside of her. She was being completely unreasonable, and she knew it. He had done her the courtesy of creating a nice breakfast. She should have thanked him. Somehow, she couldn’t do it.