Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  “I’m glad,” Brad said. Although he shouldn’t be prying into her life, Tony Panther was willing to give him answers, so he decided to ask a few more questions. “What happened to Leif Hawk?”

  Tony appeared startled. “She’s never told you?”

  Brad shook his head.

  Tony stared off in the distance. “He was killed. In cold blood. Eric’s wife was killed with him.”

  “What?” Brad demanded huskily.

  He didn’t get an answer. From the water, there was a sudden commotion. He looked up to find that Wendy had come at last.

  She seemed to fly out of the airboat. She didn’t seem to see anything or anyone—until her eyes lighted on him. Her eyes were huge and sparkling and silver and—quite suddenly—sizzling with fury.

  She was running toward him with all the lean energy of a pouncing tiger. Warily, Brad stood up. A moment later she catapulted herself against him, half screaming and half sobbing in fury. “You son of a bitch! You stinking—cop!”

  “Wendy!” She took a swing at him and he ducked. She flew around in a circle with the force of her blow, and he caught her, pinning her arms to her sides.

  “Hi, Wendy,” Tony said lightly.

  She ignored him, and her fierce glare bored into Brad. “You inconsiderate, careless weasel! You scared me half to death!”

  “Wendy! Wendy Hawk!” She tensed and swallowed, apparently aware that Grandfather was approaching the scene. “Wendy, you calm down.”

  Far from calm, she struggled against Brad’s hold and managed to turn. “Grandfather! You wily fox! How could you do this to me! I was so frightened.”

  “Wendy!” Brad swung her back around again. “I left you a note—”

  “Liar!”

  “Wendy!” Grandfather said sharply. Immediately, her anger softened, and Brad realized how much she loved and respected the old man. Still staring at Brad with a look that could kill, Wendy exhaled slowly.

  “Wendy, he did leave the note. You do not call a man a liar unless you know it is truth to do so. And to deny a friend, that is even worse. He is a man of his word. You must have known that, or else you would not have him at your house.”

  Wendy nodded, trembling in Brad’s arms. “I even remembered the shotgun.”

  She had been truly frightened for him. Her concern was reassuring, though he hadn’t meant to scare her. “Wendy, honestly. I left a note.”

  “I was scared to death.” She tried to retain some of her anger, while regaining her dignity. Her words were still a whisper, and he longed to touch her, to kiss away her worry right then and there.

  “I’m sorry, Wendy.”

  “Come on, Brad. Wendy, please? We’re tucking the kids into bed, and they’ll be heartbroken if they don’t get to see you.”

  Wendy forced herself to tear her eyes from Brad and smile at Tony. “Of course, Tony. I’m dying to give them all great big hugs.”

  Brad lagged behind for a moment, wondering about the story Tony had been telling him. He needed to hear the end of it. Leif Hawk and Eric’s wife had been killed—in cold blood.

  The very thought of it was tragic. Wendy and Eric had shared a great deal, an ocean of sorrow, and Brad couldn’t help the tug of pure sympathy that tore at his heart.

  A young man, and a young woman, cruelly taken from life. What the hell had happened, and who did he ask?

  “Brad, are you coming?”

  They were waiting for him. “Yes, yes, I’m coming. Thanks.”

  As Brad caught up with them, the gold remnants of twilight left the sky and night fell, a blanket of darkness.

  8

  It was late when they returned to Wendy’s house. They’d spent the evening huddled around the cooking fire. By its eerie light, Willie Hawk had woven tales of the past, of a people forced to run away from a white government that had betrayed the Seminoles at every turn. Brad thought it appropriate that the name Seminole meant “runaway.” He’d spent most of his career running from dealers and mobsters.

  His head was fuzzy from folklore and brew. Brad wasn’t sure what he had been drinking all night. Tony called it a “black” drink and assured him it wouldn’t do anything to him that Jack Black wouldn’t. But it was potent stuff—very powerful.

  In the darkness of the clearing, a blackness alleviated only by the campfire, he could almost see a mist around old Willie. And in that mist he could see the past: warriors, feathered and oiled, shaking knives and rifles in the air, clad in the colorful garb they had borrowed from the Spanish and adapted to their own use. He could see a million fires. He could hear a cry on the wind. He was entranced.

  The night was black, but the wind felt refreshing against his face as they drove back to Wendy’s place. Brad reveled in the quiet of the swamp when the motor died. They were sounds that he was coming to recognize and understand.

  When they stepped back into Wendy’s house, he felt comfortable, as if he were home. Wendy wandered into the kitchen, and Brad went to the stereo and began to browse through her collection of tapes and discs and albums. “Okay if I turn on the stereo?”

  “Whatever you want,” she called back.

  Whatever he wanted.

  Brad found an old album by the Temptations. He carefully set the needle on the vinyl record, then collapsed upon the couch. She had an impressive music system, with dynamite speakers. He closed his eyes as the music filled the room and soothed his spirit.

  When he opened his eyes, Wendy was leaning against the counter, smiling at him tolerantly. He grinned at her, then rose slowly.

  Whatever he wanted. That was what she had said. He wanted to hold her in his arms.

  She was a vision of loveliness. Her hair fell free about her face, and her silver eyes sparkled. She was wearing jeans and a tailored shirt. Her shirt collar angled around her smooth throat in a manner that Brad found enticing.

  Her smile was the killer. Her smile revealed her essence, the sweet, elusive quality that drew him to her, that excited him, that elicited the tenderness and the yearning.

  He lifted a hand to her. His head was spinning, either from the Indian drink or the devastating effect of her beauty. “Want to dance?”

  “Dance?”

  “Move around on the floor. Step to the music. Dance.”

  He caught hold of her hands. There was silver laughter in her eyes as he drew her to him, enfolding her into his arms. The Temptations were singing about “sunshine on a cloudy day” as he held her close.

  “See? Dance?”

  “In the living room?” She laughed.

  “Anywhere.”

  He released her slightly, swinging her out, then back into his arms. She was still laughing as he sang off-key to the music.

  “This is a classic album,” he told her, pulling her close. “You’ve good taste in music.”

  “Thanks.”

  The music faded, then another song began. He moved with the soft, slow tempo, grateful for the lovely woman in his arms. His left hand caressed the small of her back. He could feel her flesh beneath the cotton shirt. The softness of her breasts brushing against him caused a definite reaction inside him.

  The music...it seemed to be a part of them. It was so very easy to move with Wendy in his arms. But suddenly he realized that he wasn’t moving at all. He was merely staring down into her eyes, her beautiful eyes, with their startling silver color and their dark, sweeping lashes. She had to know what he was feeling, everything that he was feeling.

  She smiled very slowly. The little vixen, he thought.

  Did she know that his pulse was pounding hopelessly out of control? Surely she could feel that he was taut and tense and that his muscles were constricted with desire. She was so close, he could feel her softness. He could feel the fullness of her breasts, the pebble hardnes
s of her nipples through their clothing. He could feel the trembling that swept her, the supple length of her thighs, the angle of her hip, the soft and almost indiscernible swell of her femininity.

  She just had to feel the evidence of his desire, straining against his borrowed jeans. She just had to...

  She did. He knew by the soft, silver clouds that filled her eyes. By her slightly parted lips, by the ragged whisper of her breath.

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and they somehow became even more tempting. Glossy and sleek and still tempting. Lowering his head while the Temptations serenaded them, he kissed her.

  The feeling was riveting. Their mouths fused in a passionate union, hot and electric. For a moment, they broke apart, then he held her face, searched out her eyes and kissed her again. Gently, his palms kneaded the soft flesh of her back until he reached her buttocks. Lifting her against him, he fitted her to his form while her arms clung tightly to his neck and their mouths continued to meet, exploring, melding.

  She broke away, gasping for breath. He stared at her with the rage of his passion naked in his eyes.

  Had she ever felt like this? she wondered. So excited that it hurt? So sensually alive and aware that his kiss seemed to reach into her body and soul, warming her through and through.

  She had been married to a man she loved, and theirs had been a passionate relationship. Maybe this desire was heightened by the loss of her only love. Maybe it was due to her loneliness.

  And maybe it was just Brad, the man himself.

  But she had never, never felt like this. Desperate to have more of him, she longed to latch her arms around his neck again and savor the sizzling heat that flared between them. She’d waited too long. She wanted to feel her flesh naked against his.

  “Brad,” she whispered against his mouth.

  He paused, staring down at her.

  “Brad, is this ‘when’? I mean, you said you’d let me know when, so if this isn’t it...” Her voice trailed away and her body grew heated and flushed. She didn’t know if she was shamed by the bluntness of her query, or merely so hot with desire that fever was spreading through her limbs.

  “Yes,” he told her huskily. “This is ‘when.’ That is, if you’re willing. You said I could have whatever I wanted. I want you, Wendy. God, do I want you. Now. Here. If—you’re willing.”

  This time there was tenderness as well as fire in his gaze. She was willing, and he knew it. He didn’t wait for her answer, but drew her into his embrace again, desperately moving his hands to mold her body to his. “Dear God, yes, this is when!” he murmured.

  He kissed her throat and teased her earlobe. The brush of his lips grew more heated, more sensual, as he searched out the buttons of her tailored shirt. In seconds, he had cast the shirt aside. Deftly, he removed her bra.

  His callused hands cupped the firm fullness of her breasts. At his touch, the pink, tawny nipples immediately hardened. Lowering his moist lips to her, he laved his tongue around a nipple, then sucked it hard into his mouth.

  Wendy let out a little cry, arching against him. The staggering sensation swept like swift white lightning from her breast to her pelvis. The yearning pain between her legs intensified, so that she could barely stand. His hands splayed across her back, holding her up.

  But she could not bear it. She tugged wildly upon his hair, whispering his name. Somehow she was borne to the floor. As she lay there, her heart thundering, he cast his shirt aside in such a fervent hurry that several buttons were torn away. His breathing was torn and ragged as he knelt by her side.

  She couldn’t stand to wait any longer. His chest was naked with its planes of muscle and tawny hair, and she had to know the feel of that nakedness against her own breasts. Whispering her wild desires, she reached for him, brushing her naked body against his. His muscles were rock hard. His hair titillated her throat and breasts, already so sensitized to his touch.

  He was whispering to her, giving her hoarse little commands. His desires were burning like a flash fire, out of control. All the little things that he’d wanted to do, all the nuances of slow seduction, all were swept away amid a sudden tempest of need.

  He had tried. God knew, he had tried.

  Now, he couldn’t wait any longer.

  He pressed her to the floor and pulled off her boots and socks and jeans. Only then did he pause for the slightest moment to relish the sight of her. The spill of golden hair about her shoulders and the rise of her breasts made him wild with desire. His eyes lowered to take in the arch of her hips and the golden nest at the juncture of her thighs, visible beneath the lacy string bikinis she wore.

  He looked from her supple form to her face. Her eyes were still silver, and her lips remained parted, wet and moist. And so inviting.

  He let out a groan, a guttural cry of appreciation and raw need.

  Burying his face against the soft, smooth eroticism of her belly, he let his tongue trail over her flesh, and then he kissed it.

  “Brad!” She arched and writhed beneath him. His fingers slipped off her panties and curled over the apex of her thighs. She was hot and sweet and damp.

  “Please!” She tugged at his hair. Desperation filled him again. They wanted the same thing. “Please, please,” she whispered, tossing her head. Her hands gripped his jeans, tugging at them.

  A roar rose in his head. Almost blindly, he brushed his fingers against that web of gold. Desire shot through him, as hot as molten steel. The roar in his head thundered, and the pulse inside of him throbbed to a frenzied pace.

  He stripped off his shoes and jeans, then stared down at her again.

  He towered above her, naked and very male. His thighs were well-formed columns over his long legs. His shoulders and chest were bronze, his masculinity was shockingly brazen, yet enticing.

  Wendy closed her eyes, dazed at the sight of him, stunned at the intensity of the passions that swirled inside her.

  Although her eyes remained closed, she could feel his hot flesh against hers as he lowered himself over her. He had become naked, removing her husband’s clothing.

  Leif. She had loved him. Didn’t she owe him more?

  “Wendy!”

  Brad spoke her name so harshly that she opened her eyes wide, startled and guilty. His gold and amber gaze, penetrated her, inciting a new panic. Could he read her mind? she wondered. If he knew what she was thinking, he would go away.

  He didn’t go away.

  He wedged himself between her knees, stroking the sensitive skin along her inner thighs. She gasped as a wave of searing desire raged through her. She closed her eyes.

  “Wendy!”

  She gazed at him again. There was no tenderness about him now, but neither was there cruelty. “Lift your legs around me, Wendy. Meet my eyes. Wendy, look at me.”

  She moistened her lips. She couldn’t have begun to disobey him.

  “Now look at us, Wendy. Watch where we come together. Watch how we make love.”

  She cried out as her entire being seemed to rock to a new, blinding pulse. In that languid moment of ecstasy, he plunged himself within her, driving deep, deep, until he filled her, until he was completely sheathed. He stayed there for a moment, keeping his eyes fiercely locked with hers.

  Then he moved.

  “Watch, Wendy...”

  She watched until the excitement spiraled in her so deeply that she cried out again, reaching for him. She felt him inside of her, stroking her. She cast back her head, and he trailed kisses along her throat. He tucked his hands beneath her buttocks, bringing her ever more flush. Again his lips trailed over her breasts, leaving a lingering euphoria wherever they passed.

  He brought himself to the edge of her, and she writhed madly to catch him. Then he would plunge again, deep, deeper. The ache inside of her was swelling, the anguish bui
lding until she passed through the wild storm, and sunshine seemed to burst upon her. Beautiful sunshine, in golden droplets, seeping into her, sating her, filling her.

  He whispered her name, he demanded that she draw her legs higher. She could scarcely obey, and yet she did, and it all began again. His movement inside of her. His touch, guiding her. His kiss, wildfire burning her flesh, raking her nipples.

  Fire flared once again. Wendy gasped, caught in the whirl of a second thrill, shuddering as she felt Brad’s traumatic release, rich and hot. She lay gasping, her eyes closed, savoring what had happened. She felt the weight of his body, heavy over her now, and yet she loved it. She loved the warm, rich scent of him, she loved the slick feel of his naked flesh. She loved the way that they lay, entwined.

  “Wendy, look at me again.”

  Wendy glanced up and smiled lazily. When she reached up to touch his cheek, he caught her hand.

  They both became aware that the needle on the stereo was sweeping over empty space, making a strange sound. All the lights in the house were still blazing.

  Wendy stared up at Brad and her smile faded. The hardness was still there about him. She couldn’t understand it. She was still feeling after-tremors, feeling so close to him, and yet he seemed so distant from her.

  She had been open and honest with him. She had wanted him; she had gladly given herself to him, trusting in him. And now, even as she lay there, naked and still filled by him, fear began to sweep into her. “Brad?” Her voice trembled slightly as she questioned him.

  But then he smiled. Opening her palm, he pressed a kiss against it and lay back down beside her.

  “I don’t understand—” Wendy began.

  “I just wanted to hear you say it. My name.”

  She inhaled, closing her eyes. She could have told him that she had known from the beginning that he would be no substitute for another man. Brad McKenna was in a class all his own.