He’d taken a step towards her, which flexed the muscle in his thigh, which reminded him of the thwarted kick he’d taken to the leg. His breath hissing out, he snatched his hand back and pressed it hard into the muscle, as if that pressure would relieve the ache. It didn’t, but it did remind him that his jaw had taken a knock, as well.
“I did not!” he yowled back, the hand fisted around the weapon moved in to press against the inside of his leg while his other hand came up to try and hold his face together. “You hit me!” he accused, trying to work his throbbing jaw again. He could hear a clicking.
Glaring at the woman, the pilot hobbled a couple of steps away and to the side of her, wary of being attacked. The light was shining in a broad beam, illuminating her, and he saw them for the first time.
“Are- are you crying?” Tears shown plainly on white cheeks, glistening in wide, shining eyes and Miguel felt his insides sink to his feet.
“Forgive me,” he started, wincing at the pain in his face. “I did not mean to make you cry.”
“As if you could! You didn't hurt me.” With a disdainful sniff, Lyrianne snapped the denial back at him, rubbing her tender ankle. The longer she watched him, though, the less she felt angry at him. He might not be responsible for her injuries, but she had hurt him and she felt bad about it. It was too easy to feel sympathy, she thought, and hard to be afraid or stay angry when she still didn't feel threatened despite the gun he was holding.
With a sigh, she slowly got back to her feet, testing the ankle gingerly. It hurt but it was tolerable. The same for her bruised backside. She looked around for her makeshift crutch but didn't spot it so she took a deep breath and limped toward him. She was still a little wary, though a blush crept up to her cheeks when she realized she was almost hoping he would grab her again.
Stopping to pick up the flashlight, she shone it toward his face, this time avoiding his eyes. “I'm sorry. I... I...,” she shrugged a shoulder, trying not to sound too concerned. “I guess I swung harder than I thought I could. Is it going to be okay?” She reached up to touch his jaw where she could see shadows that might be a bruise forming.
He instinctively drew back, his hand moving from his face to stop her, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. She had a tiny wrist. She was just a slip of a thing, wasn't she? But damn, she could pack a punch!
“I will be fine,” he assured her, leery of this woman who had tried to break his skull but now seemed to feel guilt for having done it. He didn't fancy another whack, either way.
Straightening up, he realized he was still holding his weapon and discreetly he packed it back into his leg rig. He hadn't let her go yet but his grip wasn't tight enough to hold her if she wanted to be free.
“Do you live here alone, querida?” he asked, trying to sound friendly and non-threatening. Not taking his eyes off of her though the details of her face were again hard to make out with the light pointing his way, he wondered that no one had come out over the ruckus. “Or is there someone else I can talk to about retrieving my ship?”
“My name's Lyrianne, not... ,“ she pulled her hand back, the fingers of her other hand closing around the wrist where she swore she could still feel the tingling warmth of his touch, “... whatever you're calling me.” She didn't attempt to pronounce that word. Even if she tried, she knew she'd never be able to make it sound as good as he did, whatever it meant.
“You can talk to me about anything you have to say. My father,” she only hesitated a moment before adding, “and my older brothers will be back anytime, but I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself.” She raised her chin, attempting a stern look of authority and command over the situation. “Why do you want to go back to the crash site? Are you hoping there's still a working locator sending a signal back to your ship? I'm not sure you should count on that.”
He raised a brow and his mouth formed a charming smile with the barest hint of pain pinching the corners. “I am very sure you are able to speak for yourself... Lee-ri-enne?” Her name was sounded out and made into a question, tested and tasted and flavored as he delivered it back to her. “I am Miguel Alonso Hector Arturo.” His introduction melted the long name into a single, sinful treat. “I need to get back to my ship. Can you take me?”
At the risk of sounding like a dullard, Miguel Alonso Hector Arturo chose not to react to her assumptions, as correct as they probably were, but that was even more reason why he had to get back to the wreck.
Her eyes went up to the second floor window and he watched her bite her lip. She wasn't willing to tell him the truth about her father or her brothers but she really needed to check on Papa before she went anywhere. She made up her mind fairly quickly.
“I'll take you, Miguelalonsohec...” She couldn't remember the rest and the quirk of his mouth made her not want to try. “I will take you, but,” she touched the sleeve of his null-g suit, “I think we need to get you something else to wear. If anybody sees you in that thing, you might not survive to be turned over to the authorities.” She started toward the house, talking to him as she concentrated on minimizing her limp. “Come on, I'll find you something to wear.”
Once in the house, she glanced at the stairs, listening and relieved not to hear anything. With a gesture, she directed him to the great room to her right. “Go sit down.” She pressed the light switch but nothing happened so she acted as if she'd never tried. “There's an oil lamp in there if you want light. I'll be right back.”
The first thing she did was to check in on Papa, who was deep in sleep. Appalled at her appearance when she passed the mirror in the upstairs hallway, she took a quick moment to clean her face and hands and put her hair in better shape, though she didn't re-braid it. That done, it took her only a few minutes to grab a shirt and pair of pants from her brothers' room. She paused at the top of the stairs to catch her breath then started down, calling out in a hushed tone once she'd reached the first floor. “These should work, though you'll have to wear your own boots or go barefoot.”
He was standing in the middle of the room, the oil lamp burning low. He'd removed his gloves and had them in one hand and his back was to the doorway as he eyed the picture frames standing on the fireplace mantel. He took one down and was still looking at it as he turned. His flightsuit was unzipped from collar to waist, the material tight enough that it hugged him still but not so that she couldn't see a swatch of swarthy brown skin. He was hairless where the muscles rounded until right above the zipper that hung just over his navel.
“Your mother?” he asked, holding the frame up and angling it towards her. “She is very pretty.” Dark eyes settled on Lyrianne and there was a long pause before he said, “You are just like her.”
The blush that burned pink into her cheeks might have been from the compliment or, possibly, the fact she'd been staring at the area exposed by the open zipper and her thoughts had been straying. She smiled as she turned to look at the picture he was holding though she knew it by heart. It was a picture taken when her mother wasn't much older than Lyrianne was now. “Thank you. She is much prettier, though.”
Backing up, she bumped into a chair then turned to set the clothes on its cushion, thinking it was awfully warm in the room. She needed air or something. With another glance toward him, this time managing to keep her eyes on his face, she blushed again. Trying to ignore it, she gestured toward the bathroom door just beyond the stairs.
“You can change in there and... take care of other needs you might have... I'll, uh, I'll meet you outside.” She hurried out the front door before he could say anything, intent on retrieving the mule from the barn.
He watched her hasty retreat with interest in his eyes before he replaced the picture frame and collected the clothing she had offered. Was he imagining the red stain to her cheeks or had he made this odd woman blush?
Miguel grinned, exposing his teeth in a purely masculine smile as he headed to the indicated room where he made excellent time changing into the rustic garments and emptying his blad
der. Then he bundled up his own gear and tucked it under an arm, sliding the pistol into the back of the waistband of his pants. They were a little loose on his hips but they'd hold, and the shirt was baggier than he liked and had to be left outside the leggings to hide the gun. The shirt could only be buttoned up so far and it showed off a generous amount of skin but his male ego told him that wouldn't be a problem.
After pushing the pant cuffs into the tops of his military boots and checking his jaw for bruising, Miguel was good to go and didn't linger lest the woman come after him with another club, wondering what he was stealing from her house.
Taking the porch steps two at a time meant he only hit one stair before he was striding across the poorly lit dirt patch towards the woman who looked pretty damn human and pretty damn fine at that.
“Gracias,” he thanked her with a smile, indicating the outfit he was in. They were worn and shades of brown and the knees had been mended more than once but they were clothes and if she said he'd fit in, than he'd fit in. “I hope your brother will not mind.”
A fleeting look of distress crossed her face, erasing her smile. “No. He won't mind.” It had hit her hard when she saw him in her brother's clothes. The reminder of her loss suddenly felt fresh and painful. She couldn't look at him while she struggled with her emotions.
Turning to the hoverbike, she patted its metal back end before climbing up into the saddle. With a silent prayer to the mule to behave, she pressed the ignition and held her breath. In its own contrary way, the bike started right up, the purr of its power source a welcome sound.
“Climb up. You said you were in a hurry.” She was already amping up the power. Once she felt him seated behind her, she handed him a pair of goggles then warned him to brace himself and hold on. When she released the bike's throttle it was going to be a hell-bent-for-leather ride that would make her first run out to the crash site seem like a kiddie ride. She hoped it was enough to burn off a lot of the unfair anger she was now directing at the Fed pilot.
Miguel could only hold on as the woman gunned it and he was nearly thrown off. His knees clamped hard the metal sides and his arms tightened like a belt around the waist in front of him. He had a scant moment to think she has a tiny waist before all of his attention was on just staying alive.
Chapter 4
They were still nearly two hundred yards away from the crash site when Lyrianne began powering the bike down. By the time they got close enough to hear the activity within the clearing, the bike was gliding, nearly silent. She guided it into a thicket and hopped down.
“Stay with the bike while I see who's there.” She was already certain who it was, based on the distinctive bass tones of the voice that carried to them. There was only one she knew of who had that voice and that was Fat Farley. Without looking at her passenger, she fluffed out her hair and unbuttoned the top of the coverall she wore, exposing just a teasing glimpse of cleavage. “I'll be right back...“
The pilot's eyes had dutifully lowered to the swell of her breasts and he felt an instant response that tightened his stomach and provoked a proprietary instinct. “Wait-” he said, and held out a hand to forestall her. “Where are you going?” It was implied in his tone, the 'like that' he wisely left off. “I thought you said this could be dangerous.”
Her hand had gone to her neckline, spreading to cover what she'd just revealed in a reflexive reaction when she saw where his stare had gone. It was quickly followed by the return of the blush he seemed capable of bringing out in her with little or no effort. Though her temper had cooled during the ride, she felt it heating up again. This time it was caused by his tone and maybe more than a little bit of irritation at herself for feeling pleased that he'd looked...
“I told you where I was going.” Just to spite him for that tone, she released two more buttons then glared at him. “And, it could be dangerous. For you. It's just Fat Farley and unless he's drunk, which it doesn't sound like he is, I can handle him.” She hoped. More to defend herself to herself at what she was planning, she added an explanation. “I have to be able to distract him so I can talk him into leaving.”
The pilot frowned and turned his head, his eyes black but full of expression. He clearly didn't approve of her plan. “If your fat friend is here, he has no intention of leaving without my ship.” He brought his eyes back to hers, a tenseness about him that wasn't there a minute ago. “I cannot allow that, querida. Forgive me but no, there must be another way.”
“You cannot allow? You? I don't think I asked for your permission and I know I don't need it. I know what I'm doing.” She wasn't so sure of that, but she wasn't going to admit it to him. Before he could react, she turned and walked away, wincing at first as pain shot up her leg from her abused ankle. She never should have hopped down from the mule, not sure how much more damage she'd caused with that show-off behavior. And why was she showing off? For him? He was arrogant, bossy, mean -- and an enemy pilot, for glory's sake.
Fueled by her temper, her strides lengthened and she was able to disguise the limp. She shrugged her shoulders which were tensed as if expecting him to stop her. “You'd better not, mister Mee-gell-alon-so-whatever man,” she mumbled to herself, “or you'll be sorry.”
“How sorry?” His voice seared her ear, his lips breathing against the soft shell. Unlike her, he wasn't limping and he'd been combat trained. If she thought she could escape him with a toss of her bouncy curls or a swish of that killer backside, she was in for a treat.
A hand came 'round to cover the woman's mouth and an arm, the same as had encircled her already twice now, had her in a hug around the waist and was lifting her off of the ground. His mouth pressed against her hair.
“Do not struggle and do not make a sound. Your fat friend is coming this way.” Then Lyrianne was drawn back and tight against him as he moved her further into the dark trees. “Stay silent,” he warned her, his voice a liquid sugar whisper.
She felt like she was melting against the heat of his body. At first she was too distracted to struggle, caught up in sensations she was not used to feeling. She was shocked at her reaction then annoyed by it, blaming him. Still, she didn't attempt to fight. As close as he held her, it was impossible for her not to be aware of how much stronger he was. She'd never be able to win out in a struggle; not without her handy-dandy flashlight, anyway. That was stashed in a compartment on the mule.
Instead, she used her mind, planning. Any worry she felt was not directed toward the crashing sounds of the three-hundred pound man trying his best for a stealthy approach. When Fat Farley wasn't drunk, he was like putty in her hands, practically falling all over himself to please her. The man behind her, however, was not putty. Meekly she nodded her head, apparently agreeing with what he demanded of her.
Letting his grip relax just enough so that she could breathe again, he lowered his hand just to her shoulder, keeping her pressed to him. His back was against a tree and he was looking over the top of the woman's head. It sounded like a bull crashing through the growth. Miguel's arm drew across Lyrianne's waist and dropped away. His fingers found the pistol grip at his back.
Lyrianne was thinking fast as she realized how close Farley was. She could hear him moving past them and toward the mule. It was too late for what she'd first planned to do. He would know she was here once he saw the bike and he'd come looking. Farley would find both of them instead of her being able to deal with him alone since she was sure she couldn't depend on this spaceman to stay hidden.
She turned to face the Fed pilot and placed a finger over his mouth to keep him silent. She arched an eyebrow then winked at him. “Oh, you shouldn't do that.” She spoke much louder than she needed for the man she was looking at, but just right for someone searching for her location.
“Lyri-a-anne!” Sure enough, Farley had heard her and had changed direction, now plodding straight for them. “Lyri-a-anne? Come out, come out, wherever you are.” His deep voice had an absurdly childish sing-song quality to it.
F
arley's call was her cue to move past staring into the dark brown eyes that were so hard to look away from. “Follow my lead and don't talk.” She murmured the words against the pilot's mouth after going up on tip-toes to press her lips over his. She'd intended it to be a harmless kiss, like one given to a least favorite relative, and was supposed to be for Farley's benefit. Somehow it didn't turn out that way, however. It was doing some strange things to her insides.
It was doing some pretty strange things to his insides, as well. He'd been so shocked by her forward move that he'd done little to stop her, but at her words, he got what she was about. A devilish bravado overcame him, not unlike the streak that had allowed the daring maneuver he'd performed to get on this green planet. The young pilot took advantage of what he was given.
With an arm now around the back of her shoulders, he curled his fingers into the warm blanket of her hair and lifted his palm to the back of her head where he could control the kiss. Drawing the woman's pleasing bottom lip between his, he stroked his tongue across it and teased the corner of her mouth. Miguel turned them and put his captive's back against the tree, moving to press his hips against her to hold her there.
Lyrianne was lost in the pleasure of her first real kiss from a man.
A town boy just a year older than her, had been her first and only crush. Their experimenting in the loft of the barn several years before had been nothing like this. She could feel the heat building in her middle and she didn't want it to stop. When Miguel had pressed his hips against her, she'd moaned; a real moan that she had no control over. Her own hips answered for themselves by pressing back. She didn't want that to stop, either.
Catch a Falling Star Page 3
