Men Made in America Mega-Bundle

by Gayle Wilson, Marie Ferrarella, Jennifer Greene, Annette Broadrick, Judith Arnold, Rita Herron, Anne Stuart, Diana Palmer, Elizabeth Bevarly, Patricia Rosemoor, Emilie Richards

  “Let’s go,” Deke ordered, opening his door and climbing down. As she watched his descent, she was aware that he moved carefully. The graceful surety of motion she’d always admired was suddenly missing. Despite his reassurance, Deke Summers was really hurt.

  She opened her door and saw that the ground was farther away than it should have been. The truck was being held up by whatever they’d hit. She jumped out, and was about to automatically close the door behind her when Deke’s hand caught the edge, preventing the action. A slamming door, she realized belatedly, which would have revealed their location if the men following them had realized they’d turned off the main road.

  “Sorry,” she said softly, trying not to think about what could have resulted from that unthinking error.

  Deke’s one-sided smile touched upward in acknowledgment of her apology, and then he began to move away from the truck. He kept the gun in his left hand, his right arm again held tightly against his stomach, his body hunched forward. Although she hated to leave the battered old truck, feeling less secure to be fleeing on foot, she had no option but to follow him.

  She was surprised by the difficulty of their progress. The ground was uneven, cluttered with fallen trees, stumps and rotting debris. They hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile before her legs and arms were scratched, stinging and burning. The man ahead of her seemed indefatigable, but she was tiring rapidly with the effort required to push through the undergrowth, climb over broken branches and struggle over the unevenness of the ground they were crossing.

  She almost bumped into Deke, her eyes downturned, trying to pick the easiest route. She had been following him by the slight sounds of his progress, but she hadn’t been aware when he had stopped. She looked up and he was there, facing the way they had come, head lifted, listening. When she realized that, she, too, became perfectly still, almost afraid to identify whatever he was straining so intently to hear.

  What she heard, still very distantly, was frightening beyond her terrified expectation. Dogs. The excited yelping of somebody’s hunting dogs.

  “Is that…” she began, but all the slave-hunting stories, the movie images of prison guards and fleeing convicts crowded into her memory, blocking the completion of her question.

  “They must have found the truck, and somebody decided to invite Lassie to the party,” Deke said, his voice amused. He glanced down at her, blue eyes no longer intent on the distance behind them.

  “Lassie?” she echoed, a little shocked by his humor in the face of this disaster. “Cujo,” she breathed, fighting her terror because she was ashamed to be this terrified when he was so calm. Only, he had a lot more experience at this than she. “Or maybe the damn hounds of the Baskervilles, salivating down the trail of blood you’re leaving.”

  “It’s okay,” he said again.

  “The hell it is,” she said, suddenly angry at him for the calmness she’d just admired. Maybe he was crazy. “They’ve got dogs after us, Deke. The hell it’s okay.” The last word was mocking, her tone furious. How dare he try to make her believe everything was all right? Deke had been shot, they had a pack of howling dogs after them, and no vehicle. “Don’t you dare tell me that it’s okay,” she repeated.

  His smile expanded slightly and then he made an effort to control it, but his amusement with her anger was still in his eyes, more alive than she’d ever seen them. There is some part of this he enjoys, she realized. Something that destroys that constant cold control.

  “Somebody’s brought his coonhounds. That’s all it is, Becki. Listen,” he ordered, the blond head rising again in answer to his own command.

  She obeyed, hearing the faraway yelping, and she was calmer now because of his calmness. Even if he was lying, it was reassuring that he seemed unworried about the dogs.

  “Those aren’t bloodhounds. And unless somebody’s got a bloodhound trained for manhunting, we’re probably okay.” The blue eyes dropped downward to hers. “Sorry,” he said, apologizing for his choice of words.

  She wanted that reassurance, and so she nodded, ridiculously giving him permission to go on. To convince her they were, indeed, okay.

  “Those dogs are trained to trail coons, to tree possums and squirrels. There are too many scents in these woods that will be more interesting to them than ours.”

  “Not bloodhounds?” she asked, hoping he was telling her the truth.

  “They don’t make noise while they’re trailing. They just concentrate on the scent they’ve been given, to the exclusion of anything else. That’s why they’re so valuable. Those dogs aren’t going to find us, Becki. I promise you.”

  Again she nodded. “Then we better—” she began.

  “But I’m not sure you were wrong about the blood,” he said. “Help me get this off?” His left hand, hampered by the gun he carried, touched the black shirt, his fingers creating a small fold in the material that stretched over his flat stomach.

  “Yes,” she whispered. She held out her hand to take the gun, but he shook his head. He pulled the shirt out of the front of his trousers, and then pushed the barrel of the gun into his waistband. He put his left hand behind his body, tugging the shirt free all the way around. He bent forward, and Becki caught the tail of the shirt and drew the garment over his head. He jerked his left arm out of the sleeve as the shirt came free, but he let her help him ease the right off his hand.

  From the sodden condition of the cloth she was now holding, she knew the damage was far worse than she’d imagined. Again, he’d been so casual about it all. There was no injury visible on the front of his body, other than the gash on his neck which had already clotted over. Only a scratch, she thought again.

  “Turn around,” she ordered, injecting her voice with schoolteacher authority, with the assurance of being in charge, but she was surprised when he obeyed.

  Dark holes had been punched in the smooth brown skin of his back, clustered heaviest across his right shoulder and upper arm and extending in a scattered pattern almost to his spine, far more of them than she would have believed possible from the angle of the guns behind them, and all still sluggishly oozing blood.

  “I don’t think they’re deep,” he said.

  “Probably not,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his back, carefully avoiding the bluing holes.

  “Can you tie the shirt around my shoulder somehow to stop the blood? Just to keep it off the ground?”

  Maybe, she thought silently, but considering the condition of that soaked cloth, she would need something dry to put over the wounds first. A pad of some kind that could be tied on with the long sleeves of his knit shirt. Without giving herself time to think about what she was doing, she laid his bloody shirt over the sound left shoulder and began to pull off her tee. He made no comment as she undressed behind him. And he didn’t turn around. She folded the soft cotton into a big square and laid it gently over his right shoulder, so that it covered most of the damage.

  “Hold that,” she ordered, and his left hand crossed over the front of his chest to hold the pad she’d made in place. She took his shirt, and using its sleeves, fashioned a rough sling that gave some support for the injured arm while keeping the pad in place over his back and shoulder. She moved around to the front to tie the ends of the sleeves tightly under his bent arm, hoping the whole thing would stay put.

  When she looked up, his eyes were focused beyond her shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” she said softly, realizing what he was doing. “I don’t imagine I’ve got anything you haven’t seen before.”

  She saw a corner of his mouth inch upward and she turned away, embarrassed despite what she’d said, despite the truth of it.

  “We’d better go,” she suggested.

  He nodded, his eyes meeting hers.

  “Do we have a destination?” she asked, remembering what he had told her before.

  “Back where we started.”

  “The motel?” All she could remember was the crowd of men with guns. “Why? God, Deke, why go
back there?”

  “Because it’s the last place they’ll expect us,” he explained, amusement again creeping into his voice. “And because as excited as those guys were, I’m willing to bet somebody left his keys in the car.”

  It made sense. All of it. If they could just get there.

  She nodded. “Okay,” she said, and watched his smile ease upward again. She was really beginning to like that movement far too much. Resolutely, she broke the connection between them and stepped aside, allowing him to take the lead as he had before. In the distance, the baying hysteria of the hounds was obviously closer than it had been before they’d stopped, and she hoped he had been telling her the truth. What he’d said about the hunting dogs had sounded plausible, but she didn’t know. Again, all she could do was trust him. Trust Deke Summers to get them through.

  They traveled for an incredible distance, far farther than it seemed they had in the truck, but thankfully the sound of the dogs gradually faded behind them. With the heat and humidity, she was fighting now just to pull enough air into her burning lungs. Her legs were heavy and her head was beginning to swim, because, like a fool, she hadn’t eaten when she’d had the opportunity. Finally she realized she had to stop. Just long enough to get her breath. She was ashamed to ask, since she wasn’t the one carrying around a load of buckshot, but she knew she had to rest.

  “Deke,” she called, no louder, she hoped than the sound of their passage had been. He stopped immediately, turning back to her.

  “I have to rest,” she gasped.

  It was worse, somehow, now that they had stopped. She put her hands on her knees, bending forward, trying to draw in more air for her aching lungs. She watched the sweat drip off her forehead onto the black loam of the forest floor. Finally, when her breathing had eased a little, she lifted her head, hands still resting on her knees, to look at him.

  Deke was waiting, his left shoulder propped against a small tree, watching her. His expression revealed no trace of impatience.

  “Sorry,” she said, still panting.

  “For what?” he asked.

  It was almost a sacrilege to treat her like this, he had been thinking, tracing with his eyes the scratches that marred the smooth skin of her bare arms and shoulders. He had been surprised at her stamina, her determination not to slow them down. She was far tougher than that delicate Southern-lady demeanor had indicated. The other wasn’t a front, he knew. She hadn’t had any idea she was this tough because she’d never been tested this way before.

  There was a red slash across the top of her left breast, too clearly revealed by the low cut of the lace bra he’d bought. Sacrilege. When he realized the direction of his thoughts, he pulled his eyes away from the contemplation of Becki Travers’s body. Not his right, he thought again, fighting against the pleasure of looking at her. Of allowing his eyes to drift where his mouth had once touched. Where his hands ached to caress. Just once to look openly at her, to have that right.

  “You still okay?” she asked, her breathing beginning to ease. His eyes had been focused on the distance behind them, but at her question they came back to hers.

  Suddenly, from the direction they had been heading, came the sound of voices. Men’s voices. Much too close.

  Deke put the barrel of the gun he carried across his mouth like a finger, urging quietness. She nodded to indicate that she’d heard what he had.

  He pointed behind her, still using the gun, two quick forward motions, and she turned to see if she could figure out what he was telling her to do. There was an enormous overturned stump, the roots, which had been pulled out of the ground on one side, pointing skyward like fingers. Deke motioned again, and careful not to make any noise, she crept toward the stump, hoping that was what he’d intended.

  When she turned around for further instructions, she was surprised to find him right behind her, his movement noiseless. He pointed down into the hole in the ground on the far side of the stump, and nodding again, she stepped around it to lie down in the depression. She thought he’d hide nearby, so she wasn’t prepared when he eased down on top of her, his body covering hers. There was absolute silence now in the woods. She held her breath, listening for a repetition of the sounds that had sent them into hiding. Listening for any sound.

  When the voices came again, only after she’d waited a long time, they were much nearer. Perhaps as close as where she and Deke had stood while she caught her breath.

  “I swear I heard somethin’,” one of the disembodied voices claimed.

  “They ain’t still gonna be around here. They’ve had too much time. You’re imaginin’ things.”

  “I tell you I heard somebody talkin’.”

  “Well, there ain’t nobody here now. You probably scared off whatever you heard. Some kind of animal, maybe, but not the kind we’re after.”

  As soon as the voices had begun, Deke had lowered his head, his cheek, warm and rough, pleasantly masculine, resting against hers. She could feel his right arm, tied to his body by the sling she’d fashioned, just under her breasts. Despite the voices—too close, too frightening, too unreal—she realized that, incredibly, she was enjoying the weight, the feel of his big, solid body lying protectively over hers.

  She remembered when he’d kissed her, the almost irresistible urge she had had to step into his embrace, to welcome the strength of his arms around her. And how afraid she had been. Afraid of what he’d think.

  She could smell the earth around them, slightly acrid with rotting vegetation. And the warm scent of his body. As compelling as it had been before. She turned her head slightly, feeling the dirt shift beneath her hair.

  If they were going to die, she thought, there were a couple of things she wanted to do first. Had wanted to do for months. Her mouth opened, her tongue touching the stubbled softness at the corner of Deke Summers’s lips.

  Touched. Caressed. Traced along the line of his upper lip. Enjoying the feel and the taste of his skin. A long, endless stroke of her tongue, moving slowly, as far as she could reach without turning her head again, and then back to the point where she’d begun.

  The voices eventually faded away into the distance, the small clearing once more deserted. Finally, after an eternity, Deke moved. His head lifted, the blue eyes looking down into her face. She couldn’t read whatever emotion they contained—beyond the obvious question.

  She hesitated, trying to find again the courage that had allowed her to put her mouth against his. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” she whispered her confession, the sound of the words only a breath. “Longer than you can possibly imagine.”

  He made no verbal response, but the blue eyes continued to study her face. He was so close she could see the dew of perspiration at his temples and along his upper lip. Had known it with her tongue. Tasted its salt-sweetness. His whiskers were as fair as his hair, glinting gold against the darkness of his tan. Her gaze traced the pattern of lines around his eyes, small and white, caused by the automatic narrowing, seeking protection from the constant glare of the Southern sun. She realized for the first time that there were darker flecks in the pale irises, surrounded by the unmoving sweep of impossibly thick lashes.

  “And I decided if I was going to die, I was going to do that first,” she finished softly. She had no regrets—no matter what he thought. She had spent too much of her life worrying about what people might think. Life is so fragile, he had said. She had thought that was a lesson she’d learned from Tommy’s death. But if not, apparently she was being given another chance to get it right.

  Deke didn’t answer, the tautness of his mouth unmoving, unsmiling. But his response was there, strong, clear and undeniable, given the proximity of their bodies.

  She smiled at him, the corners of her lips moving slowly upward as, after another eternity, his head began to lower. She opened her mouth, welcoming. She wanted his kiss. And when life and death were as closely balanced on the scale as they had been a few minutes earlier, it had seemed hypocritical
not to tell him.

  She had wanted Deke Summers to kiss her, but she was surprised by how thoroughly he did. Tongue cherishing. Endless ravishment of emotions. Until her body reacted to its awareness of his. Again, something moving, deep inside, shifting. Pulling upward from the bottom of her belly. Aching this time with the intensity of the sensation, of her need. Her hips arched into his, and he reacted, pushing down strongly. Letting her feel his strength, the force of his desire.

  His head lifted, his mouth moving only fractionally away from hers. So reluctant to let her go. Despite what he knew. Had known from the beginning.

  “This is crazy,” he whispered.

  It was what he had said before, she remembered. Only this time she didn’t care what he said. Why was this crazy, when nothing made sense any more? There was no order in the world they shared, no normality. Why was this crazy, when they both wanted to do just what they were doing?

  “Why?” she asked, touching her tongue again to his mouth, tracing the outline. “Why?”

  “I can’t do this,” he said. He couldn’t allow himself to care about anyone because—

  “Because I’m not her?” she asked, bitter that he couldn’t let go of the past.

  “Because they’ll come after anyone…”

  I love. He had stopped the words, but they were there in his consciousness. It wasn’t allowed. Lila was dead. He’d been responsible for her death. And this wasn’t allowed.

  “But they already think that…that we’re involved. What can it matter if…” Becki hesitated. She had never before suggested that to a man. And this one was, still, almost a stranger.

  The blue eyes rested on her face a long time, examining not her features, she knew, but what she had said. At least he was thinking about what she had said. Not an outright rejection.

  But when he turned his head, it felt like rejection. He used his left hand, which still held the gun, to push himself away from her until he was on his knees, straddling her body. She could feel the rough fabric of his jeans against her bare calves, and her eyes lowered to find the reassurance that he, too, had wanted what she’d asked him for. The soft denim concealed nothing of what he wanted.