Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) (15 page)

“Am I? Why do you believe I’d tell the truth about being
sterile? Don’t you know it’s a line every man uses on a woman to keep from
wearing a rubber? A man likes it meat-to-meat, baby. I’m no different. I liked
being inside you naked. You felt tight and snug, like warm, thick liquid
melting around my cock. Hell, I went off like a skyrocket on the Fourth of
July. A man…well he doesn’t give a rip if he knocks up a woman. I don’t give a
rip if I knocked your ass up. It isn’t my problem, baby.”

Dianna hammered his shoulder. “Bastard! Put me down. Now.”

“Can you stand on one leg and pull off your clothes?”

“What?”

“We’re in the cave.”

Dianna looked around, her eyes wide, her expression
dumbfounded. “How? When?”

“While you were working up your righteous indignation, I
got us up that fucking slope. Come on. Let’s get you out of these muddy clothes
and bathe. I need to judge the damage to your leg.”

Dianna blinked. “You lied abo–
about…”

Taylor lifted a brow. “Why would I lie? I can’t think of
anything I’d like better than to see you big with my baby, unless it’s screwing
you again. You up to it, huh? A little one-on-one with the hired help? Hell,
I’ll even pat you on the ass when it’s over and say it was good.”

Her green eyes blazed. “You took a deliberate chance at
making me pregnant?”

“Chances. Plural. We did the dirty deed several times,
Princess. You fell for the old lie, hook, line, and sinker. Talk about a
sucker. Pretty high odds, I knocked you up. Come on, don’t look so aggrieved.
Having a baby in you oughta give you something to live for. You were willing to
take the risks. You’re as much to blame as I am. And don’t think I give a shit
if you’re pumped up.”

“I think what I’ve known all along,” she said in a wobbly
voice. “You’re a lousy, rotten horse turd.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“As if I ever could.”

“Come on, sweetheart, you think you’re the first woman a
man ever used that scam on? Undress. You’re getting in that pool if I have to
throw you in.”

“I’ll undress. Don’t think you’ll ever get the chance to
touch me again.”

“What makes you think I want to?”

Dianna burst into tears. “Leave me alone,” she cried. “Get
out of here and leave me alone.”

“Isn’t happening, babe.” He tore her shirt over her head
and tossed it aside. “Now let’s get you outta these jeans and see what the real
damage is. And Dianna?”

She eyed him with total disgust, sniffing.

“When we get outta here, get on with your life. If by
chance you find you really are pregnant…don’t call me. I’m not interested.”

Chapter Twelve

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

Annandale, Virginia

February 17, Tuesday

One hour and thirty-eight minutes after the
assassination…

Duel
braced for what he knew was going to take a monumental effort to rise and give
chase after the knife-wielding female who’d just taken great pleasure in
stabbing him. He knew she’d enjoyed it, because damn it, he’d heard the relish
in her voice when she said, “Take that!”

Swear
to God, it was like she swatted nothing more than a pesky fly, except she did
it with a deadly knife. Here he lay on the kitchen floor,
her
fucking kitchen floor, teeth clenched, and sweating like a
runaway horse. Unfortunately, his blood seeped onto the tile beneath his
shoulder, too.
“Fuck!”

He
battled the urge to simply close his eyes and give in to the overwhelming
darkness threatening to bury him. The pain in his chest throbbed like the
exposed nerve of a tooth. Sonofabitch, it was going to hurt like a mother. But
he had no time to lie here and coddle himself, think about his actions or the
lousy mistake he’d just made.

The
insane woman had dashed out the back door like a wild mustang. She must have an
incredible set of lungs, because he swore she sounded like a freaking banshee
shrieking in the wind.

Every dog, every meddlesome
neighbor
in the immediate area was bound to poke a curious nose
out the door and snoop or call the cops. The last thing Duel wanted was a
patrol car to come by. He didn’t have time for lengthy explanations or a trip
to the local police station or hospital. Not only that, the more people who
knew he was involved in getting the little secretary to safety, the higher the
risks, and the higher the chances of failure.

“Cowboy
up,” he ordered in a strangled voice, knowing full well that’s exactly what his
brother Jace would say if it was him.

‘Get
up, Duel, you gonna let some sissy female womp your ass?’ That’s what Wild
would say. And Dianna would simply grin and tease him about being a wimp and
letting a woman kick his butt.

Duel
sucked in a deep breath, closed his fingers around the end of the knife handle
and slowly pulled the frigging blade out of his shoulder.
“Ahhhhh!
Jesus Christ.”

White-hot
pain ripped through the upper most part of his shoulder and spread across his
chest like a trail of burning coals. Damn, if it wasn’t like being stabbed all
over again, he thought. He didn’t know which was worse, the torture of the cold
steel going in, or coming out of his shoulder. Warm blood saturated his shirt.
Hell, maybe he should have left the knife in, but God it’d felt like the jagged
points of hoarfrost jammed inside the muscle.

Tears
tracked the corners of his eyes. Hell, he’d taken bullets, and yes, they made a
man feel like hurling his guts, but there was something about the cold edge of
a steel blade that left ice coagulating the blood. Compared to getting shot,
the pain was poles apart.

Duel
tried to push up from the floor, but fell back, panting.
“Uhhhhh!”

First
chance, he was wringing the little secretary’s uncooperative, murderous neck!
Swear to God he’d make the witch eat that damn knife, right before he strangled
her with his bare hands.

Sweat
poured down his face in rivulets. Raspy breaths seared his lungs. He was pretty
sure he was going to lose his dinner. Damn, maybe getting knifed was no
different than getting shot after all.

What
he wouldn’t give for a straight shot of whiskey. Hell, two shots. And make it
tequila. This was far worse than the time he took the bullet to the groin in
Iraq. Then he’d merely
thought
he was
going to die. Now he wished he would. “Shit!” The handle felt wet and slick
with his blood. His nerveless fingers slipped and he lost his grip. In spite of
his sudden jerky movement to catch it, the knife clattered to the stone-tiled
floor. Slowly, he turned on his uninjured side and lay there in a fetal ball.
“Please, God, just let me die. I swear I’m ready.”

No
time to lie here moaning and praying. The killer secretary was escaping. Hell,
he ought to just let her go and get herself killed, but Sam would finish
killing him if he did. She hated losing members of her personal staff.

Clenching
his teeth, Duel pushed his way to his feet. There was no choice. He had to give
chase. Hell’s bells, all he wanted was to lie back down, close his eyes, tune
out the world, forget everyone’s problems and not move for at least twenty-four
hours.

It
wasn’t happening. Not now. The way he felt, he thought he might never get a
decent night’s rest again. When he chose to join the CIA, he’d made the world
and its troubles his problem. There was no way to lay it all down. It wasn’t
easy to walk away, not when there were so many things wrong in the world.

Pain
ripped through his body. A wave of dizziness washed over him. He swayed
unsteadily. Damn, she’d got him, but good. He was not in the mood for this
crap. Too old. Too tired. The witch of a secretary picked the wrong man, the
wrong night to be a rebel. When he got his hands on her, she’d pay, all right.
She’d wish she’d never been born.

If
he hadn’t been so utterly exhausted, she’d never have got the drop on him the
way she did, never have gotten within a mile of him with a fucking butcher
knife. A
butcher
knife! How wrong was
that? Couldn’t she have chosen something a little more exotic to stab him with?
Like a–
a
—
sword?

Or
a dagger?

At least make him look good. But an ordinary butcher
knife? How crude was that? The woman was obviously evil. What was it with
females and knives? For Christ’s sake, what the hell was wrong with a little
snub-nosed gun? A little gun fit perfectly in those stupid, worthless clutch
purses a woman insisted on carrying to formal affairs, just so it matched their
evening gown.

What the hell else were those bits of nothing purses good
for, except to conceal a small weapon? Good grief, he was absolutely mindless.
His thoughts rambled as if he was in a feverish dream, but oh, yeah, nothing
was changing his mind. He preferred a bullet over getting stabbed any day of
the week and that was his final thought on the subject.

Duel stumbled his way through the back door. He paused,
leaned against the outside facing and sucked in a lungful of the icy air to
help clear his foggy head. Getting stabbed was just plain careless, but that’s
what happened when an operative was too exhausted to do his job, or too
emotionally wrecked to concentrate on it.

For sure, he was living proof of what happened under those
type of circumstances
—
a
knife thrust in him by a five-foot six or so female, skinny as a rail from what
he’d felt, with not an ounce of muscle—m
ade him look like a fool
—
worse, it made him feel like one too.

Friggin’ butcher
knife! Breathe, Duel. Breathe. You’re not going to let a scrawny little filly
and a puny knife wound beat your ass. Jace will never let you live it down.

Maybe the fresh air helped him get his wits about him,
because he suddenly realized he couldn’t just stand there and let her escape.
He narrowed his eyes
and searched the darkness. There she was
—
halfway across the yard and headed to a
back gate. “Hell, no,” he muttered. She wasn’t losing him that easy. “Stop!”

Sam ordered him to get her out of here, and that was
exactly what he was going to do. Telling himself to get a move on, Duel kicked
his body into first gear. He took off across the surprisingly lengthy back
yard, ignoring how weak and wobbly his legs felt, and cursing with every
breath.

Dodging a set of wrought-iron lawn furniture that should
have been put away for winter, he caught the toe of his right shoe on some kind
of yard ornament buried in the snow and tripped like a clumsy fool. He managed
to keep from plunging headfirst, but stumbled several feet. Then he slipped on
a patch of ice, skated unsteadily for several more feet, before sliding to a
sudden stop. He felt like a one-legged stork attempting to regain its balance
against impossible odds.

God, he hated this weather. Sleet peppered his face, along
with crystal snowflakes that poured from the night sky. His chest hurt. His
shoulder burned like the pits of hell. But he wasn’t giving up. His target was
close now. Duel didn’t know why, but she limped—
thank God. It surely had slowed her
down enough for him to catch her.
“Wait,” he called. “I’m not going to
hurt you!”

The demon woman paid no heed, but continued to hobble
across the yard toward the gate. Duel swore and dragged up what reserve energy
he had left. He burst across the remaining few yards separating them and
tackled her. He hit her behind the back of her knees dragging her to the cold,
icy earth. They hit the frozen, snow covered ground with blended
oomphs
of pain. Twisting hard, Duel took
the full brunt of the fall. Winded, he rolled with her until he sat astraddle
of her.

“Oooh,”
she
yelled amidst a tangled clump of wriggling arms and legs. “Let me go, you big
oaf!” She slapped at him, clawing at his face.

“Damn it!” Duel banded her arms together and gripped her
wrists tightly. Still she wriggled beneath him like a fish on a hook. “Stop it!
Stop fighting me. Good grief, you’re a handful!”

His first priority was her safety. He needed to get her out
of here. Explanations could wait until later. But Duel knew instantly he’d
miscalculated her will to escape
—
yeah,
as if her stabbing hi
m wasn’t his first clue.

But he hadn’t counted on her still having so much fight in
her, which again only proved how brain dead he truly was. Never underestimate
your opponent. Hell, any woman who’d go toe-to-toe with an unknown assailant
would dare just about anything.

She’d proved that already, so
duh
, she was a fighter.

She bucked wildly, thrashing beneath his hips.

“Jesus Christ, lady. Stop wiggling like that. I’m trying
to help you.”

“Let-me-go!” She butted his mouth with her head.

Duel winced. The coppery flavor of blood coated his tongue
and lips. “Sonofabitch, you busted my lip,” he said incredulously. “Damn
hellion!”

“Give me the chance, and I’ll bust your balls!”

“Nice.” He narrowed his eyes, temper on edge. “You’re in a
pretty precarious position right now, lady. You’ve used up your quota of my
patience. I’d be very careful if I were you.”

“Like I care?” She ignored his warning, and tried head
butting him again.

One thing was certain—it wasn’t a little frail old lady he
was riding here. This woman put up a good battle, as good as any wild filly.
“Christ-a-mighty, woman, I ought to just shoot you and be done with it.”

* * * *

Shoot her?
Flayme froze beneath the
solid weight of her attacker. Oh, God. So, this was the man who’d shot at her?
Tried to
kill
her? Yeah, she guessed he was about the same size, weight, body hard as rock,
lean and tough. To threaten her like this, he must have a gun with him. If only
she could get one hand free and
—
“Not
going to hurt me, my ass,” she uttered. “Get off me, y
ou big lug!” Flayme was
pretty certain the man had every intention of killing her
—
just not here. No, he’d take her out on
some lonely stretch of road and put a bullet in her brain, dump her poor body,
and most likely she wouldn’t be found until spring. All
that’d be left
were bones, and they’d be scattered to the four winds. She watched enough
Forensic Files
to know how things worked
or didn’t work.

Was
he a rapist as well as a murderer? Possibly.

Terror
clogged her throat. Oh, God! She was going to die, and the worst thing was she
was going to die without even knowing the reason why.

What
had she done?

Not
done?

Seen?

Not
seen?

Had
she somehow pissed off her
dear, sweet
sister-in-law? Her brother? Yeah, she could see either one of them ordering a
hit on her—if people only knew what she knew. She’d learned her lessons the
hard way. The best way to survive was to not rely on someone coming to her
rescue. No one ever had. So why should this time be any different?

Without
hesitation, Flayme opened her mouth and let loose a shrill scream loud enough
to wake the entire neighborhood.
“Ahhhhh!
Help! Somebody help me!”

A
dog responded with several short, high-pitched yaps somewhere down the street,
but she didn’t see the sudden glow of any porch lights pop on, didn’t hear
anyone running to liberate her, or call out, questioning what’s wrong. There
wasn’t even a soul about to order the dog to quiet down. Crap, so much for
inquisitive neighbors.

But just let her come home half-tooted or with a man on
her arm and she bet every neighbor up and down the street would know it
instantly. However, her captor must have been concerned or feared a prying
citizen might intervene, because he immediately let go of her wrists and
clamped a big callused paw over her mouth.

“Shut
up,” he snapped. “I swear to God I’ll rip out your tonsils if you make another
sound.”

Ah-ha!
Even he couldn’t do two things at once. Oh, but she could. Flayme curled back
her lips in an attack snarl. Be damned if she was going out without the best
fight of her life, ripped out tonsils or not, she wasn’t about to cooperate.