Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) (19 page)

“My brother. He wouldn’t give me the time of day, let
alone try to liberate me. Neither would his wife.”

“My heart’s bleeding.”

“Smart ass,” she retorted, “try being a little
sympathetic.”

“Lady, all my sympathy fled south the moment you stuck
that lowly kitchen knife in me. Quit stalling, and come on.”

“I need tissue.”

“No. Are you finished?”

“Yes, but I told you, I’m not drip-drying. That’s just…
yucky.”

“Get your drawers up, and come on. I’m tired. I wanna get
a couple hours shut-eye before we hit the road again.”

“My
drawers?
Jesus. Give me some tissue or I’ll take out squatter’s rights, right here, all
night an–and…drip-drip-drip, just like a leaky faucet.”

Duel muttered, took the few steps to the car and fished out
a handful of tissues. Damn it, he knew better than to let her out of his sight.
The instant he reached inside the car he heard gravel crunch under her feet. He
whirled and searched the utter darkness. Yep. Sure enough, there the little
honey was, hobbling toward the edge of the woods like a one-legged spider.
Step. Limp. Step. Limp.

How far did she think she’d get before he caught her?

And hadn’t she said she had a piece of glass still stuck
in her foot? How much good did she believe she was doing her injured foot? The
woman was insane.

His first instinct was to give chase. Instead, he wadded
the handful of tissue into a ball and slammed the passenger door. Slowly, he
circled the hood of the car and climbed in on the driver’s side. No, sir, he
was too damn tired and in too much pain and misery to run after her dripping
ass. He refused to wallow in the snow with her yet again.

Besides, he was in no shape to fight with her, the way he
felt, he wasn’t sure he could take her. His shoulder was bleeding like a sifter.
Swear to God, if he didn’t get some shut-eye, he’d crash the car. So many hours
without sleep—he couldn’t go much longer. He wasn’t a friggin machine!

Duel switched on the key and locked the doors. She was
barefoot, limping and had no coat. The temperature was cold enough to freeze
the balls off a Billy goat. Nothing moved, except for the snow and it kept
right on falling. They were off the beaten path. No traffic. He hadn’t seen
another car on the Interstate for hours because he was the only fool on the
highway.

And it was four in the morning.

It wouldn’t take her long. She’d be back. Duel pushed a
button. The driver’s seat reclined. He closed his eyes. And grinning—waited on
the hellion’s return.

* * * *

Flayme
stood at the edge of the woods and shivered. The sonofabitch! He wasn’t even
going to give her the pleasure of a good chase. Not that she could run very
fast or very far, but the least he could do was act concerned or let her
believe she was escaping.

Why
hadn’t he come after her?

Why
hadn’t she had the good sense to wait for a better opportunity
—
like spring, when there was no snow or
ice on the ground and her fee
t wouldn’t freeze because she was barefoot,
or she didn’t have to hobble because something was stuck in her foot?

She
ground her teeth. Wasn’t it just like a man to ruin a woman’s pleasure?

And
she’d thought him sexy? Hah!

Flayme
sighed. To be honest, he w
as rugged and sexy. So what? He’d kidnapped her. Okay, if
she was honest, other than knocking her out cold and handcuffing her, he’d made
no attempt to hurt her, but he’d sure growled a lot
—
as if that was going to intimidate her.

So
what did he want with her?

It
was about time the cowboy answered a few questions. Tightening her lips, she
turned back to the car. It went against the grain to have to give in and limp
back to him, but right this minute, she had little choice.

Flayme shuffled up beside the passenger door and worked
the door handle. For a second, she thought the handle had frozen when the door
didn’t open. The ass! He’d locked her out in the cold.

She
tried to peep inside, but a thin layer of ice already coated the window. “Open
the door!” She rapped on the glass. No reply. “I know very well you aren’t
asleep.” She shivered. Blast it. Her toes felt like ice cubes. She rattled the
door handle. “Come on, let me in!” No response. Flayme looked around, eyed the
ground until she spotted a rock poking through the snow. Not a very big one,
but a nice hefty-size—big enough.
“Ooo!”
She eyed her broken nail and fumed. The cowboy owed her a manicure.

Flayme
worked the stone out of the frozen ground. Ah, yes. Perfect. She hefted the
rock in her hand, turned and eyed the expensive car. A millionaire’s car? Hah!
He didn’t act like he had a lot of money, other than driving this little jewel.
Men and their toys! Lock her out, would he? Two could play this game.

She
banged the stone against the passenger door window.
Crack!
The window splintered into a fine spider’s web of slivered
glass. Inside the car she saw a blur of rapid movement.

He
pushed open his door and glared at her across the top of it. “You crazy bitch!
What the hell are you doing to my car?”

“Open
the door or I’ll break out every door window, the windshield and back glass. I
swear you’ll have total air conditioning.”

She
heard the lock pop inside and dropped the rock. Quickly, she jerked open the
door and settled onto the cold leather seat. “Don’t you have seat warmers?”

Immediately,
he leaned across the gear shift and wrapped his fingers around her throat. “You
want your seat warmed?” He growled low in his throat. “I have just the thing.”

She
blinked. “On second thought, maybe not.” She wasn’t sure exactly what he meant,
but no use taking chances. He was ready to strangle her.

His
eyes looked hot and glassy.

Fever,
maybe?

Or
rage over her cracking the window?

He
snarled like a wounded beast.

Okay, rage it was.

“I
oughta break your neck for that stunt. Don’t you ever do anything to my car
again, understand?”

Flayme
blinked, unconcerned. He hadn’t tightened his grip around her throat, so she
didn’t think she was in any real danger. She searched his eyes, such a lovely
green, but they weren’t the eyes of a cold killer. They were the eyes of a man
who wasn’t feeling well. Still, her lips quivered when she asked, “Who are you?
Are you an agent with the CIA?”

He released her and reached inside his jacket pocket. He
shoved a leather holder at her and turned the key in the switch. “Hell, I’m not
going to get any rest anyway,” he muttered. “I might as well drive.”

She flipped open the square of sturdy black leather and
eyed the name on his ID.

“Duel Remington?” Flayme nearly choked on his name.
OhmyGod!
He
was
CIA! Not just any agent, but one of the agency’s top guns, if
not the best. She stared at him, shocked.

And she’d
stabbed
him! Holy crap! She was so in deep shit here. One didn’t stab a CIA agent and
expect to get off
without
—
her
head spun. She felt faint. Oh, good Lord, she’d assaulted a government agent.
What kind of charges could the agency press against her for injuring one of
their own? She could seriously end up in a federal prison. “How do you feel?”
she asked q
uickly.

He cut his hot gaze at her, suspicion in the sharp look he
sent her. “Like you give a shit, lady?”

“I do give a shit. I give a whole lotta shit, a whole
bucket full. Don’t you even think about dying.”

He snorted. “Oh, so now you know your ass might be in a
jam, huh?”

“Do you feel like you’re dying? I–
I mean
—
”
Oh
hell
, it’d be just her luck he’d decide to die. Stubborn man! Even she knew
the knife wound she’d inflicted was bad. He’d lost a lot of blood, was still
losing blood. She’d offered once to b
andage his wounds, but he glared at
her like he thought she might try to poison him or something. “I think I should
plug your wounds.”

He turned a fierce look on her. “Listen, doll face, if
anyone plugs any holes around here, it’ll be me doing the plugging.”

“Oh, but…” Flayme hesitated. Heat swept up her face as his
meaning sank in. For a moment, she sat there with her mouth open. Then she
gasped. “You’re just plain and simple mean as a snake, aren’t you?”

“I’m
mean as a
snake? This from the knife-wielding predator who stabbed me?”

“I have no nefarious reasons for offering to care for your
wounds.”

“Not happening. Like I’d let you near me. You’re trouble,
lady, the worst kind, and I don’t want you anywhere in my vicinity.”

“That’s going to be a bit of a challenge, isn’t it?”
Flayme beetled her brows. “Your space. My space.” She waved her hands around,
taking in both sides of the car. “They’re kind of intertwined here, wouldn’t
you say?”

He looked pretty sickly to her, his face the chalky color
of ash. His skin looked clammy. Cheeks flushed.

What if he died?

No matter what she said, she’d be convicted of murdering a
CIA agent. She’d be locked so far away she’d never see daylight again. The
agency didn’t take kindly to losing one of their own.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” she yelled. She shook her
finger at him like he was a child in grade school who’d done something very
naughty.

Duel swung his glance toward her, hit first gear and fishtailed
out of the rest stop. “You said that already,” hitting second gear.

“I’m reinforcing the order.”

“Don’t worry about me, doll baby. You worry about
surviving this fiasco.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

He glanced at her. “You tell me why someone took shots at
you, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“How did you know
—
?”

“I’ll ask the questions.”

“I don’t know why someone shot at me.” She blinked. “I
think I have a right to know how you know about it, though.”

“How do you think I know?”

“Because you’re some sort of bad man involved in something
despicable?”

He smirked, and slammed the car into third gear.

Where on earth had he learned to sneer like that? “Okay,
so that was uncalled for. You’re telling me in your own warped way, you’re on
my side?”

“Maybe,” he replied, finally hitting fourth. “I don’t know
what your side is yet.”

“I haven’t done anything to anyone.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“What?” She blinked. What did he know about her? They’d
only just met hours ago. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know plenty about you, lady.” His eyes darkened.
Contempt smeared across his face. He raked his gaze up and down her, but there
wasn’t a spark of interest. No, it was all revulsion she saw on his face.

Flayme realized in that moment, this man felt nothing but
scorn for her. An ache spread through her heart and settled, cold and painful
behind her breast. She dreaded what was coming, but knew it was inevitable.
Office gossip. What a bitch!

“What about your hot little affair with Mac?”

And there it was, out in the open, just as she’d known.
For some reason, he couldn’t leave it alone. “Why do you keep picking away at
it, keep bringing up Mac? Is he involved in all this?” She wanted desperately
to ignore his derision, but found it impossible.

“I’m not the one who brings up Mac.”

Flayme felt heat scald her face. His double meaning had
been said purposely to embarrass her.
Miserable
cowboy
! She hoped the next horse he crawled upon bucked him off on his
head. “It’s none of your business.”

“I suppose it’s none of Marie’s business either.”

“Mac’s wife?”

“Yeah, Mac’s wife. Remember her? The woman you wronged?
Marie has been his wife long enough to know some pretty unsavory men. Maybe she
hired a hit man to bump off the competition for her husband.” He cast his gaze
over her. “Yeah, I’d do you.”

He’d do her?
Flayme swallowed her sharp retort. She didn’t think he meant that in the least
bit sexual. Right. It was just her and the lust she’d first felt for this man.
He’d certainly killed that in a hurry. She bit her bottom lip. And damn, oh,
damn. This just got better and better. She couldn’t defend herself, wouldn’t if
she could. She’d spent days with Mac. Hours and hours. What was between them
was no one’s business but the two of them.

Eyeing the cowboy, she knew he thought the worst. She blinked
back tears. Her lust for him had been squashed Let him think what he wanted.
What did she care what he thought?
Believed? But she did. For the first
time since she and Mac
—

Crap! She refused to cry. The cowboy meant nothing to her.
Mac meant everything.

No matter what, their relationship was never going to
change.

And no matter how good a kisser the man beside her was,
she’d always belong to Mac.
 

Chapter
Sixteen

You know, Mike, I’m used to shells and
bodies and cover ups as your big finale. Something starts off like this, I
don’t want to think about the count.

~Special Agent Jethro Gibbs

NCIS

Washington D.C.

The White House

February 17, Tuesday

Four hours and thirty minutes after the
assassination…

Special
Agent Rydge Scott weighed in at approximately two hundred thirty pounds. All
six foot two of him was, without question, solid muscle. When he was called
before
this
man to answer questions
he’d rather not have to, he felt like a whimpering five year old.

He
folded his hands behind his back and plastered a respectful look on his face.
Not because he necessarily regarded the man he faced with high esteem, but
because John Westcott was the Commander-in-Chief of the good old U.S. of A.,
and they both loved their country.

His
personal feelings didn’t matter. The American people had elected Westcott as
their leader, and that made him the boss. Rydge was nothing if not loyal. He’d
had a good teacher. Duel Remington not only taught him self-defense, but he’d
taught him how to stay alive when the odds weren’t in his favor.

Rydge
respected the agent. He loved his job. The work was steady, the pay good enough
so he wanted for nothing. At thirty-two, he was healthy, in good physical
shape, and smart enough to remain single.

Sex
was something he took care of when time permitted, and the right woman came
along to draw his attention, perk his interest and desire. But love? Rydge
didn’t think about the big L. Hell, he wasn’t sure he believed in it.

Maybe
someday, if the right woman
—

The
president slammed the door to the toilet behind him and stopped to eye him.
With the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel, he yanked the belt of his
loose robe tighter around his flat middle. “You better have good reason for
disturbing me in the middle of the night. I’m a busy man.”

“Yes, sir.” Rydge allowed no expression to cross his face.
Yeah, he knew exactly what the president was busy doing—boffing the blonde he’d
slipped away with at the dinner party when Molly supposedly retired for the
evening.

“Well? What is it?” The man prowled through a box of fine
Virginia cigars on a round mahogany table.

“Sir, it’s about your wife.”

“My wife? I don’t want to hear a thing about Molly. She
refuses to speak to me. Get the hell outta here. Now!”

“I can’t do that, sir. The first lady’s been murdered.
Until my relief shows up, I’m assigned as your personal guard.”

He looked up. His face had gone pale. “Murdered?” he
croaked. The cigar fell from his fingers and dropped onto the floor at his
feet. “How?
When?”
His voice cracked
with emotion that caught Rydge by surprise. He hadn’t believed the president
cared about the first lady, but from the sheen of tears glistening his eyes,
maybe the man cared more than anyone gave him credit for—unless it was an act.

“She was shot at close range, assassinated, sir, a few hours
ago. I’m sorry we couldn’t get word to you sooner, but the crime scene
—
”

“Crime scene?” John Westcott was clearly shaken. His hands
trembled when he reached for the brandy flask nearby and poured amber liquid
into a glass. Quickly he downed the alcohol and poured another. “Assassinated?”

“Yes, Mr. President. The crime scene—I’m sorry, sir, for
your loss.”

“You’re
sorry?
My wife’s been shot and killed, and you don’t think I’m the first who needs to
know?” He clenched his fingers around the brandy glass so tightly that Rydge
thought it might shatter. “What if the assassin walked right in here and shot
me too? How did he breach security? How did he get inside her room? Where was
the Secret Service?”

Rydge frowned. “She wasn’t shot here, sir.”

The president blinked, picked the cigar off the floor and
tossed it in the fireplace.

“Then, where? Molly retired hours ago.”

“She left the White House, sir.”

“Left? Unescorted?” He reached for another cigar, snipped
off the end of it and eyed it with acute interest. John’s fingers shook as he
lit the cigar and took a deep pull on it. The overpowering aroma of fine
tobacco permeated the room.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where the hell did she go? Why would she leave the White
House late at night? You’re mistaken.”

Rydge hid a wince as the cigar smoke trailed toward him.
He was a nonsmoker, one who didn’t appreciate tobacco in any form. But right
now, there were stronger issues at hand. He was not going to be the man who
informed the president his wife was fucking another man and got herself shot
dead in the process. No way.

“Well? Answer me, Agent…Scott…is it? Where did this
happen? You’re certain it was Molly and she’s dead?” He downed the second
brandy and set the empty glass aside. “You’re sure it was my wife?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Rydge ignored the president’s
questioning his name. He knew very well the man didn’t give a rat’s ass what
his name was. “Regretfully, it
was
the first lady, and it happened at the Ambassador.”

“Ambassador?” President Westcott, for all his philandering
and bedding other women, seemed genuinely upset over his wife’s sudden demise.
He settled on the edge of a cushioned chair, his face devoid of color. “She was
with another man?”

“Sir…I—”

“Answer me!”

“Yes, Mr. President.”
Shit!
He hated this.

“Who? Who was she with?”

“Delacourt.”

“The Spanish Ambassador? That horny sonofabitch! I’ll kill
him!”

“He’s already dead, sir.”

“What? Shit…” The president rose and paced the length of
the Oval Office.

“Yes, sir, that it is…”

“What have they done with Molly’s body?”

“I’m not sure, sir, most likely the medical examiners.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I need to dress, Agent Scott. I’ll
hold a news conference first thing in the morning.”

Rydge hesitated. “Are you certain that’s a good idea,
sir?”

“Why not?”

“Well, because sir, we don’t know yet if Delacourt was
mistaken for you.”

If possible, the president paled even more. “I see. Well,
no matter, my voters will expect to see me, clearly they need to be aware of my
deep grief. After all, Agent Scott, we have an election year coming up. This
will sway the voters to vote for me, don’t you agree?”

Rydge felt ill and clamped down the thought that perhaps
the president knew all about Molly’s affair and had her and the Spaniard killed
to gain voter sympathy. “Yes, sir.”

First chance he got, he was talking to Duel. He had a bad
feeling about Molly’s death. He eyed the president and felt nauseous. The
lousy, stinking bastard, he didn’t give a shit that Molly had been murdered,
after all. All he cared about was votes. Be damned if he’d vote for him! Rydge
kept his expression calm, but he needed to find Duel, and he needed to find him
fast.

*
* * *

Castle Rock, Colorado

February 17, Tuesday

Six hours and thirty minutes after the
assassination…

Inside
the motel room, Lacey shifted restlessly and shivered beneath the covers. Rafe
sat up, frowning. She couldn’t be cold. The room was toasty, besides his body
was like a furnace. No, Lacey wasn’t cold, he decided. She was caught in the
throes of another nightmare.

Fucking
Smitt Davis had done this to her! The man had much to answer for—one day.

Lacey’s pitiful cries tugged at his heart. Unable to sleep
because he wanted his wife so badly he ached, Rafe was thankful he was already
awake. Like his wife, after they’d eaten and showered, he’d crashed on the
queen-sized bed and scrambled for the covers. He thought they’d both fall
asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows, but not him. His brain refused
to shut down.

Instead
of sleeping, he’d recalled the first time he made love to Lacey. God, the sex
between them had been incredible. He’d been so starved for her and Lacey—Lacey
had just been starved for both sex and affection. Three months ago, he’d
claimed her, Christmas day, and on her dining room table. It had been one of
the wickedest moments of his life.

He
remembered how he’d raked all the dishes of holiday food onto the floor,
oblivious of the waste or broken bowls. He’d ravaged her like a man whose
appetite had built and built for months. Christmas day, the only thing he’d had
on his mind was getting inside Lacey.

Rafe
sighed at the memory and folded his arms behind his head. It had taken some
effort, but his sweet wife had finally taken eve
ry inch he had to give and God, she’d
been so hot, so tight
—
whatever
happened between them from this day forward, he’d never forget the first moment
he sank inside her body.

“No!
Don’t! Don’t hurt me anymore!”

The pathetic sound of Lacey’s tormented cries jarred him
from his sweet memories. “Lace, honey?” He gently touched her bare shoulder,
kept his voice soft and tender. God, her nightmares had to be frightening.
“Sweetheart, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Rafe
felt the heat scald his body as his hand brushed her left breast. Sleeping
naked with Lacey was the most incredible thing. Her body felt like silk against
his. He didn’t think he’d ever get his fill of having her in bed beside him.

* * * *

Moaning,
Lacey jerked awake. Her heart hammered, sounding like thunder in her ears.

“Shhh.”
Rafe shushed her, tugging her
closer against his warm chest.

She
turned and buried her face in the manly hair that lightly furred the area
between his flat nipples. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Automatically
his arms slid around her waist and he held her tight. “I was awake,
sweetheart.” He lowered his head and rubbed his mouth against hers. “I hate
that you’re still having bad dreams. Once we settle in Triangle, maybe you
should see a doctor.”

“No.
They’ll stop…eventually. I hope they’ll stop.”

“Promise
me if they don’t, you’ll seek professional help?”

“I
promise, but for now, you’re all the help I need.”

“I
like the sound of that,” he whispered.

Rafe
took her mouth, parting her lips with the tip of his tongue. Lacey groaned and
settled closer. His mouth felt soft and warm on hers, filled with the raw need
she knew he’d suppressed for days. She glided her hands down his wide chest,
past his washboard hard stomach and closed her fingers around his firm shaft.
It still amazed and intrigued her just how large his cock was.

He
released her mouth and grabbed her hands. “Baby, you better not. I’m not sure
about my control. The last thing you need is me pawing you.”

“It’s
exactly what I need, Rafe.”

“What?
No, honey, you need time to heal, both your body and mind.”

“I
need for you to stop treating me as if I’ll break if you touch me. I refuse to
let that animal destroy what you and I have by cowering if you want to make
love to me.”

“Sweetheart,
you’re
the least cowering person I know
—
”

“And
I will never mend without you or your touch. I know what my body can handle.
Yes, I’m still a little tender, but no more so than if I’d given birth. If it’s
too much, we can stop.”

“What
if I can’t stop? What if I hurt you? Injure you?”

Lacey
sighed and climbed on top of him. His hardness pushed urgently between her damp
thighs. The tip of his broad cock stabbed at her entry. “You won’t. Besides,
you’d die before you hurt me. I need you, Rafe. I need to know you still want
me, need me. I want to feel you inside me.” Tears welled into her eyes. “Don’t
you see? I need you to make me whole again. That bastard took something from
me, more than you can ever imagine. Smitt Davis filled my head with ugliness. I
need you to take it away, give me new memories.”

Rafe’s body quivered with fierce desire. “I don’t have any
condoms. I’m not sure your body is ready for…anything. God, I wasn’t planning
this.”

Lacey
smiled through her tears. “I was.” She guided his firm shaft to her wo
manly
sheath. “I want a baby, Rafe. Make one with me? Please? I need
—
”

“Lace…I love you, sweetheart. God knows I want a child with
you as quickly as possible, but I don’t think you’re
—
”

“Shhh,”
she
whispered. “Let’s just let happen whatever happens. If we create a child, then
it’s meant to be. If we don’t, well then, we get to keep trying.”

Rafe nodded.

She felt his heart hammer against her fingers as she
stroked his chest. His body quivered with desire against hers.

“Promise me if it’s too soon, if you feel any pain, you’ll
tell me?”

“I will.” She grinned. “But, with your size…you know how
difficult it was before. I doubt anything’s changed since December.”

“Lace…”

“I’ll stop you if it’s too much.”

“Then take what you want, baby. I’m all yours. I’ve always
belonged to you.”

*
* * *

Rimrock, Montana

Blackstone Ranch

Eight hours after the assassination…

At
seven a.m., Sheriff Danger Blackstone stormed out of the house and slammed the
door behind him. God, he couldn’t take a minute more of Karen’s incessant
demands for sex. Hell, he’d given her what she wanted in the early hours when
he returned from the stables, but she was never satisfied.