Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge
Auteur
Heather Graham
Lezers
16,5K
Hoofdstukken
35
Chapter 1
The car fishtailed and spun crazily. Brad compressed his lips in silence to bring the Chevy under control again. If he went off either side of the two-lane road, he would crash straight into swampland, into the endless “river of grass,” a hot and humid, godforsaken hell on earth. He was heading west on Alligator Alley—a road that offered a weary traveler just about nothing at all except for the miles and miles of mud and muck and saw grass, the occasional cry of a bird and the silent, unblinking stares of an abundance of reptiles.
No phones here. No fast-food stands, no gas stations. Just miles and miles of nothing but the Florida Everglades.
Brad hated swamps.
Not that it mattered much now.
He straightened the car and quickly looked into the rearview mirror. Michaelson was still after him. Glancing ahead, Brad noted that steam was pouring from the old Chevy’s front. Hell, he hadn’t even managed to steal a decent automobile. And now here he was in the middle of nowhere, the object of a hot pursuit, cruising in an old rattletrap of a car that was about to die on him.
Sweat beaded along his brow. Without the car, what would he do? He hadn’t seen a call box for miles and miles. There was only the narrow, two-lane road, stretching through this eternity of swamp. He wouldn’t stand a chance on foot. He’d be a sitting duck. They’d shoot him down in a matter of seconds.
Something popped and whizzed in the engine and a cloud of steam billowed out, obscuring Brad’s view of the road. He squinted; there seemed to be some kind of a dirt road up ahead, to the left heading southward. Another glance in the rearview mirror told him that Michaelson was almost on him. He had to take the chance.
With a sudden, vicious swing, Brad veered to the left. The wheels bucked as the car bolted and groaned. It was a road—of sorts. Saw grass slapped against the body and windows as the car plunged along. Brad could hear the eternal drone of the insects, even above the groan of the Chevy’s overheated motor.
The car pitched into mud. Brad wrenched hard against the steering wheel. In growing desperation he tried to floor the gas pedal, hoping to bounce out of the mire. The wheels spun; the Chevy remained stuck in the mire.
Brad slammed out of the car. Black mud oozed over his leather shoes and knit socks, soaking his trousers up to his calves.
He paused, listening.
He could hear the motor of the approaching car—Michaelson’s car. Following.
There was a sharp retort in the air. Gunfire. A bullet whizzed by Brad’s ear. The sharp retort sounded again. Another bullet. Closer. Whish. Nearly nicking his ear, making a sick, plopping sound as it embedded itself in the swamp.
Brad turned and ran. His gun was back at the site of the drop-off, along with Taggart’s body. Damn, he couldn’t even go down fighting. There were three of them with Magnums and sawed-off shotguns, and there was him, without even a nail file.
What a bloody stupid way to go down. Running, unarmed, in an infested, insect-laden, swarming, sullen, putrid swamp.
The mud sucked at his feet with every step he took. He hadn’t gone twenty paces before he had lost both shoes. Running was agony. There was nowhere to run to, anyway. Nothing but saw grass and rattlers, coral snakes and gators, water moccasins and mosquitoes...and swamp. Every time he put his foot down, he wondered what he would land on next.
Another bullet zinged by, close to his face. He felt the air rush against his chin. He was dimly aware that night was coming. The song of the insects was growing louder; the horizon had turned red, bloodred. Turning around to look behind him, he could see nothing but grass, tall grass, like needles, raking against his hands, raking against his cheeks. Saw grass. River of grass...that was what the Indians called this place, this Everglades. And it was. An endless river of grass, for as far as the eye could see.
Another bullet whined and whizzed by in a deadly, speeding whisper. Brad inhaled sharply and felt a stab of pain. His lungs were bursting, his hands were cut and bleeding, but he kept on running, always running. Suddenly he sank, plunging into a canal. Kicking and thrashing, he came up, sputtered and staggered onto higher land. He turned, resting his hands on his kneecaps, struggling for breath. All he could see was the grass. Were they still following him?
“Think we hit him?”
He heard the faint voice. Probably Suarez—he was the bloodthirsty one.
Someone snickered. “Does it matter? If we did not get him, Old Tom Gator will.”
There was a spate of raucous laughter, then Michaelson, who never laughed, never even twisted his lip in the facsimile of a smile, spoke quietly.
“Keep still. Listen. See if we cannot lodge a bullet in his brain. I do not like leaving fate to Old Tom Gator.”
Brad groaned inwardly and straightened, inhaling again for all he was worth to run once more.
The landscape had turned red, the setting sun casting a crimson pall over the flat swamp waters and the few trees straggled out upon the distant hammocks. Red...it was the color that seemed to fill his lungs as he gasped against the humid air, struggling to breathe. It was the color of the saw grass, the color of the single egret that perched in a distant tree, balanced upon one leg.
Rat-a-tat. Bullets flew by him again.
Then he felt a pain, sharp and piercing, stinging his temple. Instinctively, he reached up to touch his head, then stared at his fingers.
Red. It was the color of the night. It was the color of blood—his blood, seeping over his fingers.
He had to keep going. The hum of the insects seemed louder as he staggered along. He could hear no whispers from behind him, no laughter, no words. He gazed up at the sky and saw that the sun was falling. A coolness was descending. The breeze picked up.
Chills shot through him.
Red would not be the color of night. It would be black here—pitch-black. Florida Power and Light did not call upon the snakes and the reptiles and the birds and the wild orchids. Night would descend, and with it would come a blackness like ebony, sleek and impenetrable.
In truth, the horizon was still streaked with pinks and golds and burning reds. Yet Brad could no longer see them. His mind was sinking into the ebony darkness, just as his body was slipping into the oozing muck. All sounds around him were fading to a soft, lilting drone.
He was losing consciousness. He couldn’t allow himself that luxury; he knew that. If he fell here, he would not survive the night. He would drown in the mire, become easy prey for the predators of the swamp, provide endless fuel for the bloodsuckers.
He could not fall.
But he couldn’t go any farther. Besides, there was nowhere to go. Staggering, he paused. Everything blurred before his eyes.
He heard a humming sound. More bugs. Hell, he’d never seen or heard so many damned insects in his life. They were coming after him now; a herd of them, flying, floating together, in mass.
They were almost upon him. The noise suddenly cut off. Brad pitched forward, certain that he was crashing straight into the horde of insects.
But he fell against something hard. And he was dimly aware that something soft touched him.
Then the red landscape was completely enswamped by the ebony darkness.
* * *
Wendy screamed at first sight of the man. For several frozen seconds, after she had squinted against the mirage and cut the motor on her airboat, she simply stared at him.
He resembled the creature from the Black Lagoon. He was an apparition, a giant pile of black mud, rising before her.
She was accustomed to alligators and snakes and any number of slimy beings, but gigantic mud creatures were not indigenous to the Florida Everglades.
It didn’t take her long to realize the figure was that of a man. A tall one, nicely built. Heavily built, she decided, grunting as she tried to drag him onto the airboat. Once she had him there, she paused again, panting for breath, trying to discern the place and extent of his injury. She checked his pulse first. Fortunately, he was still alive.
She slipped a hand into the water of the canal and tried to clean away some of the mud from his face. Against his temple she found the wound—a small gouge, still bleeding. What had he done? Tripped and fallen against something? She shook her head, and a rueful, somewhat contemptuous smile curved her lips. City slicker. It was written all over the man. Beneath the mud she could see a fashionably cut three-piece suit, silk tie and cotton shirt. No shoes at all—probably lost in the muck somewhere. She sighed, shaking her head again. When would these people learn? A swamp was a place to be respected. It was not welcoming to the unwary. And now, what to do with him?
She sat back on her heels, lost in the dilemma. He wasn’t seriously injured, so he probably didn’t need to be in a hospital. She had no idea where he had come from, so she couldn’t really return him anywhere.
She couldn’t leave the fool lying in the swamp. It would be tantamount to murder.
Wendy sighed. Maybe he should be in a hospital, but even so, she’d have to take him home first and call Fort Lauderdale for an ambulance or conveyance of some sort. Since her car was up in the garage, she couldn’t take him too far herself.
“Well, sir, would you like to come home for dinner?” she murmured to her prone form, then she laughed with dry amusement. It was the first time she had ever asked a man to dinner. Well, except for Leif, and that had been different. They had never exactly asked each other to do anything; tacit consent had always seemed to rule between them.
Putting aside memories of Leif, Wendy settled the mud creature onto the boat, then started the motor and headed into the swampland. She turned on the lights; it was growing dark, and night fell quickly in the swamp.
Two miles inland, she came upon a high hammock and switched off the motor. She docked the boat, then stared at the huddled form again, trying to determine once more what to do. She was beginning to worry because he didn’t show signs of coming to. Concussion? Maybe. She needed to clean him up, then she could give his condition a more professional assessment.
After a moment of hesitation, she decided to leave him while she went inside for a stretcher. He was simply too big for her to move without one.
Her house was little more than a cabin, but it was self-sufficient, and she had made it home. A generator provided electricity, and though she bought most of her drinking water, she had a purification system, too. The house itself was a square frame structure with two bedrooms, a living room and a big, eat-in kitchen. Her furniture was Early American, and her windows were dressed in earth-toned gingham drapes. It was possible to sit in the house and imagine that next-door neighbors could be found twenty yards away instead of twenty miles.
Wendy hurried through to the second bedroom and dug beneath the bed for the canvas stretcher. She had no problem carrying the stretcher out to the airboat; it was not so easy getting the man onto it. He was not only tall and very well muscled, he was unconscious, and therefore deadweight. Grunting and panting and working up a sweat, she at last managed to pull him onto the canvas.
His clothing was going to have to go before she brought him in. Not all of it, but she could strip him down to his briefs. Although Wendy lived in the swamp, she tried to keep mud out of her house. She wondered briefly what would happen if he regained consciousness while she was stripping him of his clothing, then shrugged. If he came to, he could damn well help her, and he’d better do so pleasantly. He could have been dead by then without her.
His socks peeled off easily. His suit coat proved to be a problem. She could not lift his shoulders high enough to pull the jacket away.
Wearing thin, Wendy sat back panting. Realizing that his wardrobe was ruined, she decided to cut his clothes away.
Wendy scampered back into the house in search of scissors. In the kitchen, she decided to bring out a bucket of soapy water and a washcloth. Once she had determined a plan, she set about it with a certain energy and will. Although she was handling a complete stranger, it was a little bit late to be reticent about the situation.
She hurried back outside and began cutting away his clothing with a vengeance. She rid him of his jacket, vest, tie and shirt and gently washed away all the muck and mud on his face and his shoulders. She sat back then, studying him and experiencing a shaft of acute discomfort as she did so.
She had thought his complexion was darker; it had only been an illusion created by the swamp muck clinging to his sandy-colored skin. His hair was a tawny color, the type that lightened in sunlight and grew darker in winter. He had a nice-looking face, a ruggedly handsome, masculine face. His nose was long and straight, his brow was high, and his well-defined cheekbones rose above a hard, square jaw. Even in repose, he had a determined look. She wondered how old he was, then guessed that he was between thirty and forty.
He’d been heavy and difficult to lift because he was composed of muscle, sinewed and taut. He was bronzed, as if he spent time in the sun, and he was hard, as if he spent time working with his body. Yes, it was a nice body.
Wendy recoiled quickly from touching him. She gave herself a furious shake, refusing to believe that she could be thinking this way about a stranger’s body.
She searched his jacket for a wallet but found nothing except a piece of spearmint gum. When she tried to reach into his trousers’ pockets, she found them glued together by dried muck. Determined, she stood, loosened his belt and tried to slip his trousers off. At first she couldn’t budge them. Then they suddenly came free and she fell back, landing on her own hind end with the breath knocked out of her and more than his trousers in her hands.
His briefs had come free, too. The man was now stark naked on the canvas stretcher.
Wendy blushed profusely, then froze in a panic as the man stirred and let out a soft groan.
She hadn’t been wrong to try to help him, to clean him or cut away his clothing. But she hadn’t intended to go this far. What if he awoke now? What was he going to think? How could she ever explain this?
“Damn!” she swore to herself. She rose quickly, rubbing her derriere and thinking that she needed to procure a sheet before the stranger woke up. She tried to run past the man without looking at him, but something wayward within her soul tugged at her, tempting her to take a peek.
He really was a nice example of the human male.
Muscled, trim and lean, with a broad chest tapering to a slim waist and hips and long, muscular legs. His chest was furred in a mat of tawny, red-flecked hair, which became a thin line at his waist and broadened into another thick mat that nested his sexuality. Despite her usual restraint, she felt her heart plummet and hammer, and for the briefest moment she couldn’t help thinking that he was, indeed, built very well. She’d been alone for such a long time...
Slightly horrified at her wandering thoughts, Wendy gave herself a shake. It hadn’t been that long, and staring at an absolute stranger in such a way seemed so wanton and disrespectful. Strange, but she hadn’t even thought about sex in the longest time, and now, just the sight of a man’s body had made her mind start playing tricks.
Hot, fiery tears burned her eyelids and she realized she hadn’t even had a good cry for a long, long time. But there was no time for that now. She needed to get a grip on herself, get inside the house and get the man a sheet.
“What the hell...?”
Too late. He was awake. The man blinked and struggled to raise himself. His gaze raked over his naked body, then he looked up, and his eyes caught hers. His eyes were tawny, just like his hair. They were neither brown nor green, nor even hazel, but a shade that combined all the colors and became tawny gold.
Tawny eyes, misted in confusion, anger, wariness—a wariness so acute that it frightened her. She took a step back, swallowing, not sure whether to be embarrassed or scared, suddenly wishing that she had left him stuck in the mud.
“Who the hell are you?”
His voice was raspy and deep and not in the least reassuring. The sound of it added another layer to the myriad emotions playing havoc in Wendy’s heart. It inspired a certain fear inside of her; it also incited a definite anger.
“Wendy Hawk. Who the hell are you?”
“What?” The wary look shone in his eyes again.
“Who the hell are you?” she repeated irritably. He continued to stare at her, so she nervously went on. “I live here. You fell face forward into my airboat. I’ve been trying to help you.”
Amusement flickered across his face, leaving a smile in its wake. And when he smiled, he was very attractive. “You were helping me—by taking my clothes off?”
She sighed, blushing furiously despite herself. “I didn’t mean to—”
“They all just fell off?” he inquired politely.
“No, of course not. You were wearing half of the Everglades. I can’t help it if your clothes were so tight that everything came off with one—oh, never mind. I was about to get you a sheet and drag you inside, but apparently you can—” She broke off, gasping as he hopped to his feet. It was one thing to stare at him while he was lying on the ground and unconscious; it was quite another now that he was towering over her, striding toward her with little self-consciousness. “You can walk,” she murmured. “Would you stop, please? Haven’t you a shred of decency? I’ll get you a sheet—”
“I’m sorry,” he said pleasantly. That easy grin was still in place and Wendy suddenly realized that his smile was duel-edged. He wasn’t sorry one bit. “Frankly, I assumed you’d already had a good eyeful of everything.”
“Wait!” she commanded, racing back into the house, spilling half of the things out of the linen closet in her haste to bring him a sheet. He accepted it and wrapped it around his waist.
“It is rather strange, waking up stark naked in the middle of a swamp,” he said. His voice was still very deep, the kind of male voice that swept into the system, penetrating. Wendy trembled slightly. Perhaps it was just the night breeze, coming to dispel the dead heat of the day.
“I’m sorry. I was trying to help you.”
“I noticed.” He laughed, pulling the sheet tighter around his body. “Really. I was just wondering how you would have felt if it had been the other way around.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, if I had been trying to help you, and you were the one who had woken up without a stitch of clothing.”
“This is ridiculous,” Wendy said, wondering if she should have left him in the mud. “There is no comparison. I’d never be in your foolish position. This is swampland. You were wandering around near quicksand pools! If I were you, I would just be grateful for my life.”
“Oh, I am grateful. Very grateful,” he said softly. He indicated the door behind her. “Were you really going to invite me in?”
Wendy hesitated, uncertain then. She hadn’t felt threatened when she’d first dragged him home. Now he seemed dangerous. He might have been out of his element in the swamp, but this man was no fool. He was sleekly muscled and toned as if he were accustomed to taking on physical challenges. And there was an air of tension about him, as if, even when he smiled, he were wary and alert, ever watchful of his surroundings.
“Hey,” he reminded her, as if he had read her mind. “I didn’t touch your clothing. You were the one undressing me down to the buff.”
Wendy groped behind her for the doorknob. She opened the door and went in, waiting for him to follow. When he didn’t, she paused and looked back.
He’d been examining his clothing. He stared at her with reproach, holding up the bedraggled pieces of his shirt. “I would have stripped on command, if I’d known it meant that much to you,” he said.
“I was worried about your life!” she snapped.
He nodded, hitching up his sheet to follow her. “Thanks.”
As he came through the doorway he looked around, taking in the cool comfort of the air conditioning and the squeaky-clean butcher-block pass-through to the kitchen. He didn’t seem to miss much. His gaze swept the hooked rug and the rocker, the deep, comfortable sofa and the cherry-wood coffee table. When at last he looked back at her, Wendy was glad to see the wary confusion in his eyes once again. His question was very polite.
“Where are we?”
“The Everglades,” she replied sweetly.
“But—where?”
“East of Naples, northwest of Miami, almost dead-set west of Fort Lauderdale.”
A tawny brow arced high. “We’re in the middle of the swamp. And you live out here?”
“Yes, I do.” Wendy smiled pleasantly again, glad to feel that she had the advantage once more. She walked around him to the kitchen. Although she wasn’t sure if she wanted a glass of wine, she needed one. And producing vintage wine suddenly seemed like the right thing to do. It would only baffle him more.
She took a bottle of ’72 Riesling from the refrigerator and fumbled in a drawer for the corkscrew. Suddenly, she heard his voice behind her.
“Please, let me.”
She was startled enough to oblige, letting the corkscrew slip into his hands while she backed against the counter. A tingling warmth swept through her as he brushed by. His chest was still bare and smelled of the soap she had used upon him.
“You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Bill. Bill Smith.”
He was lying. She wondered why. Only criminals lied about their names. He couldn’t be a criminal.
Why not? asked a little voice in her head.
The man could very well be a criminal. She had found him facedown in the swamp.
“What were you doing in the swamp?”
The cork popped out into his hand. He lifted the bottle to her and she nervously turned around, searching for glasses. They clinked together when she handed them to him. When he took them, they didn’t make a sound. He poured the wine and raised his glass to hers.
“Cheers. I was lost. A fool, just like you said. I’m afraid that I don’t know much about this area at all.”
Wendy was determined to pry some truth from him. She lifted her glass politely but did not let her eyes waver from his. “A swamp is a strange place to suddenly lose oneself.”
“My car broke down.” He lifted the bottle and studied the label. When he looked at her again, his voice was soft. “I am grateful to you for helping me. Thank you.”
Wendy nodded, unsure of herself. “You should take care of the gash on your forehead.”
“Gash?” He frowned and touched his temple. “Oh, right.”
“You probably need some stitches.”
“No, I’m sure it will be all right. I’m pretty tough.”
“I can at least clean it out for you,” she offered.
“I’d appreciate that.” He touched the wound again, then ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m still pretty muddy.”
“Well, you can take a shower for yourself now.”
“Is there one? May I?”
“Down the hallway, second door on your left. Please, Mr. Smith, go right ahead.”
“Thanks.” He handed her his half-consumed glass of wine and strode down the hallway. Wendy heard the door close.
She gnawed on her lower lip for a moment then walked down the hallway, heading for her bedroom. After a moment’s hesitation she knelt down and pulled out the bottom drawer of her dresser. She dug around for several seconds and came up with a T-shirt, jeans and a pair of briefs. This man was only a little bit taller than Leif, and they had similar builds.
Back in the hallway, she could hear that the shower was still running. She tapped on the door. “I’ve left some clothes for you out here. I think they’ll fit.”
Wendy returned to the kitchen and thoughtfully sipped her wine again. Was she crazy to be helping him? No, of course not. She had known that she couldn’t just let him die in the wilderness.
And yet she was wary, concerned by the effect he’d already had on her. Reluctant to think about it, she opened the refrigerator, idly picked out some vegetables and began to slice them. By the time he came out of the shower, clean and dressed with his hair still wet and slicked back, she had added diced chicken to the vegetables and was stir-frying the lot of it in a huge skillet.
He leaned across the counter. “Smells delicious.”
“Thank you.”
“Does it mean that I’m invited to dinner?”
“You have no choice. I don’t think I can get you out of here today.”
“Why not?”
“My car is in for repairs, and the garage closed at five. All I have is the airboat. Well, actually, I could take you back to the road and you could hitchhike—”
“I’d much prefer the dinner invitation,” he said hastily.
By way of response, Wendy dished the vegetables and meat onto a platter and handed it to him. “Mr. Smith, if you’d set that on the table...?”
“Certainly.”
Wendy took brown rice from the stove, emptied it into a bowl and joined him at the kitchen table, which she’d already set for two. He pulled out her chair, then retrieved both their wineglasses and the bottle before sitting down across from her. He smiled at her, and her heart gave a little thud again—she did like that smile.
“Thanks. For everything.”
Wendy nodded, almost afraid to speak.
“Whose clothing?”
She swallowed tautly. “My husband’s.”
“Oh.” His eyes narrowed warily. He was silent for a moment then gestured toward the table. “We’re eating without him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Wendy nodded again. Strangers couldn’t really be sorry. They couldn’t really care. Especially this one. He was more relieved than anything else, she was certain of it.
“You live here alone?”
It was the question she’d dreaded. She was a prime target. And the more she saw of him, the more she became certain that he wasn’t as innocent as he wanted to appear.
But her instinct told her she could trust him, that he would never hurt her. It was a foolish thought, a false sense of security, she told herself. Still, it was there, and she couldn’t shake it.
“Yes, I live here alone.”
“Wendy,” he murmured. “Wendy Hawk.” He leaned forward and reached out. Before she could think to protest, he’d curled a strand of her hair around his finger. “A five-foot-two, blue-eyed blonde named Wendy Hawk who looks like an angel and lives in this sultry pit of hell. Am I dreaming, or did I die and make it to heaven?”
“I’m almost five-four, my eyes are gray, and not even the most avid nature lover would ever compare this place to heaven.”
Wendy gently tugged her hair from his grasp. Unable to stay at the table any longer, she picked up her wineglass and backed away, feeling as if a tempest were brewing within her.
“We need to do something about that gash,” she murmured.
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I was just keeping you company. I had dinner with a friend before I found you.” It was almost the truth. She had been coming from Eric’s and she had eaten lunch with him earlier. “Please, go ahead, though.”
She smiled a little weakly and turned away, sipping her wine as she moved into the living room. She turned on the television and ambled back to the sofa, vaguely noticing that the news was on while reproaching herself for abandoning a guest at the table.
He wasn’t really a guest. She didn’t know anything about him. When he had finished eating, she would do what she could for the gash in his forehead, then return him to the road.
The word Everglades suddenly caught her attention, and Wendy stared at the television with interest. She frowned, trying to catch up on the story; she had come in on the middle of it.
A violent confrontation had erupted over the illegal transport of drugs. The FBI had been involved; also the Drug Enforcement Agency and the local authorities. An agent had been killed, and the drug runners were still at large. A man’s photograph flashed on the screen, then Wendy’s vision was suddenly blocked.
Bill Smith stood directly in front of the picture. Without turning around, he flicked off the television.
Wendy straightened, glaring at him. “I was watching that.”
He stared at her intently for a moment. His chilling look made her shudder, and she wondered again if she hadn’t been a fool, bringing him into her home.
Then she realized that she wasn’t trembling with fear, but with a strange warmth. He was wearing Leif’s clothes. He was Leif’s size, she knew that, and in the darkness, in the heat of passion, he might be very much like Leif.
No. He wasn’t like her husband at all.
He was arresting and appealing all in his own right, and he was stirring up long-buried desires and emotions within her, feelings she was afraid to face.
And yet he was in her house. It was going to be a long night.
“The television,” she reminded him. “I was watching the news program.”
“I’m sorry. I needed your help.”
“For what?”
“This gash. Would you mind? Have you got some peroxide or something?”
“Sure.” Wendy went into the hall, pausing to flick on the television again. The news was already over, and a game show had begun.
Wendy hurried to the bathroom for the peroxide and Mercurochrome. When she opened the medicine chest, she flinched, surprised to see his reflection in the mirror. He was standing right behind her, his eyes intense as he watched her. “Where do you want me?” he asked.
She shrugged. “You might as well sit right here.”
He did. Wendy poured peroxide on a cotton ball and gingerly sponged it over his temple. Although he didn’t move, she winced at the sight of the wound. Whatever he had struck had caused a deep gash. She knew it had to be painful for him.
After she had finished with the peroxide, she hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“This stuff is going to hurt.”
He nodded. “That’s okay. Do your damage, please.”
Blushing, she took the medicine bottle from him. Although she dabbed at his head repeatedly, he remained stoically silent. She bit her lip, dabbing carefully. “I can’t imagine what you hit,” she murmured. “It’s almost as if the flesh were spooned out....”
“Strange, isn’t it?” he murmured. He took the second cotton swab from her, tossed it into the trash can and smiled again. “I feel better already.”
“I’m glad.”
“Can I make you some coffee?”
She shook her head. “No. But I will have tea.”
Wendy followed him into the kitchen, where he filled the coffeepot and she filled the kettle. The man had a nice manner about him. He was able to be helpful and yet not seem intrusive. She was acutely aware of him, of every move he made. She was aware of too much. His smooth jaw...he had shaved that morning, she was certain. His scent...a musky odor that mingled with the clean smell of the soap. His eyes...tawny and alert.
She was so accustomed to being alone that the mere presence of another human being heightened her awareness. Wasn’t he just a normal man? A lost city slicker?
No, this man was special. This man was arresting and alluring.
“What do you do?” she asked him as they waited for the water to boil and the coffee to perk.
“Do?” he said blankly.
“Yes. For a living.”
“I’m in—pharmaceuticals.”
“Salesman?”
“Er—yes.”
“You were heading toward Naples?”
“Yes. Yes, I was.”
“Do you live in Fort Lauderdale?”
“Well, actually, I live in New York. I was just—transferred down here.”
The water boiled. Wendy turned off the burner and poured the water into the teapot. When she felt him watching her, a warm sensation surged through her blood. So this was it, she thought. This was the way it felt, that spark of attraction. She wasn’t sure if it was right or wrong, or if it was painful or pleasant. He was a pharmaceuticals salesman from New York whose name was Bill Smith. He’d literally stumbled into her life, and she was feeling alive for the first time in years.
She spun around. He was studying her, his eyes warm, sparkling with a strange tenderness. He shook his head, smiling. “How did you get here? Do you really live here all the time? What do you do for a living?”
“Once upon a time, I was a nurse. Then I met Leif. He was an environmental scientist. This was his home. I came out here to be with him.”
“And you’ve stayed?”
“It’s home. I love it.”
“How the hell can you love the swamp?”
“There’s much more here than swamp, Mr. Smith.”
He cleared his throat. “Someone who has seen me in less than briefs is still calling me Mr. Smith?”
She flushed but kept her chin high. “This is a beautiful place, Bill. You haven’t looked. If you spent time here, you’d see the magic, and you’d understand.”
He didn’t believe her, not for a minute. He hated this place: the quicksand, the reptiles, the stinking insects. And yet, there had already been magic in the night. The fact that he was alive was a miracle in itself. He had awakened to see her standing above him, blond and petite and beautiful, an angel of mercy, protecting him from the darkness.
Now it was time for another miracle: getting his man, and getting out of here alive. He sobered quickly, hoping that Michaelson and his men had really given up. He needed to see a newscast, without Wendy around.
Wendy. He even liked the name. It suggested the clean coolness of a breeze, the exciting rush of a storm. A fitting name for this tempestuous angel.
Whoa. He couldn’t let his mind wander. He had to find out what else had happened that day. He didn’t think that Michaelson could have followed him here, into the thick of the marshy wilderness. Michaelson wasn’t any good at navigating the swamps. But still, he’d have to be careful—very careful.
If he could just keep her away from the newscasts, he would be in a good position.
He reached out and touched her cheek. It was as soft as silk, golden tan against the nearly white halo of her hair. “Are you going to let me stay here?” he asked her softly.
“Once I picked you up, there really wasn’t much choice,” she told him. She cleared her throat. “There’s—there’s a spare bedroom next to the bath.”
“Maybe in the morning you’ll show me why you live here,” he said. “Good night.”
Wendy watched as he retreated into the dark bedroom, his words an echoing whisper that stirred and rustled in her heart.
