Crash and Burn (4 page)

He couldn’t be serious.
Ask him
, said
the little voice jumping up and down in her head. Just say the
words and take the chance.

“Okay.” She swallowed, took a step towards
him.
Meet me halfway, help me out here
. “This time, hold on.
Don’t let me go.”

“Always,” he said, his arms closing around
her.

Not every man knows how to
put out a fire. Fewer know when to keep it burning. . .

He Battles The Flames. . .

Nobody messes with Sam Clayton--or his
territory. The big bruising ranger is the last line of defense in
forest infernos and he'll go up against anyone who gets in the way
of putting them out. Even the FBI tracking a terrorist through the
heart of a blaze. But when Sam discovers the agent is ex-lover
Olivia Albert, saving himself will be more dangerous than any fire
he's faced before. . .

She Lives For The Heat. . .

Olivia needs Sam's help to survive the heat,
but when it comes to keeping her quarry from detonating a major
strike, this Bureau agent is calling the shots. Except when Sam's
hard body and expert hands are reigniting a second chance that
could be hot enough to burn forever.

Ready for more smoking hot heroes?

Meet the smoke jumpers... summer’s ultimate
bad boys

Keeping reading for an exclusive excerpt
from REBURN,

available July 18
^th, 2013 from eKensington!

The fire kicked up with an ominous crackling.
Olivia didn’t need Smokey the Bear to deliver the bad news. She
needed to beat feet. Now. Unfortunately, the worst smoke was
blocking her direct line back to her boys and the Humvee.

She oriented herself, getting her bearings
with her handheld compass.
There
. Three clicks north and
she’d be back on the road. She’d have to hope the road was still
open to traffic, but she’d cross that bridge when she made it
back.

Hurrying was the important part.

Fifteen minutes into her run-hike, a man’s
voice calling her name reached her from the other side of a heavily
forested ridge. Still far off but closing on her position, those
steady, deep tones didn’t belong to anyone on her team.

Run faster . . .

Adrenaline pounded through her, her pulse
spiking. Oh, hell. Holm Arthurs was a possibility she had to
consider. Still, her tango shouldn’t have known her name.

Shouldn’t didn’t mean
couldn’t
and
she’d worried that the man had been monitoring the airwaves—where
he could have picked up intel. Panic wouldn’t help now, though, so
she sucked in a deep breath and reminded herself that she’d trained
for this. The FBI academy had honed her skills in defensive
tactics. She’d practiced an arsenal of control holds and she damned
certain wasn’t afraid to hit back.

What she needed was a good spot to wait her
pursuer out. Whoever it was moved straight for her. Had she left
tracks? She considered the possibility and had to admit she
probably had. She was FBI. Not a recon and surveillance scout.

The man yelled her name again. And was that a
goddamn it
she heard?

Closer
. She dropped down, sliding
beneath a particularly thick manzanita bush and inched forward on
her belly as she palmed her firearm. Tracking 101 to the
rescue.

The man emerging from the trees ate up the
ground with a sure, confident prowl. He was definitely far too
large to be her tango. That big body of his put him at well over
six feet, and there was no missing so much as an inch of him. The
bright yellow jacket he wore unbuttoned painted an unmistakable
target on his shoulders and back. The baseball cap pulled low over
his forehead shaded his face and eyes from her gaze. He’d pulled a
bandana over his mouth because the air was growing thicker and
smokier with each passing moment. Definitely not her tango, but she
didn’t know why he was dogging her ass, either.

Keep on walking, buddy.

Work boots drew level with her hiding spot
and she got a finger on the gun’s trigger. Before she could sight,
however, he dropped fast to one knee, a big, gloved hand reaching
for her.

“Come on out,” he growled.

Made
. Adrenaline hit her hard and she
bucked against his grip.

If this man got his hands on her good, she’d
be going nowhere. He swore and she slammed her shoulder up,
connecting with a rock-hard abdomen. He was too big, too fast.
Before she could blink, he’d pinned her, one arm wrapping around
her middle and dragging her up against his body. His other arm came
down and grabbed her wrist. She didn’t drop the gun, but the air
left her lungs in a fast, hard rush as he squeezed. He had to
outweigh her by sixty pounds.

Hotshot
. That was the first word that
came to mind. The fire she’d spotted over the eastern ridge had the
area crawling with the elite wildland firefighters and this one
looked fresh from the field. He sported the obligatory Nomex
fashion statement, bottle-green work pants and a bright yellow work
shirt. He’d unbuttoned the cuffs, rolling the fireproof fabric up
to reveal strong, tanned forearms.

Unexpectedly drool worthy.

No
. She bucked hard, aiming for his
forehead, and followed with a hip check. He flowed with her,
off-balance but not letting go. When he finally went down, another
gritty curse exploded from his mouth as he took her with him. Onto
him, as he shouldered the brunt of the impact. Splayed on his
chest, her wrists pinned against the ground and face-to-face with
her attacker, she was looking at a whole new kind of trouble.

Sam Clayton.

He’d been beautiful the summer they first
met, young and broad-shouldered with a wardrobe of faded cotton
T-shirts that clung to each powerful ripple of muscle. She’d
watched him hike mile after mile, and she’d wanted him to run.
Straight towards
her
.

Now, he was bigger, his muscled frame more
solid. His face wore a layer of experience he hadn’t had before,
experience that gave his face harder lines. There were new scars,
too, fresh lines beneath the blond curls he’d inherited from his
European ancestors and that he cut ruthlessly short. He still had
those high cheekbones, though, and the sun-kissed complexion that
had had the park’s female visitors dreaming. And, like before, the
sight of him set off a sensual fire low in her belly that
threatened to burn out of control.
Her Sam
. She opened her
mouth. Closed it. Because, even though this was his park, he was
still the last person she’d expected to run into out here.

“You are aware there is a three-hundred-acre
wildfire blowing up maybe a mile from here?” He didn’t seem
surprised to see her, his smooth, deep voice as unhurried as ever.
And wouldn’t you know it, she still got the shivers listening to
him, hoping he’d go on talking, when she knew he’d lapse right back
into silence as soon as he’d said the bare-bones minimum.

Sam didn’t chatter.

Or fuss.

He got in, he got out—and he always, always
got the job done. Sam redefined slow, steady patience. Thorough and
intent, he had the fierce focus of a warrior. And he’d been like
that in bed, too, God help her.

His grip tightened on her right wrist, and
her gun threatened to slip out of suddenly numb fingers.

“Safety’s off,” she said breathlessly,
avoiding his question. “This is not a good idea, Sam.”

He leaned up effortlessly on his elbows, as
if she weighed nothing. In one practiced move, he relieved her of
her weapon, easing her finger off the trigger before returning the
gun to her. She’d almost
shot
him. And yet her body was busy
cataloging the feel of him beneath her, the way those powerful
thighs flexed as he sat up fully, cradling her on his lap. This
close, she smelled smoke and pine, Old Spice, and something
unforgettably, indefinably Sam.
God, Sam
.

He’d starred front and center in her college
fantasies until she’d convinced herself her education and her
career had to come first. She was enrolled at a top-notch Eastern
university; Sam would never leave the forests he loved. She’d
worked hard for her chance, and she couldn’t let it pass her by for
a summer romance. They were from two different worlds, pursuing
very different goals.

Sam Clayton looked her up and down. “Olivia
Albert.”

Just like that, the years fell away and that
scared her even more than the fires.

About the Author

Heated romance. Hot heroes. Happily ever
after. I’m the nationally best-selling author of paranormal and
contemporary romance. My books have been named finalists twice for
the Readers Crown.

I’m a Northern California transplant from
snowy Vermont who loves good books, Cheetos and working in the
garden. Find more information about my books (including excerpts)
at:
www.anne-marsh.com
or on my
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.
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.