Heroes In Uniform (284 page)

She was paralyzed with indecision. Jerk her arm back? Or leave it where it was...?

Moments later, the decision was rendered moot when he repeated the process with her other arm. It felt...too good to move. She was still cold, but her hands and arms felt warm and tingly where they lay against his rock hard middle.

Oh, what the hell. Touching him was better than hypothermia.

A
lot
better.

Spineless willpower
.

Sighing in guilty pleasure, she surrendered, and nestled tight against his body. Her visor was soon covered by his long, windswept hair. She felt an irrational urge to lift it, and bury her face in his hair and drown in his scent.

The small bright circle from the Yamaha's headlight cast lacy shadows on the road in front of them as they whisked past tall pines and buzzed through the hushed night forest. She could feel his supple muscles working in unison with the bike, stretching and contracting to the rhythm of the bumpy, twisting road. Her own hands felt lost in the broad, angular geography of his chest.

Long before they approached the unpaved track leading to the tower, she had all but forgotten her fears. Only the occasional jarring
click
of their helmets as they collided jolted home the incongruity of her feelings for him. She was furious with herself for allowing him to cut so easily through her defenses. But she was too lost in the sensation of her body rubbing up against his to do anything but enjoy the ride.

Suddenly, he shouted, “Bear!”

In a flash, the bike was tipping over, and she was thrown onto the dirt...along with her wonderful fantasies.

Barely Dangerous: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Digging his boot heel into the dirt road, Coop jammed on the brakes and pivoted the Yamaha around on the front tire, struggling to keep the bike from falling over completely.

Behind him, Maggie screamed after she’d rolled off the back of the bike.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” she yelled, springing to her feet and whacking clouds of dirt off her jeans.

“It was a goddamned
bear
,” he yelled back. “Didn't you see it?” He quickly scanned around them. Naturally, the animal had vanished.

She continued to brush her jeans furiously. “No, I didn't see any damned bear! You could have killed us!”

He was about to shout back again, but clamped his mouth shut.
Jesus
. When was the last time he'd yelled at a woman?

At anyone?

He took a cleansing breath. “There was a bear on the road,” he repeated, more calmly this time. “If I'd hit it, we probably
would
be dead. It's like running into a brick wall with claws and teeth.”

“Well, you would know,” she muttered angrily.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Get back on the bike,” he ordered, muscling it upright again.

“Not on your life,” she retorted. “I'll walk, thank you very much.”

He scowled at her, smarting with frustration. “All right,” he growled. “Fine by me.” If she wanted to kill herself tripping over potholes in the dark, it was no skin off his teeth.

But God
damn
it. Seconds ago, she’d had her hands on his bare skin turning him on like crazy, and he was pretty damn sure five minutes later and he’d have had
his
hands on
her
bare skin, turning them both on.

Starting the bike with a jerk, he lurched up the remaining distance to the tower, lecturing himself the whole way. He really had to get a grip. He was acting like some kind of out-of-control hormonal teenager.

He was putting the bike up on its kickstand next to the tower pylon when she stalked up and lit into him again. “You're nuts, you know that? A bear? Come on, get real, Cooper. Bears don’t just vanish into thin air.”

Was she serious? Apparently he wasn't the only one out-of-control. He could practically hear her berating herself for letting her precious guard slip and actually enjoying the feel of her hands on his body.

That's
what this was about, not any damned bear.

Her foot tapped a staccato riff in the gravel. “You must have had more than one beer at Gina's, hallucinating like that,” she fumed. “Un-friggin'-believable.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and scowled. It wasn't as if they'd been in any real danger of being hurt on the bike—he’d been going less than five miles an hour.

He itched to shut her up somehow and get back to where they'd been.

“I didn't,” he assured her. “And I wasn't hallucinating. I did see a bear. A big one.”

She invaded his space to continue her tirade, punctuating her scolding with sharp pokes of her finger.

He leaned back against the pylon and centered himself. Blocking out her words, he observed her body. It was wonderfully expressive, alive, passionate even in anger. Would it be the same in the throes of a different kind of passion? He looked down at her luscious lips—full, supple, ripe for plundering.

“Are you listening to me?” she demanded, snapping him out of his reverie.

“No. I’m not.”

He grasped her arms and pulled her roughly to him, wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, and brought those sweet lips to his.

He kissed her, hard, and didn't let up until she was gasping for breath.

Then he released her.

She narrowed her eyes, hauled off and slapped his cheek with a resounding
smack
.

He tried to decide whether or not he’d deserved it.

Immediately, she took a step backward, bringing her hands to her own cheeks, her eyes wide with contrition. “Oh, God. I'm sor—”

No. He hadn’t
.

In a motion, he shoved himself off the pylon, grabbed her arms, spun, and crushed her between himself and the hard wooden pylon.

“Let go of me!” She tried to shove him away.

He let her go, but he didn't move. Instead, he leaned in for another kiss.

She turned her face away.

Clamping down on an unfamiliar surge of violence that surged through his blood, he forced himself to shift gears. Gaining iron control of his raging adrenalin, he lightly, sensually, kissed her temple and her cheek.

“No,” she said half-heartedly. “Don't.”

His heart still pounding furiously, he gently skimmed his fingertips down her ribs and moved his lips first to her ear, feathering it lightly, then to the corner of her eye.

“Stop,” she whimpered, but at the same time tilted her head to the side, offering her throat as her hands clutched his shoulders. He couldn’t move away even if he’d wanted to.

He didn’t want to.

He kissed his way down the satin column of her throat.

“Please don't do this,” she whispered, sliding her arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “Just a kiss.”

He nibbled up her chin. Her lips met his willingly, and parted at the first touch of his tongue. With a groan, he sank into her moist, inviting mouth.

Circling his hands around her waist, he tugged her soft, yielding body closer. Slowly, slowly, he inched her tank top up and slid his hands along the bare sides of her torso. Her body arched into him and a low moan came from her throat.

Suddenly, she grabbed his wrists and broke the kiss. “No.”

He silently swore. “Maggie...”

She shook her head. “No.”

He slipped from her grip and ran his hands up and down her arms. “Your words tell me one thing, but your body is saying something completely different. Which should I listen to?”

Taking a shaky breath, she escaped his embrace and folded her arms over her middle. “They're both saying the same thing now.”

He leaned back against the pylon and mirrored her stance. He could feel the thread of his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Sorry. I thought you were enjoying the kiss as much as I was.”

Her tongue peeked out and ran over her lips, gathering the moisture he had left there. He watched her taste him and swallow. “No,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Okay.” He ached to catch her up in his arms again, to cover her mouth and prove to her how wrong she was.

Instead, he slowly drew the back of his hand across his lips, deliberately wiping away her wet, fevered kisses. “Sorry. My mistake.”

She struggled not to look wounded, but the pain in her expression at his gesture couldn't have been greater had he taken his knife and twisted it in her heart.

Her plump, sensual lips thinned to a hard line. “Be gone by noon.” Turning on her toe, she strode past him to the tower stairs.

Standing alone in the dark, he listened to her take the steps two at a time all the way up to the top, and flinched at the sound of the cab door slamming shut behind her.

He should not regret hurting her. There was nothing nastier a woman could do than tell a man she didn't like his lovemaking.

So, why did he feel like such a bastard?

Probably because he damned well knew she’d been lying.

Barely Dangerous: Chapter Twenty-Eight

Maggie's scream echoed off the glass walls of the lookout tower. She bolted upright on her sleeping cot and brought her hands to her eyes, shielding them from the bright glare of the morning sun.

An animal. In her dream, she had been an
animal
!

A caribou, to be exact.

And that damned Cree poacher had
shot
her. With a bow and arrow.

Dead
.

Her heart pounded furiously. Beads of perspiration soaked her brow. She was stunned. Not in all her twenty-eight years had she ever been killed in a dream.
Killed dead
.

It was just too weird and scary. She hugged the quilt to her chest.

And it was all his fault.

Blue Wolf Cooper
.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and tried to recall the details of the dream.

She had been a beautiful caribou with aristocratic antlers, running with a large herd, savoring the warmth of the beautiful summer sun. At a small stream, she had stopped and dipped her muzzle into the cold, clear water to drink.

She looked up. The herd had vanished. On the other side of the stream sat a warrior astride a striking roan. The warrior was resplendent in soft golden buckskin pants, and a beautiful beaded chest-cloth partially covered his naked torso. His face was painted red, with black rings drawn around his eyes and black scratch marks down his cheeks. The wind played with his waist-length jet hair and the two feathers tied in it. He held a hunting bow in one hand, and an arrow quiver graced his back.

She ran.

The warrior followed swiftly behind, expertly guiding the roan with his muscular thighs. He trailed her into the woods, threading through the trees until they reached a meadow. There, stood a huge black bear. The warrior's horse circled her, the caribou, as she halted, quaking in the grass, afraid to go back, terrified to confront the bear. Her legs collapsed when the warrior lifted his bow and reached back to his quiver for an arrow.

Then, suddenly, she was filled with an inexplicable longing for what was to come. She gazed on the warrior, yearning for him, full of desire for him. She sank to the ground and lay in the grass before him.

As he nocked the arrow, he smiled. “I will kill you because I know you love me. You are coy, but you desire my arrow in your flesh. When I have killed you, let your spirit fly to Memekwesiw and tell him I am a worthy hunter, that it is good to be killed by me.”

The handsome warrior took aim and shot the arrow true, straight into her heart. She felt her life's blood seep out and mingle with the wildflowers of the meadow.

The warrior leaped off his horse and came to her. He stroked her cheek as she died, whispering words of endearment.

Lifting her lifeless body into his powerful arms, he walked with it to the bear sitting at the edge of the clearing. Gently, he lay her in front of the giant bear.

“Grandfather, honor me and accept my gift.”

The bear lifted its muzzle and bellowed, then raised a huge paw and placed it on her motionless shoulder, its long claws hanging to either side of the protruding arrow. The bear gazed into the eyes of the hunter.

That was when Maggie woke up.

Screaming.

Raking unsteady fingers through her hair, she pulled it away from her face.
My God
. She had actually
died
in her dream. Freud would have a field day.

But...what could it mean? Was her subconscious warning her about a possible threat of danger? The warrior had killed her, but he had gifted her to a symbol of greater power.

Whitney, maybe?

Could Cooper be working for her former boss, after all? She had dismissed the notion out of hand when she first saw him because he stood out too much with his long hair and distinctive motorcycle.

Could she have been wrong?

No. That was just the paranoia talking. If he were working for Whitney, she’d already be dead.

She did her best to block out the fear. Slowly, she calmed her racing heart. She had no intention of becoming Whitney's next victim.

Sweeping back the quilt, she rose on wobbly legs from the sweat-drenched bed, and headed for the stove. “Coffee, I need coffee.”

She almost dropped the glass carafe twice, and she
did
drop the coffee grounds into the sink before she was able to get the machine perking.

At her pint-sized dresser, she reached under the bulky sweaters in the bottom drawer and pulled out her small pistol. Its holster was designed to go around a thigh or ankle, like the knife she always wore in her boot.

On Dinny Paxton' orders, she had started carrying the semi-automatic when she'd gotten involved with the FBI case. She’d also gone to the gun range and practiced until she could actually hit the target each time she fired. Dinny had insisted she take an intensive self-defense course, taught by a formidable female ex-army sergeant who had shown Maggie every vulnerable spot on the male anatomy.

But after coming to the isolated Trinity forest, she'd put the gun in the drawer and left it there, thinking she was safe here.