Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge Read online

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 w
hile 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 i
n 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.