Linda Howard - Prey

Her eyelids drifted shut again, closed out the dim light. It was still raining, hard, but now that she was dry and warm the effect was soporific. Dare lay down behind her again, sliding up close and tight, his heavy arm resuming its place draped over her waist. It was almost like sitting in his lap. She snuggled even closer against him, wiggling her butt to find the most comfortable spot, and went back to sleep.

She surfaced again with a sharp “Ouch!” when she banged her foot against his. Still not fully awake, she struggled to a sitting position and sat there, owlishly blinking her eyes, looking around but not really seeing their surroundings. With a groan, Dare rolled onto his back, letting his arm fall over his face to block out the light.

Angie closed her eyes and leaned against her upraised left knee. The pain in her ankle had already subsided, leaving her with no imperative to do anything except sit there, caught in a sticky web of inertia. She would have glared at the offending joint, but that took too much effort, so she just sat there, grumpy and half asleep. “You awake?” she whispered after a few seconds, when Dare hadn’t moved again. If he wasn’t she didn’t want to disturb him, but if he was… well, she didn’t know why she was asking.

“After you punched me? Yeah, I’m awake,” he growled.

She thought about that, wondering if she should be indignant at being falsely accused, but again unable to muster the energy. “I didn’t punch you.” Maybe. She was pretty sure she hadn’t. She turned her head, still resting it against her knee, and opened her eyes a little. “But I might have kicked you, because it hurt my ankle.”

“You punched me.”

Even as sleepy as she was, as punch-drunk, she was still capable of logic. “How? You were behind me. I can’t punch backward.”

“When you sat up.” He moved his arm just enough for one half-opened eye to glower at her. “You punched me in the stomach.”

They glared at each other, sleepy and irritable. She could feel herself weaving. Heaving a sigh, she closed her eyes again while she thought about what he’d said. “Not a punch,” she finally insisted, having fumbled her way through her cloudy memories and making a decision. “That was my elbow, not my fist.”

“My stomach appreciates the difference. Go back to sleep.”

“What time is it now?”

He looked at his watch. “About half an hour after the last time you asked.”

This wasn’t good. If she woke up every time she moved her foot, she wasn’t going to get much rest at all.

He heaved his own sigh. “Okay, let’s try this.” He flipped the sleeping bag to the side. “Lie down on your back.”

“Hey!” She reached for the sleeping bag, protesting as the chilly air reached her.

“I’ll cover us up again. Damn it, would you just lie down?” He didn’t wait for compliance, just kind of sandwiched her in his arms and laid her back. Then he hooked his right arm under her knees, lifted her legs, and he shifted into the spoon position around her before draping her legs over his thighs. “How’s that?”

It was actually very comfortable, at least for now. “Good,” she muttered.

He stretched to reach the edge of the sleeping bag, and pulled it around them again, making sure the fabric wasn’t tight around her feet. A deep sigh eased from his chest as he settled down, not an impatient sigh but one of relaxation; he curled his left arm under his head, and went back to sleep like a stone dropping into dark water.

The moment, the situation, etched itself on her brain. Carefully (DOT) she turned her head just enough that was she able to see his face. This close to him, even in the dim light, she could see every thick, dark lash, the details of his strong facial bone structure, the small scar across the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t a pretty man, by any means, but he was definitely a man . As angry as she’d been at him, as much as she’d resented the way he’d siphoned off so much of her business just by being him , she had also never been immune to him. If he was anywhere in the vicinity, she was acutely aware of his exact location, the rough, scratchy timbre of his voice; the powerful, restrained grace of his movements. It was as if her skin was a compass to his magnetic north, and she’d hated that weakness in herself.

Angie lay awake for a few minutes-a very few-listening to the rain and the heavy, rhythmic sound of Dare’s breathing. She was in the one place she’d never thought she would be-in bed with him, in his arms-and it felt so natural she wasn’t certain she really was awake.

She needed to think, but… later.

He woke her by gently lifting her legs off his. “What’re you doing?” she muttered fretfully, because she’d managed to get some decent sleep in that position. She should be sleeping like a dead person, but instead they seemed to be destined for one to wake the other every little while.

“Gotta go.” He sat up and scrubbed both hands over his face, his bristly growth of beard sounding like sandpaper on his rough palms.

“Go where ? It’s still pouring down.” More asleep than awake, she gave him a look that managed to be both befuddled and grumpy.

“Not ‘go where,’ just go. As in, piss. How about you?”

Oh, God. Angie groaned. “I wish you hadn’t mentioned it.” But he had, and now she knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep until that problem had been taken care of. She turned her wrist to see what time it was, but was too groggy to focus her eyes. “I can’t see my watch,” she muttered, letting her arm fall back to the mattress. For all she knew, her watch wasn’t working anyway, after being exposed to all that rain and mud. “What time is it?” As soon as she asked, she wondered what difference the time made.

“Almost noon.”

Well, no wonder she needed to go. She pondered the situation for a moment longer, as dread and resignation grew. She struggled to sit up, braced herself on one arm as she tried to psych herself up to leave the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Hoping against hope, she said, “Please tell me this place has a flush toilet.”

He snorted. Okay, that was answer enough.

“Portable toilet?” At least then she wouldn’t be squatting behind a bush somewhere. She tried not to think of the effort involved, with a sprained ankle that wouldn’t support her weight.

“Out back.”

Whew! That still meant putting on boots, slicker, getting down the ladder, and going out in the rain, hopping on her one good foot, but it was worlds better than that bush she’d been thinking about.

“I can maybe find something for you to pee in,” he said, but sounded doubtful. “Think you could hit a bottle?”

“I think I could hit a portable toilet,” she growled. “What do you think I am, a precision pisser? Women don’t practice things like that.”

His mouth quirked, a movement that made the small scar in his cheek look even more like a dimple. She had the feeling that anyone else would have laughed out loud, but Dare didn’t strike her as a man who laughed very much. She wondered if he ever had, if he’d been more open when he was growing up, and his transition to an ill-tempered, closed-in man had happened during his years in the military.

Hard on that thought came the realization that she herself had done exactly that. When she was younger she’d laughed more, been more outgoing, then she’d let embarrassment and self-doubt shut her down for a while, make her pull back from people. Once those walls were up, though, staying behind them was easier than letting herself be exposed and vulnerable. Reaching out to her friends again had taken an effort, but she was so glad she’d done it. Was that what had happened to him? He’d gotten caught behind his own walls?