Vickie Taylor - The Renegade Steals A Lady

Bravo lapped his tongue over Marco’s ear.

“Thanks,” Marco said, wiping his face as he restarted his heart. “I think.”

Laying Paige’s head gently on the ground, he worked his hands over the length of her body, probing carefully. There was no sign of a bullet wound, thank God. The shooter had missed. Either Marco had tackled him in time to ruin his aim, or Lewie Kinsale wasn’t a very good shot. Marco didn’t care which; he’d take alive any way he could get it.

The sight of the abrasions on her face and the reddened areas that would soon be bruises sobered Marco quickly. A bullet wasn’t the only way to die out here. The cliff over his shoulder climbed some twenty feet up, its sharp slope made even more treacherous by jagged rocks, protruding roots and brush. It must have been a rough ride down.

The thought of spinal injury worried him most. But as he checked her out, she shifted her arms and legs restlessly. That was a good sign, he hoped. And the Kevlar vest she wore under her uniform would have offered some protection to her vital organs.

Lightly massaging the scalp beneath her full, blond hair, he found a gash on the crown of her head. The cut oozed blood steadily, but didn’t appear deep. All in all, he figured she’d been lucky, until he got to her left ankle.

She groaned when he wiggled her foot. He muttered a curse. The joint was already swelling. He couldn’t tell if the ankle was broken or just sprained, but either way she wasn’t going anywhere under her own power for a while.

Tamping down a feeling of impending disaster, Marco gently settled her foot back on the ground, raised his head and looked around. He needed to put some distance between himself and those hunting him. The night was deep and dark now, but it wouldn’t be for long. When the sun rose, he’d be an easy target.

As would Paige, if there were more like Lewie Kinsale prowling around these woods.

He looked down at her pale face. As it did every time he looked at her, every time he thought about her, his heart gave an involuntary twist.

After six months in jail, he’d thought his reaction to her would have dulled, but one look at her had brought back all the old feelings like rapier points at his chest.

Guilt. He’d made his mistakes.

Shame. He’d endured the humiliation his actions had brought about. More.

Frustration. He’d had heaven at his fingertips and let her slip away.

Six months in prison hadn’t taken any edge off those emotions.

Desire. If anything, being away from her had only made him want her more. So much so that he wondered if, at this point, the woman could live up to the fantasies.

And somewhere deep inside, below all the other feelings, stirred the strongest sentiment of all.

Anger. The cold sting of rejection.

She didn’t want to see him again. It was a mistake, she’d said the morning after they’d made love.

If that was true, it had been a damn costly one. Because of that one night with her, he’d lost his job, his freedom, and now very nearly his life. All for a woman who wanted nothing more from him than a single night’s pleasure.

At least that’s what she’d said.

He couldn’t help feeling there was something else holding her back. Something she was afraid of. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.

Her lashes fluttered. She was coming around.

As she struggled for coherence, he relieved her of her sidearm, shoving the pistol into one of the big pockets of the sheepskin coat, and tossed her crushed police radio into the woods.

“Welcome back,” he said when her eyes found focus on his.

Her back stiffened. Her face twisted, whether from pain or outrage, he couldn’t be sure. She raised a hand as if to strike him, but he easily blocked the blow and held on to her wrist to prevent her from trying it again.

She rolled away from him, scrambling to her hands and knees, but he rolled with her, pinning her beneath him. They came to rest in a tangled heap of arms and legs, her back to the ground, her chest heaving up to meet his with each laborious breath. With some difficulty, he managed to trap her arms above her head before she scratched his eyes out.

Her eyes spit venom.

“You’re under arrest,” she hissed.

A burst of laughter warmed Paige’s cheek, but Marco’s eyes held no humor. Nor did his appearance.

His hair was shorter than when she’d seen him last, the cut almost utilitarian. She supposed simplicity took precedence over style in prison.

His haircut wasn’t the only thing about him worse for wear, she thought, her head still muzzy as her gaze trailed down over his face. He still had the eyes of a dark angel, but now one of them sported a blue bruise underneath. An abrasion marred his square jaw and blood coagulated over a split lip.

He looked like he’d been in a train wreck.

Her head cleared with the suddenness of a rifle shot.

Wreck. The prison van. Escape.

Oh God, he’d shot her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, blocked out the sight of him, the pain in her head and ankle, the singing of her traitorous nerves at the feel of him draped over her, his heart pounding and his body pulsing.

“I mean it,” she said. “I’m taking you in.”

He laughed again, then flexed his arms slightly, pressing his heat even closer. His body felt all warm and supple, and she was cold. So cold.

“You have no idea how good that sounds right now,” he said.

Her cheeks sparked like roadside flares. At least the fire chased away the cold. By God, whatever he did tonight, he was not going to make fun of her. She was a cop, and he was going to respect her for it, this time.

She reached for her holster, but her hand came away empty.

He smiled down at her, saying nothing.

“Bastard.”

His stony silence continued. He didn’t deny. Didn’t defend himself. Just like in court.

He’d been sentenced to four years for theft and evidence tampering. He could have gotten less if he’d offered some explanation for his actions, or shown some remorse. Instead he’d let the charges pass with a single comment.

Guilty.

She still wore the word, as if he’d stamped it on her soul.

Though she’d found the drugs on him herself, she and Bravo, she’d watched every minute of his trial, hoping for some explanation before the judge. Until it was over, and his sentence pronounced, she hadn’t really believed he’d done it. Hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Hadn’t wanted to believe she’d been used again.

A small sound of distress escaped her throat. She was at a loss for what to do next, how to get away, until Bravo whined beside her.

Slowly she raised her gaze to Marco’s.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said.

Confidence in her partner added substance to her words. “Bravo will rip your throat out if I tell him to.”

“I don’t think so.” Marco let go of one of her wrists and lowered his arm until she could see his bloodied sleeve. “The poodle and I have already reached an understanding about who is alpha male around here.”

“He bit you?” That wasn’t possible. No man got away from an attack by a well-trained police dog, and Bravo was the best. “What happened? How did you get him off?”

Levering herself upright, Paige grabbed at his arm, examining the bite.

Marco hissed and jerked away. His fingers looked like five fat sausages. “I guess he found me as distasteful as I find him.”

Bravo promptly disproved that theory by scooting up to Marco, tail wagging, and laying a big, fat smooch on the offended arm. Marco reared backward as if he’d been burned.

Paige was still trying to puzzle out both man’s and dog’s odd behavior when Marco, apparently recovered, clambered to his feet.