Julie Miller - Crossfire Christmas

But she didn’t leave him any time to clench his teeth through the blinding agony or even to catch his breath. With a feral roar, she rolled onto her back beneath him, spitting snow in his eyes and clawing at his neck and face.

“Get off me!”

Nash deflected the first blow. The second caught him square in the nose and made his eyes water. Hobbled by cold and pain and utter fatigue, he was about to be outmaneuvered by the thrashing woman unless he resorted to doing her some serious harm. And since he was still a hairbreadth away from that kind of desperation, he crawled on top of her and let his weight pin her down until the night stopped reeling about him.

She screamed in his ear and shoved a palmful of snow against his cheek.

“Stop struggling.” The icy cold on his skin was like a reviving slap across the face. But when the empty fist arced toward him a second time, his temper flared. He caught her wrist with his good hand and pinned it on the ground above her head. “I said stop!”

For one surprising moment, she went still beneath him. Through the rapid puffs of breath that clouded the air between them, he took in the quick dart of her tongue across her full bottom lip and the halo of long coffee-brown hair fanning over the snow beneath her head. The defensive anger that had spiked inside him gave way to a flash of something wildly inappropriate for a wanted man fighting to survive for a few more days.

He was still processing those quick impressions of curves and heat and spirited beauty when she offered up a husky whisper. “What are you going to do with me?”

Keep your head in the game, Nash. Don’t let the pretty girl distract you.

“Not a damn thing. Look, I don’t want to be a part of your life any longer than you want to be a part of mine.” Running on fumes, he summoned what little energy he had left and went the tough-guy route again. “You can either drive me where I want to go or I can take your keys. But I don’t especially want to leave you abandoned out here on a night like this.”

“Don’t worry about me.” He saw the spark in her eyes a split second before he felt her leg sliding beneath his and sensed her target.

Of all the... Nash pulled his knee between her thighs, beating her to the intimate contact. With a startled gasp, she went still again—long enough for him to release her wrists and unholster his gun. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Those injuries aren’t from any car wreck.” Although her rosy cheeks indicated she was as aware of their intimate position as he was, it seemed nothing could silence that smart mouth. She brought her hands to the uninjured side of his chest, and he let her shove a few inches of breathing room between them. “And that’s body armor. Who are you, Mr. Charles? What did you do?”

“The less you know about me, the better.” Good. He hadn’t slipped and given her his name in his groggy state in the truck. That meant it wasn’t out there on the wire or in cyberspace, flagging his location to the cartel or the inside man who’d set him up.

Nash raised his head and glanced around him, suddenly wary that he’d already spent too long out in the open. That gunshot he’d used to intimidate her when he realized he couldn’t stop her from running might have alerted a nearby farmer or some other fool who was out here in the middle of nowhere on this wintry night. And even though he’d severed her call, the authorities were almost certainly already on their way.

He assessed the subdued flight risk in her warm chocolate eyes before easing his hips off hers and gingerly pushing himself up on one knee in the snow. “I don’t have much time. I can’t afford to let the police get here before I’m gone—and you’re my only way out of here, Peewee. I need you to grab my bag and get me to your car, then take me someplace where you can patch me up.”

“Peewee?” She sat up as soon as she was free. A second later she was scooting away, climbing to her feet and brushing the snow off the clinging wet cotton of her pink pant legs. “I should just leave you here to freeze to death.”

“Can you outrun a bullet?” If she tried, he’d have to let her go. But he was hoping he still had that big-and-mean-and-on-his-last-nerve look going for him to convince her to cooperate.

Apparently, he did.

Although that defiant spark never left her dark eyes, she lifted her gaze from the gun up to his, nodding her acquiescence. “Now that you’ve conveniently gotten us both soaked to the skin, we’re at risk for hypothermia if we stay out here much longer. And I’m not dying for the likes of you.”

She stumbled down the hill, kicking her way through knee-deep snow with every step. Man, she was a little spitfire. Maybe not as afraid of him as she should be, and definitely not the teenager he’d first thought her to be. She stood over his go bag, breathing deeply, rubbing her bare hand inside her gloved one, no doubt feeling the cold and damp, especially after that tumble in the snow.

Or maybe she was contemplating another avenue of escape.

Nash shifted the angle of the gun toward her. “Pick it up and don’t try to run again,” he warned. With an answering glare, she hoisted the heavy bag onto her shoulder. It was almost as big as she was. But other than a Spanish curse beneath her breath, she trudged up the hill without further protest or complaint.

Nash, however, struggled to find his footing. His leg ached but felt solid enough. It was more a case of finding his balance and catching his breath. He lurched to his feet, swaying with the first step. White spots swam before his eyes, but it was more than the snow swirling past.

The nurse was several steps ahead of him when she dropped the bag into a drift at the shoulder of the road and turned.

Nash willed the light-headedness to go away and raised the gun toward her. But his left arm hung at his side and his right was getting weaker. “I said—”

“I don’t think I can carry you both,” she groused, marching back down the hill.

He almost laughed at the idea of this little bundle of sass thinking she was going to carry him. But she moved to his right side, wound her arm behind his waist and urged him to put his arm around her shoulders. “Lean on me,” she ordered.

Nash hesitated. She fit right beneath his arm, the perfect height for the crutch he apparently needed. And yeah, it put the crown of that silky dark hair that had fallen out of its ponytail and gotten dotted with snow right beneath his chin. He tightened his grip around the gun that rested on her shoulder when she grabbed his wrist and butted her hip up against his. Was this cozying-up tactic some kind of trick to get the weapon away from him?

“Come on, tough guy.” She latched her fingers around his belt and tugged. “You can get fresh with me in the snow and threaten me with a gun all you want. But if you really want my help, you’ll put your weight on me and move your feet.” She flashed her dark eyes up to him before urging him forward with a jerk at his waist and a grunt of effort. “In about two minutes, my extremities are going to be so numb I won’t be able to do anything for either of us—even if you do shoot. So move.”

He couldn’t have been rescued by some meek, mousy thing who’d do what he said without the attitude? He tapped the butt of the gun against her shoulder. “That’s pretty bold talk for a woman who’s got no advantage.”

“Uh-huh. I’m not the one bleeding to death. Your color’s awful. Your skin is cold to the touch. I don’t want your dead body on my conscience.” She tugged again, forcing him to take a step. “How long have you been losing blood?”

“The leg’s just a graze,” he informed her, bracing more of his weight on her shoulders to limp another step up the hill. “I stanched the hole in my chest,” he ground out as his right boot slipped and he came down hard on his injured leg.