Jan Schliesman - Protecting His Brother's Bride

Her eyes opened a fraction of an inch and long lashes fluttered against the brow already shadowed with purple, predicting an impending bruise. Lifting her hand to her forehead, she winced, before glaring at him with utter contempt. “You hit me?”

“Of course not.” Perhaps she’d used this ploy before.

“You must have,” she said, as her gaze bounced around the sparsely furnished room. “Where am I?”

“You’re lost,” he offered, seriously tipping the scales in the generosity department. This little fiasco had scam written all over it, and he was through playing the game.

Removing his cell phone from his pocket, he scrolled to find the number of the local police department. Pausing before hitting the send button, he shifted his gaze to the trespasser, resigned to giving up his anonymity in order to get her out of his hair. “Maybe the sheriff can help you find your way.”

A thunderous boom rocked the house, shattering the bedroom window and sending shards of glass and chunks of metal hurling through the air.

Dalton lurched forward, eliciting an ungrateful cry from the woman. She bucked like a bull out of the chute, rolling them both to the floor. He used his elbows to keep from crushing her with his full weight.

Evidently gratitude wasn’t in her vocabulary, because Ms. Con-Artist-Extraordinaire kicked his shin and tried twisting out of his hold. He allowed his full weight to drop on top of her, pinning her to the floor. But if he thought the explosion in front of the house was his utmost worry, he’d been mistaken. The angry glint in her bright green eyes warned him the game wasn’t over. She kicked once more, drawing his attention to a lump pressing against his kneecap.

“Get off me.” Her painted fingernails were little spikes through his shirt as she shoved at his chest.

“Lie still.” He held her in place as she squirmed beneath him. She was a lot stronger than he’d expected. Her labored breathing warmed his chin and her continued movements succeeded in firing more than his temper. Those sizzling emerald eyes promised retribution for her confinement. He reached between them, shoving the denim up her leg, revealing a leather ankle holster.

“What’s this?”

Bad enough the scam artist had accused him of assaulting her and then managed to blow up a good portion of his house; she also had a concealed weapon.

“It’s not what you think.” She bucked her hips beneath his in a feeble attempt to break free.

“Don’t even start.” He double-checked the safety before releasing her and hauling himself to his feet. Inspecting the magazine, he half hoped it would be empty. No such luck. One bullet was chambered and another eight remained in the clip.

After shoving the clip into place, he kept the weapon aimed at her while sliding closer to the window. The woman’s truck was fully engulfed in bright orange flames.

“Your truck exploded.”

“What?” She sat up, appearing genuinely shocked by the news.

“Not part of your plan?”

“No. Why would I blow up a rental?” Inhaling a shaky breath, she swiped at pieces of glass stuck to her palms.

“Maybe you should have put more thought into your plan, whatever that may be.” Sparks ignited the dry grass around the truck. His anger with the woman slid to a nonpriority. Alerting the fire department was his first.

Dalton crossed the room, collected the remainder of his cell and disgustedly tossed it aside. “Where’s your phone?”

“I don’t have one.” She remained seated on the floor.

“Empty your pockets.” He didn’t believe a word she spoke.

After wiping a spattering of blood on her jeans, she shifted to her knees and dug her hand into her pockets. A handful of change clattered to the floor along with a lip balm, a few dollars and a piece of gum.

“I told you the truth.”

“I doubt it.” Now what was he supposed to do with her? From the corner of his eye he noticed movement beyond the tree line. Another armed trespasser?

“Who else is out there?” He held the gun on the woman and watched her accomplice making his way to the back of the barn.

“How would I know?” Her eyes darted to the doorway and then returned to the weapon in his hand. “I want my gun.”

He flat out laughed at the request. Smoke from the explosion reached his nostrils, reminding him of the urgent need to control the fire.

“Get up,” he ordered, wordlessly promising to drag her off the floor if she didn’t comply. He reached for the simple wooden chair that had survived more than a century of abuse at the hands of his family.

“You can’t keep me here. What if the fire spreads?” Was that genuine fear or insolence lacing every word?

“Wanna bet?” He dropped the chair at her feet and shoved the weapon into the back of his jeans. He pulled out his pocketknife and cut through a section of sheet, quickly ripping it in half. A second later her shoe sailed through the air and bounced off his cheek, before she bolted for the door. He chased her into the hallway, catching her around the waist and pulling her back into his bedroom.

“Let me go,” she hollered. Her elbows and feet connected with various parts of his body as she tried ineffectually to get free. “Ouch, you’re hurting me.”

“And you’re really pissing me off, cupcake.” He dropped her onto the chair. Pulling her arms together in back, he slipped a wide section of sheet around her wrists and tied a double knot. Then he moved in front of her to secure her legs to the chair.

“You’re going to be sorry you messed with me,” she threatened, already trying to work her way free.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Dalton demanded. Her immediate silence surprised him. He should’ve been grateful for the reprieve.

He glanced out the window once more. The blonde bomber’s cohort was skirting the shed with a gun clutched in his hand. Armed paparazzi or kidnappers hoping to extract a big ransom? It didn’t make sense for them to blow up their own getaway vehicle.

Dalton may have briefly forgotten the Coast Guard’s motto, Semper Paratus , Latin for Always Ready, but having a gun in his hand again brought his training to the forefront. His muscles twitched in anticipation, not unlike the first time he’d boarded a vessel in the Gulf of Mexico and helped his team seize a shipment of cocaine bound for the United States.

He slipped off the safety and approached the open doorway. Glancing once more at the troublesome woman, he stifled a brief flicker of guilt over leaving her without a way to protect herself. But she’d already burned through his goodwill. Judging her an enemy instead of an ally was self-preservation in its simplest form. As jaded as it sounded, it was easy to slip back into the role that had shaped his early life.

Chair legs scraped across the floor, but he didn’t have any more time to waste on her. He needed the landline downstairs and it would take a minute to push his way to it. Phone, firemen and, unfortunately, another round with the police. Maybe it was time to hire some private security and stop depleting the sheriff department’s resources. Then again, his donations had already funded two new patrol vehicles and trained a K-9 dog. What next?

* * *

Smoke billowed in an upward spiral close to the house, tainting the breeze, which had earlier carried the scent of autumn. Kira’s head pounded an irregular rhythm, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to overcome the nausea bubbling in her stomach. Convincing herself that being sick wasn’t an option, she tried piecing together a plan. This was the place, she was almost certain. That shed outside hadn’t been here before, but there was something familiar about this room.