Susan Mallery: Quinn's Woman

D.J. dismissed the question. Once she verified the man had a purple arm band instead of an orange one like hers, she knew he was fair game. While he was bent over her supplies, obviously distracted, she moved in to attack.

She was less than a foot away when she pressed the barrel of the rifle against his back.

“Bang, you’re dead,” she said softly. “Now stand up slowly. Ghosts don’t move fast.”

The man calmly closed her backpack and put his hands in the air. “I heard you crashing around out there. What were you doing? Playing dodge ball with some rabbits?”

She didn’t appreciate the question or the smirky tone of voice. For one thing, she knew she’d been quiet. For another, she was the one holding the gun.

“Keep your hands up,” she said as she eased back far enough to keep him from grabbing the rifle.

When he was standing with his back to her, she considered her situation. The man was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, and well muscled. His stealth told her he wasn’t an amateur like many of the participants. Nothing about him was familiar, which meant he was probably Army. Special Forces? Had they sent in a ringer?

She couldn’t see his sidearm, which worried her. His rifle was on the ground next to his pack, but where was the handgun?

“How long are we going to stand like this?” he asked conversationally. “Or did you forget the next part? You’re supposed to have me turn around, then we eyeball each other. Once you’ve scared me with your rifle, you tie me up. Can you remember that or should we take it in stages?”

“You have some attitude, son.”

“Son?” He chuckled. “Honey, you don’t sound all that old yourself.”

Arrogant bastard, she thought in annoyance. No doubt he thought because she was a woman, she would be easy to take. She was itching to kick his butt, but she wasn’t going to start something before she knew she could finish it. She might be irritated, but she wasn’t stupid.

“I have no interest in eyeballing you,” she said. “Put your hands on top of your head, then get on your knees.”

“But I just stood up,” he protested, sounding like a spoiled child being asked to eat his vegetables. “Why don’t you figure out what you want first, and then move me around.”

She gritted her teeth. “Listen, mister, you—”

He moved with the speed of a cheetah racing in for the kill. One second he was standing with his back to her, and the next he spun in a graceful circle. His foot cracked against the rifle with enough force to send pain shooting up her arm. Involuntarily her fingers released the rifle and it crashed to the ground.

D.J. barely had time to notice. With her arm throbbing, she was at a serious disadvantage. Not that they were going to fight. Her opponent pulled his sidearm out of nowhere and pointed it directly at her head.

Her brain had started processing information the second the man had moved. She knew that he was as powerful as she’d thought, with lethally fast reflexes. He was tall, had dark eyes and the faint smile curving up his lips contrasted with the cold metal in his hand. He was good. She gave him credit for that. But was he good enough? He’d kicked the rifle, not her. Had his mama taught him not to beat up on girls?

In keeping with her philosophy of using every weapon at hand, she decided to find out.

She ignored the gun and drew her throbbing arm up to her chest. With her free hand, she cupped her wrist and forced herself to whimper softly.

Whatever it took to win, she reminded herself even as she hated the thought of appearing weak.

The gun never wavered, but the man took a half step forward. “What? I kicked the rifle, not you.”

She glared at him. “Maybe that’s what you aimed at, but it’s not what you hit.” She sucked in a breath and bit her lower lip. “I think my wrist is broken.”

He frowned. “I didn’t hit your wrist.”

She glared at him. “Right. Because in those boots you’re wearing you could feel exactly what you connected with. My mistake.”

Mentally she crossed her fingers, then nearly crowed with delight as he glanced down at his boots. One nanosecond of inattention was all she needed.

D.J. lashed out with her foot, connecting firmly with the man’s midsection. Even as all the air rushed out of him, he grabbed for her leg. But she’d anticipated the move, and had already spun away.

The gun disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. He had to be weak from lack of air, but he still moved toward her. D.J. prepared for his attack, but when it came, she barely saw movement before she found herself tumbling onto the wet ground.

Part of her brain tried to figure out what exactly he’d done, while the rest of her recognized that the lack of pain anywhere meant he’d held back. He’d upended her with enough contact to send her tumbling but not enough to cause pain. How did he have that much control?

She wanted to summon up a little righteous indignation. How dare he treat her differently because she was female? But she was too busy scrambling to her feet and trying to figure out what he was going to do next.

D.J. crouched and cleared her mind. With a deep breath, she centered herself and knew she had to attack rather than wait to be bested.

As she moved toward him, she saw his arm push out. She ducked, spun and, instead of kicking at his knee as she’d planned, found herself slipping on the wet leaves. Something glinted and she instinctively reached out. Her fingers closed around his gun. He knocked her forearm with his hand so the gun went tumbling. She managed to kick it with a foot, sending it back into the air. With a graceful pirouette, she caught it and started to turn toward him. He ducked, her foot slipped again, and she began to fall. Her right hand shot out, and she accidentally brought the gun down hard on the back of his head. He fell like a stone.

Her first thought was that he was dead. Then she saw the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her second thought was that she had better get him tied up while he was unconscious, because it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen when he came to.

Quinn regained consciousness several seconds before he opened his eyes. He quickly registered the fact that he was lying on his back in the mud with his hands tied behind him. He silently swore in disgust. He’d been downed, not by superior training or force but by dumb luck. Wasn’t that always the way?

Worse, the woman had tied him up while he’d been unconscious. Not that she would have been able to secure him any other way. He gave her points for gutsiness, but none for the lucky head shot.

Now what? He figured he would fake being out for a while, just long enough to make his captor sweat his condition. But before he could put his plan into action, he felt a hand settle on his ankle. His interest piqued—no way was he going to miss any part of a show—he opened his eyes.

The sun had gone down, but there was plenty of light from the small battery-operated lantern she’d set on the ground. He wasn’t sure why she was willing to risk the light, but he appreciated being able to see what she was doing.

The woman crouched beside him. She felt along the inside of his left ankle and pulled out the knife he’d slipped into his boot. He turned his head and saw she’d already removed the one he’d tucked into his utility belt.

She ran her hand along the inside of his leg to the knee, then down the outside to his boot. After repeating the procedure on the other leg, she shifted and pressed her palm along the length of his thigh. When she’d nearly reached the good part, he grinned.

“A little to the left,” he said.

She glanced up. Sometime in their scuffle, her hat had fallen off. He registered long dark hair pulled back in a braid, brown eyes, a well-shaped mouth and a sprinkling of freckles on slightly tanned skin. Pretty, he thought absently. No, more than pretty. She was both elegant and tough. An intriguing combination.