Linda Jones - Hot On His Trail

Caudel was leaving the room when she stopped him with a question. “You know him well?”

He turned in the doorway, a smile on his face. “I gave Nick his first job out of the military, taught him everything I know about the construction business before my eyesight started to fail.” The smile disappeared. “He’s a good man, and he didn’t kill nobody.”

She didn’t believe he had, either, but still… “He shot at me.”

The smile came back. “Ma’am, if he didn’t hit you, he didn’t shoot at you. Nick could shoot the flies off a pile of, uhhh…” He cleared his throat. “Off a pile of sugar,” he said, “and never disturb a single grain.”

For some reason that was a comforting reassurance. Shea turned to the closetful of old clothes and listened to Caudel’s retreating footsteps.

“I shoulda been there.”

Nick opened his eyes at Lenny’s mumbled self-censure. “I told you a thousand times I didn’t want you in the courtroom,” he said. It was the truth. Lenny was more like a father to him than the man he’d called Daddy for the first eleven years of his life. Nick didn’t want Lenny to sit in that courthouse and watch the trial; it would have been an unnecessarily harsh ordeal for the old man. “Besides,” he added, “you can’t drive anymore.”

“I can, too,” Lenny mumbled.

“You’re blind as a bat, you’ve got no business…dammit!” He came up off the couch like a shot when Lenny’s removal of the makeshift bandage proved to be too painful. “Just leave it alone,” he said as Lenny unwrapped his bloodstained jacket and tie.

Lenny ignored the order and took a pair of scissors to his pant leg, cutting the fabric away with an easy touch. “No. It’s going to be cleaned and bandaged properly, and then we’re going to get you out of these filthy clothes and into a warm bed.”

Nick shook his head as he lay back down. The lumpy couch felt as good as any soft bed he’d ever slept in. “They’ll look for me here sooner or later, probably sooner, so I can’t stay. I won’t risk involving you.”

“They won’t think to look here for a while, I reckon,” Lenny insisted.

“Can’t risk it,” Nick whispered.

The roar of water from the bathroom reminded him of Shea’s presence in this house. She should be gone by now; another chance had come and still she didn’t run. He wouldn’t chase after her if she took off now, and neither would Lenny. Nick was crippled and Lenny was half-blind; Shea could walk out of this house and they wouldn’t be able to stop her.

Nick closed his eyes and tried to relax as Lenny very carefully tended to his wounded leg. Nick couldn’t think straight, and that wasn’t good. In fact, it was damn bad. All he could think of with any clarity was one fact: Shea Sinclair smelled great.

When he’d hovered close in the confines of the car, when she’d wrapped her arm around his waist and steadied him, there had been moments when her scent had almost overpowered him. He wanted to bury his nose against her neck and breathe deep, to sleep with that scent in his nostrils.

Nick wondered if he was running a fever; God knows he was delirious.

He should leave right now, while Shea was getting cleaned up and prepared for her grand adventure of a story. Unfortunately, she was right: he needed her. He wouldn’t get far without Shea Sinclair’s help.

As Lenny tended the leg, Nick drifted off. He didn’t wake until he heard Shea’s voice. That voice was already so familiar that it struck a chord somewhere deep inside, like the voice of an old, dear friend.

“How is it?” she whispered.

“Not too bad, considering,” Lenny answered just as softly. They thought he was asleep, and didn’t want to wake him, he supposed. If he had the strength he’d say something and prove them wrong…but he didn’t. “He’s doggone lucky, if you ask me. The bullet grazed his calf. Made a deep furrow, but there doesn’t seem to be any muscle damage to speak of. He lost a lot of blood, though, and he’ll have to watch for infection.”

“I know. I wish we had some antibiotics.” Her voice was a little bit closer now; he could almost feel that voice, as if it vibrated deep inside him. How odd.

“I’ve got part of a prescription I didn’t finish,” Lenny said, a bright note in his voice. “Just a few days’ worth, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Yes, it is,” Shea said, sounding relieved. “He’ll need a change of clothes, too.”

“I rounded up some old clothes I outgrew years ago. They’re on the chair by the fireplace,” Lenny said, groaning as he stood. “I’ll get those pills and a glass of water.”

Nick half opened his eyes. Lenny entered the kitchen, and Shea stood over the recliner by the cold stone fireplace. She wore a pair of tight white pants that ended just below her knees, and a pale blue blouse that was cropped so that the hem hung just at her waist. The severe red suit had disguised her figure, but this outfit enhanced it, hugging every curve. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a thick ponytail.

She turned around, the pile of clothing in her hands, and Nick let his eyes drift closed again.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered as she kneeled on the floor beside him. “If I had a lick of sense I’d run like hell and not look back.”

Yes, you would.

“Dean will kill me,” she said.

Boyfriend? Husband? Lover?

“Well, maybe Clint and Boone will protect me.”

More boyfriends?

“Goodness knows they’ve saved me often enough.” Shea sighed, and then Nick felt the warmth of her hands on his chest. She flicked one button of his shirt and then another. The tips of her fingers grazed his skin as his shirt came open, and his eyes fluttered open.

“What are you doing?” he whispered harshly.

She wasn’t at all startled that he was awake; she should be. “I’m getting you dressed so we can get out of here.”

“I can dress myself.”

She smiled. “Yes, I’m sure you can.” She’d washed the makeup off her face, revealing smooth skin with just a few pale freckles sprinkled across the nose. Even without lipstick, her lips were rosy, pink and full.

He should push her hand away and finish the job himself, but he didn’t. He liked the occasional brush of her fingers against his skin, and she was so close he could smell her again. He liked it; he liked it too much.

“Can you sit?” She flattened her hand on his back and helped him raise up, and then she slipped the damp white dress shirt off his shoulders.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked as she took a blue-and-green-plaid cotton shirt and helped him into it. Her hands were easy, gentle and sure. He had to remind himself that she wasn’t his friend, she wasn’t his ally, it didn’t matter how good she smelled or how enticing the simple brush of her fingers felt on his skin. “It’s the story, right?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “The story.”

All of a sudden he knew he couldn’t do this. Somehow he had to get rid of the weathergirl. With all the strength he could muster, Nick reached out and took Shea Sinclair’s chin in his hand and made her look him in the eye. He didn’t have the strength to force her to do anything, but he damn well knew how to send her packing.

“I haven’t had a woman in ten months,” he whispered. “I haven’t so much as touched a woman in ten months.”

Her face went pale; her hazel-green eyes widened. But she didn’t back away.

“You want a thrill, weathergirl?” he asked, his voice so soft it was little more than a breath of air. “You think this is fun? Some kind of adventure?” He leaned down, placing his face close to hers. Damn if he couldn’t smell her, feel her breath and the warmth of her skin. Her lips were so close, right there before him and tempting as hell. “I promise you this. You stick around, and as soon as I get my strength back I’ll show you a thrill or two.”