Читать книгу The Renegade Steals A Lady - Vickie Taylor - Страница 9

Six months later

Midnight. Fitting, Paige thought, checking the luminous hands on her watch as she ran.

Midnight, moonlight, the bay of hounds muffled by a chilling mist—what better backdrop for a manhunt? Especially when the man being hunted was Marco Angelosi. Marco was a man of shadow and light, comfortable in the dark and as hard to get a handle on as a fistful of fog.

At one time he’d been a good cop. Dedicated. Driven. Although his methods were sometimes unorthodox, he’d had the best arrest record on the force, and his cases stuck.

But that Marco had been an illusion. What was fog, anyway, but a trick of the light?

Thin air.

As thin as the sharp, frosty air she couldn’t seem to pull enough of into her heaving lungs as Bravo, nose deep to the ground, pulled her along the rocky terrain of Lake Rowan State Park, fifteen miles north of Port Kingston.

“Break, Bravo.” She pulled the dog to a stop and listened, but the howling of the other canines had long ago faded into the night behind her.

Her sergeant would have her cleaning kennels until Christmas when he found out she’d broken off from the grid search and circled the lake on her own. Eventually he’d forgive her, though. He had to; he was her brother.

Besides, Sergeant Matt Burkett and the others were barking up the wrong road. She knew Marco Angelosi. Knew him intimately. She knew the confidence he had in his body.

He wasn’t on the highway.

She looked back at the black lacquer surface of Lake Rowan. That’s where Marco had gone. He’d swum the lake.

Never mind that it was February and the water temperature couldn’t be sixty degrees, or that the narrowest crossing from shore to shore spanned better than a mile.

Marco wouldn’t take the easy way.

Bending over against a stitch in her side, she raised her head to get her bearings. The shifting fog glowed around her, reflecting the light of the three-quarter moon and limiting her visibility to twenty or thirty feet in front of her. Curse this weather. It was making the job ten times harder than it should have been, and the job was hard enough already, emotionally and physically.

She shivered. Bravo let out a high whine.

Her hand automatically fell to the pleasure spot behind the dog’s ear and rubbed. “It’s all right, B. We’ll find him.”

No matter what, she added silently.

Marco couldn’t just walk away from a prison van wreck and pick up life where he’d left off. She would find him.

And then she would send him back.

Her fingers clenched around Bravo’s leash. Apprehending Marco wasn’t just her sworn duty as a peace officer; it was a matter of dignity.

After his arrest, Paige had quietly resigned from the task force. She didn’t deserve the post. She’d made a mistake, allowed her objectivity to be compromised and because of it the entire investigation could have been compromised. The combined agencies working the case still hadn’t found the source of the Magic, but at least no more evidence had disappeared from the drug shipments they had found.

Bravo’s nose twitched, turned into the breeze, snuffling. He had a scent. Marco?

Her skin tingled at the mere passing of his name through her mind. Like some genetically programmed reaction, the feeling was intense, instinctive and unstoppable. For a moment he was there, touching her again, his broad fingertips skimming expertly over her breasts, her belly, the insides of her thighs.

A moan rumbled up her throat, but she snatched it back, tamping down the surging warmth inside her by concentrating on the cold of the night. The chill seeped under her jacket and she felt the charge in the air. Her nostrils flared.

He was here; she felt him.

They’d been together only that one night, but oh, what a night. Chemically, electrically, she was still connected to him. She feared she always would be.

Bravo strained at his collar, eager to get back to work. Her breath less labored now, Paige stamped her boots in the fallen leaves, forcing circulation to her toes, and motioned Bravo forward with a flick of her hand.

The dog tugged her along as he picked up speed. He whined again and his tail thumped Paige’s thigh as she scrambled for footing on the slippery ground. He snuffled the base of a rocky hill, not terribly tall—twenty, maybe twenty-five feet high—but steep. On another night, another search, she might have taken Bravo around. But not tonight. Not when it was Marco she was after.

Her own heartbeat reflecting Bravo’s near-giddy excitement, she let go of the leash, urged Bravo on and scrambled up the hillside. Her fingers scratched at soil and rocks, clinging even where there were no handholds.

Finally she dragged herself over the top edge and, puffing hard, propped herself against a narrow trunk in a stand of pine.

Her first thought was for Bravo, loping up the trail ahead. The dog wouldn’t wait for her. He’d follow the scent, as he’d been trained, unless she called him back. It was up to her to follow him, which, in this fog, wouldn’t be easy.

Her second thought wasn’t a thought at all, but a pain, like a hand wringing dry her heart. On the hillside above her, a rock outcropping burst through the mist. On that rock stood the figure of a man.

Fog wafted across his outline like ribbons of silk, making him appear magical, ethereal. Prisoner’s coveralls plastered his figure like a bright orange second skin, detailing every curve, every bulge of a muscular physique she knew too well.

Her skin zinged. The temperature seemed to warm ten degrees in as many seconds, or at least the cold no longer mattered.

She’d found him.

Or had he found her?

He was looking right at her. He couldn’t possibly see her through the fog, in her little stand of trees, yet she felt certain he knew she was there. Could he feel her presence the way she felt his? The possibility set her blood pounding even harder.

His head snapped to his left. Brush crackled and twigs popped.

Bravo? Had he caught up to Marco already?

She moved from behind the tree trunk to call instructions to the dog. As she did, Marco leaped into a clump of scrub around the base of a cottonwood tree.

A few bushes wouldn’t protect him from Bravo. She ordered her feet to run. Heading out along the edge of the precipice, she opened her mouth to yell.

The words never had a chance to form in her throat. She saw the muzzle of a gun flash from the spot where Marco had disappeared. Instinctively she skidded to a halt, bracing for the impact of the bullet even before she heard the shot.

Her feet slipped on the rocks. She flailed her arms, struggling madly to regain her balance. A puff of air breezed by her temple. She wasn’t sure if the bullet hit her or not, because she was already falling.

She grasped at branches, at roots, but couldn’t hold on. Down she fell, tumbling, twisting, bouncing along the slope until there was nothing but the pounding of her body on rock, the snaring of her clothes and skin on brush.

Her last thought before darkness overcame her was of Marco, not as he’d looked on the rocks in prisoner’s garb, but as he’d looked in her bed. Naked. Virile.

And hungry.

Lying in the brush behind the man he’d just choked into unconsciousness, Marco forced himself to ease his forearm off the shooter’s throat just short of killing him.

The bastard had shot her. Shot Paige.

Pushing the man’s prone body away, Marco jumped up to run, but spared one last scathing glance for the limp form at his feet. He needed to get to Paige, but if he was going to make any sense of what was happening to him, to them, Marco needed to know who this man was.

That evening, while working on a prison crew cleaning up litter from the side of the highway, another prisoner, Tomas Oberas, had picked a fight with Marco, getting them both sent back to the lockup early. At the time, Marco had wondered what was going on. He’d never had a problem with Oberas before. On the way back to the prison, he got his answer.

The fight was a setup. Someone had wanted Marco on that van, with only one guard and no other prisoners except for Oberas. They’d wanted him there because they’d wanted him. And they’d nearly gotten him.

He’d barely escaped alive when they’d forced the van off the road. Then this man, and others like him, came after Marco. If it hadn’t been for the dense woods and nightfall, he would never have evaded them.

He hadn’t escaped them, yet, he thought, reminding himself not to get cocky. They were a determined group. He wasn’t sure what they wanted from him, but whatever it was, they wanted it badly.

Counting each precious second wasted, Marco dug his toe under the man’s shoulder and flipped him over. Whoever the guy was, he wasn’t the one behind all this, of that much Marco was sure. Arranging a prison break took money. More money than a man wearing a stained sheepskin jacket, faded camouflage and boots with cracked soles would have.

He was just a hired gun. But whose?

Most likely the same person who had hired the other prisoner, Tomas Oberas, to pick a fight with him. Marco’s being on that van tonight hadn’t been a coincidence any more than the wreck had been an accident.

Fingers fumbling in his effort to hurry, Marco bent over and checked the man’s pulse. Steady and strong, but he’d have a headache when he woke, not to mention a sore throat. Next he pulled the man’s wallet out of a pocket. Kind of the shooter to bring credit cards along—those might come in handy. Another valuable moment flew by while Marco glanced at the driver’s license, memorizing the name—Lewie Kinsale—then holding the cards in his teeth while he ejected the rounds from the man’s rifle and flung the bullets as far as he could.

As long as he was helping himself, he shimmied the man out of his coat. Marco figured he needed it worse than this guy did. Skinny-dipping in the lake had nearly turned him blue. He’d known the water would be cold, but he hadn’t figured on the swim taking twice as long as it should have. On a good day he could swim the mile in less than twenty minutes. But today was definitely not a good day.

Knowing he would need dry clothes to prevent hypothermia when he reached the other side, he’d held his jumpsuit out of the water with his one good arm. With the other arm, the one he’d wrenched in the wreck, he’d pulled himself along as best he could, glass shards grinding inside his shoulder with every movement. For the last ten minutes of his swim, he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see the far shore. The cold, black bottom of the lake had seemed almost inviting.

Marco shivered at the memory. He hadn’t given up then and he wasn’t about to give up now.

He gave the sheepskin sleeve a final yank and clutched the coat to his chest. Pulling the man’s belt out of its loops next, he fashioned a pair of makeshift handcuffs to slow the man down in case he woke sooner than Marco predicted. Finally, urgency battering his chest like a jackhammer, he turned to run.

He hadn’t taken the first step before he had to pull up short again. He froze, face-to-face with the most intense whiskey eyes he’d ever seen. Familiar eyes. And familiar lips, peeled back to reveal two rows of teeth. Very long, very sharp teeth.

“Bravo,” he finally managed to say, pushing the childhood horrors out of his mind. “Hey, boy.”

Bravo growled, low and deep.

“Long time no see.” The dog’s diesel rumble kicked up a gear. Marco swallowed. Hard. “You know who I am, don’t you? You remember me. You’ve been looking for me.”

Bravo took a menacing step forward. It took all the will-power Marco possessed not to step back. God, he hated dogs. Especially big ones like this—giant furry bundles of claws and fangs and eyes that locked on like laser-guided missiles.

Bravo swung his head around to check the trail behind him, a whine intermixed with his growls. Marco recognized the dog’s confusion. Hopefully he could use that uncertainty to his advantage. Slowly he wrapped the sheepskin coat around his left forearm, just in case Bravo wasn’t as confused as Marco thought.

“What’sa matter, boy? Don’t know what to do without Paige here to tell you?”

Marco took a brave step forward. The dog’s attention snapped back, but he didn’t attack. Marco’s confidence soared. He could do this. Bravo knew him. Marco had watched Paige handle the dog enough times. Had worked crime scenes with them. He even knew a few basic commands.

Paige had insisted on introducing him to Bravo up close and personal when he’d come into her house, despite Marco’s reluctance to be in the same room with the dog. Bravo was trained to protect her, she’d said. He needed to know Marco wouldn’t hurt her.

Marco had agreed quickly enough then. God knows he hadn’t wanted Bravo to mistake the, uh, gymnastics with Paige as a struggle. Not with the most vulnerable part of his anatomy attracting trouble like a lightning rod.

He’d sweated all the way through his brief Police Dog 101 course, but he had survived. Now that training was paying off in a way he’d never imagined. Bravo knew him as one of the good guys. The dog wouldn’t bite him.

He hoped.

“Paige isn’t coming, boy,” he said reassuringly. “You’re going to have to figure this one out on your own.”

Marco eased forward another step. Bravo barked a warning, shifting his weight from paw to paw.

Marco stopped. His heart spiked every time the dog blinked, much less barked. Dammit, he had to get past that dog. What was the matter with him? It was just an animal, a dumb mutt.

A dumb mutt with three-inch incisors and more schooling than most people with college diplomas.

He took a deep breath. He didn’t have time for this.

Paige had told Marco that looking a dog in the eye was tantamount to a challenge. Sort of like staring a man down, direct eye contact established dominance…to the survivor.

Swallowing his fear, he looked down at Bravo. Unblinking, he held the dog’s gaze.

“Sorry, boy, but I’ve gotta go see about Paige.” He stepped forward, ignoring the foam dripping from the corner of Bravo’s mouth, or at least trying to. “You’re really just a big, prissy poodle, aren’t you?” Picturing Paige’s protector with a big frou-frou haircut bolstered Marco’s confidence again. “You’re not going to bite me.”

He moved past the dog, turning sideways but never releasing the dog’s stare as he passed. Bravo barked harshly, a decidedly unpoodlelike warning.

Determined not to show fear, Marco took another step. A twig snapped under his heel. Instinctively he jerked his head toward the sound.

Bravo lunged, taking Marco’s break of concentration as victory. And to the victor go the spoils, as they say. Marco just hoped the spoils didn’t include his jugular.

Bracing against the attack, he flung the arm he’d wrapped in sheepskin out in front of him. Long teeth sunk deep into the coat. At first there was only intense pressure, like a vise closing on his arm. Then the coat slipped, and Bravo’s teeth sunk through the sheep’s hide and into Marco’s. Into flesh and sinew.

He stumbled backward, fighting his panic as much as the pain. All he could think was Don’t go down. Don’t let him get you down.

His back hit a tree. He used the solid trunk to regain his balance. Bravo tugged with all his weight, sitting back on his haunches and pulling. Fire streamed through Marco’s arm, then ice. Then nothing. Numbness.

Okay. No more poodle jokes, ever. I promise.

With his free hand, he groped for the leash dangling from the dog’s collar and jerked. The German commands Paige had taught him came back in a rush and he reeled through them, searching for the right one. “Aus!” he commanded. Out.

The dog twitched, clearly confused by this man who was both master and prey. Marco repeated the command twice more, yanking on the leash until the dog reluctantly released his padded arm.

Ignoring the slide of blood down his palm, Marco pulled the dog close, all his attention on the ninety pounds of quivering canine at his side.

“Foos,” he ordered. Heel.

Unmoving, the dog glared at him like a rattler ready to strike. Matching glare for glare, Marco put all the breath he had into his voice. “Give it up, big guy. I’m in charge.”

The dog’s ears sloped back. A good sign, he thought.

“Now, foos!”

Bravo spun around Marco’s legs to sit at his heel. Marco smiled. Almost.

Flexing his fingers painfully, he unwound the punctured coat from his forearm and pulled it on.

“All right, let’s go.”

He jogged away, slowly letting out his breath when Bravo trotted along beside him instead of chewing his leg off.

Marco thought he’d have another showdown when they reached Paige’s crumpled form. Bravo circled his fallen mistress, whining and batting at her with his paw as if to wake her. Marco was beyond caring about the dog. The hounds of hell couldn’t have scared him more than the sight of her body folded on the cold ground.

Hardly breathing as he knelt at her side, he brushed the dirt and leaves from her face and uttered quiet thanks when her breasts rose visibly with her next breath. Her pulse bounced steadily off the fingertips he pressed to her carotid.

Bravo let out a low, moaning howl. All hint of aggression disappeared from the dog as he lay down at Paige’s side as if he knew she was in trouble.

“It’s all right, boy,” Marco reassured the dog. “She’s going to be all right.”

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.