Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(82)

I needed to race inside where I could call someone, anyone, preferably a SWAT team, Special Forces, the cavalry, so I lifted my head—and discovered I was alone. A few feet down an overgrown path I saw a pile of…

My mind shied away from identifying whatever the flies were so interested in. I got up, ran into the house, slammed the door, locked it, and shoved a chair under the knob for good measure. Nothing would get in through there. But—

I glanced at the window, which was much too small for man or wolf to fit through. Still, what I wouldn't give for a set of storm shutters similar to those covering the windows of my father's hunting cabin in Upper Michigan.

I'd put them on my wish list Storm shutters, Glock, Uzi, rocket launcher.

I needed to leave this place, jump in my car, speed down the road to a town where I could surround myself with hundreds of people, but I couldn't go anywhere like this.

I smelled the tang of blood on my skin, tasted the rusty flavor of fear at the back of my throat. After a final glance at the locked and barricaded door, then the too small window, I hurried into the bathroom.

There I stripped and removed every trace of blood with a washcloth, then brushed my teeth until they tingled. All the while keeping my ears cocked for any out-of-the-ordinary sounds from the other room.

As clean as I could get without an hour-long shower and a visit to the dentist, I stared at my stained clothes and sighed. I'd have to burn them. Wrapping myself in a towel, I left the bathroom.

Someone grabbed me.

I had an instant to register that the front door was wide open before the towel fell to my ankles. I drew in a huge breath and a hand clamped over my mouth.

Training kicked in. A girl didn't grow up with four brothers and not learn how to fight and fight dirty.

My heel went for his instep, but it wasn't there. My elbow jabbed back, aiming for the throat. He dodged. I tried to swing around to face him, the heel of my hand speeding toward his nose. He grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind my back.

"Very nice," growled the same voice that had shouted, "Get down."

Well, who else could it be?

I wanted to ask, but he had managed to keep his hand over my mouth. I struggled, but that only served to reveal that having a naked stranger in his arms made this man very happy indeed. I froze as either a gun, or something else, poked me in the rear end.

"That's better," he murmured, his breath brushing my ear, before he nuzzled my hair and took a deep sniff at the curve of my neck. "Now, if I let you go, will you be good?"

I had a bad feeling I knew what "good" meant, and I wasn't giving in gracefully. I nodded, and as soon as his grip loosened, I spun around, ramming my knee toward his crotch.

But he wasn't where I expected him to be, and my leg hit air. I nearly fell on my face. Catching myself, I snatched up the towel and wrapped it tightly around my body.

The man lounged against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest as he watched me. He was some kind of soldier, or a wannabe. His T-shirt was camouflage, so were his pants. Face blackened with greasepaint as dark as his eyes, he'd covered his hair with a knit cap that matched the outfit.

I couldn't tell what he looked like beneath all that paint, but he was big—over six feet four inches of corded muscle and taut, sun-bronzed skin. Not an extra inch of flesh anywhere, unlike me.

I pulled the towel closer to my chest, but there wasn't a whole lot of material to spare. Small and petite, I wasn't.

At my movement, his gaze dropped to my breasts, slipped to the lowest edge of the towel, where the vee of my thighs was most likely visible.

I cleared my throat. "Hey, pal, I'm up here."

He met my eyes and smirked. I wanted to slug him right then and there. "What kind of man gets a hard-on after scaring a naked woman half to death?"

"That's a rhetorical question, right?"

My temper, one of the many curses of being a redhead, ratcheted up a notch. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?"

The man pushed away from the wall, and I took a single step backward before I could stop myself. I couldn't let him see how unnerved I was.

But instead of grabbing me again, he strolled to the window and stared out at the bright sunlight. "You have brothers."

I gaped. "What?"

He lifted one shoulder, then lowered it. "I've got sisters. Y'all fight like girls."

"Yeah, we're funny that way."

I stared at his back and pondered. I hadn't heard "y'all" since traveling to Alabama for a book signing. In the Midwest we said "you guys" or, as my brothers often did, "youse guys." "Y'all" marked this man as Southern even though the rest of his words had been as Yankee as Boston beans. The discrepancy made me even more suspicious of him than his breaking into my home had done.

Nevertheless, my temper had cooled a bit, as had my fear of him. Despite his obvious "interest" he hadn't thrown me to the ground and ravished me. Yet. He'd saved me from the wolf. Maybe he was one of the good guys.

"Get dressed."

"Excuse me?"

He turned away from the window. "Now. I can't think with all that skin and those…" He waved a vague hand at my chest.

"Breasts?" I supplied. He didn't bother to answer. "You act like you've never seen a naked woman before."