Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(83)

"Not lately," he muttered.

"You've been in the bush? On assignment? In Iraq?"

"Something like that. No hot water, no MTV, no nookie. It's been rough. So get dressed, Maya. I've got no time for bullshit."

I tilted my head. "How do you know my name?"

"I know a lot more than your name. Get. Dressed."

The last two words were spoken low, with a tinge of desperation. I was reminded of the vicious snarl of the wolf only moments before. This man was barely civilized, and I was poking him with a stick.

A thrill of awareness rippled down my spine, shocking me. I'd never been attracted to guys like this—wild, rough, dangerous. Studious, staid, safe was more my speed.

My last date had been a stockbroker, the one before that an accountant. My brothers tried to fix me up with their friends, but I needed another cop in my life like I needed a bigger ass.

As if he'd heard my thoughts, the stranger's gaze drifted, narrowing as if he had X-ray vision. I decided getting dressed wasn't a bad idea.

When I'd moved to Arizona, I'd left all my city duds behind. I'd bought jeans a size too big so when I sat at my desk nothing puckered and pinched. No one out here cared if I wasn't a perfect size ten.

T-shirts or flannel, heavy socks or bare feet, I owned one pair of tennies and one pair of boots. My underwear drawer boasted fourteen new pairs of granny undies, with three bras shoved all the way to the back. I'd hated bras since I'd first had to buy one while my dad slunk around the outskirts of the unmentionables section at Sears.

But today called for as much armor as I could don, so I dug out my C cups, then covered them with a bright yellow T-shirt and royal-blue plaid flannel.

When I stepped back into the living room, the first thing I saw were the guns. How I could have missed them earlier, I wasn't quite sure. Of course, I had been a little preoccupied with the man holding me captive.

A Beretta rode his hip, a Ruger was strapped to his thigh. Both an automatic and a revolver; he wasn't taking any chances, and I had to wonder why. Propped next to the door was what would appear to be a machine gun to the common man, but I recognized a Wilson combat carbine, the latest weapon of choice for the urban police department. The days of being outgunned by the bad guys were at last in the past.

"What are you expecting?" I asked. "Armageddon?"

At my question, he turned from the window, and my breath caught. He'd washed off the greasepaint and removed his hat. High, hollowed cheekbones, square jaw, wide forehead. He'd never be a model—unless you counted those posters that urged Americans to "be all that you can be."

I understood why he'd covered his hair. Blond, it would shimmer like a beacon in the night, even though he'd shorn the strands to near crew-cut length. The style went very well with the camo, the boots, and the weaponry.

His eyes widened, their inky hue a complement to his sun-bronzed face. "Jesus, why don't you paint a bull's-eye on your back?"

I frowned. "What?"

"Yellow? Electric blue? You'll stand out like a neon light."

"Stand out where?"

He opened his mouth to answer, and the window behind him shattered.

"Watch out!" I dived for the floor.

I'll give him credit, he hit the deck without question as something thumped to the floor, bumped a few times, then rolled.

"Shit!" He hauled me to my feet, shoved me out the door, dragged me across the yard and fell on top of me as everything I owned in the world exploded.

Debris thunked all around us. I lifted my head, he pushed me back down. But not before I saw a wolf streaking through the cinders and ash.

Struggling against his hold, I managed to raise my eyes again. I saw nothing—not a man, not a wolf. We were alone with what was left of my cabin.

The guy rolled off me and onto his feet. Ruger in hand, he scouted the trees.

"That way," I managed, my voice not much more than a croak.

He cast me a sharp glance. "What did you see?"

"Wolf." I coughed. "What exploded?"

"Grenade," he said in the same tone I might say "orange juice."

"Grenade? Grenade?" My voice was shrill and loud and caused me to cough again.

"Relax," he murmured, holstering the Ruger. "It wasn't meant for you."





CHAPTER 3


? ^ ?

"Oh, gee, that's a relief. The grenade wasn't meant for me. Tell it to my house. My cell phone. My—" I caught my breath. "My computer," I wailed.

"Everything will be replaced."

"That's it!" I clambered to my feet, swayed a bit. It wasn't every day I narrowly missed being blown to smithereens by a grenade. If I was a little wobbly, a little hysterical, I was justified. "Who are you? What are you?"

"We don't have time." He grabbed my arm and pushed me in the direction of his characteristically black SUV, which he'd parked half-in, half-out of the brush behind the cabin. "Get in the car."

I snorted. "I haven't gotten in a stranger's vehicle in… Well, let's just say forever. Not on your life."

He drew the Ruger, cocked it and pointed the barrel at me. His head jerked toward the passenger door.

"Oookay." I got in.