Rising Darkness (Game of Shadows #1)(61)

Linen, blankets and pillows were stored in tubs underneath the bed, packed with rings of cedar. She made the bed efficiently with old, soft cotton sheets, two cotton blankets, and a heavy, insulated green bedspread. With only the fireplace for heating, the cabin would get cold at night.

Then she tackled her neglected hair with the travel brush from her purse. The shoulder-length tangled mane was already partially dried, and she had a miserable fight with it. She had just managed to wrestle it into a simple braid when Michael strode out of the bathroom, his dark, wet hair slicked against his well-shaped head. He wore only black cotton pants that rode low at his hips, revealing a long washboard abdomen, and carried socks and a T-shirt in one hand.

She had known he was big, of course, but she hadn’t realized how massive he was across his chest, arms and shoulders. He had the heavy, mature muscles of a man who had spent his life fighting.

She forgot what she was doing and stared at him with her mouth open. Her body forgot how much it had been kicked around, as her long-dormant sexuality came to singing life, not as a brief shimmer of possibility this time but as a searing bolt of urgency. Red heat settled into a sharp, throbbing ache between her legs.

Then she closed her mouth with a snap, spun around and turned down the bed, her hands lingering unnecessarily to twitch the bedspread into better alignment. Maybe while she was fussing at the bed, she could find a way to stuff this attraction under the mattress.

Of all the times for this to happen. Could it be any more inconvenient?

She couldn’t remember when she had last been sexually attracted to someone. Had she ever been? After some experimentation, and her lackluster experience with Justin, she had shrugged, said no big deal and closed the door on the whole subject while she concentrated on getting through the rigors of her residency.

To tell the absolute truth, a part of her had been relieved and even eager to shut that door, for she couldn’t regard sex as just a physical act and she wasn’t able to handle the intimacy, the emotional involvement.

Michael gave her a long, deliberate look then walked over to the table and picked up his gun. He reached into the large black bag and removed a sword in a scabbard. “Do you know how to shoot a gun?” he asked.

Jolted out of her preoccupation, she lifted her head and stared at what he held. Then she sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.

She had been right earlier. That was an honest-to-goodness sword.

“I know how to point and pull a trigger,” she said. “Theoretically. I mean it’s pretty evident. Do I know how to aim, or where the safety catch is, or how to clean a gun or reload it? I do not. I’ve never held a gun before in my life, and I never want to either.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I hope you never have to. But in case you do . . .”

“Oh no.” She threw herself backward on the bed with a groan, flopping her arms flung over her head.

“Oh yes,” he said.

He knelt on one knee on the bed, caught her wrist and yanked her upright. Then he sat beside her and proceeded to show her the sleek, black weapon he held in one hand. She sighed as she thought of the BabyMamas.

“This is a nine-millimeter,” he said. “It’s my smallest gun, and it’s the only thing I have that’s halfway suitable for the size of your grip. Here’s the safety catch. This is when it is on safety, and this is how you turn it off. This is how you reload.” He removed the clip and slapped it back into place. “If you ever have to fire this or any other gun, remember it has a kick. Try to anticipate that and brace yourself as you shoot. Squeeze the trigger, don’t yank at it.”

She endured the impromptu lesson as he made her hold the unloaded gun, heft its weight in her hands and practice holding it in a shooting posture. The gun was lighter than she expected. She stared at it in revulsion.

“That’s it, I’ve had it,” she said. She flopped back on the bed again, a Raggedy Ann doll of passive resistance. “I’ve had-it-ten-hours-ago had it. I don’t want to see or do anything else.”

“I guess that’ll have to do for now. Just be sure to grab this one if you need to.” He placed the nine-millimeter on the dresser and laid the sword on the floor beside the bed. Then he went to the black bag and pulled out another, much bigger gun. His large hand gripped it with casual effortlessness. “This is my gun.”

She stared. “That’s not a gun, it’s a hand cannon.”

“It’s an assault rifle. It fires more than six hundred and fifty rounds per minute.”

“Yeah, well,” she muttered. “Like I said, hand cannon.”

His well-shaped mouth quirked. “Whatever. Just don’t grab this one, okay?”

“That is so not a problem,” she told him as she stared at the ceiling.

Guns are not sexy. They’re not.

Watching him, now, as he held a gun, checked the chamber for rounds, took it apart and reassembled it, his every movement economical and efficient, while his tough face remained thoughtful and calm—okay, that was sexy. That was very much sexy.

Damn it. She had never been a soldier-groupie, and she wasn’t going to start being one now.

“Good.” He placed it on the dresser alongside the other one. “Tomorrow I’m going to take you outside so you can practice firing at an actual target and reloading.”

“Just for the record,” she said to the ceiling, “I’d rather not.”