Dakota Marshal. Jenna Ryan
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motioned for her to give him her hands. “We need to get out of here before the tanks blow or this bus goes for a second roll.”
Once free of the wreck, he kept her ahead of him on the upward climb. She had a truly spectacular butt and mile-long legs to go with it. Her hair was dark, her features nothing short of extraordinary. She was headed for Chicago to become a vet.
Now how did he know that…?
A paramedic and a cop, both about to descend, met them at the top. The paramedic took the woman aside. The cop, a friend, began strapping on gear.
“Figured it was you down there. Anyone left?”
McBride hoisted himself over the edge. “Not alive.”
The cop continued to harness up. “It’s a mess, all right. Like you. Why the beard and long hair?”
“Undercover case screwed up. I needed to get out of Chicago.”
The woman hissed as the paramedic cleaned one of her cuts. “I guess I’m lucky your case didn’t work out.”
A smile crossed McBride’s lips. Through a thickening haze, he bent to kiss her. “Maybe we’re both lucky, Alessandra.”
She grinned, though her features were cloudy now. “You’re slipping, McBride. I didn’t tell you my name…”
The memory skidded to a halt. Wait a minute. She hadn’t said that. And he hadn’t kissed her. Not there. Not then.
Oh, he’d kissed her all right and more, much more, but that was later, when he couldn’t get her out of his head—and after he’d discovered she was twenty rather than eighteen.
Then his life had tanked and landed both of them in hell.
Pain sliced through him like a lightning bolt. It shattered all the images in his mind—the bus, the sobs, the screams, the sirens, everything. Except for Alessandra’s eyes.
MCBRIDE WAS, WITHOUT question, the most stubborn man Alessandra had ever met. Fortunately, he was also the most resilient. The moment she removed the bullet, which had come dangerously close to nicking a major artery, he’d fallen into a deep, healing sleep. She could almost see his red blood cells multiplying.
The generator outside growled noisily, but with the rainstorm disinclined to move on, she barely noticed it.
“Since when do you listen to Keith Urban?”
McBride’s question came as no real surprise given his exceptional recuperative powers. But the clarity had her raising a brow as she emerged from the lab.
She had two scalpels in her hand and didn’t put either of them down. “Joan left her iPod in the dock. I wanted music. How do you feel?”
“Like a man whose been shot, probed with a sharp instrument and left to die in a cowboy bar.”
“So, well on the way to recovery, then.” She held up one of the scalpels. “No double vision?”
“Not much vision at all.” He squinted at the ceiling bulbs. “Is the power off?”
“It went out right before you arrived and subsequently fainted.”
He half smiled. “I’ll let that go, Alessandra, because I do, in fact, see two scalpels. I also heard your voice while I was floating around in the black fog of our distant past.”
“Yes, you were reliving it fairly accurately until you got to the kissing part.”
“Call it wishful thinking.”
Alessandra looked at him and sobered. “Not that I want to be any more deeply involved than I am, but are you planning to tell me what you’re doing here, minus a great deal of blood and with a hole in your chest where a bullet used to be?”
“Just another day on the job, darlin’.” Wincing, he worked his way onto his right elbow.
She sighed. “You know you shouldn’t do that, right?”
“I know a lot of things, Alessandra, some of them not particularly pleasant.”
“Like the name of the person—possibly a cop, though I seriously hope not—who shot you? No hospitals, McBride? No police?”
“The shooter’s name is Eddie. He’s not a cop, but he is a pro, a dog with a bone, so to speak. And I’m the bone.”
“So, nothing new in your world. Except that this time the bad guy did a little more damage than usual and is, in some twisted way, connected to the police.”
He pushed up higher. “Your cynicism’s showing.”
“Removing bullets from people tends to bring it out.” She struggled with mounting frustration. “Why is this Eddie after you? Or were you after him and somehow the scenario shifted?”
“The details aren’t important. I’ll explain the cop thing later. I was doing my job, Alessandra. I have no idea what you were doing with that no-neck jackass in the parking lot.”
She could have told him it didn’t matter, let him sleep for another few hours, then given him a prescription and suggested he return to Chicago to sort out his police-related problems. Her conscience would be clear, and the status quo would be restored.
However, whether or not he would have acted on it, Hawley had a mean streak, and he was as tough as the bull who’d sired the now-dead calf. McBride had gotten rid of him. That rated an explanation.
Setting both scalpels aside, she released her hair from its long ponytail and boosted herself onto a table. “Frank Hawley wants to make his fortune breeding bulls. He just doesn’t want to spend a cent more than is necessary to keep them healthy. His farm’s like a puppy mill for cattle. One of his calves got sick. He waited too long to call. The rest—well, you heard him. He thinks I’m a killer.” Seeing him hoisting himself up, she hopped down and poked a firm finger into his chest. “The more you move, the more likely you are to reopen that wound.”
“I know.” Ignoring her warning, he swung his legs down and sat up, gripping the side of the cot. “What time is it?”
“It’s 4:00 a.m.”
“And the power’s still out?”
“We’re a little off the grid out here. Ergo, the big, noisy generator.”
He moved a tentative shoulder, hissed in a soft breath and stood. “I have to get out of here.”
“You realize that’s suicide, right?”
“Give me some bandages, Alessandra, and whatever else you think I’ll need to keep me on my feet. Then go home, and pretend none of this ever happened.”
Irritation momentarily crowded out concern. “You never change, do you, McBride? You crash in, scare the hell out of me, tell me not to worry and then disappear.”
He managed a weak smile. “That’s why you left me. Which goes to show how smart you are. Or how stupid I am. One way or the other, you don’t want to get mixed up in this.”
Her answering smile had more of a bite, but she simply said, “I’ll pack a medi-kit.” Then she went into the back room.
He’d broken her heart once. She wasn’t up for a repeat performance. Let some other female fall for his sexy, outlaw-cop charm. He was a good guy who read like a bad guy, and okay, yes, maybe he could still take her breath away with a look, but he didn’t have to know that.
She wanted someone more stable next time, not a brooding, gray-eyed rebel who seldom had less than a three-day growth of stubble on his face, disliked the thought of scissors touching his hair and hated rules almost as much as he did the people who’d so carelessly brought him into the world.
Well, damn, she thought, exasperated, now she’d gone and dumped sympathy on top of righteous indignation. She really needed to speed his departure along.