Her Sanctuary Read online

  Stupid.

  Instead of blending in she was sticking a gun in an innocent man’s face.

  Doubly stupid.

  She slid the Glock back into her purse. Slowly, noiselessly. She didn’t want to alarm him, didn’t want to get shot by some trigger-happy nut-job citing the second amendment. She had enough trigger-happy nut-jobs to worry about.

  Her vision blurred and her reflexes moved like glue.

  The rancher didn’t sound too chipper himself. But what had she expected, turning up in the middle of the night? She pressed her lips together into a rigid line of self reproof.

  Irritation seeped through the darkness in a palpable wave of hostility. The cowboy was seriously pissed.

  She’d screwed up.

  “I’m Eliza Reed. I booked one of your holiday cottages for next month?” Her voice came out surprisingly light and airy. “I took off a little earlier than expected. I was hoping to just sleep in the Jeep tonight and beg a room in the morning.”

  Making herself out to be an idiot wasn’t difficult at this point in her life. She cleared her throat, watched him carefully. Noted the way his chin dipped, even though the rest of him stayed as still as a mountain. Seconds stretched like elastic as she held her breath waiting for his response. His silhouette was dark and looming—unrelenting.

  Shit.

  He was going to send her away.

  She tried to moisten her throat, swallowed repeatedly, but it didn’t help. She could not drive any further tonight. Her stomach rumbled, but she couldn’t face food. She just needed about a million years of rest. Her eyes closed and her body swayed. She caught the headrest in front of her, suddenly squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

  “You can stay,” he said, finally.

  His voice was deep and carried a lazy drawl that reminded her of a childhood spent watching westerns on Saturday morning TV. That childhood had died along with her parents.

  “Thanks. Thank you, so much.”

  Babbling was not a good sign.

  She glanced up as relief washed through her, took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  “I’m going to get out now, okay?” She nodded toward the rifle, waited for his curt acknowledgement, sensed the slight relaxation in his stance like the uncoiling of an angry snake as he pointed the rifle at the ground and flicked on the safety.

  She raised her eyes to his face, made sure her hands were clearly visible before she moved. They shook badly, but that was okay. Between the cold and the adrenaline rush, he’d never know why she was really scared.

  “You frightened the devil out of me opening the door like that.” She forced a nervous little laugh, realized it came naturally. Fluttering a trembling hand to her breast, she added, “I’ve heard all these horror stories about grizzly bears and wolves.”

  Like anyone ever heard of a wolf opening a door.

  The man didn’t move. Didn’t speak. It was as disconcerting as hell. Her gaze hooked on a shadow that dented his chin, all she could make out in the darkness. Her balance cart-wheeled with nervous fatigue and suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

  Air. She needed air.

  Blankets trapped her legs, made her panic. She pushed them away and clambered out of the Jeep. The man hadn’t moved an inch and she found herself eye-level with that dented chin.

  He had a strong, firm mouth and she didn’t like it.

  A lungful of frigid mountain air iced up her insides and she shivered with cold, let out a deep gulp of breath and watched, mesmerized, as it curled up to brush past the cowboy’s cheek. He moved a fraction, as if to avoid the ephemeral contact.

  Annoyance radiated from him in waves, from the set of his shoulders to the rigid way he held his arms.

  Battling her cool reception, she tried again. “I’m really sorry, I would have phoned, but I lost my signal...” She could tell he was frowning at her.

  Fear skittered along her nerves. Fright clogged her vocal cords and paralyzed her muscles. Suddenly, she couldn’t speak. Nobody knew she was here. Nobody knew she was on a remote ranch in the mountains, only an inch away from a big, angry cowboy.

  And wouldn’t that be one of God’s little ironies? Murdered while on the run.

  Frozen, she jammed the edges of her jacket closer together, wrapped herself in its protection. Fingered the big, round, buttons, and concentrated on their smoothness. Wished to God she’d put her Glock in her pocket rather than her purse, or thought to wear her back-up weapon. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Relax. Breathe. Relax.

  She’d been a good agent once—better than good. Now her heart thundered like a raging river and sweat broke out along her spine. She wanted to flee. Run and never look back. But she had nowhere left to go.

  Every sense strained as Elizabeth tried to gauge the stranger’s intent. Her eyesight had adjusted to the starlight and her right hand itched for her weapon. He surveyed her carefully, as if trying to make up his mind.

  Whether to shoot her or send her packing?

  A nervous laugh hovered at the back of her mind—exhaustion making her punchy. His jaw clenched so tight she could see it flex despite the dim light. She took an involuntary step back, found herself pressed against the frigid steel of the Jeep.

  “Guess I should welcome you to the Triple H Ranch, ma’am.” His voice was pitched low and soft, so soft she had to strain to hear him. He extended one hand in front of him while the other gripped the rifle. “Nat Sullivan.”

  The reluctance in his voice made her lips curve in a wry grimace. The background check on Nat Sullivan suggested he was a straight-up sort of guy. Single, early thirties, he’d given up a promising career as a wildlife photographer for National Geographic to come home and run the ranch when his father died.

  But background checks didn’t always tell the whole story...

  “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to take the hand he offered, determined to be brave. But the touch of his rough skin on her fingers sent a shockwave screaming through her nerves like a blast of fire. She jerked away, wrapped her arms tightly around her waist and pasted a smile on her face with the last scraps of her energy.

  She hadn’t been prepared for that. No, sir.

  She hadn’t expected some weird chemistry to jump out and bite her on the ass. No. Sir.

  Maybe the earlier adrenaline rush had left her hypersensitive. Maybe exhaustion made her jumpy. Or maybe that came with the million-dollar price-tag on her head. Her smile slipped a notch and she couldn’t quite force it up into her eyes.

  The heat of him, even without physical contact, was like a solid wall of energy that emanated from his body. She wanted to steal some of that heat. Coldness moved inside her like a glacier now.

  He adjusted his grip on the rifle and she flinched, a small flicker of movement, but enough to remind her she was a victim. Fear made her weak and that was one thing she was determined not to be. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat, fought the haze of emotion that threatened to choke her. She’d made a mistake coming here tonight—should have gone far away. But even the moon was too close when you were running from memories.

  What a mess.

  “Keys?” he demanded.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Where are your keys?” Each word was drawn out slowly, like he was holding on to his patience by a very thin thread.

  She glanced towards the ignition, jerked back as he moved to retrieve the keys that dangled there.

  Oh, shit.

  The cowboy wheeled and stalked away.

  Elizabeth swayed on her feet, baffled and confused. The breeze snatched at her jacket, tugged at her hair as she watched him go. Her thought processes clicked slowly, one synapse at a time.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Too tired to even put one foot in front of the other, she just watched him go, grateful she wasn’t dead.

  ****

  Nat cursed, knocked off balance. He opened the cargo hold, stared unseeing into its depths as a puny bulb cast a
dim glow over the interior. After his day from hell, he’d been irritated that she’d turned up early, unannounced. But he’d been goddamned thunderstruck when he’d got a load of her face.

  It wasn’t just that she was pretty. That hadn’t fazed him. But for one brief instant, when she’d first stepped out of the car and raised her face...she’d looked like Nina. And his heart had damned near pounded itself to death.

  He rubbed his eye socket with the heel of his hand, winced as he caught a tender bruise one of the repo guys had landed on him earlier. Darkness had leached the color from her eyes, but not their shape. Big and wide, tilted like a cat’s at the outside edge and topped by movie-star brows—just like Nina’s had been.

  But she wasn’t Nina.

  And while her eyes were pretty they were also heavy with fatigue, lashes drooping, drifting shut, as though gravity alone would put her to sleep.

  He heaved a long sigh that lessened the tension in his chest and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

  The woman wasn’t Nina. But she was trouble. Beautiful women always were. Not what he needed in a life already as complicated as sin. If he hadn’t desperately needed the money he’d have sent her packing, no matter how goddamned tired or pretty she looked.

  Damn.

  He hauled out a couple of tote bags that might’ve contained clothes or bullion. Picking them up, he felt the newly healing skin of his knuckles split as the weight settled against his fingers.

  Maybe next time he’d remember he was too old for fighting.

  And maybe next time he’d grow another head.

  “Better sleep in the ranch house tonight.” He looked over his shoulder at the woman who hadn’t budged. “The cabin takes a good few hours to warm up.”

  At least with his mother in the hospital there was space in the main house. That silver lining thing was happening all over again.

  His lips twitched.

  The woman stood looking at him, dark hair peeking out from under a shapeless beanie, big eyes blinking shut. Not that she’d sounded tired when she’d told him to drop the rifle. No sir. She’d sounded like a goddamned army general then. Nat scowled, hefted one bag onto his shoulders and turned away, headed toward the front door of the main house.

  She still hadn’t moved.

  He turned back to her. “You coming?”

  Her hand reached out, palm up. Then her eyes rolled and she collapsed to the frozen earth.

  She hit the ground with a solid thwack. His mouth fell open as his jaw dropped. His legs wouldn’t work, not that he was close enough to catch her even if they did.

  Dropping the bags, he ran over and checked for a pulse. Her face was white, paler than the snow, but her skin was soft and warm beneath his fingertips. The pulse in her neck beat strong and steady, thrumming rhythmically.

  He heard a soft noise and stared, uncertain. He’d already had one emergency dash that day, didn’t need another. Again, a steady sound. Light, but resonant.

  Grinning, he realized Miss Gorgeous was fast asleep and snoring. He leaned back on the heels of his cowboy boots, debated what to do. There was no emergency. The woman seemed fine other than collapsing with fatigue in the snow.

  Removing his fingers from her soft skin, he realized reluctantly, he couldn’t leave her here. She looked so serene, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, peaceful and relaxed. Nat didn’t have the heart to try to wake her. He leaned over and scooped her up in his arms.

  Despite her height, she was lightweight. Her long legs dangled over his elbow, her head rested against his shoulder, tucked neatly beneath his chin. Ignoring the softness of her breasts and the curve of her backside against his arm, he headed toward the house. Didn’t need reminded that she was a beautiful woman, or that it had been a long time since he’d held one close.

  He shifted her higher in his arms, smelled her scent, natural and unadorned. It triggered a response deep within him that he wanted to ignore and explore, all at the same time. He pushed the thoughts away.

  Bare-naked lips were half-parted in rest and her breath caressed his cheek like a lover’s whisper. He looked up, not wanting to think about her lips.

  Moving carefully through the darkened homestead, he carried her up the stairs. He hesitated at the top before entering his room and placing her upon his bed where he pulled off her boots and hat.

  She didn’t stir.

  He smoothed the dark hair off her forehead, felt it slip between his fingertips like satin.

  Drawing the top cover over Miss Eliza Reed’s sleeping form, he stood back and watched her. Told himself it was concern that made him stare. Her breath was deep and regular, her face relaxed and starting to lose its deathly pallor. She twitched in her sleep, her hand creeping beneath the pillow.

  A laugh stirred in his chest and took him by surprise. The day had been a complete disaster and life kept getting weirder and weirder. But at least this time, weird involved having a beautiful woman curled up in his bed.

  Chapter Two

  Something jumped her at six a.m.

  He’d found her. Damn it. She lunged for her weapon—came up empty. Desperate, she swept her hands beneath the pillow, searched and ripped at the sheets. Sweat rolled down her face as she braced herself for his laugh, that bitter twist of sound that froze her heart and echoed through her nightmares. Her breath hitched and jammed as she fought a scream, let it ricochet through her mind but never made a sound.

  She would not scream. Not this time.

  Enveloped in blackness, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t break free of the covers trapping her. Hot, stale air suffocated her, sweat ran into her ear and her fingers were useless pieces of sponge.

  A kick to her left kidney left her gasping and was closely followed by a sharp jab in the ear. She wheezed and choked, fought to get out of the heavy blankets to fight back.

  Where am I?

  A glancing smack on the nose made pain explode in her eye sockets.

  Lights went on further down the hall and a soft giggle penetrated her terror. Elizabeth fell back onto the pillows as a smiling cherub peeped over the top of the covers. She’d finally gone insane.

  Halleluiah.

  At least it wasn’t him.

  The child was beautiful. Gossamer fine curls and big dark blue eyes. Elizabeth reached out to touch a silky tress. Jerked her hand away when she realized the little girl was flesh and blood, not a figment of her imagination.

  The child spotted Elizabeth at the same moment and her mouth turned into a round ‘O’ of confusion.

  “Who’re you?” the child asked in a high-pitched whisper. “Where’s Unca Nat?”

  Elizabeth groaned, rubbed her hands over her face as she remembered what had happened last night. Uncle Nat must think she was a freaking nutcase.

  The little girl pulled the bedclothes off the bed, searching for her missing uncle.

  “I can tell you right now he’s not down there!” Elizabeth gave up the tug-of-war with the covers. The creak of a floorboard warned her someone was approaching the room. Her muscles froze, her breath lodged in her chest.

  A large silhouette loomed and she realized it had to be Nat Sullivan. The missing Uncle. She relaxed slightly. He hadn’t hurt her last night when she’d been as vulnerable as a newborn babe—stupid, stupid woman.

  Leaning against the doorjamb he wore a pair of old denims and an unbuttoned shirt that hung loosely over broad shoulders. The shirt gaped briefly over a lean torso that was ripped with muscle before he started to slowly do up the buttons. She averted her eyes, uncomfortable with the rush of awareness that flooded through her and left her breathless.

  “Morning, ma’am.”

  The smooth tones of his voice sent warm shivers down her spine. Good shivers—nice shivers—normal shivers. It had been a long time since she’d felt any of those things.

  Glancing up, she caught his gaze. Sleep-rumpled and tired-looking, he’d recently been in a fight, she realized. One eye socket was blackened and a s
eries of yellow-blue bruises ran over his jaw and a nasty-looking graze darkened his full lower lip. Dark eyes, the color of square-cut sapphires, twinkled at her, amused. A wide forehead, heavy blond brows and a thin blade of a nose complemented a mouth that looked both sensual and reserved.

  He dragged a hand through his hair, made it stick up in blond tufts, then rested his hand against the doorframe.

  “Feelin’ better?” His voice curled through her, with that slow, sexy drawl. Moving into the room, he smiled an easy smile at the little girl who sat playing peek-a-boo with the covers, and then looked back at Elizabeth.

  Fear shot through her system faster than a lightening strike. Where was her gun...? Damn it!

  Her stomach rolled as she looked down at the child who played on the floor. Thank God she hadn’t had it.

  Nat Sullivan came further into the room, blocked the light as he got closer. He was big enough to fill the space.

  Panic raced over her skin like a thousand dancing ants. Elizabeth scooted up the bed and hunched her knees beneath her chin. Her breath stuck in her chest. She felt trapped, crowded. She wrapped a hand around each ankle as her eyes weighed him.

  Could she take him?

  Too big, too strong. All lean sinew and balanced tone. She forgot to breathe, caught off-guard as he reached the bed and stood beside it, his hands hooked into the back pocket of his jeans.

  Frantically her gaze searched his face, but there was no malice. No dark intent. The blue eyes sparkled with laughter and despite the firm, hard jaw, his mouth curved into a smile that looked...bruised.

  “Where’d you get the shiner?” Her voice was croaky from disuse, or maybe nerves.

  One side of his mouth kicked up as if he’d forgotten about the bruises or maybe hoped she wouldn’t notice. They must have hurt like hell.

  “Let’s just say I had a slight disagreement with a couple of guys.” He rubbed his bristled chin with a thumb and index finger and she watched, transfixed.

  Nodding, she ran her tongue over dry lips, but shrank away from the interest in his gaze as his eyes followed the movement.

  “I think your mother gave me directions. Does she live here too...?” She strived to sound casual, knew she’d failed when Nat Sullivan straightened and took an offended step away. Annoyed and backing off.