Lone Star Knight
Cindy Gerard
Billionaire Matt Walker was not a man who walked away from what he wanted. And what he wanted was the hand of Lady Helena Reichard.The darling of the paparazzi, Helena had recently been through hell and back– emerging a changed and vulnerable woman. The tall, green-eyed Texan was experiencing an intense desire to protect her, to be her avenging angel, to make her his forever. But would his love be able to pierce the darkness of her wounded spirit and prevail?
This month, in
LONE STAR KNIGHT
by Cindy Gerard,
meet Matthew Walker—owner of
a ranching empire. The only thing missing from
Matt’s life was the love of a good woman, until…
he crossed paths with the Lady Helena Reichard,
whose heart he was determined to win!
SILHOUETTE DESIRE
IS PROUD TO PRESENT THE
Five wealthy Texas bachelors—all members of
the state’s most exclusive club—set out to restore
the “Royal” jewels…and find true love.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!
The incomparable Diana Palmer heads the Desire lineup for March. The Winter Soldier is a continuation of the author’s popular cross-line miniseries, SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE. We’re sure you’ll enjoy this tale of a jaded hero who offers protection in the form of a marriage of convenience to a beautiful woman in jeopardy.
Bestselling author Leanne Banks offers you March’s MAN OF THE MONTH, a tempting Millionaire Husband, book two of her seductive miniseries MILLION DOLLAR MEN. The exciting Desire continuity series TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: LONE STAR JEWELS continues with Lone Star Knight by Cindy Gerard, in which a lady of royal lineage finds love with a rugged Texas cattle baron.
The M.D. Courts His Nurse as Meagan McKinney’s miniseries MATCHED IN MONTANA returns to Desire. And a single-dad rancher falls for the sexy horsetrainer he unexpectly hires in Kathie DeNosky’s The Rough and Ready Rancher. To cap off the month, Shawna Delacorte writes a torrid tale of being Stormbound with a Tycoon.
So make some special time for yourself this month, and read all six of these tantalizing Silhouette Desires!
Enjoy!
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Lone Star Knight
Cindy Gerard
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CINDY GERARD
If asked “What’s your idea of heaven?” Cindy Gerard would say a warm sun, a cool breeze, pan pizza and a good book. If she had to settle for one of the four, she’d opt for the book, with the pizza running a close second. Inspired by the pleasure she’s received from the books she’s read and her longtime love affair with her husband, Tom, Cindy now creates her own evocative and sensual love stories about compelling characters and complex relationships.
This number-one bestselling author of close to twenty books has received numerous industry awards, among them the National Readers’ Choice Award, multiple Romantic Times Magazine nominations and two RITA Award nominations from the Romance Writers of America.
“What’s Happening in Royal?”
NEWS FLASH, March—There are reports that the glamorous Lady Helena Reichard is hiding in Royal, TX. After sustaining injuries from the emergency crash landing of her plane two months ago, she was reportedly released from the hospital—and then vanished! Countless paparazzi stationed outside the medical building have been left disappointed…where can Lady Helena be?
Some are speculating that tycoon rancher Matthew Walker could be protecting her from the glaring cameras and photographers’ flashes by nestling her away on the palatial grounds of his High Stakes Ranch. This Texas Cattleman’s Club member is known for his honor when it comes to the ladies…but Lady Helena’s blond, tantalizing beauty is world-renowned!
Could her disappearance be linked to the two suspicious-looking men seen lurking about town? Perhaps our boys at the Cattleman’s Club would fill us in? Stay tuned.…
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Prologue
It wasn’t true. Not completely. Your entire life didn’t flash before you when you were about to die. Only bits and pieces, odd, unrelated little snippets scrolled by like a vivid Technicolor collage—along with an extreme and acute awareness of those who were about to die with you.
While the flight crew and eleven other men and women in the charter jet bound from Royal, Texas, to the European country of Asterland prepared for the crash with stalwart optimism, whispered prayers, or soft weeping, Lady Helena Reichard thought silently of Asterland, the home she might never see again. She thought of her parents, the Earl and Countess of Orion, and the pain her death would cause them. Of the calico kitten she’d loved as a child, the projects she might not be around to finish and of those who might suffer because of that.
Oddly, she also thought of the tall, handsome Texan with smiling green eyes and dark curling hair who had waltzed her around the dance floor at the Texas Cattleman’s Club reception just two nights past.
She’d met commanding men before. Sophisticated. Worldly. Titled and moneyed. She hadn’t, however, met anyone like Matthew Walker. With his quick, slashing smile and devastating wit, he’d been at once charming yet subtly and purposefully aloof. He was obviously a man of wealth, yet the hand that had held hers in its strong grip had worn the calluses of physical labor without apology. His polished and gallant formality had been a fascinating foil for an understated man-of-the-earth essence that had both intrigued and captivated—and left her wishing she hadn’t had to leave Royal, Texas, so soon.
How sad, she thought, that she’d been denied the chance to know him better. How sad that her last glimpse of Texas would be from five hundred feet and falling. And then she thought of nothing but the moment as the jet, its left engine shooting fire, lurched, shuddered and dropped the last one hundred feet to the ground. She lowered her head, wrapped her arms around her ankles and prepared for the impact.
Behind her someone screamed. A serrated, grating screech ripped through the pressurized cabin as tons of steel and flammable fuel slammed to earth then skidded across the desert floor without benefit of landing gear. The noise was shattering. The jolt, bone-rattling. And the fear—the fear was paralyzing as the flames that had been confined to the left jet suddenly engulfed the cabin and a blinding, screaming pain consumed her.
One
“Justin—hey, Justin, wait up.” Matt Walker was striding wearily toward the burn-unit nurses’ station when he spotted Justin Webb, dressed in green scrubs, heading for the elevator.
Justin turned, sipping from a paper cup that Matt knew held the world’s worst coffee. After a long, critical once-over he scowled, showing Matt his doctor’s face. “I’ve done admits on patients who look better than you.”
Matt knew exactly what his friend saw: a five-o’clock shadow, badly rumpled shirt and bloodshot eyes. He scrubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw, rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders. “I’m fine. Just a long night.”
Justin snorted. “More like a lot of long nights.”
When he extended the coffee Matt grimaced and made a warding sign. “How do you drink that sludge?”
“Cast-iron stomach.” Justin flashed a grin. “Besides— I like it. But we were talking about you. You knock your-self out from sleep deprivation and you’re not going to be any good to her, Matt.”
Both men knew exactly who Justin was talking about. It had been almost two months since the plane crash that had resulted in Lady Helena Reichard’s emergency admission to the burn unit at Royal Memorial Hospital. She had been among a group of Asterland dignitaries and a few locals—Matt’s friends Pamela Black and Jamie Morris among them—who were en route to Asterland after a posh diplomatic reception at the Texas Cattleman’s Club. Close to a full month had passed since Matt had been assigned by his fellow club members to stand guard outside Helena’s door.
It didn’t much matter that he was beat. His welfare wasn’t at stake here. Helena’s was. He just wished he knew who, or what, he was protecting her from.
Besides Matt and Justin, only three other club members knew the mysterious details surrounding the charter jet’s emergency landing that had sent Helena to the hospital. Though luckily no one had been killed, even now, two months later, it was still tough to absorb. The crash had been bad enough. But there’d also been a murder. A jewel theft. The hint of an attempted political coup involving the European country of Asterland.
Helena Reichard, it seemed, was stuck smack in the middle of it all; Matt understood exactly how vulnerable she was. He also understood that nothing, absolutely nothing more was going to happen to her under his watch.
“How’s she doing?” he asked, as Justin drained the cup then tossed it into a trash bin.
“Well, to hear her tell it, she’s doing just fine.”
Matt studied his friend’s face. “I think I’d rather hear you tell it. How is she, really?”
Justin crossed his arms over his chest, gave Matt a considering look. “We’ve covered this ground before.”
“Humor me. Cover it again.”
“Look, I’m not the primary here—I’m just consulting until she’s ready for the cosmetic repairs. Harding’s on the burns. Chambers is her bone man. But the charts pretty much speak for themselves.”
“Not to me they don’t.” Matt shifted his weight to one hip. “Suppose you fill me in.”
“You’re not family, Matt.”
“Oh, for the—”
“Wait. Wait.” Justin held up a hand. “Cool down. You’re not family but, since you’re all she’s got standing between her and Lord knows what might be a threat to her, you have a need to know. And that gives me license to tell you.”
After a glance toward the charge nurse who was busy on the phone, he steered Matt toward the sofa at the end of the hall on the pretense of privacy. Matt suspected what Justin really wanted was to get him off his feet. Too tired to make an issue of it, he sat.
“As you already know, most of her burns are second degree and restricted to her left arm and upper leg.” Justin eased down beside him. “It’s that nasty patch of third degree on the back of her left hand that’s giving her trouble. The extensor tendons are heavily involved—the ones that control finger movement. We had to graft. Unfortunately, the site’s been problematic.”
Matt slumped back, rubbed an index finger over his brow. “Infection, right?”
Justin nodded. “We’d hoped to avoid it—we always hope to avoid it—but with a burn that deep and so much debris ground into it, it was pretty much a given. It’s cleared up now but it set her recovery back. Only time will tell what kind of mobility she’ll regain.”
Matt thought of the lovely hand he’d held in his at the Cattleman’s Club reception and dance. The petal-soft skin. The slim, graceful fingers. “And her ankle?”
Justin shook his head. “That’s still up for grabs, too. It’s a bad fracture. Real bad. Even with the surgery and the pins in place, Chambers can’t guarantee that she won’t have a permanent limp.”
Matt stared past Justin’s shoulder to the partially open door of Helena’s room. He thought of the beautiful, vivacious woman he’d waltzed around the dance floor. The woman whose cornflower-blue eyes had smiled into his with unguarded interest. The woman who had said his name in her perfect, practiced English yet made it sound exotic and made him feel extraordinary. That woman had been beyond perfection.
He didn’t have to be inside her head to understand that the woman in the hospital room, though still beautiful, was now badly scarred, potentially disabled—and that there would be much more to her recovery process than knitting bones and healing flesh. And he couldn’t throw the helpless notion that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help her.
“You need sleep, bud.” Justin’s voice broke into Matt’s thoughts. “Call someone to relieve you.”
“Not an option. Not tonight anyway. My men are tied up, so I’m it.”
After a long look, Justin rose. “Okay. Here’s the plan. I’ve got a patient on the floor spiking a temp so I’ll be here for a while. I can cover for you for a few hours.”
“Thanks, but she’s my assignment, not yours.”
Justin’s long, measuring look asked the same question Matt had been asking himself lately. Are you sure this is just an assignment?
Matt wasn’t sure of anything except that he wasn’t ready to admit, even to himself, that it might be more. Yeah, he recognized that his commitment to her safety was running a tad toward territorial. He also knew that he found himself thinking about her more than he should. Helena was, after all, an intriguing woman. Not his type of woman, but intriguing, nonetheless.
Regardless, it all came down to one thing. The five club members who were in the know on this incident agreed that Lady Helena Reichard was his responsibility. It was a charge he took seriously. Even more so after what had happened last week. He’d ducked out for a moment and come back to find a strange man standing just outside her open doorway. The man had run like hell when Matt had approached him, and in the darkened hall, he’d never even got a glimpse of his face. Whoever it was, he was still out there. Judging by his actions, he was also a potential threat.
“I’m not going anywhere, Justin,” he stated flatly.
“Yeah,” Justin said with quiet authority. “You are.”
He pointed to the room across the hall from Helena’s. “The bed in there is empty. Use it. I’m taking your watch for a few hours. End of story.”
When Matt opened his mouth to protest, Justin cut him off. “Use it,” he ordered and walked to the nurses’ station to grab some charts.
Helena stared out her hospital-room window into the predawn darkness of the West Texas morning. The nightmare had awakened her. Again. As she so often did, she sat in the dark and fought a losing battle with haunting memories of the crash.
She swallowed back the slick ball of nausea that rose to her throat. Almost two months of endless nights had passed, and she still hadn’t been able to come to terms with what had happened to her. And with what hadn’t.
She hadn’t died. Miraculously, no one had. In fact, she and Robert Klimt, a member of King Bertram’s cabinet, were the only ones who had been seriously injured. Yes, she had lived, but her injuries were a constant, vengeful reminder that life, as she’d known it, would never be the same again.
A helpless anger flushed her skin as she carefully peeled the protective pressure glove—her constant companion for at least the next year—from her left hand. She made herself look at it. At the disfiguring patch of grafted flesh, the repulsive scarring, the stiff, useless fingers that might never again hold a champagne glass, might never wear a ring or be lifted to a man’s lips for a lingering kiss.
She pushed back her sleeve and forced her gaze to travel the angry red scars that ran almost to her elbow. Touching her hand to the insulted flesh, she shivered at the dry, hot feel of it then grimly flipped back the long folds of the hospital gown that covered her legs.
More painful even than her broken ankle and the six-inch surgical incisions running on either side of it beneath the cast, more painful even than the burns, was the donor site on her leg. A four-by-three-inch patch of skin had been harvested from her outer thigh to graft to the back of her hand. It still looked raw. It still gave her pain. The hope was that it would also give her back the use of her hand.
That was the hope.
She covered her leg, tucked her hand into the folds of her robe, and hated herself for giving in to self-pity. Robert Klimt still fought for his life. She did not know him well. She knew only that he lay in a coma and might not recover. Yet she sat here feeling sorry for herself because her perfection had been marred.
“Beauty such as yours is a rare gift, child. You are a jewel. A precious, flawless gem to be adored and revered by the world as a priceless treasure.”
Her father’s words, words she’d heard and believed since she’d been old enough to crawl up on his knee and bask in his adoration, echoed relentlessly through her mind.
“Not anymore, Papa.” She stared into the hollow, echoing silence. “I’m not flawless anymore.”
Matthew Walker had thought she was perfect. She had seen it in his eyes, eyes she’d envisioned too often in her mind since the crash. She’d heard it in his laughter, laughter that brightened her dreams, but never her days. She’d thought he would come to the hospital to see her. For conflicting reasons, she’d been both disappointed and relieved when he hadn’t.
She stared again at the hand that no longer seemed to belong to her, at the mass of ugly scars, the stiffened fingers that refused to work as they once had.
Matthew Walker would not think that she was perfect now.
No one would.
She raised her head, stared without seeing, as the blackness of night slowly gave way to the pearly gray break of another dawn. Artificial light from the hall behind her shone in through her door, casting the room in half shadows. A call bell pinged softly at the nurses’ desk; a doctor’s page echoed in this sterile, isolated world where the silence spoke of an aloneness only someone who had spent myriad sleepless nights swathed in bandages and morphine and uncertainty could understand.
She had become accustomed to the night sounds in the burn unit for she had slept too little and thought too much. Now, in the background, the nursing staff moved with quiet efficiency to the soft rustle of crepe-soled shoes and pristine white uniforms.
She hadn’t rung for their assistance when she’d inched carefully out of bed and eased into the chair by the window. She’d been managing that particular feat by herself for over a week now. The fine sheen of perspiration beading her brow was the only outward indication of the physical cost. The tear that trickled unheeded down her cheek was less a result of the pain than of the growing and grim acceptance that she would never be, would never look, the same again—and that the waltz she had shared with the tall, handsome Texan might have been her last dance.
Matt scrubbed a hand over his face as he stood like a shadow in the doorway of Helena’s room. He didn’t know if he felt better or worse for the three hours of sleep Justin had insisted he grab. He figured he had to feel better than she did.
He didn’t much like fighting this constant urge to go to her. Just talk to her. Maybe make her smile as she’d smiled for him one night that now seemed a lifetime ago.
Her smiles aren’t your concern, though, are they? he reminded himself grimly. Her protection was.
And yet, she looked so lost as she sat there. So absolutely alone. Nothing like the self-assured, sensual woman who’d shamelessly and skillfully flirted with him on the dance floor at the club. It tore him up, that look, and yet he didn’t want her to know he was there—watching that silken length of pale blond hair fall across her face as she hung her head and battled the tears welling up in her eyes. He didn’t want her to know he was remembering the texture and the scent of her hair trailing across his fingers as they’d danced around the room while he’d smiled into her laughing eyes.
Pride, he’d discovered this past month, was a quality Lady Helena owned in abundance. She wouldn’t want to know that anyone had witnessed her struggle—or her pain. Neither would she want to know that he’d been holding vigil outside her room. Or that the reason he was here was to protect her from an unknown enemy, with an as-yet-undetermined agenda. He didn’t want her to know it either. She had enough to deal with without adding a possible threat to her life to the list.
He cupped his palm to his nape, stepped silently away from the door and tried to sort it all out in his mind. He wasn’t exactly up on his cloak-and-dagger etiquette—it had been a while since he’d been called on to draw from his military background—but he’d come up to speed in a hurry. Anyone wanting to get to Helena was going to have to get through him.
Damn, he didn’t like what was happening. Didn’t like any of it. The only good news unearthed lately was that the investigation into the plane crash had turned up evidence that it had actually been an accident that had caused the emergency landing, not sabotage as they had originally suspected. An engine fire had caused some of the systems to lock up, including the landing gear. On impact, liquor bottles in the bar had broken, the electrical systems inside the luxury charter jet had shorted out and sparks had ignited the flammable liquor. Helena, sitting closest to the bar, had paid the biggest price.
So yeah, thankfully, they’d ruled out sabotage, but nothing else was resolved. He wished to hell he could get a handle on it.
“Okay, Walker,” he muttered and sank down on the small sofa by the window in the corridor just outside Helena’s room, “start at point A.”
Point A, the Lone Star jewels—three precious gems entrusted through generations to the Club members’ keeping—had been stolen. Before this nasty business, he’d never actually seen the jewels. Like every Cattleman’s Club member, he had sworn to protect them as part of Royal’s legacy of prosperity. Like every other Royal resident, he’d known of them through folklore and legend and had, from time to time, wondered if they actually existed. Well, he wasn’t wondering any longer. He’d seen two of them himself after Justin had recovered them at the crash site. The black opal—representing justice—was magnificent. The emerald—representing peace—was dazzling. He’d held both in his hands and damn if he hadn’t felt a dynamic sense of—
Of what? He shook his head, not wanting to believe that even now, almost two months later, he was still convinced that they’d warmed his palm with energy and heat.
He shrugged that off and concentrated on point B—the missing stone, a rare red diamond. The diamond represented leadership and completed the circle of prosperity upon which Royal was dependent. The big question that remained was where the devil was it? And if it wasn’t found and reunited with the other stones, would Royal’s thriving economy fold like a tower of cards as the legend predicted?
Since he didn’t have the answers to any of those questions, he moved ahead to point C. Riley Monroe was dead. Riley had been a fixture behind the bar at the Cattleman’s Club even before Matt had been initiated into the ranks. Anger didn’t begin to cover what he felt for the scum who had killed him. And all because they’d wanted the jewels.
That indisputable conclusion only brought up more questions. How had an outsider actually found out about the jewels’ existence, discovered their hiding place and then stolen them? Why were the opal and the emerald on that plane bound for Asterland? Again, another dead end, another set of unanswered questions.
Leaning forward, he propped his forearms on his thighs and stared at his loosely clasped hands. Okay. Point D. Milo Yungst and Garth Johannes. Talk about cloak-and-dagger.
When the four other club members who were in the know on this mission had last met, he’d confided to them his concerns about the pair.
“I don’t care that Yungst and Johannes are representatives from the Asterland government. I don’t give a good damn that they were sent to investigate the plane crash.”
He’d looked around the private meeting room at the Cattleman’s Club at Justin Webb, Aaron Black, Sheikh Ben Rassad and Dakota Lewis. “I don’t trust them. And I don’t like their methods. I like even less the interrogation tactics they used on Pamela.”
He’d seen from the dark scowl on Aaron’s face that he was in agreement. Pamela had been on the plane with Helena and Jamie Morris. Pamela was also Matt’s good friend. He’d given her away the day she’d married Aaron. Now that she was his wife, Aaron had more than a vested interest in Pamela’s welfare.
And that’s what brought Matt to point E and the reason he was here, outside Helena’s hospital room. It was at that meeting that they’d decided Jamie and Helena needed protection. Ben had been assigned to guard Jamie. Matt had volunteered to watch over Helena—an assignment the five of them had agreed was necessary until they unraveled the mystery and were sure the women were safe.
At least it had started out as an assignment. Maybe it was fatigue—maybe not—but he was finally ready to admit that somewhere along the line, it had ended up feeling like more.
Well, he couldn’t afford to let it be more. Couldn’t let her be more. Not to him. And still, it was the more that compelled him to rise and walk back to her room. Shoving his hands in his back pockets, he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and studied the beautiful, tortured profile that had haunted him for as many nights as he’d known her.
In the diluted light, he looked at her solemn profile. He looked at her damaged hand, at her leg in an immobilizing cast that ran from toe to mid-calf. His mouth set in a grim line, he tried to shake one niggling question. If this was just an assignment, why did he find himself wanting to heal those hurts that her eyes betrayed but that she would never admit to?
Two
Helena knew she was dreaming. She knew it because in the dream she was perfect and she was whole. Still…it felt so immediate, so real and oh, so preferable to the nightmare that always concluded with searing flames and brutal pain.
Oh, yes. She liked this dream so much better.
In it, she was in the middle of a grand ballroom. A gentle mist drifted at her feet as if conjured by a medieval mage from a swirl of stardust and moonbeams. She floated with the fantasy of it, seeing herself as she’d once been. Her left hand was smooth and pale, a perfect, graceful backdrop for the pearl-and-ruby ring that had been her mother’s and her grandmother’s before her.
Her dress was the same blue as her eyes. It was also strapless and shamelessly seductive. The parchment-thin, watery silk clung to the full curve of her breasts, nipped in at her waist then hugged her hips to end at mid-thigh and reveal the long, unblemished length of her legs, showcase her slender ankles in three-inch heels.
That there were no scars to hide, no broken bones as yet unhealed, wasn’t even the best part. The best part was the tall, gallant Texan who held her in his arms, his green eyes glittering, his captivating smile an irresistible mix of affable charm and unapologetic interest.
She laughed at something he said, for he was enchanting, this man whose eyes gleamed with a desire he did not attempt to hide. His arm tightened around her waist as he danced her effortlessly through open French doors and out into a warm, starry night. Even the moon, it seemed, was in league with his not-so-subtle seduction as he waltzed her to an intimate corner of a flagstone terrace made secluded by a vine-draped arbor, fragrantly blooming cactus and whispering crape myrtle.
When she smiled and backed away from him toward the low stone wall that encompassed the terrace, he let her go with a lingering caress, a brush of fingertip to fingertip, and a meaningful look in his eyes.
He wanted her.
Despite the warmth of the Texas night, she shivered in anticipation of the passion those green eyes promised.
“Is it wise, do you think? For us to be out here? Alone?” she asked, turning away from him and leaning into the low wall. The cool, hard stone pressing against the front of her thighs felt solid and real. Her awareness of the man and the moment sent her pulse rate soaring.
“Offhand…” his voice was meltingly low, seductively Texan, as he moved up close behind her, “I’d say it’s one of the smarter moves I’ve made lately.”
He was so close she could feel the hush of his breath, warm and intimate against her bare shoulder, so near she could sense the callused roughness of his hands even before he settled them at her waist and drew her back against him. A ripple of excitement eddied through her blood as he gently squeezed, then in a slow, smooth caress, glided his broad palms, fingers spread wide, possessively down the curve of her hip.
Her heart jumped to her throat, her breath quickened. “Mr. Walker—”
“Matt,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth to her nape and his hands, in an unmistakable claim, to her outer thighs. “I think current circumstances absolutely dictate that you call me Matt.”
On a sigh, she let her head fall back against his shoulder, covered his hands with hers. The heat and the hardness of him pressed against her set her on fire.
“Are all Texans this bold and sure of themselves?” she managed breathlessly.
“There’s only one thing I’m sure of,” he murmured and with her hands still riding his, covered her abdomen and tugged her snugly against him. His arousal pressed, provocative and brazen, against her hips. “I want you.”
He turned her in his arms. His eyes smoldered with longing and lust, yet, he smiled slow and heart-meltingly sweet. Clasping her hands in his, he lifted them to his mouth, touched his lips to the fingertips of her right hand and then her left.
“You’re perfect, Helena.” He met her eyes in the shifting, midnight shadows. “I think I could easily fall in love with you.”
He kissed her then. There beneath the West Texas moon, with the scent of the desert wafting in the air, the silk of his softly curling hair drifting through her fingers, she kissed him back. As she’d kissed no other man. Wanting him as she’d wanted no other man.
It was everything a kiss should be. Stirring yet sweet. Hot yet unhurried. And she wanted it to go on forever. Just the two of them. Just this rich savoring of each other’s mouths in the moonlight.
“Dance with me,” he said against her lips and they began to move as one to the slow rhythm of the night and the hearts that beat in tandem.
The mist swirled around them, shimmering and cool, enveloping them in yet another realm, a singular world of delicious sensations and softly murmured praise. The magic continued as he waltzed her through the night to a bedroom richly appointed with sensuous satins and gossamer lace. He praised her body as he slowly undressed her. She complied willingly as he laid her naked on a down-draped bed. She invited him into her body without reservation as he whispered her name, covered her, entered her.
Like silk, he moved inside her. Like life, he gave of himself.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured against her brow then nuzzled heated kisses across her cheek, beneath her jaw, against the crown of her breast until she was trembling and helpless to anything but him.
“Perfect…”
A perfect pain engulfed her. So perfect and so pure she knew in an instant she was no longer dreaming. What she was feeling was real. Excruciatingly real.
She opened her eyes, jolted cruelly from the dream to predawn light, to sterile white walls, the scent of antiseptic and the awful awareness that she had been thrashing in her sleep and had slammed her left hand against the gunmetal-gray headboard of her hospital bed.
Biting back tears, she cradled her hand against her ribs and waited for the pain to subside. When, at long last, it did, she waited for sleep to reclaim her. For the magic of the dream to take her.
But sleep didn’t come. Neither did the magic. Magic was for dreamers and dreamers were merely fools who found reality too difficult to bear.
“Do you have any questions about Dr. Harding’s or Dr. Chambers’s discharge instructions, Helena?”
Sitting up in her hospital bed, Helena smiled at Justin Webb. Not for the first time in the two months that she’d known him, she thought how lucky his new bride was to have found him. The good doctor, in addition to being handsome, had kind blue eyes. She met them steadily as the soft inflections in his voice told her his major concern had less to do with her questions than with his—specifically, the ones he didn’t ask anymore because he’d given up on getting a straight answer.
A game smile in place, she shook her head. “No. I think I’ve got it. Watch for infections, do my mobility exercises, have a nice life.”
He smiled patiently. “Helena, I’m all too familiar with the trauma a burn victim suffers when faced with the scarring and the inevitability of future reconstructive surgeries. Despite that brave front you hide behind, you’re not fooling me, sweetie.”
Helena’s mind locked on one word and wouldn’t let go. Victim. The word raced through her head like a brushfire that would consume her if she let it. She would not be a victim. She would not be perceived as a victim, and yet, when Justin eased a hip onto the corner of her bed it was all she could do to meet his eyes.
“The infection set you back, but you’re healing well now. I know that doesn’t necessarily mean any of this is easy.”
For the barest of moments, she felt moisture mist her eyes. She looked quickly away before he could see it and know how right he was. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy to know that while she would walk, she might never ski again, or ride her favorite mount—or dance with a beautiful green-eyed Texan who had haunted her dreams almost as often as the memory of the crash. But those were her problems to deal with. No one else’s.
Quickly composing herself, she smiled the smile she’d perfected over the years for both the paparazzi and the public. “Justin. Darling.” She patted his hand. “You worry too much. It’s a—how do you Americans say it?—a piece of pie.”
His grin was both indulgent and exasperated as he gently corrected her. “I believe that’s piece of cake. And you’re ducking the issue. Again.”
She dismissed his concern with a wave of her uninjured hand. “I’m alive. I’m in one piece. And as you said, I’m healing. I’m a lucky woman. Now, I know it’s part of your bedside manner to fuss, but stop it, would you? I’m fine. Really,” she insisted when his grave look suggested that he suspected otherwise. She was fine. She was. And if she repeated it often enough, maybe she’d start to believe it.
“There are support groups,” he offered after a long moment.
“Oh, please.” She shook her head, smiled her most brilliant smile. “Justin. You are a kind and gifted physician. And I am a strong and healthy woman. So I’ve got some scarring—and this bothersome broken ankle. So I may never ski Mount Orion again. Life goes on. I’ll adjust.”
“I have no doubt, Helena, that you will adjust—in time. But if you would talk with someone it might speed the process. If not a support group, your family—?”
“My family,” she interrupted, her smile disappearing, “must not be bothered by this. On that point, I insist. They are not to be made aware of my condition until I’m ready to tell them.”
“How can they not be aware? You’ve been front-page news for two months.”
“They are not aware because they chose to believe me when I phoned to inform them that the American press is littered with sensation-seeking bottom-feeders who fabricate those horrible stories about me because they sell papers and magazines. Honestly, do you believe everything you read in the paper?”
She tossed her hair behind her shoulder—a purely aristocratic gesture of dismissal. “No. Of course you don’t. So, of course they’re not aware. My parents are on an extended tour of the Orient for their thirtieth wedding anniversary and I will not have their vacation interrupted.
“Now don’t you glare at me like that, Justin. As far as my parents know, the only reason I decided to stay in the States was to see if I could cultivate interest and gather additional financial backing for one of my projects.”
She graced him with another wide, winning smile—the one that had successfully opened thousands of checkbooks to the tune of millions of dollars for her numerous causes. “You Texans are known for the size of your bank accounts as well as the size of your state, is that not so? Which reminds me, darling…I’ve been meaning to speak to you about a donation.”
“All right. All right.” He held up both hands in surrender, his grin relaying both defeat and exasperation. “Message received. I’ll back off. You’re a big girl. You know what you can handle. Just—just call me, would you? Call anytime if you change your mind about the support group.”
“Yes, Mother doctor.”
“Okay. That’s it.” He scowled with mock seriousness and stood. “Take your smart mouth and your stubborn blue-blooded pride and do not darken these hospital doors again until I tell you you’re ready for cosmetic surgery.”
“Don’t worry. As kind as everyone has been, I still can’t get out of here fast enough.”
“The timing is good then because I believe your transport is waiting.”
“Gregory and Anna are here?” While Helena did not relish imposing on Princess Anna von Oberland and her husband, Gregory Hunt, she was nonetheless relieved at their offer to recuperate at their ranch, Casa Royale.
“The press got wind that you might be released today and have been camping out on the front steps. Greg and Anna are running a little interference, hoping to take some of the heat off you.”
They were very gracious, the princess and her handsome husband—especially in light of the recent unpleasantness between Asterland and Princess Anna’s homeland of Obersbourg. As unpleasant as it was, however, it was still more appealing to dwell on that horrible business than on the horde of reporters waiting for their first glimpse of her since the crash.
Waiting to be shocked by what they saw.
Waiting to look at her with pity in their eyes. To feed on her weakness and expose her for what she no longer was.
That, she promised herself, would never happen. They would see only what she wanted them to see. And they would not see a victim.
“Helena? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Fine,” she insisted quickly and attempted to mask the shakiness in her voice by sitting up. “Now unless you want to see my bare backside, I’d suggest you leave me so I can get dressed.” To prove she meant business, she tossed back the sheet and carefully swung her legs to the side of the bed.
“All right. I’m gone.” He laughed and turned to leave.
“Justin.”
Her soft voice stopped him, one hand on the door.
“Thank you. Thank you for being my friend. I’m glad it was you on call that night.”
His smile was achingly endearing. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”
“And I’m just doing mine, so don’t forget about that donation,” she reminded him, with another of those practiced smiles that she knew could charm him out of a generous contribution.
“The check’s in the mail,” he promised with a shake of his head, then chuckled when her playfully muttered, “Oh, I’ve heard that one before,” chased him out the door.
Helena watched the door close slowly behind him. Alone, she let down her guard, dropped all pretense of bravery and hung her head like the coward she feared she’d become.
She’d said all the right things, made all the right noises. While Justin wasn’t altogether convinced that she was all right, she felt she had convinced him that after spending most of January and all of February in the burn unit, she was bursting to get out of here.
The truth was that the thought of leaving terrified her. Yes, the isolation had been, in some ways, like a prison—but it had also been a refuge. As long as she was here, she didn’t have to face the public. She didn’t have to face the press.
As long as she was here, she didn’t have to face the fact that she had left the world a whole, perfect person—and that she would be returning to it profoundly diminished.
A few minutes later, a light rap on the door brought Helena’s head up from the simple task of buttoning her blouse. At any rate it used to be simple. Now, getting any assistance from her left hand was an exercise in pain and frustration.
Squeezing her eyes tightly, she composed herself. These resurgent and pathetic bouts of self-pity simply had to stop.
“Please come in,” she called cheerily. “I’m decent. At least I’m getting there. Although you might find the air in here a bit blue.”
When Anna von Oberland-Hunt walked into the room, Helena manufactured a sheepish grin for the elegant princess.
“You know, Anna, when I was a little girl, my mother was always threatening to ship me off to Australia to some obscure penal colony for foul-mouthed little hellions.” She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m thinking, in retrospect, it might not have been a bad plan. No doubt, if she’d been here just before you arrived, she’d have thought she should have followed through and sent me packing.”
“If she were here,” Anna said gently, “she would have offered to help. I’m a poor substitute, but if there’s anything I can do, just say the word.”
Helena shook her head to combat the renewed threat of tears that Anna’s kindness fostered. “It’s these cursed buttons.” She sighed in exasperation. “It’s rather like starting from scratch, isn’t it? One two, buckle my shoe…three four, what’d they invent these blasted buttons for?”
“I’m so sorry, Helena. I should have thought of that when I selected your clothes.”
“Oh, please. I already feel that I’ve taken horrible advantage of you. Don’t make me feel worse by apologizing for your kindness.”
A look that passed between them underscored Helena’s gratitude for all that Anna and Greg had done—right down to retrieving her luggage from the authorities and selecting lingerie in the form of camisoles and teddies so she wouldn’t have to deal with the impossible task of wrestling with a bra. Hooks, and now it seemed buttons, were currently beyond her.
Yes, she owed Anna and Gregory Hunt. The invitation they’d extended for her to stay with them was one she appreciated for both its kindness and its diplomacy. Given the strained relations between Anna’s homeland of Obersbourg and Helena’s of Asterland—a result of Helena’s late cousin Ivan Striksky’s disgraceful and failed plot to force the princess to marry him—their offer was generous beyond measure.
“It looks like you could use a little help right now,” Anna offered kindly.
“A lot is more like it,” Helena admitted. “And I’m past being too proud to accept it until I can manage better on my own.”
If she could ever manage better. Tears welled up again. She blinked them back. Damn and blast it. She’d begun to think that someone had surgically removed her spine when she was under anesthetic. Worse even than dealing with her new limitations was fighting this crippling depression. She would not give in to it.
She met the princess’s eyes as Anna made quick work of the pearl buttons on the dove-gray silk blouse that matched Helena’s slacks. Not for the first time, she admired Anna’s beauty and grace. She thought of the times that their paths had crossed. Theirs had been a passing acquaintance even though she’d often thought they would make fine friends. Now she was sure of it.
“I hope I won’t have to impose on you for much more than a month. I need to stay close to the medical complex until the graft is more stable. Then, there’s this pesky thing.” She tapped the temporary boot cast that was nearly hidden beneath her loose-legged slacks. “This, at least I can walk in and remove from time to time until I lose it for good.”
“You have something major to look forward to then.”
“Truth to tell,” Helena confessed, needing to take the focus away from herself, “I am so looking forward to seeing Casa Royale. An honest-to-goodness Texas ranch. How exciting.” Rallying another smile for Anna’s benefit, she confided with a teasing lift of a brow, “This cowboy thing is…well, it’s fascinating, isn’t it?”
Another rap sounded on the door.
“Ladies?” a deep masculine voice intoned. “How are we doing in there?”
Helena’s eyes were twinkling when they met Anna’s. “Speaking of fascinating…”
Helena laughed when Anna answered her wicked grin with one of her own.
“Actually, we could use your help, Gregory.” Anna eyed Helena’s wheelchair with a dubious scowl as her husband walked into the room. “I’m not sure how to make this thing work. Or for that matter, how to get you into it, Helena.”
“That part, I can manage,” Helena assured them, then proved it by easing carefully off the bed. In halting steps, she maneuvered into the chair.
Greg Hunt was quick to kneel down in front of her, support her cast and adjust the leg and foot brace on the chair.
“Goodness, you’re very good at that dropping to one knee business.” Helena’s eyes sparkled as she watched his dark head bent over her leg. “Makes one wonder if Anna pulls rank on occasion and has you kneeling to the crown.”
A totally male, totally engaging grin stole across his darkly handsome face. “A loyal subject always knows when to step and when to fetch where the princess is concerned.”
Anna looked from Greg to Helena and back to Greg. She smiled sweetly. “Having fun?”
“Always, darling.” He stood and dropped a kiss full of promises on her brow then turned back to Helena, who was quietly envying the love they shared. “All set?”
“Absolutely.” Helena told herself it wasn’t a lie. She was ready to do this, and she held on to that belief right up until a racket in the hallway had them all turning their heads.
Greg strode swiftly to the door and looked outside. He turned back with a scowl. “Looks like it’s show time. The press are on the floor—and they’re salivating.”
Helena had been anticipating this. She’d been preparing for it. And she’d thought she was ready. Her racing heart said she wasn’t. The rush of dizziness confirmed it.
The press had tried to feed on her for her entire life. She’d always known how to handle them, had always maintained control. She’d treated them like the predators they were, using her looks to hold them at bay as a lion tamer used a whip and chair.
In a stunning moment of truth, she realized that no matter what she’d thought she could do, she couldn’t hold them off now. Not in this condition. She most definitely could not control them. She wasn’t that strong. To her mortification, she realized that she wasn’t that brave. Without her full arsenal to draw from, they would rip her to shreds.
She met Greg’s eyes, determined he’d see neither her shame nor her fear as the noise in the hall escalated to an electric buzz in anticipation of the feeding frenzy she knew it would become.
“You know,” she said, drawing on her reserves to keep her voice steady, “I really don’t think I want to do this today. It’s so pedestrian and, well, tacky—this spectacle they would make of something as uneventful as my release from the hospital.”
Greg and Anna exchanged a concerned glance.
“I mean—can’t we just make them go away somehow?” she suggested with a regal calmness her racing heart worked to undercut.
Her breath caught when the door swung open, and it suddenly seemed it was going to happen with or without her permission. She steeled herself, closed her eyes, and waited for the first verbal blow to land.
Instead of a chorus of demanding voices, one voice—a gruffly velvet, Texas drawl—rang out, clear, composed, and in total control. “It seems we’ve got a situation out here.”
If possible, her heartbeat quickened, not with fear but with relief as she looked up and into a pair of forest-green eyes that burned so furiously and so fiercely that she would have flinched if she hadn’t recognized them.
It was Matthew Walker. Her tall, green-eyed Texan. On the heels of that shock, came another. Neither her memory nor her dreams had done justice to this magnificent man in a silver-gray Stetson, slim dark slacks and crisp white shirt who had just burst back into her life like an avenging angel intent on slaying Lucifer himself if he had to.
He glanced first at Anna then at Greg before his gaze settled, with grim intensity, on her.
She didn’t stop to ask him why he was here. Didn’t think to question whether it was odd or out of the ordinary. She only knew that he’d come. And because he’d come, she knew that everything would be all right.
“Well,” she said, praying that neither her relief nor her panic affected her voice, “it would seem the cavalry has arrived. How wonderfully John Wayne of you.” Like her tone, her smile was carefully contrived to convince everyone—including herself—that this was all one grand adventure. “So tell me, darling, how, exactly, do you intend to save the day?”
Three
The quick plan Matt had hatched to get Helena out of the hospital without being bombarded by the press was simple and effective—if reliant on a little sleight of hand. After pressing the call button to summon a nurse—who, upon hearing him out, was not only game but also excited by the prospect of a little intrigue involving a princess and the daughter of an earl—they set it in motion.
As expected, when the door to Helena’s hospital room opened and Greg, with Anna by his side carrying Helena’s overnight bag, wheeled the chair out into the hall, the paparazzi swarmed like piranhas around the woman bundled from head to toe in a hooded bathrobe.
Inside the room, Matt and Helena listened to the commotion. Matt watched her face and told himself he wasn’t indulging in the look of her after a month of watching her from a distance. As he’d intended, she’d never been aware that he’d been standing guard. Just as she hadn’t needed the extra stress of knowing she faced a potential threat added to her already difficult recovery, he hadn’t needed the complications that getting to know her better would surely bring.
From the moment he’d met her, his physical reaction to her had been far too intense. His interest, much too strong. Just because he was finally face-to-face with her, just because her eyes were a deeper shade of blue than he’d remembered, the silk of her hair as lustrous as spun gold, her face and body the epitome of a heroine in a romantic novel, it didn’t mean he was going to change his game plan now.
All he had to do was get her safely away from the hospital, settle her at the Hunts under the 24/7 guard he’d arranged, and he’d be back to business as usual. And yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She said nothing as she sat on the edge of the bed, but the tight set of those beautiful full lips betrayed her tension. The solemn-eyed intensity of her gaze, never wavering from the closed door, spoke volumes about nerves that were strung drum-tight as the reporters’ voices reached them from the hall.
“Lady Helena! Look up! Lady Helena! Over here! Give us a smile for the public who wants to know how you are.”
She flinched at the sound of her name, and he couldn’t help it. He reached out. Touched a hand to her shoulder, gave it a reassuring squeeze as Greg’s voice boomed down the hall.
“Back off, Herkner,” Greg growled at the reporter from the American Investigator, a sleazy tabloid that put the other rags to shame in the exploitation department. “Give the lady a break. And give the other patients on the floor a break, too. Let us get her out of the building and she’ll give you a few words and a chance to shoot some photos.
“Or don’t back off,” Greg baited, the dare in his voice unmistakable, “and we’ll let the ER docs practice a little triage on your ugly face. Your call, of course.”
Matt looked toward the closed door, very much aware of the history between Willis Herkner and Greg Hunt. The reporter had hounded Anna during the Striksky affair. Obviously, Greg held a grudge. More obviously, Herkner was hamburger if he tested those particular waters.
When the racket quieted to a hushed din, telling Matt his plan was working and Greg and Anna were leading the press from the floor, he turned back to Helena.
She was pale and shaken and trying valiantly to keep herself together.
He hunkered down in front of her. “Hey…you okay?”
She worked over-hard to gather her composure and grace him with a look that tried to make a lie of the fact that she was far from all right. “Of course, darling,” she said in that cool, regal tone that dismissed his concern as unnecessary. “It’s just such a bother, isn’t it?”
“And then some,” he agreed, trying to get a read on her, knowing there was more going on behind those brilliant blue eyes than she wanted him to see.
“Look,” she said, all starch and breeding and a bit of impatient prima donna that didn’t quite ring true, “I don’t know why you’re here. And frankly, I don’t care. Just get me out of here. Please,” she added with enough entreaty that he knew she wasn’t as blasé about all of this as she’d like him to think.
He tipped his fingers to his hat brim and because he felt she needed one, he gave her a reassuring smile. “At your service, my lady.”
She smiled then, too. A real smile, not one he suspected she’d used on the public to hide everything from boredom to pain to fear.
“What’s next?” she asked after a steadying breath.
“What’s next is that we sneak you out the rear entrance without catching anyone’s attention.”
And that was going to be no easy feat. He’d been afraid that her release would come to this. The media circus it created wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that her visibility increased her vulnerability. He wasn’t about to give anyone but the people he trusted access to her.
All he needed to do was transport her safely out of the hospital and deliver her to the Hunts. Greg was a fellow Cattleman’s Club member and Matt knew she’d be safe with him and Anna at their ranch until the mystery behind the jewel theft and Riley’s murder was cleared up, and he was certain she was out of danger.
She’d also be out of his line of sight at the Hunts’. Maybe then, she’d be out of his mind, too. Right, and a cactus didn’t have needles. Regardless of where she was in proximity to where he was, he was afraid he’d be seeing those big baby blues for a long time to come.
He drew a deep breath, got back to business. They had to get moving. He eyed her cast. “Can you walk in that thing?”
“I suppose that would depend on your definition of walk. Hobble might better describe it,” she admitted with something close to an apology in her eyes.
He stood. “Hobble’s not going to cut it, I’m afraid.” He scrubbed a palm over his jaw, gave her a considering once-over. “So we improvise.”
Careful of her injuries, he scooped her from the bed and into his arms. She felt good there. Too good. So good, he knew he had to do something to get his mind off the sudden, unplanned intimacy.
“Whoa,” he teased and settled her more securely against his chest. “Not exactly a featherweight, are you?”
Actually she was a sleek and silky armful. His heart kicked into overdrive—not so much from the exertion as from the softness of her breast snuggled hot and full against his chest. It was not the reaction of choice, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to dwell on it. What he was going to do was make the lady relax. Another one of those smiles wouldn’t be too tough to take either.
With staged effort, he shifted her higher in his arms and made a big show of being staggered by her slight weight.
“It’s the cast,” she assured him with a tight little scowl and looped her left arm around his neck. “And the case,” she added, referring to the clear plastic case she cradled in her lap that appeared to be filled with the home-going medical supplies.
He grunted for good measure. “If you say so.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, get over it. I thought you cowboy types were supposed to be big and strong and well…heroic.” She glared down that titled little nose of hers in such a regal, aristocratic attempt to look huffy it was all he could do not to laugh.
“Begging your pardon, Lady Helena, but I’ve bulldogged steers that weighed less than you.”
She forced a tight smile, but her eyes held absolutely no trace of amusement. “That just makes my day, doesn’t it? I’ve been compared to a lot of things but never livestock. How charming.”
He grinned, but, still aware that she was far more nervous about this business than she was letting on, made sure she understood she could count on him. “It’s going to be all right. You can trust me, okay?”
When those expressive eyes held his gaze, and she softly murmured, “I do,” a long-repressed Tarzan gene made him want to beat his chest and carry her off to some vine-covered treetop hideaway. Since, for more reasons than one, that wasn’t an option, he gave her a quick wink instead and headed for the door.
The hall was devoid of reporters as they slipped cautiously out of the room. He shook off the floor nurse’s offer of another wheelchair and carried Helena to the bank of elevators marked Staff Only. Once at ground level, he negotiated a series of twists and turns as he carried her through the hallways to the rear exit.
“You seem to be rather good at this skulking business.” She tightened her arm around his neck. “Makes one wonder if there might be a bit of a shady past one might need to get a bit nervous about.”
He ignored the warmth of her, the woman scent of her and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. “Old American saying—One shouldn’t look a gift rescuer in the mouth.”
She gave a delicate little sniff. “Oh, by all means, rescue away. You’ll get no resistance from me.”
He smiled. “Here’s where we see just how good a sleuth I really am.” He rounded the last corner and the rear exit came into sight. “It’s show time. Cross your fingers, countess. We’re going to make a run for it.”
“I’m not a countess,” she said breathlessly as he shouldered through the revolving door and sprinted down the steps.
“Close enough.” He looked both ways and made a break for the parking lot. “My pocket,” he said, striding along the asphalt. “See if you can fish my keys out of my pocket.”
Bad idea, he realized belatedly as her small, seeking right hand stole down, felt around for his trouser pocket opening and finally slipped inside. He suppressed a groan as the warmth of her fingers connected with his hip, then his thigh, then, oblivious to what she was doing to him, accidentally brushed something else that threatened to stand at immediate attention.
With steel will, he ignored all the pulse-altering groping going on south of his belt buckle. At least he tried to.
Way too late—or way too soon—she gave a victorious tug and pulled the keys free.
“I got them.”
“Thank you, Jesus, Joseph and Mary,” he muttered through gritted teeth, and sincerely hoped she hadn’t noticed what she had unintentionally done to him.
“Click the lock release.”
Her slender right hand gripped the keyless remote, the tip of her index finger poised on the red button. “This one?”
“That’s the—” horns and sirens bleated into the relative stillness in absurdly loud and frantic blasts “—alarm,” he finished unnecessarily.
Wide blue eyes met his with startled comprehension. “Oops.”
He glanced over his shoulder to see what kind of attention they’d attracted—and caught her expression instead.
She looked a little mortified and a lot fearful of getting caught. What could he do but smile at her and try to make that look go away?
“It’s not a problem, okay? It’ll just make our getaway more interesting. I’m going to set you down now. Can you support your weight on one leg for a second?”
“Considering that in your estimation I weigh roughly the same as a Hereford,” she enunciated over the irritating drone of the alarm, “it will be a challenge, but I’ll give it my all.”
He hugged her then. He hadn’t meant to. He knew she would bristle right up at the notion, but she was just so darned cute with her upper-crust attitude and her put-upon pride that he acted before he thought, and then it was too late to do anything but make nice.
She merely blinked at him, big and bright and, if he chose to believe it, a bit shyly.
With another glance over his shoulder, he relieved her of the keys, neutralized the alarm, and hit the lock release. “In you go.” He quickly opened the passenger door.
Very carefully, he helped her get comfortable then stowed her bag in the back seat. “Do we need to put that foot up?”
“It’s fine. Let’s just get out of here before they figure out they’ve been fooled.”
“I’m with you on that one.”
He sprinted around the vehicle, jumped in and slammed the door behind him. “Fasten your seat belt and hang on to your hat. We may be in for a wild ride.”
A long beat of silence passed. “Well,” she said quietly. “I’d like to do both. The problem is, I don’t have a hat. And at the moment, I’m afraid that seat-belt issue is beyond me, too.”
One hand on the wheel, the other on the ignition, he glanced her way—then realized his insensitivity. She couldn’t fasten the belt.
From the moment he’d walked into her room, he’d not only been profoundly aware of her as a woman, but he’d sensed a self-consciousness about her hand that he suspected she’d never admit to. He’d tried not to stare, but now he did and fully realized what she was up against. Her left hand was covered in a snug, protective mesh glove, her fingers extended at a stiff, unnatural angle.
When she cupped her injured hand protectively with her right, he could have kicked himself.
“I’m sorry.”
Her chin notched up a fraction. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s not you who can’t manage this contraption.”
No. It wasn’t him who couldn’t manage, although there were a few things giving him his own share of trouble at the moment. One of them was that kissable mouth of hers. It was lush and full and just begging for someone to kiss her and make it all better.
He couldn’t make it better though. And kissing her was out of the question. His job was to protect her. If he didn’t get her out of here soon, he wasn’t even going to manage that.
“May I?” he offered gently.
She stared through the windshield. Gave a clipped nod.
Her breath caught—he swore it did—when he twisted at the hip and leaned toward her. By sheer force of will, he kept his gaze from connecting with hers as he reached across her body for the seat-belt strap—and then he was the one struggling for an even breath as the soft whisper of hers feathered against his jaw.
Her generous breasts rose and fell beneath the silk of her blouse as he fumbled with the belt like a horny teenager before finally managing to buckle her in. In silence, he absorbed it all, the scent of her, the heat of her, and the pride that she was having a difficult time clinging to. Then there was the very obvious fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and his suspicion that something other than the mild March chill had caused the tips of her nipples to harden like tiny buttons and strain against soft gray silk.
He eased away, far too aware of the absence of all that delicious heat no longer snuggled against him. And way too willing to taste those full, lush lips.
Squared up behind the steering wheel, he thumbed back his hat, rolled his shoulders. Well. That was interesting. And stupid. There was no way he was going in that direction with her. For a lot of reasons. None of them having to do with how vulnerable she looked. Most of them having to do with lessons learned about high-maintenance women. Women who lived, breathed and required a lifestyle that was well within his means, but not within his disposition to provide.
Without a word, he shifted into first gear and eased out of the lot just as his cell phone rang. Relieved to have the diversion, he opened the console that ran between the bucket seats. Snagging the phone, he punched the button on the second ring.
“Walker.”
“Matt. It’s Greg. I take it you made it without incident?”
Matt let out a breath he’d probably been holding since he’d made the mistake of looking into eyes so blue it made him think of bluebonnets under a summer sky. Without incident? Not quite.
“Close enough.” He hooked a left turn at the corner of Market and Fifteenth. “We’re headed for Casa Royale now.”
“Sorry, but that’s got to be a negative. Once the troops figured out they’d been hoodwinked, they decided to divide and conquer. Half of them tore back into the hospital. The rest are following Anna and me to the ranch. You bring Helena here right now and they’ll hound her like a wolf pack.”
Matt swore under his breath.
“What is it?” Despite her attempt to conceal it, enough tension to string a guitar hummed through Helena’s breathless question. “What’s wrong?”
He glanced from the street to her face. If possible, those telling eyes of hers had grown bigger and more apprehensive. It was looks like those that made him forget why he didn’t want to get involved with her.
“It’s all right,” he assured her and returned his attention to Greg. “Okay. We regroup. Any ideas?”
“I don’t see too many options except the obvious. You’re going to have to take Helena to High Stakes for a few days until this settles down.”
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