Falcon's Lair

A loud blast behind him threw him forward. He went down, trying to cover her body with his own. For an instant he was aware of the supple curves beneath him, long legs tangling with his, her softness. He looked down at her as she stared at him, her green eyes seeming to pull him into their endless cool depths.

Something hit his shoulder with a blow that felt as if a hammer had pounded into him. He felt a sharp pain and glanced back at a burning hunk of material lying on his leg. He kicked it away, rolling in the snow to extinguish his burning jeans.

When Ben turned to the woman, she lay sprawled on her back in the snow, her lashes dark shadows above her cheeks, her face pale, a crimson stain showing where her dark green slacks were ripped. Cuts were across her hands, on her cheeks, and a sleeve of her navy parka was ripped, hanging loosely and revealing her scraped and bleeding arm. Ignoring the pain that shot across his shoulder, he picked her up again. Turning his back on the wreck, he rushed toward his Jeep.

Gently he placed the woman in the back of the Jeep and threw a blanket over her. “You shouldn’t have been driving in this storm. You don’t belong here anyway,” he grumbled, frowning because of her stillness. He wondered why she was here. The nearest resort was at Rimrock, forty miles to the west, and the small town of Concho to the southeast seldom drew anyone along the rugged stretch of state highway near his place. And she had been on private property, driving on the road to his house. He guessed she had gotten lost. Either that or car trouble had caused her to look for help. He slid his hand beneath her coat and felt her pulse. To his relief, it was steady.

“Snow blinded you?” he asked, brushing a lock of red hair away from her forehead. A tiny smattering of freckles covered her nose, giving her a young, vulnerable look. He yanked out his handkerchief and dabbed at the blood on her cheek. “Crazy lady,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t have been driving in the storm. I’ll take you home where it’s warm, and let’s hope you don’t have internal injuries or broken bones that need a doc. If you do, we’ll have to call for the emergency chopper. In the meantime,” he said, placing his knuckles against her throat in an uncustomary tender gesture, “you’re going where no woman has gone before,” he said quietly, thinking about his mountain home and the privacy he guarded so fiercely.

He climbed out and went around the Jeep to slide beneath the wheel. “I need to get you where it’s warm,” he said, wondering about this sudden urge he felt to talk to her even though she was unconscious. Maybe it was the woman’s silence that compelled him to talk. Or a feeling that by talking to her, she wouldn’t sink deeper into unconsciousness.

Usually he resented any intrusion into his privacy and sent trespassers scurrying away with a scathing remark or look. Even beautiful trespassers. When he wanted a woman, he would find one on his own terms.

He put the Jeep in gear and wound his way back to the road. By the time he was climbing the last quarter mile to his home, daylight was gone. Large flakes of snow spiraled against the windshield, spinning in the twin beams of headlights.

When he finally slowed in front of his house, a husky bounded forward, barking as Ben braked and climbed out. “Down, Fella. We’ve got a guest, and she’s hurt.”

Ben leaned into the back and as gently as possible, lifted the woman into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Locks of her red hair curled against his sheepskin-lined coat. Large flakes fell and caught on her lashes and dotted her hair. Ben tightened his arms, holding her close. She was limp and unconscious and he worried about her, glancing at the gash in her thigh. With care he carried her in long-legged strides toward the dark bulk of his log house that looked as rustic and natural as the trees surrounding it.

As soon as he opened the door, the dog bounded past him into a wide, comfortable room decorated in deep reds and blues with a polished plank floor and braided rugs scattered across the room and in front of the fireplace.

Kicking the door closed, Ben carried the woman through the front room to the large bedroom that ran along the back of the house, its floor-to-ceiling glass giving a panoramic view of the snow-swept mountains and the wide valley. Without giving the windows a glance, he crossed to the king-size bed and knelt to ease her down as the husky curled up in front of the fireplace.

Yanking back the covers, Ben held the woman against him as he sat her up to pull off her bulky navy parka. A green sweater clung to curves that made him pause while his gaze wandered down over her enticing fullness. He lowered her to the bed and removed her fur-lined boots.

Easing away a boot, he frowned as he looked at her swollen ankle. Each brush against her bare skin was evidence of her chill from the cold and shock. In a lithe movement, he crossed the room and piled logs in the large stone fireplace. In minutes a fire blazed as he returned to her. He stared down at her, knowing he had to peel away her slacks and bandage her wounded thigh. With sure fingers he unbuttoned the soft woolen slacks and slid down the zipper.

“Sorry, lady, but you need help, and this is the only way you’re going to get that wound bandaged.” He eased down the slacks and the ripped panty hose, unable to keep his gaze from drifting over creamy skin, her flat stomach and a clinging, pink lace teddy that did little to hide the thick auburn curls at the juncture of her thighs.

He felt his body responding with an intensity that shocked him. His gaze shifted to the gash across her right thigh. Ben went to the adjoining bathroom to get what he needed for first aid.

Seated beside her, with a warm, damp cloth to wipe away the blood, he paused when his hands touched her smooth, cool skin. She was too cold—probably chilled to the bone and in shock—and he knew he should work quickly and get her covered. As he tended her, he tried to ignore the steady throb of his shoulder because her injuries required his attention first.

Her arm was scraped, and as he pushed the sweater high he felt for broken bones. While he probed carefully, he was aware of the delicacy of her bones, the blue vein throbbing in her slender neck. He placed his hand against her throat and was reassured by her steady pulse.

Too aware of her long-limbed beauty, he bandaged her thigh and shifted on the bed to lift her leg and clean a scrape along her shapely calf. As smooth as silk, her flesh was warming beneath his hands, and he was intensely aware of every bare inch exposed to him. His body responded in a manner that was intense, and he paused, flicking a glance over her again, over the flimsy bit of pink, up to her face.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he said quietly to her as he worked. Her eyes were closed, her full lips rosy in spite of the paleness of her skin. Dark bruises were beginning to show on her face and legs and arms.

As the fire crackled and roared, the room grew hot and perspiration beaded Ben’s brow. He yanked away his jacket and sweater, baring his muscled chest. He sat close against her hip, holding her hand to pick away fragments of glass and clean tiny cuts, aware how slender and delicate her pale fingers looked against his callused, tanned ones. He placed an ice pack against her swollen ankle and elevated her foot on a pillow.

With care he pushed her sweater high to feel for broken ribs, pressing gently, sliding the tips of his fingers over her satiny flesh, too aware of the rise of her breasts only inches away, his hand brushing the soft fullness and sending currents of prickly awareness through him. Satisfied nothing was broken, he slipped the sweater down again.

When he finished ministering to her, he pulled up the covers, his gaze traveling up her long legs, pausing a moment on the thick triangle of curls, then drifting higher over the sweater. As he studied her, his body heated until he felt as if he were standing in flames.

He glanced back at the roaring fire. The husky raised his head and looked at his master. “The lady’s very pretty, Fella,” Ben said to the dog, which thumped its tail.

She moaned softly, and Ben stroked her hair away from her face, sitting down beside her. “You’re all right,” he said quietly. “Damned lucky to be alive. If I hadn’t found you—” He paused, his brow furrowing when he remembered the explosion. Even if she had survived the blast, if she had spent the night on the mountain, she might have died from exposure.

“You’re safe and warm and you’re going to be fine. And when the storm ends and you’re well, I’ll take you to Rimrock where you were probably headed.” As he talked to her, he traced his finger down along her jaw, avoiding touching bruises. Now she was warming, the heat of her body beginning to feel normal to his touch. He felt a surge of relief and then told himself he was being idiotic. She was a total stranger who was probably on her way to meet her lover. Ben reminded himself that she didn’t mean anything to him.

He already knew there was no wedding ring on her finger. Annoyed with himself, he shifted his weight. He was having an acute uncustomary reaction to this stranger.

“Maybe I feel like I saved you, so now I should protect you,” he said softly, inhaling the sweet lilac scent that lingered about her.

Ben stood and crossed to the bathroom to look at himself in a full-length mirror. His shoulder was dark with a bruise, a lump swelling across his back. He had a cut on his temple, which he hadn’t felt. He pushed back his thick black hair, and examined the dark skin of his face—a heritage from the long-ago Comanche blood. He stripped away the T-shirt, unbuckled his belt and peeled his jeans from narrow hips, muscles rippling as he pulled off mud-spattered boots. Tossing aside his briefs, he stepped beneath a hot shower and winced when the water hit his injured shoulder.

In minutes when he was dry, dressed in a clean pair of jeans and socks, he walked back to the bed to look down at her.

She stirred, moaned and her eyes flew open. Caught in their green depths, Ben felt an electric jolt as he gazed at her. Her straight reddish brown brows drew together and she sat up, gasping with pain. Her eyes widened and a look of terror filled them.

“I have to go—” she gasped, pushing away covers. “I have to find him.”

Barely hearing her words, Ben sat down beside her and leaned gently against her shoulders, catching her fluttering hands in his. “Shh. You’ve been in a car wreck, and we’re in the storm of the year. You’re safe here.”

“No! I have to go now!” Her agitation increased.

“You’re not going out in this storm. And you can’t stand, either. Your ankle is hurt,” he said forcefully. Holding her, feeling her warm, delicate shoulders beneath his hands, Ben wondered when she would discover she was only half-dressed.

“No! I have to—” she cried, pushing against him, trying to sit up and crying out. She grabbed her side. “Oh!”

“You’re hurt,” he said, his broad chest blocking her. He didn’t want to frighten her or make her think his intentions were bad. For a moment he had to laugh at himself. Since when had he become so damned trustworthy with a beautiful woman? His cynical thought disappeared as he tried to struggle with her without hurting her.

She pushed against him and twisted away suddenly, lunging across the bed. He reached to catch her, scrambling over the bed as she swung her feet down.

“My clothes!” she gasped, giving him an angry look when she stepped off the bed. When she put her weight on her foot, a cry tore from her and she would have fallen, but he caught her, his arm going behind her shoulders, the other arm beneath her warm thighs. He swung her up against his bare chest, leaning forward to place her on the bed again.

She struggled against him. “Be still,” he ordered, and green eyes stared at him defiantly, yet she became quiet.

“I took your slacks off because your leg is cut and bleeding. You can’t walk—”

“Have to go,” she murmured as he covered her and sat beside her, pushing hair away from her face. Sitting up, she waved her hands in a futile protest, determination in her eyes as she stared at him. “Have to find Ben Falcon now—”

Stunned, Ben felt a jolt. He shifted away from her as quickly as if he had discovered a rattler in his bed. His breath went out in a hiss and he stood, his brows becoming thunderclouds while his scowl deepened and all his protectiveness toward her changed to a churning rage.

Two

Ben stared at the woman as she looked around in uncertainty, and then her eyes closed and she lay back on the bed again.

Frowning, he placed his hands on his hips. “Dammit,” he said quietly, thinking how he had brought her here. He should have guessed, yet it had been almost four years since Weston had come after him or sent someone after him. Long enough that Ben thought his father had given up trying to get him home.

Ben wanted Weston’s woman out of his house and his life. For a few minutes, an image of Andrea danced in mind, and the terrible anger he had felt when he had discovered she had been picked by Weston as the perfect match. The first few years after buying the ranch, he’d had damn little time to have even a casual date, and after the stormy relationship of his parents, Ben had no inclination to rush into any lasting commitment, but the last couple of years he found the long, lonely winter nights making him think about going to town and seeking companionship. His gaze slid back to the woman.

Angered, he turned and walked to the window as he tried to gain control of his emotions. Snow swirled and fell against the glass, some sticking in frosty white blotches. Ben’s thoughts drifted back to his childhood, to the abusive father he had clashed with as far back as he could remember.

Weston set impossible demands and Ben was the oldest of two sons, never able to satisfy his father’s demands. Ben rebelled before he was ten years old and from that time on it was war between them, with Weston bullying, threatening, punishing, doing everything in his power to break Ben’s stubborn determination to live his own life. And he thought about Geoff, his younger brother, who had tried to please their father and live up to impossible demands until he’d been killed trying to win a speedboat race sponsored by Falcon Enterprises.

The last time Weston had come after him, Ben had spent six months in a Texas jail for assaulting the hired men sent to force him to go home. Within two hours after arrest, his father had appeared and offered to get him out immediately if he would go to work in the family company. But Ben had refused, preferring jail to life under his father’s impossible demands. He thought of all the people Weston had sent to bring him back—detectives, cops, strong-arm toughs, beautiful women.