Lone Wolf

Not that Hawk expected special treatment. He wasn’t the friendliest person in the neighborhood. Nor were folks drawn to him. Since his youth, Hawk had been considered an outcast. Then again, he didn’t give a damn about socializing in Mission Creek. This town hadn’t been particularly kind to him, even if it had been home for as long as he could remember. He lived on the outskirts of Mission Creek, and for good reason.

Hawk was the unwanted, illegitimate son of one of the richest men in the county. And being the Wainwright bastard had taught him how to live on the fringes of society, how to thumb his nose at his daddy and his half siblings. They meant nothing to Hawk. Nothing at all.

Nothing but a childhood ache he’d long since outgrown. Standing six foot one with a set of broad shoulders and a pair of dark, unforgiving eyes, he was no longer a kid hoping his prominent, white daddy would notice him.

Thirty-three-year-old Hawk Wainwright was an Apache, a man who trained horses, rescued injured raptors and asked Ysun, the Creator of the Universe, the Apache Life Giver, to guide him.

And who was the pretty lady next door? he wondered, as he started down the porch steps to retrieve his mail. And why was she so shy? So cautious?

Maybe she’d heard the gossip about him. Eight years ago, Hawk had dated a pampered, rich, breathtakingly beautiful white girl. But after they’d slept together, he’d discovered that she had no intention of introducing him to her family or bringing him into her social circle. She had, however, treated him like a prized Indian stud, whispering quite naughtily that her roommate wanted a turn with him.

Stunned, Hawk hadn’t responded to the lewd offer. But just days later he’d approached both girls at a local bar. After kissing one and then the other, he’d quietly told both of them to go to hell. Naturally those hot, public kisses had culminated in a much-talked-about scandal.

But he’d learned his lesson, and these days Hawk no longer felt the need to explore his Anglo side by dating white women. Instead, he avoided them.

He glanced at his neighbor again. She was as fair-skinned as they came, but she still fascinated him. He couldn’t help but admire the way her gold-streaked hair caught the light or the way a spray of geraniums bloomed like a rainbow at her feet.

Let it go, he told himself. Stay away from her.

He turned and opened his mailbox, then sifted through the envelopes until an unfamiliar name printed on one of them caught his eye.

Jennifer Taylor.

He checked the address and saw that it was incorrect. The letter, bearing the logo of a fashion magazine, belonged to the lady next door.

Shooting his gaze in her direction again, Hawk weighed his options. Should he just put the letter in her mailbox? Or use this as an excuse to satisfy his curiosity and talk to her?

Curiosity won, along with a self-admonishing curse. He was doing a hell of a job of avoiding her.

Stuffing his own mail in his back pocket, he headed toward her, cutting across the adjoining driveways that separated their houses.

“Jennifer?” he said when he reached her.

She started at the sound of his voice, which told him she had been unaware of his presence.

Still kneeling on the ground, she looked up at him, shielding her eyes with a gloved hand.

“Are you Jennifer?” he asked.

“Jenny,” she said a little too softly. “I’m Jenny.”

“I think this belongs to you.”

She removed her gloves and stood. But when she reached out to take the envelope, she teetered.

“Are you all right?” he asked. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and the sun flushed her skin, making it look hot and pink.

“Yes,” she said, but her flushed face went pale.

Too pale, he thought.

The envelope fell from her hand, fluttering to the ground. And in the next instant, she was going down, too. Passing out, Hawk realized.

He reacted quickly, even though he had never been in the company of a fainting female before. Reaching forward, he caught her, and she sagged against him like a rag doll.

Unsure of what else to do, he lifted her into his arms and then stood beneath the blinding sun, like an Apache renegade who’d just scared the wits out of an innocent, young captive.

Now he knew why he avoided white women, he mused, mocking his penchant for trouble. He only wanted to meet his new neighbor, not create another scandal.

Hawk adjusted Jenny, cradling her against his chest. She didn’t weigh much, but handling her felt awkward just the same.

He made his porch steps in record time. Turning the doorknob, he shouldered his way inside. Next he deposited her on his cedar-framed sofa, her clothes twisting a little as he did.

Hawk stepped back to study her, hoping she would rouse on her own.

But she didn’t. Jenny remained motionless, her crumpled cotton blouse exposing an intriguing slice of skin just above the waistband of earth-smudged jeans. He couldn’t help but notice her navel. Or the lean, yet feminine curves of her body.

Hawk frowned. Now he really felt like a renegade, checking out an unconscious woman.

Then quit looking, he told himself. And figure out a way to revive her.

Like what? Mouth to mouth?

Oh, yeah. That’s the gentlemanly thing to do, he thought as he rummaged through his kitchen for the first-aid kit he kept on a cluttered shelf.

Hawk grabbed the plastic box, opened it and found what he was hoping to—smelling salts.

Returning to Jenny, he knelt before her, broke the packet and waved it beneath her nose.

She stirred instantly, jerking as she regained consciousness. When their eyes met, he noticed how blue they were. And how wary.

Jenny pulled back, trying to put some distance between herself and the man staring at her. He was much too close, his face just inches from hers. She could see the tiny lines around his eyes, the pores in that rich, copper skin, the small scar near his mouth that gave his frown an element of danger.

His hair fell in an inky-black line, but light spilling in from the window sent a sapphire sheen over each shoulder-length strand.

Around his neck, a turquoise nugget dangled from a leather thong. Both ears were adorned with small black claws—talons as sharp as his cheekbones.

She knew he was her neighbor, but she’d done her best to avoid him.

“You passed out,” he said.

Jenny merely nodded, unable to find her voice. His, she noticed, was as rough as the Texas terrain.

Did she fall into his arms? she wondered, mortified at the thought. All she remembered was the world turning a hazy shade of white.

He sat on the edge of the coffee table. “Has this ever happened before?”

“No,” she lied. She’d fainted once when she was pregnant, but that wasn’t the reason she’d lost consciousness this time. There was no way she could be pregnant. Jenny hadn’t been with anyone since her divorce.