Skyler Hawk: Lone Brave

Sky’s breath caught reflexively in his throat. Her feathery touch sent him straight into hormone overdrive. Linking his fingers through hers, he walked slowly through the bathroom, heightening the pleasure, if only for a brief, forbidden moment.

Still holding hands, they neared the bathtub. After making a thorough examination of the surroundings, Windy tugged her hand away. “Go wait over by the sink. And turn around.”

Turn around? Jeez, she wore a bathing suit under that robe. After dragging him out of bed and teasing him with that towel display earlier, the least she could do was give him a quick thrill. “Do you keep your robe on when you go to the beach?”

“Dang it, Sky, just turn around.”

He almost laughed. The hissing kitten had returned, too tiny to look tough, too sweet to sound menacing. He imagined dang was as far as she went.

“Skyler!”

He bit back another grin. Apparently she meant business with the use of his formal name. “You sure are—”

“I mean it, Sky.”

A cute little filly. “Okay…okay.”

He moved over to the sink, rolled his eyes and turned away. When he heard the spray of water, he wrestled with his conscience. Should he sneak a peek or just imagine what she looked like through the bubbled shower enclosure? Edith Burke’s hanky-panky speech sounded in his mind. If that sweet old lady knew what he was up to, she’d skin him alive.

Oh, what the hell. He flashed a wicked grin and turned around.

Windy’s robe lay in a heap on the floor. He shook his head. The pile of worn-out terry cloth actually ignited his pulse. Stop now, he told himself, before it’s too late.

Naw, he deserved a peek. Just one.

Making a quick mental note to reward Tequila, he sat on the edge of the sink, stretched out his long legs and leaned over. There she stood, a slim, shadowy figure behind rippled Plexiglas, arms raised, hands moving through her hair. Female flesh and bits of white fabric.

He tilted his head, expanding his view. A tantalizing aroma wafted through the gathering steam, filling his nostrils with a treat: a woman’s sweet perfume, vanilla-scented soap. Her damp skin would feel soft, like flower petals after a summer rain, moist and smooth, blooming with color—inviting his caress, his kiss.

It was all in his mind’s eye. The two of them together under the warm spray of water, her soapy hands sliding across his chest, his eager hands peeling off her bikini. Mouths tasting, bodies aching. Damn. Sky shifted his hips. The shower steam was rising and so was he.

When Windy opened the enclosure door, he sat staring in her direction. Glassy-eyed, he knew his sinful expression combined hunger and guilt. Feeling like a sneaky child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he grinned—a sheepish don’t-punish-me grin.

She reached for her robe, and Sky wondered what to do now. Pretty Windy had him behaving like a randy teenager who didn’t have an ounce of control over his raging hormones. And she looked good enough to eat: eyes wide, damp cheeks flushed, wild hair wet and tangled.

Time to hightail it out of here, he thought, planting his feet firmly on the floor. “I’m going to go look for Tequila,” he said, racing out the door as if the devil himself were on his heels.

Sky had spent half the day and part of the evening searching for the snake. It was his own fault Tequila was so clever at hiding. Since he had encouraged her throughout the years to play the silly game, she would find a hiding place, poke her head out, then sneak into another spot while his back was turned. He usually tired of the game before she would, so he would abandon the search in favor of a sugary snack and an old-fashioned shoot-’em-up Western. Eventually Tequila would surface, climb onto his lap and fall asleep.

Of course, that had changed, thanks to Windy. Once again, Sky found himself in a bar when he’d rather be lounging in front of the TV. Staying home with her unnerved him. Celibacy was downright self-torture now. A good stiff drink seemed to be the only cure. Well, not the only cure, but Windy might not like the alternative.

This time he avoided the local bar with the nosy cocktail waitress. Today he had headed for a small town in the high desert. To a ratty little dive where people minded their own business. No happy hour. No chic L.A. women. No trendy haircuts. Just a broken-down bar stool, a shot of whiskey and peace of mind.

“Just sit yer butt down and shut up.”

Sky knew better than to turn around, but he did it, anyway. The sharp words belonged to a big, crude man, shoving a skittish little redhead through the front door. The man nodded to the bartender, gripped the redhead’s arm and seated himself at a table directly behind Sky.

“Bring us a couple of beers,” he called out.

“Sure thing, Hank.” The bartender waved the rag in his hand.

The woman’s timid voice protested softly. “I don’t want a beer, Hank. I just want to go home.”

“I’m goin’ outside for a minute,” Hank said, pushing his chair away. “And I don’t want to hear you whinin’ when I come back. Jimmy’s meeting us here for a drink. I’d like to enjoy an evening with my brother for once.”

Sky watched the man saunter off, wide shoulders and an even wider girth protruding over grubby, ill-fitting jeans. Hell, damn and hell again. He cursed what he was about to do.

“Are you all right?” He stood at the redhead’s table, tapping a pack of cigarettes on his wrist, an old habit he hadn’t quite abandoned.

She lifted her chin—empty eyes, pale skin and wiry hair sticking out from the back of a chipped metal clip. She appeared too old to be a runaway, he thought, and too young to look so haggard. As he toyed with the cigarette pack, her eyes grew hungry.

“You want one?”

She nodded and he sat down to light it for her.

“You better go before Hank comes back.” She closed her eyes and inhaled, as if savoring something vital. “He has a bad temper.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that,” Sky said as the bartender slid Hank’s beers onto the table. “What’s your name?”

She took another nervous drag. “Lucy.”

“How old are you, Lucy?”

“Twenty-three.”

Damn. “Hank your boyfriend?”

“Husband,” she answered, keeping a close eye on the front door. “We got two kids.”

“He do that to you?” Sky reached up to touch the faded bruise on her left cheek.

She looked away. “Why are you talking to me?”

He dropped his hand. Good question. She was twenty-three years old with two kids and an abusive husband. How was he supposed to help? “I thought Hank looked like he needed to pick on someone his own size,” he answered, fingering a cigarette. “I don’t know much about these things, but I’ve heard there’s places to get help. Women’s shelters. I’m sure the police could—”

Lucy interrupted, flicking ashes carelessly. “What are you? A Good Samaritan?”

“No.” Sky smiled wryly. “I been called lots of things but Good Sam ain’t one of them.”

Lucy almost smiled. “You better go, Sam.”

He dropped a couple cigarettes on the table. “Nice talking to you, Lucy.”

When Sky turned around, he stood eye to eye with Hank. “What were you doin’ sitting with my wife, Injun?”

Injun? “Just offering the lady a smoke.” Sky noticed there were two Hanks now. Two big, ugly Hanks.

“Stay away from my brother’s wife, half-breed,” the second Hank said. “We don’t like yer kind around here.”