Laws of Attraction (19 page)

“It’s still really red.” She wet a cotton ball with peroxide and bent over his hand, inadvertently offering a tempting view of creamy feminine curves. He started mentally reciting Super Bowl stats. She began to dab carefully, her breasts rising and falling with each movement. His toes curled in his boots and his pulse and respiration kicked into double-time.

She looked up, distress darkening her eyes to rich, potent whisky. “Does it sting? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

But it hurts so good, honey
. “You didn’t.”

She leaned farther down, pursed her lips and blew gently. “Better?” Mia’s breath tingled over his hand, up his forearm, her scent intoxicating him with her fragrance of roses and warm woman.

A flash-bomb detonated in his belly, and he sucked in air between his teeth.

“That malicious skank,” she muttered. “I’d like to give her such a smackdown.”

Grateful for any topic to divert the lava flood of lust, he swallowed with a mouth gone bone dry. “She doesn’t really want me. You get that, right? It’s a game, to see if she can take me away from you.”

“Huh. Maybe you don’t know just how juicy you are, cowboy.”

Juicy. Don’t think about juicy. Mia, hot, wet … Super Bowl XLV: Packers 31, Steelers 25
. “Not my type. I prefer smart and sassy.”

Like you
.

“She’s gorgeous, though.”

“And light on brain-power. Hell, I’ve stepped in mud puddles deeper than Isabel.”

Mia’s melodious giggle tickled him, her breast accidentally branding his bicep through his shirt. Her fingertips slid slick, cool ointment over his skin, stroking, rubbing …

Dallas’ free hand impulsively clamped around her wrist and hauled her against him.

Her mouth a millimeter from his, her warm breath whispered over his lips. His heart raced as he lowered his head and his lips parted on a groan, already anticipating her honeyed taste.

Mia jerked back, eyes huge. “Wh—what’s wrong?”

“
Shit
!” Dallas closed his eyes.
Super Bowl XLIII: Steelers, 27. Cardinals, 23
. “Just get this done.” he gritted.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Dallas, I’m sorry it hurts.”

He sighed. What the
fuck
had blitzed the infamous McQuade self-control? He lifted his lashes to see her biting her lip. “Mia,” he said softly. “You didn’t hurt me. You’re firing me up. On all cylinders.”

She gulped. “Oh. Well. I … um … I didn’t mean to do that, either.”

“I know, darlin’.”

She quickly, carefully taped a gauze square to the back of his hand. “Thank you for taking this burn, taking the hurt,” she said, her voice shaky. “When it was supposed to be mine.”

His heart turned over. “It’s no big deal, honest.”

“It is to me. You purposefully let yourself get injured on my account, and I— Nobody has ever—” Mia stepped away, swiped at her eyes, and got very busy rewashing her hands and putting away supplies.

Which made him ache to kiss her even more.

Dallas abruptly shoved to his feet, nearly kicking over the stool and making her jump.

“I could use some air. How about you?”

Equally as desperate to break the tension, Mia fumbled a box of granola cereal into the cupboard. “Sure.” She closed the door with unnecessary deliberation. “What did you have in mind?”

“Self-preservation.”

Mia swiveled, saw him scoop up boxes of ammunition. Her glance snagged on the taped gauze, stark against his tanned skin.
God
. She’d been focused on easing his pain … pain he’d willingly accepted in her place. Then when he’d yanked her close and she’d looked into his scorching blue eyes, so alive, so fierce with need, she’d instantly ignited. Her body was superheated and tingling—everywhere.

“Let’s go outside.” He opened a drawer and extracted a roll of paper.

“Self-preservation, huh?” She strove for a casual tone. “Decided to shoot me after all?”

He gave her a crooked grin as he tucked the roll beneath one arm. “Maybe I should be more concerned about the other way ‘round.”

“Not a chance.” Neither of them bothering with jackets, he held open the kitchen door for her and she walked out into the brilliant April afternoon. The sun and breeze had dried all evidence of the earlier storm. Chattering birds soared on the rain-washed breeze, and Mia smiled. If not for a feisty pair of robins, she wouldn’t be here with him. “It’ll be interesting to watch you target practice. I’ve never even held a gun.”

“Exactly what I’m fixin’ to correct.”

She started. “
Me
, armed and dangerous? I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”

“Things are ramping up and the end-game is in sight. It’ll be soon.”

Her nerves jittered. The showdown was coming.

He slowed his long-legged stride to match hers, tucking a broad palm at the small of her back to escort her along a trail worn into the dew-sparkled grass. “When the shit hits the fan, I’ll rest easier if you’re trained in the basics.”

“Hello. Pepper spray to the eyeballs and knee to the lower ones … your personal experience speaks to my proficiency.”

“Yeah, but some circumstances force you to play offense, not defense.”

They crossed a wooden footbridge over a burbling creek and walked into the lush emerald heart of a wooded copse. Dallas stopped beside a boulder, knee-deep in a field perfumed by a sea of bluebells. Giant old-growth trees surrounded them, leafy arms fluttering. Deadly serious now, his vibrant blue gaze captured hers. “Sometimes mace and Taekwondo don’t cut it. If things go down ugly, and you’re left alone, I don’t want you without a weapon.”

Her stomach pitched. He meant if something happened to him.

Until now, she hadn’t considered the horrible possibility. Dallas seemed so confident, so capably in charge. She looked at the huge, black, holstered pistol slung in the harness across his shoulder and gulped around a sudden painful lump in her throat.

But nobody was bulletproof.

Dallas stalked to an immense dead tree across the clearing. He unrolled the paper, tacked up a life-size outline of a man that was divided into grids, then strode back. “Your target.” He withdrew a smaller—but no less intimidating—pistol from his ankle holster. “This is a Glock 26, otherwise known as a ‘baby Glock.’ Perfect for concealed carry and/or smaller hands like yours.”

“Yikes. Big baby.”

“Don’t look so scared, sugar. It doesn’t bite.”

“No, it kills.”

He stepped nearer, the silver highlights in his irises glinting steel. “As long as you remember that, you’re all right. If you decide to draw, draw prepared to kill. Don’t start a half-assed firefight or you’ll end up dying. All-in … or not at all. You got me?”

She sucked in a deep breath, fascinated and shockingly attracted by her lethal warrior. “I got you.”

“Baby Glock holds ten rounds in the magazine. Keeping one chambered gives you eleven shots. Drop
this
baby off a three-story building and she’ll still perform without fail.” Admiration deepened his voice. “Submerge her in water, or even mud, and she’ll still fire.”

“Geez. You talk like it’s a lover.”

“Yeah. But unlike a lover, a Glock will never let you down.”

Mia caught the bitterness edging his tone. “Have you been let down a lot?”

“Only by myself,” he muttered. He frowned. “Stay focused, Mia. Distraction is dangerous.” He pulled back the slide and ejected a bullet, then pressed something that made the clip drop into his palm. “
Always
handle a gun like it’s loaded until you’ve personally emptied it. There are more weapons and extra ammo locked inside the gun safe in my bedroom closet, should the need arise. The combo to the security pad is—”

“Wait.” She touched his arm. “Let me guess. I’m good at this.” She tilted her head. “Nothing obvious like a birthday. But since your weapons are personal to you, it’ll be personally meaningful. A positive association related somehow to your guns, because they’d have been at the forefront of your subconscious when you chose the code.”

She studied his face, gauging his reaction. He cloaked his emotions well, but she was getting way better at reading him. “Hmm. My guess is … it’s the name of your favorite hunting hound, Dirty Harriet.”

Watching his gorgeous jaw drop made her laugh. “Don’t worry, nobody who doesn’t know you well would be able to suss it out.”

“The way your brain works is terrifying.” He shook his head, offered her the gun. “Here, Great Gazoo. If you’re as talented at this as you are at mind-reading, you’ll qualify for sniper school in no time.”

She gingerly accepted the pistol, not as heavy as she’d imagined. Using the boulder as a table, he showed her how to unload and load the clip, then click it into the gun and chamber a round. He made her practice until he was satisfied with her competency and speed.

True to his nature, Dallas was a calm, thorough teacher. While his big hands moved patiently over hers, showing her again and again, her pulse spiked at the thought of how good he’d be at teaching her other skills.

Finally he pronounced her ready. “Damn, I forgot the ear protection. I’ll be right back.” He set the Glock on the boulder, pointed his finger at her. “Do not start without me—no individual freestyle yet.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He jogged up the trail, quickly returning with two sets of compact padded headphones. He adjusted one set over her ears, donned the other, then passed her the gun again. “Glocks don’t have a safety, but the trigger has to be completely depressed to fire. Never,
ever
, put your finger on the trigger until you’re going to shoot.”

He moved slightly behind her right side. “Plant your feet about shoulder-width apart. Lock your elbows, support your gun hand with the other, and sight down the barrel. Don’t jerk the trigger, squeeze it—smooth motion.”

Nerves jittering, Mia assumed the stance. “Will it kick?”

Silence.

“Dallas?” She glanced over her shoulder to see him checking out her butt, taut arousal in every line of his long, lean frame. She imagined how she must look from his point of view: short tight skirt, black stockings and sexy boots, with her legs spread wide and pointing a deadly weapon.

The raw, primal desire on his face whammied her with a heady rush of feminine power. She swallowed, readjusted her grip on the gun. “Dallas? Will it kick?”

“This … .ah …” He cleared huskiness from his voice. “This model has a limited recoil. I don’t think you’ll have an issue with it. Center your balance. Aim for the widest part of the upper torso. Count three, and fire.”

Mia concentrated on the target. She squeezed the trigger, winced at the loud—even through the earphones—retort. A jolt ran up her arm. The shot missed not only the target, it missed the
tree
by a country mile.

“Sugar, I said aim for the widest part of the target’s torso.”

“I did!”

A sudden coughing fit overtook him. “Try again.”

She did, with the same disastrous results.

“All righty, then.” He stepped close behind her. Wrapping his big, solid body around hers, he slid his hands down Mia’s bare arms to support her wrists. His chin dipped, his bristled cheek grazed hers and sent a shiver all the way down her spine. His weight and heat pressed against her back. He was hard—all over.

“Widen your stance a little.” His knee nudged her legs farther apart, which nestled his unmistakable erection firmly into the crease of her buttocks.

Mia barely resisted the urge to wriggle closer.

“Sight down the barrel, see the center of the target?”

She breathed him in, hot, clean man and the fresh, woodsy scent unique only to him. She’d know Dallas McQuade in the pitch dark. “Y-yes.”

“Take a deep, slow breath, hold it … then fire.”

Mia obeyed, squeezed the trigger. She still missed the target but did hit the tree. Barely.

Dallas’ smoky chuckle in her ear provoked another stampede of shivers. “And again.”

Three boxes of bullets later, Mia was still barely hitting the target, even with his guiding hands. She wanted,
needed
to prove herself competent at everything she tackled, and her confidence was taking a beating.

Dallas took the empty pistol and laid it on the boulder. “Time for a break.” He removed her headphones, then his and set them beside the gun. When he stepped away from her, she immediately missed the contact.

Tired, exasperated, she swore. The harder she tried with this, the worse she failed.

He tucked a flyaway wisp of hair behind her ear, and then massaged the taut muscles at the back of her neck. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. Odds are, if you have to draw on somebody, you’ll be a lot nearer.”

Suppressing a groan, she leaned into the bliss of his talented fingers. She
hated
to fail at anything. Any sense of helpless frustration unwillingly hurtled her back to childhood. “Let’s hope I can stick with hand-to-hand combat.”

“You did flip me like a well-done burger.” His roguish grin gleamed. “But then you had the element of surprise.”

“Implying … I couldn’t do it again?”

His grin widened. “Not implying.”

“You’re right, I probably couldn’t flip you again.” She turned and walked away from him.
But I can still take you down
. She whirled and rushed him, executing a fast, high wheel kick.

He weaved and dodged, her boot heel missing the side of his head by a dust mote. Lunging into her attack, Dallas grabbed her wrist, spun her and yanked her backward against his chest, one arm imprisoning her upper body, one long leg imprisoning her lower. His laughter vibrated through her. “You are damned good. But you could be better.”

She used the back of her head to head-butt his face. When his grip loosened, she stomped his instep, slithering downward to escape his hold. She rolled, then sprang to her feet and danced away. Muscles coiled in a defensive stance, she arched her brows. “Really?”

Cobalt irises sparked with challenge as he slowly licked his lower lip. She’d purposefully avoided hitting him hard enough to split it, but they both knew she could’ve.

He advanced, dodged her pistoning fists and feet.