Night Resurrected (13 page)

the raccoon.
One, two . . .

“Are you
insane
?” he shouted as

much as one could from between gritted

teeth.

Three.

She pulled the trigger. The sound of

the shot echoed sharply in the metal

cavern.

The raccoon dropped.

And Wyatt vaulted out from the back

of the trailer, leaping up and out into

daylight before she even put the gun back

in her waistband.

“What the
hell
did you think you

were doing?” His brown eyes blazed as

he stood over her, toe-to-toe, fury

vibrating from him.

“You said you wanted me to prove

my

sharpshooting

accuracy,”

she

reminded him. “So I—”

“Not like that! Jesus Christ, what if

you’d
missed
?”

“I wouldn’t have missed, but even if I

did, I wouldn’t’ve come close to you.

Totally wrong angle, Wyatt. You were

off to the right and—”

“
Christ
, Remy. If you missed, the

bullet would have ricocheted around

inside that damn trailer and God knows

who would’ve been shot. You
or
me.”

He looked as if he wanted to strangle

her.

“Did you have a better plan?” she

retorted, realizing that, well, yeah, he

had a point. But it didn’t matter because

after all she hadn’t missed. The animal

had been a really close target. Dantès

whined and gave a little yip, clearly

disconcerted. She gave him the silent

release signal and he hurried over,

butting his nose against her thigh.

“
Yes
, goddammit, I had a better plan.

I was just about to throw a blanket over

it when you and Dantès arrived and

fucked everything up. The last thing we

needed was for him to get into a fight

with a rabid raccoon.”

“I know that, Wyatt. I’m sorry I shot

the damn raccoon, okay? Maybe it

wasn’t the best plan, but it worked. I

was at very close range, he wasn’t

moving, it would have been impossible

for me to miss—”

“There

is

no

such

thing

as

‘impossible to miss,’ ” he said from

between his teeth.

“And I didn’t know if you’d been

bitten, or if he’d scratched you. And for

all I knew, he could have scented Dantès

and charged out after him, or me. I acted

quickly—”

“Without thinking—”

“—and I bet that part of your pissed-

off-ness is because, yes, I am a woman

and I happen to be a damn good shot—

probably better than you—and
yes
, this

is the second time I saved your ass in

two days, and
yes
, I am cool under

pressure, and
yes
, I probably scared the

shit out of—”

His hands closed over her arms,

yanking her up and off the ground. The

next thing she knew, her chest slammed

into him and his mouth covered hers.

Remy’s eyes went wide, her breath

catching as his lips fit to her parted ones.

Then the shock faded, replaced by heat

and pleasure barreling through her and

she kissed him back. As the kiss

deepened, their tongues twined, sleek

and easy, their mouths molding together.

She closed her eyes and sank into the

delicious taste of him as he devoured her

in return. His lips were sensual and

erotic, and she realized her hands had

settled on his warm, solid shoulders.

One of them found a lock of silky hair,

then slid up into more thick waves as she

felt her toes touch the ground again, his

hands releasing her shoulders.

He ended the kiss abruptly, stepping

back and looking down at her. She was

panting, her legs felt like noodles, and

for a moment she wasn’t certain she

remembered her own name.
Oh my God.

“I had to shut you up somehow,” he

said,

stepping

back

farther.

His

expression was inscrutable, his eyes

dark and glittering. He didn’t seem to be

out of breath at all, damn him with his

full, sensual lips glistening with
her

kiss
. “Now. I’m going to get that raccoon

out of there—hopefully he hasn’t bled

all over the pile of clothes I found—and

I’m going to dispose of it so Dantès or

any other animal won’t be infected.”

Without another word, he turned and

stalked back to the trailer, pausing to pet

Dantès on the way.

Outraged, confused, and still stunned

from the pleasurable assault, she opened

her mouth to shout at him . . . then closed

it. Her fingers were trembling, for God’s

sake. Her lips pulsed, and other areas of

her body throbbed. That had been one

hell of a kiss.

And it hadn’t affected him at all?

Remy glared after Wyatt. No way.

There was no way he felt nothing. Not

after that.

At least . . . God, she hoped not. That

would be mortifying.

She walked toward the trailer, her

breath steady, her lips settling back to

normal, just as Wyatt came out. He was

carrying a bundle, presumably the

raccoon, and he barely gave her a glance

as he walked past.

“Should be safe in there now,” he

said.

“Should be?” she asked, lifting an

eyebrow as Dantès ran over to sniff at

the bundle. “How do we know there

isn’t a nest of them in there?”

“I think we would know by now,” he

said very, very patiently. “And they

don’t have nests. They have dens. And

they’re nocturnal—”

She flounced past him, irritated

beyond belief and trying very hard not to

give him the satisfaction of showing it.

“Remy,” he called, just as she began

to climb into the trailer. He stood

several yards away, ready to disappear

into the woods to bury the body. “You

might want to, uh—” He tugged at his

shirt.

She looked down and saw that her

tank top had somehow gotten pulled

down and out of place, and pretty much

half of one pink-and-lace-covered breast

was exposed.

Dickhead.

A
pparently, he’d succeeded in shutting

her up. Although, he felt more than a

twinge of guilt about how he’d gone

about doing it. Christ, the woman was

the survivor of a horrific sexual assault.

What the hell had he been thinking,

manhandling her like that?

That was it. He hadn’t been thinking.

This dark, desolate world had finally

gotten to him. He’d never laid a rough

hand on a woman in his life—unless he

was trying to save hers.

Yet, surprisingly, she hadn’t seemed

traumatized, and he wasn’t certain

whether he should be relieved or

terrified that Remy actually responded to

the kiss. He decided to settle on relieved

that he hadn’t damaged her even more—

though the last thing he needed was her

wanting something more from him.

He had no business even thinking

about that.

Thus, he was glad to work in silence

as they dug through more old and rotting

packages in the trailer. Maybe he was

distracted, but he didn’t have much good

luck today. The only thing he found

worth keeping was a leather belt and a

shrink-wrapped

iPod.
Why the hell

hadn’t anyone shipped a case of wine

or liquor? This olive oil isn’t going to

do us much good, old as it is.

“Veronica

Mars?”

Remy

said,

breaking the silence.

“Who’s that?” Wyatt looked over and

saw her holding a DVD package. He

shrugged. “Never heard of her. Are you

ready to wrap it up? I want to do some

fishing.” After two days cooped up in

one place with a crazy, gun-toting

female, he needed some quiet solitude.

S o me
sober
quiet solitude; yesterday

didn’t count.

“Sure. I’m ready to go back,” she

said, and began to gather up her things.

The trip back to their camp was

uneventful except for the discovery of

wild scallions and some raspberries,

and once back at the rig, Wyatt didn’t

delay in taking off again.

Less than two hours later he and

Dantès once more returned to the truck

rig, to find Remy crouched by a small

fire in the clearing. She was still

wearing that damned white tank top that

fit like a second skin and showed a

ridiculous amount of cleavage. Thanks to

this afternoon’s incident, Wyatt now

knew she wore a lacy pink bra that

belonged in a Victoria’s Secret catalog

—not

in

a

gritty,

dangerous

postapocalyptic world. He knew from

firsthand experience that the women here

generally wore simple white sports bras

out of necessity and practicality.

Dantès rushed over to greet his

mistress, who looked up at his approach.

Her eyes lit with pleasure and she lifted

her chin as her pet swiped it with loving

kisses. She had a long neck that looked

pale and delicate next to the loose black

braid. Too bad he wanted to wrap his

hands around it more often than not.

And that, he told himself, was a good

thought to focus on.
Not
what had

happened this afternoon.

“I have two fish, more potatoes and

asparagus, plus some wild tomatoes I

found,” he said, laying the offerings on

the cloth-covered stump she indicated.

Her makeshift kitchen. He noted with

interest that she had the basics—a skillet

and a few metal utensils—as well as

some things he hadn’t expected: salt,

dried garlic, oil of some sort, green

onions, and . . . flour? For frying the

fish?

This could be the best meal he’d had

in a while.

And so he set about trying to ruin it.

“About this saving my ass twice,” he

said, sitting down across from her. He

picked up a tomato and began to slice it

with his knife. “What the hell are you

talking about?”

She looked up at him from dredging

the fish in flour, lifting an eyebrow. Her

eyes were such a brilliant blue they

startled him every time she fixed them on

him. “Who thought of the torch? Who

gave it to you? I do believe that was me.

And without the torch . . .”

“Right. I remember you screeching

my name the whole time, distracting the

hell out of me so I couldn’t think clearly.

If I hadn’t been distracted—”

“Right,” she said. “That’s just about

as bad an excuse as the one you gave me

today.”

Wyatt suddenly had an unpleasant

feeling in the pit of his stomach. He

knew better than to ask what she meant

so he kept slicing tomatoes.

But of course she was going to tell

him anyway. “Your so-called excuse for

kissing me.”

He picked up another tomato, his

hand very steady, and said, “I’m not Ian

Marck. I’m here to get you safely to

Envy. That’s all.” He kept his voice

perfectly casual, with just a hint of

disdain.
But there’s a box of Trojans in

the damn truck, Earp.

She bristled, as he expected she

would. So predictable! “I don’t see how

what I did with Ian has any bearing on

your conduct this afternoon.”

She sounded like the principal at his

middle school, prim and outraged at the

same time. And she had neatly confirmed

what he suspected: she and Ian Marck

had been lovers. He wasn’t certain why

he wanted to know, but now he did.

“That was a sorry excuse,” she

continued in that prim, princessy voice.

“I hope your curiosity was assuaged.”

“It certainly was,” he said, his voice

emotionless. “And you can be assured it

won’t happen again.”

If they had been in a real kitchen, she

probably would have thrown a frying

pan at him—or a knife. Instead, her face

went blank with shock and then rosy

with fury and she pressed her full, pink