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Authors: Ann Christopher

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BOOK: Sinful Seduction
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Poor kid, she thought again. He didn’t have a chance, did he?

Everything about this wretched estate broke her heart, and she couldn’t escape fast enough.

Throwing open the heavy front door, she hurried down the steps and into the storm, which had graduated from troublesome to nasty. Icy water assaulted her face and drenched her to the skin as she stumbled across the cobblestone driveway. The frigid rain kept coming with a driving force, as though she’d pulled the chain on a showerhead outside an Arctic igloo.

And it was dark now. Deep-space dark. Pit-of-hell dark.

It was all she could do to stagger to the car, collapse inside and crank the engine.

Over the wind’s relentless howl, she heard urgent male voices shouting warnings behind her, but she ignored them. Like she’d let a little storm trap her here at this miserable house.

Better to escape and find somewhere to stay for the night.

Flipping on her headlights and windshield wipers, she fastened her belt, hit the accelerator and sped off down the long drive toward the main road. If she remembered correctly, there’d been a tiny B and B a couple miles—

Twenty or thirty feet ahead of her, she saw a sight straight out of one of those extreme weather shows on the Discovery Channel: the blinding streak of a forked lightning rod hit a patch of trees just to the right of the road.

No.

In one frantic second, she registered the corresponding crack of thunder and the sudden illumination of wind-tossed leaves and a massive overhanging branch.

No, God. God, please—

Screaming for her life, she stomped on the brake.

It was already too late.

Chapter 3

I
n the space between when he opened his mouth to shout “Nooo!” and when the last of his voice was swallowed up by the wind’s fury, the hundred-year-old oak that Sandro had climbed as a boy and loved his entire life reached out to swallow Skylar’s car whole.

Which was further proof that horror caught up with him, even when he wasn’t at war.

And here he’d thought he’d seen the worst sights the universe had to offer back in Afghanistan: a new widow, collapsing to the cold and muddy ground, screaming for her husband; the remnants of a suicide bomber who had, seconds before, been a teenage kid without enough fuzz to justify a shave; a blood-matted dog crawling by the side of the road, whining for help that would never come.

Yeah, that was bad.

This was worse.

He’d opened his mouth and spewed venom and his actions had led to reckless behavior. Thanks to him, someone was hurt, possibly dead.

But not beautiful Skylar, God. Not her.

He sprinted flat-out, propelled by the endless blare of her horn and the unmistakable pop of her air bag, his arms and legs pumping so hard he could almost feel the sinew ripping from the bone.

And then he was there, at the car, only he couldn’t get anywhere near it because that freaking tree had her caught in its lush green clutches and didn’t look like it’d let her go without the threat of a chainsaw.

“Skylar!” he shouted, desperate to see her through the leaves and the water sluicing down the driver’s side window. There was no breath in his lungs and his throat seemed to have tightened down to the size of a needle, but her name kept pouring out of him. “Skylar!”

He dove in through the branches, oblivious to their clawing scrapes as they sliced through his skin. There was a ripping sound—his shirt, maybe—and then the searing heat of something trickling down his side and arm mixed with the cold rain. A final lunge and he had the handle in his hand. A flick of his wrist and the dented door was giving way with a resistant squeal, revealing, among other things, a mess of car innards that obscured her lower body.

“Skylar!”

A moan answered him.

She was alive.

A shudder of relief loosened some of the strain through his shoulders, and he was able to think more clearly. Okay, soldier. Assess the situation.

She was leaning back against the headrest, soaking wet, panting and shaking, either with shock or cold. A trickle of blood ran down one temple. As she struggled against the air bag and turned her head to look at him, her eyes were glazed but she’d had the sense to put on her seat belt before she did her bat-out-of-hell routine.

“Jesus.” He looked her up and down in a grim search for more serious injuries. “Are you okay?”

Her mouth worked, trying to form words around her chattering teeth. She seemed to be having trouble breathing. “I th-think so.”

“Let’s get you out of here.”

He reached for the seat belt, which was lashed so tight across her body it was a wonder she hadn’t been sliced on the diagonal.

If he could just—

That lush mouth of hers firmed into a mulish line and she batted his hands away. “I’m n-not going anywhere with
you.

Yeah, okay. He deserved that and more. But still—

“You can’t stay here.”

“T-try me.”

He stared at her, studying the fine arch of her brows, the perky tip of her nose, the prominent apples of her cheeks, the dimple on the right side of that mouth and the quiet strength and pride.

She was something, all right. Really something.

But of course he’d known that since he first laid eyes on her.

He opened his mouth, a million
I’m sorry’s
and
Please forgive me’s
on the tip of his tongue, and all of them trapped, as usual, behind that wall he could never climb.

“I’m—” he began.

“A b-bastard?” she supplied. “A mean SOB? A jackass?”

“All of that.” His voice was hoarse with shame. “More.”

“I’m not a bad person.”

“I know.”

He really did know. No one could see her wounded pride and dignity in the face of fire and think otherwise. And those accusations he’d thrown at her back in the house? Defense mechanisms, pure and simple, all designed to get rid of her as soon as possible. Because it was dishonorable to look at the woman his dead brother had wanted to marry and wonder what her mouth tasted like and how loud and hot he could get her if he pressed his tongue to the sweet spot between her thighs.

He’d never been a dishonorable man. He wasn’t going to start now.

“I’m sorry, Skylar.”

“A-are you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She shivered again, reminding him that he needed to get her inside and warm, needed to have a doctor check her for injuries. “D-do you think you could get me out of here?”

“Yeah.” Reaching for her, he took her smaller hand in his, marveling at its softness and strength. Touching his dead brother’s ex-fiancée felt good. Really good. Too good. “I can do that.”

“Call 9-1-1,” he yelled at the already soaked Mickey, who was maintaining his vigil atop the front steps.

Mickey waved to let him know he’d heard, then disappeared back into the house.

Now Sandro had a choice to make at this crucial juncture.

Follow the basic rule of trauma injuries and leave her where she was until official help came, or try to get her out himself.

Taking a quick glance around at the holy hell unleashed all around him, he decided that they could call for help all they wanted to, but that didn’t mean it’d get there anytime soon.

Since she didn’t seem to have any spinal injuries, he decided he’d get her out himself. And while he was doing that, he’d pray that he wasn’t exacerbating any hidden but dire internal injuries she may have.

Great. He had a plan.

Only the damn car didn’t want to let her go, or maybe the killer tree was to blame. All Sandro knew was that what had formerly been the dashboard was now crushed and pressed down around Skylar’s lap, refusing to budge, and the more he couldn’t free her, the more panicked he became.

Since it wouldn’t do her any good if he hyperventilated and passed out, he worked hard to look upbeat and unconcerned even though his heart was now chugging at a thousand beats per minute.

“Can you lean this way for me, Skylar? I’m going to reach under your arms and try to pull you out, okay? Skylar? Do you hear me?”

Still panting and shivering—actually, the shivering had now progressed to shaking, which was another reason for him to freak the hell out—she tipped up her head to look at him. The glazed layer was thicker over her eyes now, as though shock was trying to lure her away from him and into some abyss.

“Skylar,”
he barked, fighting the growing terror. “Focus. Stay with me.”

“I’m… I’m with you.”

She claimed she was with him, yeah, but her voice was other-side-of-the-crypt weak, and that was not reassuring.

“Lift your arms for me. Lean toward me. Can you do that?”

She tried, twisting at the waist and raising her arms with slow effort, as though each one weighed fifty pounds.

That was the best she could do, apparently.

She couldn’t free herself and couldn’t help him any more than that.

He didn’t have to be a medical genius to know that his time was running out. The ongoing lightning strikes illuminated her face enough for him to see that it was dull and colorless. This, in turn, opened up a whole new universe of fear. What about that possibility of a serious head injury? What the hell would he do then?

Hesitating, he weighed his options one more time. A quick glance at the sky revealed a swirling vortex that, with his luck, signaled the apocalypse, and a second glance at the monster tree across the road confirmed the worst. They weren’t getting out of here tonight and, unless the Navy sailed a cruiser up the coast right off the house and deployed a SEAL team to come ashore, no one was getting in to provide any medical treatment, either. Not tonight, anyway, and maybe not for days.

It was up to him.

Trying to be as gentle as possible, he put his hands under her arms and eased her…slowly…slowly…around and toward him, pulling her until her back was to his front and he could lock his arms around her chest and get more leverage. She squirmed a little, as though she wanted to help, but her head lolled and she was mostly deadweight.

Still, this was progress, and her upper body was pretty much clear.

“You okay?” he asked in her ear.

She stirred. “N-never…better.”

That cut through his fear just enough to make him grin. He had a tough one here. Pressing his face to her cheek—there was still some warmth to her flesh, thank goodness—he gave her a quick kiss, for luck.

“You’re awfully brave, ma’am. You sure you’re not a soldier?”

“J-just get me out of here.”

“Hold on.”

Planting his feet wide, trying to get some traction, he pulled. To his grateful astonishment, he felt the slide of her body, inch by slow inch, and he took one step back…another…and her hips and thighs were off the seat and out of the car and she was almost free—

She shrieked, letting loose the kind of high-pitched yell of pain he hadn’t heard since he had left the hellhole that was Afghanistan. Cursing himself, he eased up, ready to put her back on the seat and go at this another way, when she surprised him.

Twisting just enough at the waist, she wriggled and—

That was it. She was free.

He staggered, adjusting to her full weight. A shout of triumph rose to his lips and died a swift death when he saw her lower legs.

Oh, no.

Right leg? Kicking and scrambling for purchase on the cobblestones, trying to get her upright on her own steam.

Left leg? Stiff and lifeless, a mess of torn jeans and dark wet that could only be blood.

“You’re hurt, Sky,” he told her, shifting his grip to her waist and helping her put her arm around his neck.

“Really?” she breathed, her face twisted against the pelting rain and the pain. “That must explain the blinding agony in my leg.”

The sarcasm told him she was still coherent, which in turn told him that she might not have hit her head that hard, but this was no time for jokes. Who knew how much blood she’d lost already? He had to get her inside.

“I’ll carry you.”

“I can manage.”

“Stubborn, much?”

Opening her eyes, she managed a steely glare.

“Fine,” he snapped, tightening his grip on her waist and jerking his head in the direction of the house, which now seemed to be a good three miles away, if not farther. “Be my guest.”

Because he knew her dignity demanded it, he held on and kept his mouth shut while she let her bad leg drag and tried to hobble on the good leg. Hell, he even let her try another step, just to show how evolved he was. But on the third hopping lurch, she cried out again, a sharp yelp of pain that felt like it’d been ripped from his own soul, and that was when he hit his limit.

Enough was enough.

Without comment, he swung her off her feet and into his arms as easily as he could, which wasn’t easy enough. But at least they were moving now and he wouldn’t have to make any more abrupt movements.

She moaned, her head dropping back over the crook in his elbow, but her hand went behind his neck and she held on tight.

“See?” she croaked. “I told you I could do it.”

“You showed me.”

He hurried as fast as he dared, only his fear of slipping on the wet cobblestones keeping him from breaking into a run. Luckily, she wasn’t that heavy, or maybe his adrenaline had kicked so far into overdrive that it didn’t matter how heavy she was.

With the way he felt right now? He could lift the tail end of a 747 if that was what it took to get Skylar free.

He took the shallow front steps two at a time and banged through the door and into the foyer, where Mickey, who’d been watching anxiously, was waiting for him.

“Nice save, boss.”

“She ain’t saved yet, man.” Sandro headed down the hall toward the study with Mickey hot on his heels, arms pumping the wheels of his chair. They were halfway there before it dawned on him that he couldn’t see a damn thing. “What’d you do to the lights?”

“Tree took the power out,” Mickey said.

“That tree wasn’t messing around,” Sandro muttered.

“You got that right,” Skylar said.

“And the mural’s ruined. A window broke and the rain’s splattering it right now,” Mickey added.

Sandro never broke stride. “We’ve got bigger problems to deal with right now than losing my mother’s Greek mural.”

“Greek?” Skylar tried to focus on something other than the pain searing through her.

“She was a Greek scholar,” Sandro said. “Hence, the names.”

“Good to know.” She sagged into him, her strength exhausted and her head lolling.

BOOK: Sinful Seduction
7.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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