Don't Close Your Eyes. Sara Orwig

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      Another tactical error because, for one stunned second as she struggled against him, he forgot the fight, the danger and his mission.

      He was conscious only of soft curves, enticing perfume, silky tendrils of hair and female hips gyrating against him, causing reactions entirely different from what the struggle they were having should elicit.

      His guard was down, lost in the proximity of a warm, soft body. His only thought, Desirable female. Very desirable.

      Too late, he felt his gun leave the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back only to be thrust into his ribs.

      “Let me go!” she stormed.

      Careful to avoid any sudden moves, he released her.

      She had his pistol aimed at him. If she had been a man, he could disarm him. As it was, she stood too close to protect herself. He’d never been able to strike a woman and he wasn’t willing to take any chances now. He didn’t want to make this situation any worse.

      “Careful,” he cautioned. “Are you Savannah Remington? I’m a friend of Mike’s. I’m here to see him.”

      “Friends don’t break into houses. Get your hands on your head and don’t move,” she ordered, stepping away from him.

      “Don’t call the police,” he urged. They stood in the unlit hallway, but his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could see that she was a beauty. She wore cutoffs and a T-shirt that hugged fantastic curves. “I was in the service with Mike,” he continued. “I’m a friend. I thought I might have someone following me so I needed to get into the house to see Mike under the cover of darkness.”

      “I don’t believe you,” she said, edging away from him.

      “I’m telling the truth.” He glanced beyond her and saw what she was trying to reach. A cell phone, plugged in to be recharged lay on a nearby table.

      “Don’t call the police. I’m Colin Garrick. You can ask—”

      “Colin Garrick is dead,” she said flatly and took another step. She was inching back, now definitely too far away for him to attempt to retrieve his pistol.

      “I am Colin. Really. Everyone thought I was killed but I survived.”

      “I’m calling the police and they can learn your identity.”

      “Give me a minute and listen!” he exhorted. “Someone is after me, which is why I broke in—I’d hoped to find Mike. Where is he?”

      “He’s not here,” she said, still cautiously easing away from him.

      “I promise you, I’m who I say. I’ve known Mike since we were little kids,” he persisted, rushing his words in an effort to get out information that would convince her of his identity. “We grew up together, went to the service at the same time. If you’re his wife, you should know things about us when we were kids, where we lived—”

      “I’m not his wife. I’m the baby-sitter.”

      “Look, can we have this conversation without you holding a gun aimed at me?” She didn’t lower the gun.

      “Who are Mike’s best friends?”

      “Boone Devlin and Jonah Whitewolf were his best friends when he was in the service. I don’t know who his friends are now.”

      “What was Jonah’s wife’s name?” she asked, still leveling the gun at him.

      “Kate,” he answered, and the woman’s eyes narrowed.

      “Did Boone Devlin have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

      “He had eight. Nine kids in his family counting him. Ken, Zach, Izzie—” As he talked, he saw her eyebrows arch. She blinked as if deeply surprised and he hoped he was getting through to her.

      “If you’re Colin, you gave Zach Devlin a special present on his nineteenth birthday. What was it?”

      For a moment Colin went blank and a sense of panic gripped him. Boone’s younger brother Zach’s twenty-first birthday had to have been years ago. Even at the time, the gift hadn’t been a big deal, Colin was certain.

      If she went for the phone, he would have to stop her then get out and away without talking to Mike. He tried to remember the gift, thinking of Boone and his younger brother. Her eyebrows arched higher, and he could see his chances of convincing her slipping away.

      “My first rifle,” he snapped the second he recalled the incident.

      To his relief, her eyes widened and she stared at him openmouthed. “You’re Colin!” she whispered and he was surprised by her shock. They were total strangers. “No one else could know about the rifle except you and Boone,” she said.

      “My pistol—” he reminded her.

      “Oh!” She lowered his gun, turned it and held it out to him. “You’re really Colin Garrick,” she repeated, still sounding stunned.

      “That’s right.” He tucked the pistol back into his jeans and got out a handkerchief to wipe blood from his cut lip. “You must take martial arts.”

      “How did you get in?”

      “I cut a windowpane. I’m sorry, but I need to be careful. I don’t want to bring any more danger to Mike than I already have. That’s why I slipped in this way. Will he be home soon?”

      “Why didn’t the alarm go off? I had it set and switched on,” she said.

      “I cut the wires. You don’t have a phone now. Sorry.”

      “I should have known. You guys—” she said, shaking her head. “They think you’re dead,” she repeated.

      He dabbed at his neck and saw more blood on his handkerchief.

      “Come with me, and I’ll get something for your cuts,” she said and turned. He followed her, watching the sexy sway of her hips and remembering the feel of her pressed against him. He shook his head as if to clear it. It had been a long time since a female had stirred his desire and this was not the place or the time for that to happen.

      When she switched on a hall light, he admired the oil paintings on the walls, the polished hardwood floor and the crystal chandelier. “It’s difficult to picture Mike in this house,” Colin remarked. As he looked around, his attention riveted on the woman.

      In darkness she had been attractive. In light she was stunning. Her flawless peaches-and-cream skin was perfection. Lush curves and long, shapely legs made him remember exactly how it had felt to hold her close against him. Enormous, thickly lashed, luminous blue eyes gazed at him with a disturbing sharpness.

      Her thick, lustrous brown braid didn’t look as if a hair of it had been ruffled; he knew he looked as though he had survived a dogfight. He had the beginnings of bruises, his shirtsleeve was torn and he was bleeding from various and multiple scratches.

      He realized he was staring at her. СКАЧАТЬ