Warrior Without A Cause. Nancy Gideon

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ He expected her to break or get bored. She saw it in his cynical smile every time she asked how she was doing. “Still here and that’s saying a lot,” he would answer.

      Still here. Damn right.

      He didn’t believe in her and he didn’t believe in what she was doing. A deep stubborn streak surfaced to defy him. She didn’t need his encouragement or his coddling. She’d come into his hands a house pet, domesticated right out of any natural instincts to survive, and his uncompromisingly harsh treatment was making her into a lean, mean junkyard dog. That’s why she was here. Not to hide, not to ogle his fabulous butt, not to give in to the fears that ruled her every waking hour. She was here to get in touch with that inner she-wolf. And then she would make them howl for mercy.

      After a scarfed-down breakfast of a surprisingly delicious scrambled egg burrito and juice chased with crude-weight coffee, Tessa confronted Jack’s fitness course with a bring-it-on attitude. After all, what could Jack put in her way that was worse than finally breaking down the door and stepping into her father’s office where the metallic scent of blood and gun discharge hung in the air? What could he do that would reduce her to the quivering, pleading mass she’d been on the floor of her apartment? Nothing. Nada. Nothing he could put her through could rival those life-altering experiences. Oh, he could make her hurt, he could make her curse him under her breath, he could make her long for a breath that didn’t tear up through the lining of her lungs, but he couldn’t shatter her world the way those two events had. So, bring it on, Jack Chaney. She would take whatever he could dish and she would grow stronger, more confident, more dangerous a foe than her unseen enemies bargained for.

      Because she was Robert D’Angelo’s daughter and odds didn’t matter when justice was the reward.

      What made a woman like Tessa D’Angelo tick? Jack wondered as she wound her lithe body through his obstacle course. Seeing her at Jo’s, trembling like a fragile flower on the end of a delicate vine, he was sure she’d wilt before the end of the first day at his Wolf’s Den. She belonged in a world of expensive silk suits, high heels and perfumed evenings, not grunting and sputtering her way through a break-of-dawn run or sweating to calisthenics that would have a made a newbie marine falter.

      Tougher than she looks. No kidding.

      And he was kidding himself if that didn’t impress him out of his usual detachment.

      He frowned as his gaze followed her graceful crossing of the balance beam. Even though she must have been exhausted from the morning run, she managed to move with the agile strength of a dancer, arms seesawing in fluid sweeps as she hurried across the narrow plank. With a hopping dismount, she sped without hesitation toward the tires and tiptoed through them like a child playing hopscotch. Her pale blond ponytail bobbed with girlish energy but there was nothing childish in the bounce of her breasts beneath her zippered jacket. He glanced at the stopwatch in his hand to give his imagination a time-out.

      Everything about Tessa nudged uncomfortably against the barriers he’d created to keep the outside world at bay. Her determination combined with the wounded-bird protectiveness she’d stirred the moment she peeled down her sunglasses to bare an unwavering stare above all those assorted bruises convinced him to take her under his wing. And that made her a threat. A threat to all he’d built here in his isolated, insulated wilderness. A threat to his “Don’t involve me” motto.

      He hated causes, knowing that starry-eyed do-gooders like Tessa and her father often fell victim to them. He could have told her that her father was probably guilty of everything the papers accused. He knew, firsthand, that good men sometimes got mixed up in bad things through no fault of their own. But it wasn’t his job to educate the mulish and high-minded Ms. D’Angelo in that area. Her unrealistic ideals were not his problem.

      Whatever information Stan was bound to discover once he put his nose to the ground wasn’t going to clear Robert D’Angelo’s good name. It was going to show his naive daughter an ugly truth, that when he was pressed into a situation he couldn’t escape, the D.A. had taken the coward’s way out by putting a gun to his head, leaving his family to clean up the mess.

      Well, who was he to condemn D’Angelo? Hadn’t he done the same thing on a less fatal level?

      Tessa swung across the ladder, going rung to rung like a twenty-first-century Jane in his own private jungle.

      Coward, she had called him. Who was he to argue? As long as she believed him to be a man without honor, a coward who trained then sent others to carry out deeds he refused to champion, she would keep a safe distance. Stan would ferret out the facts and make her face them. Then she’d be gone to piece her world back together and he could go on living day to day in his. Without complications. Without risk. And he’d be happy as a clam about it, closed up in his impenetrable shell.

      Tessa D’Angelo and her cause was not his concern.

      He clicked the stem on the watch as she sprinted past him. Purposefully he didn’t look her way as she bent over, hands braced on her knees, her sweet little derriere pointed in his direction. He was glowering when she came over to peer down at the sheet tacked to his clipboard.

      “How’d I do, coach?”

      Her voice was breathy, slightly ragged, the way he’d imagine it would be after an exuberant bout of sex. His own growled in response.

      “Better by five point two seconds.”

      She looked ridiculously pleased at that, as if she’d won some prestigious court case or the lottery.

      “But don’t start booking your Olympic berth just yet.”

      Even his surly retort couldn’t dim the sudden flash of her smile.

      His gut twisted.

      Then her bright, curious eyes lifted to a spot past his shoulder and her tawny brows arched in unspoken question. He glanced behind him to see Constanza carrying linens across the footbridge to the barracks. Even before she asked, he suddenly realized the conclusion Tessa had drawn.

      “Are she and the little girl—”

      Jack cut her off. “What they are, is none of your business. You were not invited here as a guest and I’ll allow for no intrusions into my private life. Clear?”

      She blinked, startled and hurt, but the fiery pride was quick to resurface. Her tone was equally chilled. “Like my mother’s fine crystal.”

      She caught the book he tossed her way without checking the cover. Her gaze still skewered his, letting him know how unforgivably rude he’d just been.

      Knowing she was right didn’t improve his mood.

      “Homework. Read lessons one through four. We’ll be going over them at fourteen hundred hours. And I don’t mean in a lecture hall.”

      She rolled the self-defense manual in her grip and, without another word, started for the barracks. As she passed the South American woman at the bridge, Tessa never acknowledged her with so much as a glance.

      A long, hot shower helped unknot Tessa’s muscles but did little for the tension twisting through her. With a towel turbaned around her damp hair, she reclined on her bunk against a brace of pillows borrowed from the empty rooms and flipped open the manual that she noted was written by a former SEAL. Poet laureates didn’t teach unarmed combat.

      While Tinker leaned into her hip to fastidiously wash his hind leg, Tessa СКАЧАТЬ