Chapter Four
“Holy shit,” the sheriff breathed as he surged to his feet. He stood behind his desk, his hand sliding toward the gun holstered on his hip. “You’re a dead man.”
John moved forward, instantly positioning his body between the sheriff’s twitchy trigger finger and Shelly.
“I got men looking for you! And you’re right here, in my damn station?”
“Blane, calm down.” Shelly slid to John’s side. She had her arms crossed over her chest. “He was injured yesterday. He was hurt. He was confused. He found his way to my cabin, and I patched him up.”
Blane’s eyes doubled. “Patched him up? The man was freaking shot in the back! He should have died—” He hurried toward John. “Instead, he looks totally fine.”
John was fine. Better than fine.
“What the actual fuck?” Blane snarled. He glared at John. His green gaze was hard with fury. “How did you get to her cabin? That’s over an hour’s drive from the scene where you leapt from the ambulance—”
“I’m really fast,” John cut in. “I ran there.”
“Bullshit. No one is that fast. And no way could you travel that far, on foot, in the cold. You couldn’t—”
“Don’t be too sure,” Shelly muttered.
Blane parted his lips to respond, but Shelly put her hand on his chest.
A growl instantly vibrated in John’s throat.
She looked up at him. “What?”
He didn’t like her touching the other guy. And something dark and twisting inside of him was flaring to life.
“Buddy, your ass is under arrest,” Blane snarled. He yanked up a pair of cuffs and took an aggressive step toward John.
“What? No!” Shelly’s voice rose. “He saved my life yesterday! He was confused, so he wandered away from the scene.” She shook her head. “He’s still confused. I-I think he hit his head. He doesn’t even remember his name.”
“Does he remember that he stole a truck?” Blane demanded. The guy’s face was sharp with his anger.
John didn’t like the sheriff. Not one bit. “I could smell her brake fluid in the parking lot of that bar. I took the truck because she needed help. Did you want me to let her die?”
Blane’s slightly pointed chin jutted into the air.
“I’ll pay for damages to the truck. I’ll talk to the owner, I’ll smooth things over,” Shelly retorted quickly. “But don’t arrest him. John needs our help.”
Now suspicion was plain to see on the sheriff’s face. “I thought you said he didn’t remember his name.”
Shelly glanced back at John. A quick, nervous glance before she focused on the sheriff once more. “He…you’re the one who told us his name was John. John Smith. You got that from the fingerprints left in the truck. After I talked with you on the phone, we pulled up John Smith’s picture at my place, and the guy’s obituary photo was a match.”
“Shelly,” Blane snapped out her name.
And John really didn’t appreciate the guy’s tone.
“We need to talk,” Blane continued curtly. “Alone. Right the hell now.” He pointed to the door. “Outside, got it, buddy? Stand outside my door.” Then he marched toward the door, obviously expecting John to follow him.
He didn’t. Instead, his fingers swept down Shelly’s arm. He leaned close to her. “Want me to knock out the sheriff?” One good punch would do it.
“No!” Her eyes had gone so wide. “Just go outside. I’ll handle this.”
He didn’t move.
“Please,” she whispered.
“I don’t like the way he talks to you.” And he said that part loud enough for the asshat sheriff to overhear.
Blane gaped at him. “What?”
“Don’t snap at her. Watch your ass around her.”
“Are you threatening me?”
No, he was just giving a warning that the guy should accept.
“Wait outside, John,” Shelly urged. “You’ll just be a few feet away from me.”
Fine. For her. He took his time walking out of the little office. Blane barked for a fresh-faced, redheaded deputy to watch John. What the hell ever. Then the sheriff slammed the door.
Was that supposed to do anything? A closed door? John propped his shoulders against the wall and got ready to listen to Sheriff Blane’s “talk” with Shelly. And if that jerk didn’t heed John’s warning…
I’ll be going in there.
***
“Are you insane?” Blane demanded as he paced around his office. He always paced when he was stressed, she remembered that old habit. “I get that your year has been shit, but, seriously, Shelly, you let that bastard stay at your place last night?”
She cringed, knowing John would be overhearing every word. “He saved my life—”
“He stole a truck! And I did some checking. Sammy told me that he made you nervous at the bar, that you were scared of him when you first saw the fellow last night.”
Aw, crap. She risked a fast glance over her shoulder. “I wasn’t afraid of him.” That was a wee lie. “I just didn’t understand who he was.”
Blane stopped pacing and threw his hands into the air. “How do you know who he is now? You said—”
“The fingerprints are right. I think he’s John Smith, Army Ranger, formerly of Miami, and I think—”
“John Smith is dead.”
She stared at him. “And you thought the guy who saved me was dead last night. Maybe someone else made that mistake with him before. Make a call for me, okay? Contact the authorities down in Miami—see what you can learn about John.”
He blinked at her. “What the hell did you just do?”
She didn’t understand.
He pointed at her. “Your voice went soft when you said his name. Jesus, Shelly! Do not do this to me.”
She could only shake her head. She wasn’t following him.
“You did it when we were kids all the time. You’d find some stray—some hurt animal—and you’d take it in! You fell for any sob story that anyone sang to you. Your heart was always too soft, and you were too damn trusting.”
She stiffened but didn’t deny his accusations. Was it really so wrong to help hurt animals? And people who’d been a bit down on their luck?
“This guy isn’t some lost dog! He’s not some broke tourist. He’s trouble.”
Now her spine straightened. “I don’t think he is.”
Blane gaped at her. Then he drove a hard hand through his blond hair.
“I think he’s a man who has been through a lot. I think he’s someone who helped me when I really needed help.” She nodded. “And now I’m going to help him. If you won’t call the Miami PD, then I’ll just hire an investigator to help me.” She should have done that first. What was the use of having all her family’s money if she didn’t use it? If she didn’t—
“Don’t hire a damn investigator,” Blane grumbled. “You know I’ll do whatever the hell you want. Don’t I always? Since we were kids, you had me wrapped around your little finger.” He marched closer to her. Blane’s hands closed around her shoulders. “I’ll check on him, but, seriously, don’t let him stay with you. If you feel sorry for the guy, if you think you owe him, then get him a room in town.”
But Shelly shook her head. “It’s the holidays. You know all of the rooms are booked—”
“I can find him a room. Hell, maybe I can even convince Sammy to let him use the apartment above the bar. Sammy doesn’t rent that place out to tourists, so we both know it’s empty.”
Yes, but…
I want John to stay with me.
“I have to ask him some questions. Figure out what the hell is happening here.” Blane squeezed her shoulders. “And I don’t want you staying with some would-be psycho.”
She winced. “He’s not, and don’t say things like that when he can hear you.”
“He can’t hear me. He’s outside!” Blane let her go. But his glare didn’t lessen. “Tell me the guy won’t be staying with you tonight.”
Shelly didn’t like to lie so she kept her mouth shut. She’d actually slept better last night than she had in ages. And the reason? As wild as it might sound, she’d felt safer because John was there. The guy was pretty much an indestructible soldier. How could she not feel safe with him close by? “The last year hasn’t been easy,” Shelly said, choosing her words carefully. “First my father and his heart attack. Then my brother…” She’d been the one to find Charles. The one to hold his hand and beg him to live. He’d still been alive when she burst into his home office. Still been struggling to speak even as blood had dripped from his mouth. He’d been stabbed, again and again. Defensive wounds had been all over his arms, and his chest—there had just been so much blood. He should have been safe. Should have been protected. His home was secure—he had a state of the art security system. But someone had gotten past his safeguards.
A killer who’d never been caught.
“I’m sorry about Charles. You know he was my friend.” Blane heaved out a hard breath. “Is that what this is about? You couldn’t save Charles but that fellow out there, you think that because he survived the shooting it’s some kind of sign or something?”
“It’s a miracle he survived.”
Blane shook his head. “No. I’ll get a local doc to examine him. I’m thinking the EMT was just wrong about his injuries. No miracle.”
He didn’t understand. “You will call the Miami authorities, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Some of the tension left her shoulders.
“And you will watch your ass with him?” Blane pressed right back at her. “He’s a stranger, Shelly. You can’t trust him. And you damn well can’t keep the guy in your home.”
***
Many hours later, John walked down Discovery’s small main street, far too aware of Shelly at his side. He’d stayed at the sheriff’s station, been grilled by Blane Gallows, been poked and prodded by an absolutely ancient local doctor. After the exam, the doctor had sworn that there was no way John could possibly have been shot the night before. After all, there were no signs of a recent injury on John’s body.
“The sheriff doesn’t want me near you.” He stopped at the corner of the street, his gaze sweeping over the buildings. They were all nestled side by side, and bright, festive holiday lights decorated the exterior of the shops. Sunset was just sweeping over the mountains, but those lights were already shining brightly. Wreaths hung on the doors, and Christmas music played from nearby speakers. The snow had stopped falling, but a light coat of white dusted the town.
“Blane is suspicious of you.” Shelly pulled her coat closer to her body. “He has cause, don’t you think?”
She was shivering. He took off his coat—a coat she’d bought him—and wrapped it around her. Shelly had picked up far too many clothes for him, and it had made him uncomfortable when she paid for them. But he didn’t have any money. A man with no past—hell, he’d been so happy to escape that he hadn’t even thought about how he’d survive in the world. He’d been scraping by while he tracked down Shelly. Picking up odd jobs, but he’d need more. He’d need—
“Thank you,” she gave him a quick smile as she seemed to sink into his coat.
His heart warmed a bit. Her smile did strange things to him. The wind blew and a lock of her hair slid over her cheek. Without thinking, his hand lifted and he brushed her hair back. But then his fingers lingered against her cheek. They were so close. She smelled so good. She was real, not some dream, and he’d never wanted anything more.
She didn’t back away. He heard her breath catch, and he felt her edge a bit closer to him. He wanted to slip into her mind. To see what she was thinking, to see if maybe, maybe she wanted him, too. If she wanted a kiss. Something so simple.
John was sure he’d kissed women before. Sure he’d had lovers. But he didn’t remember them. And he wanted to know what a kiss with Shelly—he wanted to know what that would feel like.
“I shouldn’t…” Her voice was quiet. Husky. Sexy.
He started to back away from her.
But Shelly’s hands rose. They pressed to his chest. “I shouldn’t want you this way. This much. It’s not quite normal, is it?”
Now he laughed. The sound was too rough. “What do I know about normal?”
“You’re a stranger, and I should be afraid. Blane’s right. I shouldn’t trust you.”
As far as John was concerned, Blane could go screw himself.
“But you touch me, and something happens.” Her voice stroked over his skin. “My whole body tightens. And I yearn. I need.”
Was the woman trying to bring him to his knees? “I want to kiss you.”
She swallowed. “I know.”
And she still wasn’t backing away. The music was playing around them. Christmas lights were flickering behind her. The whole scene—it was so different from the life he’d known in that hell of a lab. It was like a dream.
No, she was the dream.
“I want to kiss you, too,” Shelly confessed.
With those words, she sealed both of their fates.
“What could a kiss hurt?” Shelly asked as she rose onto her toes. “Just a kiss.”
His hand slid under her chin, and his head lowered toward her. His whole body was tight as he put a stranglehold on his control. His lips pressed to hers. A soft, light kiss. Gentle. Sweet.
And then her lips parted. Her tongue slid against his lips.
And his control cracked.
Not just cracked—shattered.
He pulled her closer. Held her tighter. His tongue thrust into her mouth. He tasted her and felt drunk. Desperate. She gave a little moan in the back of her throat, and the sound made him wilder. His cock shoved against the front of his jeans, fully erect and eager—just from her kiss. He was kissing her harder, deeper, and he didn’t want to stop. Desire had exploded within him, and he wanted so much more.
He lifted her up because he needed to be closer. He turned, holding her easily, and he caged her against the bricks of a nearby building. His mouth didn’t leave hers. Her nails sank into his shoulders, and her body arched against him. They were on a street, people were around them, and he didn’t care. He had what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to let her go.
One kiss.
Yes, she’d sealed both their fates.
He wanted—
The whistle reached him. The fast, hard rush of air. The same sound that he’d heard on that damn mountain road. The whistle of wind that shouldn’t be there.
A bullet. Coming for my Shelly.
He jerked her to the side, shoving them both to the ground.
“John! What—”
The bullet sank into the bricks above them, sending chunks raining down. He was on top of Shelly, shielding her with his body, so nothing hit her.
Another shot was fired. There was no crack of the gun deploying because the shooter was smart. Too fucking smart. This shot was closer, but it missed them, sinking into the bricks again.
People were nearby on the street. A mother and son holding hands. John realized they could walk straight into the line of fire.
“Stay down,” he told Shelly. “Down.” Then he ran for the mother and son, grabbing them even as the mother screamed.
Another bullet whistled through the air, he could practically feel it—and it was coming for him. The shooter was aiming for him.
This time, he was the target, not Shelly.
He picked up the mother and her child, rushing them away from the open street and toward the side of the building even as he felt a burn across his shoulder.
People were screaming. Voices were rising.
He put the mother and child down next to Shelly. Shelly’s eyes were wide, scared. “John? John, you’re bleeding!”
He didn’t hear the whistle of another bullet coming toward him. He looked back, judging the wind, trajectory…figuring out where the bastard must have been. Close by. “I’m getting him.” Keeping his body low, John rushed away from her.
“John!” Shelly yelled.
The boy started crying.
“John!”
And he moved as fast as he could, knowing that he had to stop the bastard before anyone was hurt.