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  Raine didn’t take advantage of her apparent freedom. She simply waited, watching Cord’s angular face. Beneath his impassive expression, she sensed a ruthless, sweeping intelligence. He was measuring her in a way that was totally unfamiliar to her.

  After a few moments she saw the subtle shift of his heavy black eyebrows, the easing of the tension around his icy blue eyes, the relaxation of the hard line of his mouth. Whatever danger she might have been in from him was finally past.

  In the wake of relief came the realization of just how terribly vulnerable she had been. If Cord Elliot had been another kind of man, she would have been another mutilated, violated body on the six o’clock news.

  She began shaking, a reaction to being knocked off her feet and flattened helplessly beneath a stranger’s merciless trained body. Though she fought to control herself, a small whimper escaped. She shuddered again and again, raging at her own lack of self-control but unable to do anything about it.

  The trembling of Raine’s body told Cord that her shock at being overwhelmed and held captive had worn off. She knew she was safe now, but she was thinking of what had just happened.

  And what could have happened.

  A fragile glimmer of tears magnified the green and gold of her dark hazel eyes. Her mouth trembled despite its flat line. Ripples of fear moved visibly over her clear skin.

  An odd feeling of shame grew in him—odd because he had simply been doing his job in the safest, most efficient manner he knew. She could have been reaching for a weapon in her rucksack. That was why he had knocked her down.

  Yet even though his act had been fully justified according to the terms of the world he lived in, Cord felt as though he had violated Raine in a fundamental way.

  Because he had.

  Between one instant and the next, he had given her a terrifying demonstration of just how frail her security and her world really were, how vulnerable she was, how unexpected and dangerous life could be. It was a cruelty that he regretted, however necessary it might have been at the time.

  And now she was lying very close to him, her eyes wide and her lips pale, her hands clenched as she fought not to reveal how badly she had been shaken.

  I’m sorry, Blue, Cord thought almost helplessly. You were right. She’s worth protecting. There’s too much darkness already, too much cold.

  When Raine bit her lip against another cry, he couldn’t take it anymore. Knowing he shouldn’t, going ahead anyway, he gathered her close against his body. His hands were gentle rather than hard. His strength cherished rather than threatened her. Long, lean fingers stroked her hair. He spoke to her in a voice that was deep, calming, and his arms were a solid barrier protecting her from the vulnerability he had just demonstrated so graphically to her.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured, smoothing her tangled hair with his palm. He tucked her head against his chest, holding her close without really confining her. Comfort, not captivity. “I won’t hurt you. And I’m damned sorry I frightened you. You’re safe with me, always. I promise you, Raine.”

  She could no more control her reaction to his offer of protection than she could control the shudders wracking her body. Her hands came up to his chest and her fingers dug into his skirt, seeking the resilience and strength beneath cloth. His words ran together, becoming a soothing, dark velvet sound that sank beneath her fear, reassuring her mind even as his strength reassured her body.

  He had showed her how fragile her safe world really was. The knowledge that he would also protect her was a relief even greater than her fear had been.

  With a last shuddering breath, Raine brought herself under control. As she looked up at Cord, tears made silver trails through the dust of her cheeks. She felt his sudden breath, saw his eyes change, dark centers expanding as he memorized her features and the shine of tears on her skin. Warm fingers slid beneath her tangled hair as he bent and gently kissed the tears caught in her eyelashes.

  “I’m so sorry.” His voice was husky. “I wish to hell I hadn’t frightened you. Raine . . . such a beautiful name, beautiful eyes, beautiful spirit . . .”

  His mouth brushed over hers so lightly that she thought she had imagined it. But she didn’t imagine the silver glimmer of her tears on his lips, the subtle tightening of his body against hers, and the warm flush of sensation spreading beneath her skin. Her breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with fear. A shiver snaked through her body, heat rather than chill.

  He felt her involuntary tremor. He lifted his head and looked at her with pale, intent eyes. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, afraid to trust her voice. Then, hesitantly, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  He smoothed tendrils of rich brown hair away from her face. “For what?”

  “Being such a—such a child.”

  “We’re all children when we’re taken by surprise.”

  “Not you.”

  Curiosity expanded the blue-black centers of Cord’s eyes. She was so certain of him, as though she had read his file. Yet he knew she hadn’t. “What do you mean?”

  “No one has taken you by surprise in a long time.” Her voice was soft, positive.

  “You did, just now.” He looked at her with an intensity that was almost tangible. “You’re an unusual woman, Raine Smith. Very unusual. And very beautiful.”

  Automatically she shook her head. Chestnut hair slid forward, tickling her full lower lip. With an impatient movement, she pushed the hair behind her ears. She didn’t think of herself as attractive, much less beautiful. As far as she was concerned, if a man complimented her, it was meaningless flattery. Worse, it irritated her, as if men thought she was too dumb to look in a mirror and see the truth.

  When Cord felt the withdrawal stiffening her body, he slowly released her, even though he wanted to hold her closer. Yet he sensed if he tried to hold her, she would fight him. She had every right to. He had no excuse to hang onto her now, except his own unexpected, consuming need to keep her close.

  Reluctantly he forced himself to let go of her completely. He already felt as though he had pulled the wings off the most intriguing butterfly he had ever seen. He didn’t want to feel like a rapist in the bargain.

  Carefully Raine sat up, telling herself that she was relieved not to be held anymore. She didn’t really believe it. It was one thing to be attacked. It was quite another to be held as though she was as delicate and precious as fire.

  Cord made no move to stop her from sitting up. But when she reached for her rucksack, his hand shot out and locked around her wrist.

  She gasped and spun toward him.

  He was looking at the knapsack beneath her hand. In the instant that she had reached for it, he remembered that he hadn’t really searched the shapeless sack. It easily could conceal a weapon.

  “You still don’t trust me, do you?” she asked, surprise and disappointment in her voice.

  He looked into her startled hazel eyes for a long moment. Then he slowly released her wrist, letting the soft flesh and delicate bones slide away unharmed.

  “I’m ninety-seven percent sure you’re who and what you say you are. The other three percent,” he added matter-of-factly, “could be the death of me.”

  She snatched her hand back from the rucksack as though it had burned her. “I just wanted my comb.”

  “Then get it.”

  “No. You get it. And take your time. We’ll both feel safer if you’re one hundred percent sure.”

  “Nothing is one hundred percent sure but death.”

  His long arm reached past her. He started with her shoes, flexing the soles as he gave them to her. Finally he lifted the rucksack onto his lap and opened it.

  While Raine put on her shoes, he rummaged through the contents of the blue bag, looking for her comb. He didn’t come across anything suspicious. Certainly nothing dangerous. What she carried was as innocent as she was. Or seemed to be.

  That damned three percent.

  Lean fingers brushed against the
sketch pad he had seen her using. His training demanded that he examine what she had written or drawn on the sheets, but still he hesitated. He didn’t want to invade her privacy any more than he already had.

  His own reaction surprised him. More accurately, it stunned him. In the past he had never been particularly fastidious when it came to searching, and that included body cavity searches. He did whatever it took to get the job done.

  When Cord turned back to Raine, he had her comb in his right hand. In his left he had the small pad of paper. He held out the comb to her. He noted—as he noted all details, however small—that the comb was worn, had no missing teeth, and was clean but for some lint from the rucksack.

  “May I?” he asked, holding up the sketch pad.

  “Of course.”

  “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. But thank you for allowing me to snoop.”

  “Like I said,” she retorted, “we’ll both feel better.”

  She took the comb from his hand and began to unsnarl her shoulder-length hair. She combed carefully, favoring her right arm, which had taken the full force of her fall. She ignored the aching of her upper arm. When necessary, she had ridden over jumps with cracked ribs, a mild concussion, and a stress fracture in her foot. A few bruises were nothing.

  With fast, efficient movements Cord finished searching the knapsack. Then he gave his attention to the sketch pad. He flipped through it quickly, seeing everything with brief, encompassing looks. What he saw impressed him. Blue’s daughter couldn’t draw worth a damn, but she had a fine appreciation of the impact of geography on man and animals.

  Thoughtfully Cord closed the pad and looked at her. Her hair had just enough natural curl to give it thickness, body, and a mind of its own. The curl showed as a stubborn tendency to turn up at the ends no matter how hard she tried to make everything lie straight. The slanting light brought out gold and red highlights, giving her hair a sun-shot appearance that made the underlying brown shimmer with life and warmth.

  Raine wasn’t nearly as fascinated by her hair as Cord was. She simply combed it, wincing occasionally over knots or when her bruised arm protested being used. There was more impatience than pain in her grimaces. The slippery flyaway mass of her hair crackled with the static electricity of dry, windy air.

  “Ruddy hell,” she muttered, making another futile pass with the comb.

  Her irritation peaked when she finally managed to get one hand around all of her hair at once, then couldn’t find the clip to hold everything in place. It must have gone flying when she was knocked to the ground with such stunning force. She glanced around, but couldn’t see the clip anywhere.

  Maybe Cord had it.

  When she turned to him, he was watching her, the rucksack in his lap and the sketch pad forgotten in his hands. He had a bemused, fully male smile on his face. She had never seen a man look at her quite like that. The realization that he enjoyed watching her comb her hair made her skin hot.

  It wasn’t embarrassment. Like his smile, the heat was something new to her.

  “Well?” Raine asked, arching her left eyebrow. “Did you find the secrets of World War Three in my rucksack?”

  “Water bottle, pencils, rawhide thongs, sketch pad, tape recorder, film, an apple, a chocolate bar, an elastic bandage, and a buckle.”

  “A buckle? Show me.”

  Cord reached into the knapsack and brought out a buckle no bigger than his thumbnail. Raine let go of her hair and leaned forward to see better. Wind sent strands of her hair over his fingers. It took an effort of will not to wind the silky stuff around his hand and pull her into his lap, into his arms. He wanted her with a force that shook him.

  Yet nothing of his raw hunger showed. He made certain of it. If she had seen it, she would have scrambled up and run like hell.

  “So that’s where it went,” she muttered. “I was polishing Dev’s tack when Captain Jon called me. I didn’t have time to put the buckle where it belonged and I didn’t want to lose it, so I put it in a safe place.”

  “How long ago was that?” Cord asked. Laughter stirred just beneath the surface of his deep voice.

  “Five weeks,” she admitted. “I’m forever putting things in safe places and then forgetting where I put them. Captain Jon swears I need a keeper.”

  “Don’t you have one?” Though Cord’s voice was casual, his eyes were burning, intent. Blue hadn’t mentioned a lover, but fathers weren’t usually the first to know about such things, even fathers like Chandler-Smith.

  “No. And if I did,” Raine added in a crisp voice, “I’d lose him, too.”

  “That would depend on the man,” Cord pointed out smoothly, smiling. But there was no laughter in his voice. Instead, there was a mixture of emotions that were too complex to separate or name.

  Her eyes widened as she looked at the man who was so close to her, watching her with unnerving intensity. Self-consciously she lifted her right arm to push back the hair that kept wanting to fall across her shoulder—and his hand. The movement made her wince almost invisibly.

  But he saw it. His pale eyes saw everything. “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s nothing,” she said, meaning exactly that.

  “Let me see.”

  “It’s probably only a friction bruise.”

  He waited, his hand out. He radiated the kind of command that owed nothing to superior strength.

  Grumbling, she pushed the faded blue sleeve of her shirt as far above her elbow as she could. “See?”

  He saw that a red welt marked her fine-grained skin. The welt began a few inches above her elbow and disappeared beneath the bunched blue cloth. The shoulder seam was torn. It sagged downward, revealing the top of the welt. Tiny beads of blood glistened like red mist.

  He hooked a finger in the torn seam and yanked quickly, giving her no time to protest. The cloth gave way as though made of smoke. When he saw the strip of scraped flesh, his lips flattened. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, wet the white square with water from the bottle in the rucksack, and held the cloth gently against her abraded skin.

  “Hurt?” he asked, watching her eyes.

  She started to speak, swallowed, and shook her head, caught by the guilt she sensed in him.

  “It’s all right.” Lightly she touched his sleeve. The tension and hard muscle beneath the sand-colored cloth was almost shocking. “Cord? I do much worse to myself twice a week.”

  “But you didn’t do this to yourself. I did.”

  There was nothing she could say to that, so she watched silently while he worked on her arm. The contrast between the masculine power of his shoulders and the exquisite tenderness of his fingers as he cleaned the abrasion sent unfamiliar sensations shivering through her. She looked at his black hair and icy blue eyes, his angular face, and the sensual curve of his mouth, and she wondered how this man could so thoroughly frighten and then so completely reassure her in the space of a few minutes.

  Cord glanced up and saw Raine watching him. He let his fingers slide slowly from her inner elbow to the pulse beating beneath the soft skin on the inside of her wrist.

  “Forgive me?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she whispered, knowing it was true, but not knowing why.

  “I don’t have any antiseptic.” He looked at the red abrasion. “I suppose I could use the oldest remedy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kiss it and make it well.” His voice was as deep as the shadows pooling beneath the fragrant trees.

  Her lips parted slightly with surprise and an invitation that she wasn’t even aware of.

  “But,” he continued, his voice dark and smooth, flowing over her, sinking into her, “when I kiss you, it won’t be like a parent kissing a child. It will be very healing, though. For both of us.”

  Raine felt her pulse leap beneath Cord’s fingertips and knew that he felt it, too. She glanced away quickly, confused by her response to him. She wasn’t the type to lose control of herself merely because a good-l
ooking man had touched her wrist and talked about kissing her.

  Then she realized that it wasn’t his looks that made her pulse leap. It was his unexpected gentleness that unnerved her, the danger and the strength and the yearning in him, a hunger that called to depths in her that she hadn’t known existed.

  Until now.

  He lifted the wet cloth, examined her arm again, and said matter-of-factly, “We’ll clean it better tonight. Are you through here?”

  She was off-balance, unable to answer, caught between his assumption that he would be with her tonight and his quick question. Wryly she realized that it would be a useful technique for controlling a conversation. Or an interrogation. First you throw in an assumption that might or might not be correct and then you follow it immediately with a totally unrelated question. The person answering the question is caught between protesting the assumption and fielding the question.

  So rather than challenge the assumption, Raine answered the question, and then realized she had just accepted that Cord would be with her that night. Just as she had accepted his statement that he would kiss her, and by accepting it, had all but invited him to do just that.

  “That’s pretty slick,” she said, feeling outmaneuvered but not particularly resentful.

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling. “You’re pretty quick yourself.”

  Her left eyebrow lifted in silent skepticism. “Next to you, I’m real slow. And I’m not through here. There’s at least one more hilltop I have to cover.”

  “That way?” he asked, gesturing toward the empty hills and twisting ravine.

  “Not quite. It’s a case of look but don’t touch, at least until the day before the event. So,” she said, pointing toward a hilltop that was not inside the Olympic course markers, “I’ll have to settle for that one.”

  “Will you finish before dark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pity,” he said, his eyes watching her instead of the land. “I’ll bet this place is dynamite by moonlight.”

  Her expression changed as she remembered the brutal uses terrorists had for dynamite.

  “Sorry. Bad choice of words,” he said. “Let’s go.”