Warrior For One Night

“I’m reaching for my wallet,” he told the trio surrounding him as he dipped in his trouser pocket. Their greedy attention focused on those fat leather folds and not him, tracking the wallet as it fell to the floor between them. As they went after it, he swung the case, catching the one with the knife in the temple, dropping him like a rock. A vicious upward arc took the next one in the face, pulping his nose and sending him reeling back with a howl of pained surprise.

Figuring it was time to follow her client’s lead, Mel grabbed for her gun. Mohawk read the move and intercepted it, twisting her wrist, wrenching it up behind her back. She didn’t waste time struggling. He was obviously stronger. Instead, she stomped down on his instep and applied her other elbow to his groin. Suddenly freed, she spilled onto the floor on hands and knees. Before she could gain any momentum on the slick tiles, large hands grabbed her about the waist, yanking her up. She kicked the man in front of her, taking him in the kneecap. As he crumpled, she drove back with her elbows, inflicting as much damage as she could. And that’s when her captor swung her around and the side of her head met with one of the support pillars.

Darkness swamped over her in a huge, sickening wave as she was hauled back up to her feet. She got a blurry glimpse of Xander dropping the case, his hands spreading wide in presumed surrender. His stare touched on the blood streaming down the side of her face, on the hands holding her, one by the throat and one groping roughly in search of her weapon. And she realized their attackers were wrong to think the danger was from her gun.

He moved so fast and purposefully they had no time to react. Gripping the knife-wielding hand, dodging its lethal thrust, he dropped his elbow down at the base of the man’s skull. A knee to the face as he was falling took him completely out of the picture. Even as Xander shoved away from the first man, he was intent upon the next, using combined strikes from the back of his fist and elbow followed by a hard upward drive with the heel of his other hand to dispatch thug number two.

Mel had never seen anything like him. She was familiar with bar brawls and self-defense but not this skilled form of controlled attack. He didn’t fight using a fisted punch but rather with fierce hard strikes, using every surface of his body with explosive aggressive force—knees, elbows, the flat of his forearms, even his head, to batter his assailants into submission. Without hesitation, without mercy. Until a roar from Mohawk checked him.

“Enough!”

The blade pressed to Mel’s throat effectively stilled Xander’s unexpected threat. He took a submissive stance, his hard glare riveted to the others as he issued a quiet promise.

“Cut her and I’ll end you.”

The deadly force behind that delivery gave Mohawk an instant of hesitation. Just enough for Mel to act in her own defense. She gripped his thumb, twisting it back until his fingers opened and the knife dropped. As she backed out of his slackened hold, she pulled her pistol free and jammed it into his kidney.

“Think about it!” Mel said.

He froze, apparently thinking hard.

“Run.”

He didn’t have to think twice about that one. He bolted and the rest of his group scrambled after him.

The pistol in her hand wavered wildly. The floor, walls and ceiling began a slow, determined roll. Mel was dimly aware of a firm grip divesting her of the gun, curling about her waist to ease her fall into blackness. After that, it was just dizzying snatches. The sight of an oxygen mask coming down from a backdrop of flashing lights. Of Xander’s immobile features filling her field of vision, a dark angel at her side. His small, tight smile of reassurance and the warm chafe of his hands over one of hers. And the gleam of metal from the courier case in his lap flaring bright as passing streetlights reflected off it. Then darkness, cool and complete.

They swarmed the E.R. like soldiers storming the battlements. Her family, her friends, pushing him out of the way. He shouldn’t have resented surrendering his seat at her bedside. And he wondered why he did.

He’d been sitting on the hard metal chair for the past four hours while emergency staff plugged her in and took her vitals. He acted as if he belonged there and after a while, they stopped questioning his right to be. He didn’t interfere with them, content to remain a silent sentinel, her hand within the curl of his fingers, his attention riveted to her pale features. All the alarm and fear that hadn’t surfaced while confronting the thugs in the hotel whispered through him now as he kept an anxious eye on the monitors and waited for her to wake up—this gutsy woman who would risk her life for him. The fact that she was well paid to do so never quite entered the equation.

They wheeled her out briefly to get a CT scan. While he sat alone behind the curtained walls, with sounds of weeping and suffering on either side of him, he noticed with an odd detachment the blood splashed on his shirtfront and hands. He stared at the dark patterns for a long moment before finally getting up to wash them off in the small sink. That’s when his hands started shaking, tremors spreading until they raced all the way to the soles of his no-longer spotless shoes. Delayed shock. A trickle-down of adrenaline. That’s all it was. His eyes squeezed tight. She could have died right then, right there, protecting his lie.

“Mel?”

Xander scooped a palmful of water and dashed it on his face. Using the sleeve of his ruined jacket to towel it dry, he turned to the anxious man staring at the empty bed in horror.

“She’s getting tests done.”

Relief dropped the older man to the chair Xander had vacated. He sat sucking air, his face pale as the lightweight cotton blanket folded at the end of the bed.

“I’m Xander Caufield.”

Dazed eyes lifted to register his presence. “Charley Parrish. Mel’s my niece. Is she all right? What happened?”

Before he could begin, there was a ruckus in the hall. Six men smelling of smoke and hard work pushed their way past the curtain, followed by a harried nurse. They all talked at once, addressing Charley Parrish as if he had the answers. No one paid Xander the least bit of attention.

Then Mel’s welcome voice intruded. “Hey, you guys mind keeping it down. There are sick people in here.”

They parted to allow room for the gurney carrying a pale but smiling Mel Parrish, then quickly closed ranks about her bed. Leaving Xander on the outside.

“They find anything in that empty head of yours?”

“What’s the other guy look like?”

“Like we don’t have enough to do without worrying about your sorry butt. Hey, Charley. How ya doing?”

“That was one helluva scare you gave us when we heard it on the scanner, One Night.”

“Give her room to breathe, fellas.”

Xander observed them, these big, gruff men all jockeying for the chance to clutch her hand within their dirty paws while she looked up at them with obvious affection. The scene acted strangely upon him. These were the ones who loved her and were loved in return. Hearing she was in trouble, they’d dropped everything to come running. Though they joked and grumbled about the inconvenience, the edge of worried concern was etched in each rugged face. That told him more about Mel Parrish than any amount of research he could have gathered.

“Hey, is this where the party is?”

“Sir, gentlemen, you can’t all go in there!”

“Hey, One Night. Whatcha doing on that bed all by yourself? Want some company?”

“Why? Do you have a good-looking friend?”

Laughter. Warm and rich with relief as more of the men shouldered their way into the small sterile space. Crowding Xander—with his bloodstained clothes and unfamiliar face—out. He lingered a moment longer, absorbing the sight of her surrounded by her fiercely protective posse of devoted comrades, her smile wide and reckless, her eyes shiny with emotion. Then he picked up his case and backed away unnoticed.

By all but one.

Chapter 4

It was her worst hangover squared.

Moving woke an Anvil Chorus between her temples punctuated by the cannons from the 1812 Overture. Every inch of her ached. She had no business crawling out of bed, except the business she had to take care of. She’d used all her persuasive powers on the physician at the E.R. to agree to let her go home without an overnight stay.

Now, to find out if she still had a job.

After shaking a few more pain relievers into her hand and swallowing them dry, she gathered the courage to knock.

He’d saved her butt the night before. There was no way around that. Her mistakes had almost gotten them both killed. If she had a scrap of self-respect, she’d make her apologies and gracefully resign. But she needed the paycheck. Desperately. And now she had the E.R. bill hanging over her head, bouncing behind her aching eyes like a bad check.

He’d done more than come to her rescue. That’s what chafed her emotions raw. He’d stayed with her. Though she’d been drifting in and out, the only constant she could recall was his presence. And she’d clung to it and the firm press of his hand. In the ambulance, in the E.R., he’d stuck by her, offering up a small smile of encouragement as she lay helpless. She hadn’t had the chance to thank him. And he hadn’t told her goodbye. She’d tried to find him through the thick forest of her friends but he was gone. And even though she’d been surrounded by noisy familiarity, she’d felt suddenly alone.

The door opened and they stood face-to-face.

A rush of complex feelings had Mel tongue-tied and awkward. What did you say to a man who’d saved your life and babysat you through a trauma unit? What did you say when your heart was abruptly hammering hard and fast with a press of emotions that gratitude couldn’t come close to explaining? The urge to fling her arms about his neck and steam the stiffness from his lips with her kiss had her trembling in an effort at restraint.

His brusque attitude saved her from that mistake.

“I need to make another pickup from the seller in California. He’s gotten an offer for the rest of his collection and the buyer wants a look at it first.”

He stepped back from the door and went to get his coat. Mel blinked, totally off balance. No inquiry as to her health. No sign of concern whatsoever. After cradling her hand and wearing her blood on his designer clothes, he was back to all business as if they’d never shared…What? What had they shared? What was she trying to make out of it? She cleared her throat gruffly and squared her stance, trying to appear competent and in control while her careening thoughts and emotions pinballed inside her.

“I got a clean bill to fly.”

He didn’t even glance around. “I assumed as much or you wouldn’t be here.”

I’m fine. Thank you for asking.

He shrugged into his suit jacket, grabbed up his case and brushed by her without a glance. Expressing a sigh, Mel followed. And she followed the way he moved with a new appreciation. Xander Caufield was full of surprises.

Once closed in the elevator together, they stood shoulder to shoulder, both intently watching the floor numbers count down. Might as well get it over with.

“Thank you.”

No shift in expression betrayed that he’d heard her. Just when she was about to swallow down her pride to say more, she felt the brush of his fingertips against hers. Then the warm, firm squeeze of his hand. That was it.

Enough said. She smiled faintly to herself as the doors opened to the lobby.

The fact that he chose to sit up front with her said more. She hoped it wasn’t because he was afraid he’d have to be there to catch her if she decided to pass out.

Once they were in the air and cruising, she glanced over at his immobile profile. When she lifted up the edge of his jacket, he turned to her in what was almost alarm.

“Just wondering where you kept the superhero suit.”

“What?”

“I haven’t seen moves like yours outside of an afternoon adventure matinee.”

A slight smile but no response. She prompted him with a lift of her brows.

“Private school.”

It was her turn to look confused.

“I was that skinny, sensitive, geeky kid with glasses who used to get beaten up every morning for his café latte money. I was Alex Caufield III back then and I used to hide in the janitor’s closet until after the final bell so I could sneak into my seat without a bloody nose. There was no dignity in it but it was a lot less painful.”

“So your folks enrolled you in martial arts classes?”

“No. My mother didn’t believe violence was a solution to any problem. So I used my café latte money to pay our Korean gardener to teach me how to kick the crap out of anyone who got in my face. Classes are for earning trophies. Street fighting is to keep your glasses from getting broken.”

“And now no one gets in your face,” she concluded, impressed but not wanting to show it.

A small smug smile. No, she supposed they didn’t.

“So why hire me when you can do your own crap kicking?”

“Company policy. Liability purposes.” Catching her thoughtful look, he turned his attention to the scenery, ending the exchange of more words than they’d totaled for the past two days. She reassessed him with a leisurely look. A street fighter in Armani. An enticing contradiction.

They traveled in silence for a time until he broke it with a soft oath. She followed his stare downward and understood his horror. They were approaching the fire zone.

It was like flying over hell.

A crackle of static on the radio had Mel quickly adjusting the frequency. And what she managed to pick up chilled her.

“Firefighter down. Requests emergency extraction.”

The signal was weak and breaking up. She put on her headphones to filter out the copter noise, but still the message was fragmented. She waited, breath suspended.

“Come on. Somebody answer.”

“What is it?”

Alerted by her tone and tense posture, Xander pulled the earphone away so she could hear his urgent question. The look she gave him was stark with dismay.

“One of our guys is down. He got cut off from his crew by a sudden backfire. He’s injured. I don’t know how bad.”

“He’s down there?” Xander nodded to the inferno below.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t someone going in for him?”

“I don’t think his call got out.”

He followed her anxious attempts to contact the stranded firefighter who wasn’t answering. She put out a call to any nearby aircraft, but the closest was too far away to do the injured man any good. She cursed low and passionately. The nose of the copter dipped and they swooped down to skim the burning treetops. The heat was sudden and intense. Struggling to see through the thick haze of smoke, Xander finally called out, “There he is.”

The situation was a worst-case scenario. They could see the single figure, prostrate on the ground with the fury of the beast rushing toward him. Mel tried the radio again. No answer.

“There’s no place for me to set down and he can’t hook himself up to a harness.”

“I’ll go down.”

She must not have heard him right. “What?”

“I’ll go down after him.”

She stared at him, flabbergasted. “Are you crazy?”

He never even blinked. “You’ve got a hoist back there, right? I’ll go down after him and you bring us both back up.”

He made it sound so simple. Her heart started beating fast and furious. “You have no idea how dangerous—”

“I’ve been rock climbing and base jumping since I was fifteen. I know how to rappel. Does that man have the time it’ll take for you to check my credentials?” His voice lowered, becoming rough, soft and persuasive. “Mel, you’re going to have to trust me. I know what I’m doing. And I’m going to have to trust you to pull me out of there before both of us are barbecue.”

She continued to stare at him, expression frozen, eyes huge. Finally he unhooked his straps and stood. “I’m going to go rig up. You get in as close as you can. It doesn’t look like we’ve got much of a window of opportunity.”

She gripped his wrist, holding hard, needing him to understand the gravity of his situation. “I don’t have any safety equipment on board. Once you’re outside, I can’t help you.”

He covered her hand with his, pressing hard. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

She watched him work his way to the back, swaying with the rock of the Ranger as the rising heat created a vicious turbulence. She would have cursed again but her heart had bobbed up into her throat, choking her with desperate emotion.

What kind of man dropped into hell in his shirtsleeves for someone he didn’t even know?

The quick and competent way he fastened up the harness said he knew what he was doing. His expression was grimly focused. If he was afraid, she couldn’t tell. There was no hesitation in his movements. She could have been looking at one of the seasoned hotshots about to fly like an eagle. Except he was plunging into a furnace with no oxygen and no fire suit.

“Here.”

He caught the bandanna she tossed back.

“Hold your breath,” she warned. She’d be holding hers. “I’m giving you thirty seconds and then you’re coming up with or without him. Understand?”

He nodded, not looking at her as he uncapped one of the bottled waters in the back, pouring it into the cloth square then over his head to wet his hair and face. Then he fixed her anxious gaze with his own steady one and told her, “Don’t let me fry.”

She tried to answer but couldn’t form the words.

He tied the soaked bandanna over his nose and mouth and opened the door. The stench of smoke poured in. He swung the hoist out and locked the cable onto his harness. Then, with one long look at her, he gave a thumbs-up, stepped out into the hazy air and was gone.

There was no time to worry about him. She had her hands full keeping the Ranger at a low steady hover just above the trees. She began to count. One thousand one. One thousand two. She couldn’t see him as he was directly below the belly of her ship, but she could see the flames chewing across her memory. And she could hear the screams, pleading for rescue from the horrible reaches of her past. One thousand seventeen. One thousand eighteen. She tried not to think about the poisonous gases, the heat, the flames. One thousand twenty-nine. One thousand thirty. Ready or not.

She activated the hoist, her breath still suspended as she swiveled in her seat to watch the empty doorway.

She’s right. I’m crazy.

Sure, he’d done bungee jumping and rappelling. But not into a raging volcano. And the difference was searingly apparent as he sang down the line into the fire. He took a deep breath—the last he could safely pull until he was back in the helicopter—and plunged to the floor of hell.

One thousand three. One thousand four.

The heat hit like a closed fist, the waves of it so intense the water and instant sweat beading up his face and neck sizzled. Walls of flame pressed in on all sides. He could hear the sap popping in the firs as it boiled. Tongues of fire raced across the dry grasses under his feet, licking at the still figure stretched out on the ground. His vision blurred behind the scorch of smoke as he bent over the unconscious man. From the corner of his eye, he saw something fall and reached without thinking to catch a limb as big around as his forearm, deflecting if before it struck the downed firefighter. He could smell the cooked flesh on his palms before the pain actually registered. Then he gasped and, immediately, was coughing, choking, reeling.

One thousand twelve. One thousand thirteen.

He couldn’t draw a breath. His nose, his throat, his lungs burned with a raw, tearing agony. Dropping down onto elbows and knees, he swayed, struggling not to succumb. Seconds. He only had seconds to secure the other man’s safety.

One thousand twenty. One thousand twenty-one.

He crouched over the firefighter, wincing as he grabbed onto his slack weight and dragged him up into a seated position. Buffeted by dizziness and the relentless pounding waves of heat, he banded the man’s chest and locked his arms about him.

One thousand twenty-seven.

Burning embers lit on the back of his neck. He shook his head but couldn’t knock them off. Not without letting go. He gritted his teeth. Come on, Mel! Get me out of here!

And then the line pulled taut, dragging him and his limp cargo up and off their feet, snatching them up through the thick plumes of blackness. He was barely aware of them stopping. Of his feet groping for the open doorway. Of swinging his heavy burden inside. Of collapsing, crawling the last few feet and rolling onto his back to suck the first sweet taste of air.

At the controls, Mel shouted back, “Alex, are you in?”

Then his hoarse reply. “Go.”

Mel headed back to Reno, not daring to turn around until they touched down on tarmac where the ambulance waited by the Parrish hangar. She threw out of her belts and hurried back to where Xander sat on the floor beside the still firefighter, one hand clutching the other’s motionless fingers, the other rubbing at his own eyes. He glanced up when Mel touched the back of his dark head. His face was a mess of black soot smeared by runnels from bloodshot eyes. From out of it, his wide smile was a sudden shock of white. Relief and something bigger, something massive, plugged up in her chest.

“We got him, Mel.”

Her own smile wobbled. “Yes, we did.”

The paramedics were quick to secure the young firefighter, Teddy Greenbaum, to a stretcher. They had Xander breathe through an oxygen mask until he could suck air without spasms of coughing. He let them take his vitals then declined further attention with a gruff “I’m fine,” and a promise that he’d check in with them if he had any problems.

Then Teddy Greenbaum, who’d been scant minutes from beyond help, was whisked away to the hospital.

“Come on,” Mel coaxed the slumping figure of Xander Caufield. “I’ll stand you to a cold one.”

Groaning, he slid off the chopper step onto his feet and took a reeling pitch to the right.

“Whoa. I gotcha.”

Mel slipped in under his arm and let him lean on her while he gathered his bearings then steered him toward the hangar. Acting without thinking, she sat him down in her swivel desk chair, stuck an opened longneck in his hand and went for the first-aid kit in the small bathroom. She came back to find him hunched over, untouched beer dangling between his knees. She tipped his head back with the cup of her palm beneath his chin. His sore eyes were flat with fatigue as they fixed upon hers. Slowly, very gently, she began to clean off his face with the wet towel she’d brought for that purpose. His eyes closed as she uncovered more of his splendid features with each determined swipe. Beautifully masculine lines. Irresistible. She bent, touching her mouth to his. He tasted like dry ash on the outside. Sweet, so sweet inside. When she lifted away, his eyes were still shut, his breath coming softly, shallowly between the slight part of his lips. With her hand on the back of his head, she had him tuck his chin so she could attend the singed nape of his neck while her fingers meshed and kneaded his dirty hair. All the while a curious fullness kept building around her heart.

Crouching between the spread of his knees, Mel took the beer from him and had a long drink of it before setting it aside. She took up his hands, again, her touch so very tender, examining the blistered palms.

“There’s no easy way to do this, Alex.”

He braced at the quiet warning.

At the first touch of the ointment to the raw skin on his hand, white-hot pain ripped along every nerve ending, slashing, sharp, gnawing, right-to-the-bone agony that had his heels clattering a helpless staccato on the cement floor. Just when he thought his teeth were gritting with enough force to crack molars, she stopped and blew slowly over the aggrieved surface to win some small degree of relief. She looked up at him and he managed a tight smile as he offered up the other hand the way he might to a meat grinder. By the time she was done, he was panting and blinking hard. But still, that small slight smile.