Defeat the Darkness (7 page)

When Tate fisted her fingers in his hair, he half expected her to use the hold to break off the kiss. Instead, she slid her tongue against his and rocked her hips. Holy God, he wasn't the only one racing straight toward catastrophe here. No matter how much his body screamed to get closer, to lose their clothes, to bury his cock deep in the damp heat pressed against his thigh, he knew in that direction lay total disaster. Tate Justice was not the kind of woman a man fucked up against a tree, even if she seemed up for it. Right now she was riding high on an adrenaline rush that he knew she'd regret as soon as she crashed.

He eased her back to the ground and stepped back away from her, reluctantly putting some distance between them. He had to get away and quickly. But before he left, he adjusted his coat on her.

“Put that on properly before you freeze your ass off.”

Thanks to his Paladin high-octane eyesight, he could see her far more clearly than she could see him. Her eyes were huge, the expression on her pixie face caught somewhere between fear and fury. There was no question
the woman had passion. At least the darkness hid the painful evidence that he'd enjoyed their momentary embrace way more than he should have.

He picked up his cane and stalked off to assess the situation. As soon as he reached the clearing, he heard a powerful engine start up. Even if his leg was up to the chase, they'd be gone before he got close enough to figure out who they were.

Cursing a blue streak, he started back down the trail to collect Tate and drag her interfering butt back to the house. Devlin Bane would have his head for screwing up like this, especially because of a woman. Or maybe not, considering he'd let Barak q'Young live because Bane's lover had asked him to.

It was too much to hope that Tate had stayed put. She'd managed to find her own way back to the trail. It'd serve her right if he left her to fumble her way home alone, but he couldn't do it. Telling himself that he was only protecting his favorite leather coat from inevitable disaster, he followed her.

“Give me your hand.”

Tate started at the sound of his voice.

“You were gone too long.”

He heard a hint of fear in her words and bit back a snarl. “At least I came back.”

She latched onto his hand and held on tightly as he hauled her annoyingly cute ass back up the trail.

They reached the edge of the trees without further mishap. But as soon as there was enough light, she jerked
her hand free and walked beside him. He was surprised she didn't stomp off in a huff and leave him behind.

Son of a bitch, she was showing her steps to accommodate his limp! Would the woman never learn? The last thing he wanted was her pity. Even though he'd pay for it later, he sped ahead until she was almost running to keep up.

Stepping up on the porch, she turned to look down at him. Maybe she thought the high ground would give her some advantage, but she should be smart enough to know he couldn't be intimidated.

Hunter joined her on the porch, standing close and glaring down at her. “What in the hell did you think you were doing out there half-naked in the dark?”

Her chin immediately came up in a stubborn tilt, but her eyes slid to the side, avoiding his gaze.

“That's my business.”

So he was right; she'd been on a rescue mission.

“I will say this once, and I want you to listen: Leave me alone. Period. I've been taking care of myself for longer than you can imagine.”

Instead of agreeing, Tate changed the subject. “Who were those men?”

He decided to give her the honest answer. “I don't know.”

He
did
know that they might not have even been human. But the last thing the Paladins wanted was it to get out that wack-job Kalithians had been visiting this world for centuries.

“If you didn't know, why did we have to hide? They were probably just tourists.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself it was true.

“They may not have been. I'd rather err on the safe side.”

Hunter knew it was time to make tracks for his apartment. The walk back from the woods had cooled down his body's response to holding Tate in his arms. But the longer he lingered, the harder it was to remember why he hadn't tried to finish what they'd started. And as much as it infuriated him that this little slip of a woman had jettisoned all common sense to come charging after him, it also touched him.

“Leave me alone, Tate. Got that?” he said, getting in her face one last time.

She executed a perfect salute, the brat. “Yes, sir, roger that.”

Before he could walk away, she grabbed his arm. “But
you
get this, Hunter Fitzsimon. If you go tumbling off that bluff because you're too bullheaded to listen to reason, don't blame me.”

Okay, that was cute. He looked down to keep her from seeing him smile. What the heck was that on her legs? He sniffed the air—fresh blood.

“What did you do to your leg?”

She shrugged. “I tripped over a root.”

He took her arm again. “Come with me before you bleed to death.”

The cut wasn't serious, but knowing she'd been injured because of him made him see red—again—as he dragged her into the house.

He yanked a chair out from the table. “Sit down,” he snapped. “Where's your first-aid kit?”

“I can—”

“Tate, where's the kit?”

She rolled her eyes and flopped down on the chair. “Behind the counter out in the shop.”

His leg was killing him, but he ignored the pain and tried not to limp. If Tate got the idea that she'd been right about the trail being too much for him, she'd be back up in his face about it or baking him cookies or some other crap. He rummaged around behind the counter until he found the small box with a red cross on it. On the way back to the kitchen, he grabbed a couple of clean washcloths and a bar of soap from the hall bathroom.

She was sitting right where he'd left her. He filled a bowl with warm water, soaked one of the cloths at the sink, and worked up a lather. The soap would probably sting her scrape, but she deserved a little pain for being such a big one.

The woman didn't have a lick of sense. The two men out on the trail might have been dangerous, but then again, so was Hunter. Before he was injured, he would never have lifted a hand against a human woman. But being tortured to death had left his temper unpredictable. He didn't want to hurt Tate, but there were times when he might not be able to control himself.

Or even remember later what he'd done.

Hunter pulled a chair closer to Tate and motioned for her to rest her legs in his lap. It took several tries to wash away all the caked-on blood and dirt. He smeared some antibiotic cream on her scrapes and covered the one deep cut with gauze and surgical tape.

“Anything else hurt?”

She held up the palms of her hands. “They're not bad though. A little soap and water, and they'll be as good as new.”

Eyeing her bruises, he shook his head. “Yeah, right. We'll see if you're still singing that tune in the morning.” Not that he planned to be anywhere near her tomorrow.

As he cleaned up the mess he'd made, he realized he was using it as an excuse to hang around Tate's old-fashioned kitchen. It was definitely time to get out of there, especially since she hadn't yet brought up what had happened between them. Maybe she got shoved up against a tree for a brain-rattling kiss so often that it wasn't worth mentioning, but he doubted it.

“I'm out of here.”

She immediately stood up, wincing as she did so. “Thanks for the first aid.”

“If you minded your own business, it wouldn't have been necessary,” he reminded her. “I've got better things to do than play nursemaid to you.”

She hobbled over to block the door. “Yes, well, maybe I thought you were more important than the possibility of a little spilled blood.”

He caught her jaw with his hand and angled her face up to look straight at him.

“No, I'm not, little girl, so next time leave me the hell alone.”

“You better get your eyes checked, mister, because I'm not a little girl. In fact, I'd bet we're about the same age.”

“Like hell we are.” He probably had ten years on her. “I'm not talking about years, sweetcakes, but experience. I'm out of your league.”

Tate looked insulted and even a little hurt. “I don't remember hearing you complain back there in the woods.”

She crowded closer, her blue eyes daring him to deny it. Then she moved in for the kill and kissed him. Her tongue swept in and out of his mouth, tempting him down the road toward utter ruin. He had to stop this, had to, but God, she tasted so damn good and felt even better. Another few seconds of this and he'd be shoving her back onto that kitchen table, taking her any way he could. He couldn't wait to find out if she tasted that sweet all over.

Tate moaned and dug her nails hard into his arms. The pressure was enough to cut through the madness that had possessed him. He wrenched his mouth away from Tate's. Holding her at arm's length, Hunter stared down at her swollen lips and defiant smile, praying for his brain to kick back into gear.

The words finally came, snapping out of his mouth with the power and speed of a cracking whip. “I'll say it one more time. Stay away from me.”

Then he stepped around her and out into the darkness, where he belonged.

“T
ate, dear, what did you do to your leg?”

Mabel stopped just inside the door of the tea shop, her two sisters hovering beside her as they stared at Tate's bandaged knee.

“I tripped and fell out in the yard, but I'm fine. It looks worse than it is.”

That was a lie. Everything ached, and a poor night's sleep didn't help. She'd dreamed about being chased by shadow people with spooky voices. Then there was the part where she'd had mind-blowing sex up against a tree with a mysterious lover and then again in her kitchen. But she wasn't about to share her smokin' hot dreams or her late-night adventures with three elderly ladies with heart conditions.

“I'll get your tea and scones.”

Margaret and Madge made their way to the table, but Mabel stood her ground. “Where's that nice young man, Tate?”

Nice young man? “Do you mean Hunter Fitzsimon?”

“How many young men live in Justice Point, Tate? Of course I mean Hunter.”

“I haven't seen him this morning.” At least not since he left her kitchen well after mid-night. “Why?”

Mabel headed for her favorite chair. “We want to thank him for mowing our lawn yesterday.”

Tate blurted, “For what?”

Mabel turned an eagle-eyed look in Tate's reaction. “He found our old push mower out behind the house, sharpened the blades, and then mowed the yard. The place sure looks good.”

Tate probably shouldn't have sounded so shocked, but the man spent all his time telling her to leave him alone, that he didn't want to be bothered by anyone. And yet he did a kind deed for three elderly women.

“That was nice of him, and I'll tell him so when I see him.”

That is, if he'd let her get within speaking distance of him. She brought the ladies their tea before returning to her laptop. Staring at the screen, she realized that the hero in her story had undergone several radical changes. The book, set in the Old West, had all the usual components—a schoolteacher, a sheriff, and a gunslinger. When she'd first started outlining it, she'd planned on the lawman being the one to save the day. But for some reason, the sheriff came off as weak sauce compared to the gunslinger.

How had the story veered so far off the course she'd laid out? The heroine now ignored the straight-laced sheriff in favor of the strong, silent man with a gun—and
a limp. Tate highlighted the last few pages, intending to delete them, when the shop door opened. She stood up, ready to greet her customer, her smile fading when she saw who it was.

Why was Hunter just standing there, taking up space, and staring straight at her? Before she could put together a coherent thought, the Auntie Ms spoke up.

“Mr. Fitzsimon! Come join us.”

“Yes, please do!”

Hunter met Tate's gaze from across the room, as if daring her to comment. He slowly made his way through the shop to take the fourth seat at the ladies' table, angling it so that he could stretch out his legs. He leaned his cane against the windowsill behind him.

She knew better than to smile over the picture the foursome made—three tiny, gray-haired women and one oversized, glowering male. So instead of hunting down her digital camera, she made Hunter a pot of Pu'erh, snagged a couple of blueberry muffins, and carried them over to the table.

“Morning, Hunter. Nice to see you out and about so early.”

She injected extra cheer into her voice and added, “These ladies were just telling me how
sweet
you were to mow their lawn.”

“They baked me cookies again.” His voice was rougher than usual and more defensive.

So that's what it was; he didn't like feeling in debt to anyone. She set down his muffins and tea. “Enjoy.”

When he reached for his wallet, she waved him off. “It's on the house.”

Tate went back to her computer, doing her best to ignore the conversation across the room. The three sisters were ardent baseball fans, and from the sound of things, they were trying to convince Hunter that the American League was vastly superior to the National League. Tate doubted that their staunch belief that the local team consisted of the “nicest young men” carried much weight with Hunter.

But she had to give him credit for listening to them, rebutting their arguments with some of his own. He had the three women eating out of his hand, twittering and giggling like schoolgirls.

Was he this nice to everybody but her?

She forced her attention back to her story. Maybe it was time for the gunslinger to get shot. Nothing lethal, but painful for sure. The heroine might patch him up, but she wouldn't be gentle or sympathetic about it. Yeah, that felt right. He might eventually earn the heroine's love, but he was definitely going to have to work for it.