Page 3 of Darkness Bound (Night Prowler 5)
“What the—put me down!” she shouted, just as a deafening volley of gunfire burst overhead. The stone façade of the building behind them erupted in a spray of pulverized cement as bullets tore through the brick, and she was pelted in the face with glass from the picture window beside it that exploded into a million tiny, jagged shards. Cursing, she turned her head and hid in the hulk’s neck.
The hulk tightened his arms around her and shot forward in a burst of speed so fast it left her head spinning, her stomach far behind.
In a few seconds it was over and she was being lowered to the ground. In the distance lingered the sound of gunfire and shouting. An acrid haze of smoke tainted the twilight sky, first yellow, then shifting, charcoal gray.
Breathless, her legs not altogether onboard with the task of supporting her weight, Jack looked around. It took a moment before the world settled and she regained her bearings. They were in an alley, deserted except for a skinny orange cat nosing through a pile of garbage beside a Dumpster. At the end of the alley were a fire escape and three unmarked doors. The air smelled like urine and rotting trash and the soft, ripe decay of the tropics.
The hulk snapped, “You have a death wish or something?”
“No, I have a job to do.” Jack shoved her hair out of her eyes and glared at him. The bangs she was trying to grow out had escaped from her ponytail and were fluttering everywhere. “And you just interfered with that!”
“Actually, I just saved your life!”
He didn’t look too happy about that. In fact, he looked as if he was very much regretting it. A muscle worked in his hard jaw as those green eyes flashed and burned.
“Nobody asked for your help! I’m not some damsel in distress; I’ve been in a hell of a lot worse spots than that and lived.” Just because her head was still spinning, and she was still pissed about the Humvee, she added a surly, “Prince Charming.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest and stood there scowling at her. Dressed all in black—boots, jeans, tight T-shirt, leather cuff around one wrist—with those bulging muscles and that bad attitude, he looked exactly like the type of man a normal woman wouldn’t want to be alone with in a deserted alley of a dangerous city as the sun went down and the shadows crawled hungrily up the walls.
But Jack wasn’t a “normal” woman. She refused to be intimidated, refused to be prey. If this guy wanted to tussle, he’d be in for a big surprise because she had a license to carry a concealed weapon. What she had tucked into the waistband of her pants at the small of her back would pretty much guarantee she’d win if they went toe to toe.
She put her hands on her hips and stared right back at him.
You want a piece of me, big boy? Bring it!
For some strange reason, he looked as if he was going to laugh. He pressed his lips together, causing a dimple to flash in his cheek. His eyes grew amused. He cocked his head and gave her a swift, assessing once-over, his gaze equal parts heated and shrewd, then announced, “You’re bleeding . . . Snow White.”
In spite of herself, Jack’s lips twisted, threatening to turn to a smile.
Who is this guy?
To cover her amusement, she said coolly, “Skin jokes. Nice.”
Because she was a redhead, and Irish on both parents’ sides, Jack had skin the color of milk. She detested it, in part because even casual sun exposure made her burn and her job demanded she was out in the sun regularly, which in turn meant she spent a good portion of her life either peeling or covered in a thick layer of sunblock, and in part because she thought it made her look delicate and fragile, and those were two of the last things she wanted to look like, or was.
If she looked like what she felt like inside, Jack would be a weird transgender hybrid of Xena Warrior Princess, John Wayne, Lisbeth Salander, and Elmer Fudd.
In his sandpaper voice, the hulk said, “You’re right, that was rude. How ’bout I make it up to you by buying you a drink?” and Jack wasn’t sure if she should cut and run, or just brandish her weapon and tell him to get the hell out of her face. Judging by his dizzying mood swings, he was a little off in the head.
But a tiny little part of her—a forgotten, neglected part—wanted to sit next to him on a barstool and drink in all that masculine sexiness, in addition to drinking a few shots of vodka, which might do wonders for her throbbing cheek and her still slightly spinning head.
She debated longer than she should have. Eventually logic won.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ve got to get back to work.”
She wondered briefly how he’d run so fast so far, then wondered if she had a mild concussion from her head versus the cement. Which would explain a lot, including the urge to have a drink with a big, growly stranger who exuded equal doses of danger and sex appeal, and had all the charm of an open grave.
“You’re a reporter,” he said flatly, glancing down at her camera and the laminated press badge clipped to the strap. Something in his tone telegraphed his disapproval.
“Yeah, so?”
His gaze found hers again, and it was dark. “This is no place for you. It’s too dangerous.”
She bristled. “Why, because I’m a girl?”
He regarded her with pinched lips, looking as if he was trying not to say something nasty. He drew in a measured breath, then said, “No, because Brazil is one of the most dangerous places in the world for reporters. They get killed here regularly, men and women equally. Especially now, with all the unrest. Or hadn’t you heard?”
There was a kind of dare in the question, and Jack found herself more and more irritated by and interested in the hulk. Whose name she didn’t know.
