Accidental Commando (2 page)

A solitary reality.

“And that’s good,” she said, snatching up a towel. “Love is for fairy tales. And men are overrated.” She was about to rub her hair dry when she thought better of it and gingerly blotted the water drops from the ends. “You don’t need a man,” she muttered. “You’re tall enough to reach the top shelves in the cupboards. So aside from opening jars and scratching itches you can’t reach, what are they good for? Besides totally screwing up your life?”

Buoyed by her pep talk, she walked to the bedroom. The sky glowed conch-shell pink through the glass above the louvered balcony doors. The overhead fan didn’t do much to cut the mugginess; as first days went, this one promised to be a hot one. The sounds of dogs and seagulls, plus snatches of Spanish drifted from the plaza below. It was market day, she remembered. The brochure from the travel agency had featured pictures of it, but she wasn’t sure she would be venturing outside until she felt more human. She dropped her towel beside the empty champagne bottle and rummaged through her suitcase for her underwear.

The first item she encountered was the red lace bra that went with the red garter belt. Why hadn’t she repacked her luggage before she’d left?

For the same reason she hadn’t canceled the honeymoon, she reminded herself, defiantly picking up the matching fire-engine-red panties. Because she’d wanted to prove she wasn’t hurt. She might have indulged in pity for herself, but she’d be damned if she’d accept it from anyone else. Ten days would be plenty of time for her to lay the ghosts of all those happily-ever-after fantasies to rest. She would go back to Packenham Junction refreshed and tanned. That would show her family she was going to be just fine. Her coworkers at the paper would see that she was too tough to fall apart.

Only, they weren’t her coworkers anymore. She’d worry about getting her job back once she got home. Actually, she would have to find a home first. She’d couldn’t imagine going back to the apartment she’d shared with Christopher, but her options were limited. Her bank account was down to double digits, and she’d maxed out her credit cards to pay for this trip.

And all because she’d believed in a man. Put her faith in love. Opened her heart enough to buy into the whole pathetic fairy tale.

Emily crumpled the red lace in her hands and refused to acknowledge the moisture in her eyes. Damn. She wasn’t going to cry. Not over him. She intended to enjoy this vacation, even if it killed her.

Something thumped on her balcony. She turned toward it just as a shadow moved across the louvers. An instant later the doors burst inward and crashed to the floor. A short, dark-haired man ran into the room. He was dressed like one of the construction workers in the square she’d noticed when she’d arrived yesterday, but even her alcohol-fogged brain didn’t believe he’d entered her room by mistake. Construction workers didn’t normally carry guns.

This couldn’t really be happening, could it? Except for the gun, he looked as harmless as the guy who drove the milk truck to her parents’ farm. Same round face and full lips, except there was a fine white scar across his chin and his eyes, instead of a merry brown, were black, and as dead as a snake’s.

Emily’s paralysis lasted no more than a heartbeat. A survival instinct she hadn’t known she possessed took over and she reacted without thinking. “Get out!” she yelled, snapping her underwear at the intruder. “Out!” Her action appeared to startle him long enough to allow her to snatch the empty champagne bottle from the floor and swing it at his head.

He ducked, muttered something in Spanish and gave her a left jab that knocked her to the bed.

Both her stomach and the room wavered. She rolled to her feet on the other side of the mattress and was lifting the bottle to throw it at him when it shattered in her hand. Shards of glass whizzed past her face and bounced on the sheets.

“Get down!” someone yelled from behind her.

Emily half turned in time to see another man lunge toward her from the balcony. He wrapped his arms around her legs and tackled her to the floor. She kicked and jabbed backward with her elbows. He quickly immobilized her by sliding up her body and folding one leg around hers.

There was a series of sharp pops. The lamp beside the bed exploded in a cloud of porcelain. The painting of the seascape on the wall crashed onto the platter on the room service cart, spraying leftover cream and strawberry hulls. Chunks of wood and plaster rained to the floor around her but none of it hit her. She couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe. The second man was lying completely on top of her with his chin pressing down on her head. It felt as if he were built like a tree trunk.

As suddenly as they had started, the popping sounds halted. The door to the corridor banged open.

The weight on her back disappeared instantly. A pair of worn black cowboy boots moved into her vision. “Stay put,” their owner ordered, vaulting over the bed. Footsteps pounded out of the room and down the corridor.

Emily hadn’t meant to obey his command. Out of principle, she had vowed never to go along with what any man told her ever again.

But she was shaking so badly, she couldn’t make her limbs work for a full minute. She lifted her head, gasping for breath. Her lungs filled with plaster dust. Coughing, she managed to get to her knees.

Through her tangled damp hair she saw the doors to the balcony were in splinters, their louvered slats strewn in ripples like broken fans. Pieces of dark green glass lay scattered over her bed, the clothes in her suitcase and even the towel she’d dropped on the floor. A line of small, round holes had appeared in the wall behind her.

Her brain struggled to process what she saw. Were those
bullet
holes? What on earth had happened here? Who were those men?

Belatedly, she thought of screaming but that might bring those men back.

She pushed herself to her feet, wobbled her way clear of the broken glass, and dashed for the room’s door. She turned the lock, attached the chain, then leaned back against the panels and hugged her arms across her chest.

Only then did she realize that she was completely naked.

Her teeth started to chatter. She clamped her jaw and breathed hard through her nose. This was no time to panic. She was alive. That’s what was important. So what if two strange maniacs had seen her naked? They obviously hadn’t been here for
that
or they wouldn’t have left. She had bigger concerns than modesty.

The door vibrated with a sharp knock. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

Emily jumped away from the door. She recognized the voice, even though she’d heard him speak only four words.
Get down. Stay put.
It was the big man, the one who had tackled her. She ran back across the room and grabbed the phone.

The doorknob rattled. The man spoke again. “I’m sorry for frightening you, ma’am.”

At home, the first speed-dial number on her phone was 911. Same with her cell phone, but she hadn’t been able to get it to work here. She didn’t think Rocama had 911 service anyway. And this phone was an old black rotary model. No push buttons or programmed numbers. She dialed the front desk.

A cheerful, female voice came through the phone, greeting her in Spanish.

Emily cupped her hand around the receiver. “I need the police,” she said. “I’ve been attacked. I’m in room 307. The honeymoon suite. Please, help me.”

There was a pause. “
No hablo inglés, señora. Momento, por favor.
”

“
Policía,
” Emily yelled. “Help me!” She got no response. She’d already been put on hold.

Something scraped outside her door. The lock clicked and it swung open to the limit of the chain. Emily watched, horrified, as the door kept moving. The bracket that held the chain slowly pulled out of the wall. A tall, blond man stepped over the threshold and nudged the door closed with his boot heel.

This was the man who had tackled her, all right. Those were the same worn black cowboy boots she’d seen beside her nose. A pair of jeans draped his long legs, a pale yellow golf shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and ropy muscles contoured his arms. His body looked just the way it had felt. Big, solid and very male. The only thing she hadn’t been able to feel when he’d pinned her to the floor was the rifle that was slung over his back.

Finally, Emily did scream. She dropped the receiver and ran for the bathroom.

The blond man caught her from behind before she’d gone two steps. He slid one arm in front of her waist, lifted her from her feet and backed up so he could hang up the phone. Then he clamped his free hand over her mouth. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I can’t let you call the police.”

She twisted her head, trying to bite his hand, but he moved one finger under her chin to keep her jaw closed. She wriggled and kicked backward. One of her heels connected with his kneecap. Her elbow hit his ribs. And both her breasts rubbed and jiggled against his bare arms.

“Ma’am.” His voice was strained. “This is not a good idea.”

She could see that. Although his grip wasn’t hurting her, it was solid enough to leave no doubt that he had her overpowered. Her struggle was getting her nowhere. It was only proving how strong he was. And how naked she was.

Oh, God. Maybe this was a nightmare and in another few seconds she would wake up in a heap of half-eaten strawberries and spilled champagne…

“No problem,” he said. “It’s under control.”

Under control? Anger gave her a spurt of strength. She lifted her arms, aiming her nails at his face. He ducked his head behind hers, and she grabbed a handful of his hair instead. She yanked hard.

His grip didn’t loosen. “Does anyone have him?”

She continued to flail as she tried to make sense of his question. He hadn’t let go of her mouth, so he likely wasn’t expecting an answer.

“White shirt, tan pants. No hard hat or tool belt. He left them on the first balcony.”

It sounded as if he were describing the short man, the one who had struck her. But why? He didn’t even seem to be talking to her.

“There was a civilian in the room. He opened fire. I lost him when I knocked her down.” He spoke beside her ear. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”

What kind of criminal worried about the welfare of his victim? Or referred to her as a civilian? He was oddly calm about all this, too. As if he chased armed men through hotel rooms every day.

He had been
chasing
the guy who’d hit her. He’d tackled her when the bullets had started flying. And so far he hadn’t retaliated to any of her jabs or kicks, other than to restrain her. If he’d wanted to harm her, wouldn’t he have done it by now?

It took a few seconds for the facts to click. It took a little longer than that for Emily to regain control over her body. She dropped her arms and went still.

He hesitated. “You’re not hurt?”

She shook her head against his palm. “’m ’kay,” she mumbled.

“I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. Don’t scream again.”

She nodded an agreement. “’kay,” she repeated.

Maintaining his hold on her waist with his other arm, he lifted his hand a scant half inch.

She inhaled as deeply as his grasp allowed. Which caused her breasts to rub across his arm again. She had to ignore it. He apparently was. Not that she had much there to keep a man’s interest…

Focus!
she ordered herself. This man might be able to overpower her physically, but he’d freed her mouth, and to Emily, words had always served as her best defense. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Are you a cop?”

“My name’s Tyler Matheson.”

“Who was that short man? Why were you chasing him?”

“That’s confidential.”

“You sound American. What’s an American cop doing in Rocama? Why don’t you want me to call the police?”

“It’s for your own safety, ma’am.” Still holding her suspended against the front of his body, he moved beside the bed. Then he pulled off the top sheet, gave it a flick to get rid of the bits of glass, and set Emily on her feet. “It’s better if you don’t get involved.”

The ease with which he could sling her around was alarming. Panic tugged at her once more, but she fought it down. She had to use her head. That was easier said than done, considering the Tilt-A-Whirl still working away in there. “Who were you talking to before? Do you have a radio transmitter? Are you undercover or something?”

He draped the sheet around her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not at liberty to answer your questions.”

She spotted a coiled wire trailing from what looked like a receiver in his ear. He had to be law enforcement of some kind. She’d seen enough cops lately to recognize the discipline in his bearing.

But she’d never met a cop who looked like
this.
In spite of the conservative golf shirt, with those boots and jeans he looked more like a cowboy. His hair wasn’t merely blond, it was sun-streaked and seemed permanently wind-tossed. His face had the lean, chiseled lines of someone who spent a lot of time looking into the distance. His eyes were dark blue. No, wait. There was a rim of brilliant cerulean around the irises. They only appeared dark because his pupils were dilated. His nostrils were flared, too, as if he were having as much difficulty drawing breath as she was. Her senses sharpened. She caught a whiff of lime aftershave and warm, male skin.

She fisted her hands in the sheet. Her pulse hadn’t yet steadied, and now it accelerated again. It was probably the residual effects of the magnum of champagne, or maybe her brain was scrambled as a consequence of being knocked down, shot at and scared half out of her wits. Yet even with her limited mental faculties, she realized that Tyler Matheson was the sexiest-looking man she’d ever seen.

But a man, especially a handsome one, was the last thing Emily Wright wanted to see right now. She’d flown a few thousand miles to escape the havoc wreaked by the last one.

Tyler wiped his palms on his pants. This woman was making him sweat worse than the tropical heat. She was only half a head shorter than he was, so their bodies had fit together as if they’d been made for each other. He could still feel the imprint of her breasts on his arm and her buttocks against his groin. How could any man be coherent in those circumstances?