Catch a Falling Star (4 page)

With a sigh, she
slowly got back to her feet, testing the ankle gingerly. It hurt
but it was tolerable. The same for her bruised backside. She
looked around for her makeshift crutch but didn't spot it so she
took a deep breath and limped toward him. She was still a little
wary, though a blush crept up to her cheeks when she realized
she was almost hoping he would grab her again.

Stopping to pick up
the flashlight, she shone it toward his face, this time avoiding
his eyes. “I'm sorry. I... I...,” she shrugged a shoulder,
trying not to sound too concerned. “I guess I swung harder than
I thought I could. Is it going to be okay?” She reached up to
touch his jaw where she could see shadows that might be a bruise
forming.

He instinctively drew
back, his hand moving from his face to stop her, his fingers
wrapping around her wrist. She had a tiny wrist. She was just a
slip of a thing, wasn't she? But damn, she could pack a punch!

“I will be fine,” he
assured her, leery of this woman who had tried to break his
skull but now seemed to feel guilt for having done it. He didn't
fancy another whack, either way.

Straightening up, he
realized he was still holding his weapon and discreetly he
packed it back into his leg rig. He hadn't let her go yet but
his grip wasn't tight enough to hold her if she wanted to be
free.

“Do you live here
alone,
querida
?” he asked, trying to sound friendly and
non-threatening. Not taking his eyes off of her though the
details of her face were again hard to make out with the light
pointing his way, he wondered that no one had come out over the
ruckus. “Or is there someone else I can talk to about retrieving
my ship?”

“My name's Lyrianne,
not... ,“ she pulled her hand back, the fingers of her other
hand closing around the wrist where she swore she could still
feel the tingling warmth of his touch, “... whatever you're
calling me.” She didn't attempt to pronounce that word. Even if
she tried, she knew she'd never be able to make it sound as good
as he did, whatever it meant.

“You can talk to me
about anything you have to say. My father,” she only hesitated a
moment before adding, “and my older brothers will be back
anytime, but I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself.” She
raised her chin, attempting a stern look of authority and
command over the situation. “Why do you want to go back to the
crash site? Are you hoping there's still a working locator
sending a signal back to your ship? I'm not sure you should
count on that.” 

He raised a brow and
his mouth formed a charming smile with the barest hint of pain
pinching the corners. “I am very sure you are able to speak for
yourself... Lee-ri-enne?” Her name was sounded out and made into
a question, tested and tasted and flavored as he delivered it
back to her. “I am Miguel Alonso Hector Arturo.” His
introduction melted the long name into a single, sinful treat.
“I need to get back to my ship. Can you take me?”

At the risk of
sounding like a dullard, Miguel Alonso Hector Arturo chose not
to react to her assumptions, as correct as they probably were,
but that was even more reason why he had to get back to the
wreck.

Her eyes went up to
the second floor window and he watched her bite her lip. She
wasn't willing to tell him the truth about her father or her
brothers but she really needed to check on Papa before she went
anywhere. She made up her mind fairly quickly.

“I'll take you,
Miguelalonsohec...” She couldn't remember the rest and the quirk
of his mouth made her not want to try. “I will take you, but,”
she touched the sleeve of his null-g suit, “I think we need to
get you something else to wear. If anybody sees you in that
thing, you might not survive to be turned over to the
authorities.” She started toward the house, talking to him as
she concentrated on minimizing her limp. “Come on, I'll find you
something to wear.”

Once in the house,
she glanced at the stairs, listening and relieved not to hear
anything. With a gesture, she directed him to the great room to
her right. “Go sit down.” She pressed the light switch but
nothing happened so she acted as if she'd never tried. “There's
an oil lamp in there if you want light. I'll be right back.”

The first thing she
did was to check in on Papa, who was deep in sleep. Appalled at
her appearance when she passed the mirror in the upstairs
hallway, she took a quick moment to clean her face and hands and
put her hair in better shape, though she didn't re-braid it.
That done, it took her only a few minutes to grab a shirt and
pair of pants from her brothers' room. She paused at the top of
the stairs to catch her breath then started down, calling out in
a hushed tone once she'd reached the first floor. “These should
work, though you'll have to wear your own boots or go barefoot.”

He was standing in
the middle of the room, the oil lamp burning low. He'd removed
his gloves and had them in one hand and his back was to the
doorway as he eyed the picture frames standing on the fireplace
mantel. He took one down and was still looking at it as he
turned. His flightsuit was unzipped from collar to waist, the
material tight enough that it hugged him still but not so that
she couldn't see a swatch of swarthy brown skin. He was hairless
where the muscles rounded until right above the zipper that hung
just over his navel.

“Your mother?” he
asked, holding the frame up and angling it towards her. “She is
very pretty.” Dark eyes settled on Lyrianne and there was a long
pause before he said, “You are just like her.”

The blush that burned
pink into her cheeks might have been from the compliment or,
possibly, the fact she'd been staring at the area exposed by the
open zipper and her thoughts had been straying. She smiled as
she turned to look at the picture he was holding though she knew
it by heart. It was a picture taken when her mother wasn't much
older than Lyrianne was now. “Thank you. She is much prettier,
though.”

Backing up, she
bumped into a chair then turned to set the clothes on its
cushion, thinking it was awfully warm in the room. She needed
air or something. With another glance toward him, this time
managing to keep her eyes on his face, she blushed again. Trying
to ignore it, she gestured toward the bathroom door just beyond
the stairs.

“You can change in
there and... take care of other needs you might have... I'll,
uh, I'll meet you outside.” She hurried out the front door
before he could say anything, intent on retrieving the mule from
the barn.

He watched her hasty
retreat with interest in his eyes before he replaced the picture
frame and collected the clothing she had offered. Was he
imagining the red stain to her cheeks or had he made this odd
woman blush?

Miguel grinned,
exposing his teeth in a purely masculine smile as he headed to
the indicated room where he made excellent time changing into
the rustic garments and emptying his bladder. Then he bundled up
his own gear and tucked it under an arm, sliding the pistol into
the back of the waistband of his pants. They were a little loose
on his hips but they'd hold, and the shirt was baggier than he
liked and had to be left outside the leggings to hide the gun.
The shirt could only be buttoned up so far and it showed off a
generous amount of skin but his male ego told him that wouldn't
be a problem.

After pushing the
pant cuffs into the tops of his military boots and checking his
jaw for bruising, Miguel was good to go and didn't linger lest
the woman come after him with another club, wondering what he
was stealing from her house.

Taking the porch
steps two at a time meant he only hit one stair before he was
striding across the poorly lit dirt patch towards the woman who
looked pretty damn human and pretty damn fine at that.

“
Gracias
,” he
thanked her with a smile, indicating the outfit he was in. They
were worn and shades of brown and the knees had been mended more
than once but they were clothes and if she said he'd fit in,
than he'd fit in. “I hope your brother will not mind.”

A fleeting look of
distress crossed her face, erasing her smile. “No. He won't
mind.” It had hit her hard when she saw him in her brother's
clothes. The reminder of her loss suddenly felt fresh and
painful. She couldn't look at him while she struggled with her
emotions.

Turning to the
hoverbike, she patted its metal back end before climbing up into
the saddle. With a silent prayer to the mule to behave, she
pressed the ignition and held her breath. In its own contrary
way, the bike started right up, the purr of its power source a
welcome sound.

“Climb up. You said
you were in a hurry.” She was already amping up the power. Once
she felt him seated behind her, she handed him a pair of goggles
then warned him to brace himself and hold on. When she released
the bike's throttle it was going to be a hell-bent-for-leather
ride that would make her first run out to the crash site seem
like a kiddie ride. She hoped it was enough to burn off a lot of
the unfair anger she was now directing at the Fed pilot.

Miguel could only
hold on as the woman gunned it and he was nearly thrown off. His
knees clamped hard the metal sides and his arms tightened like a
belt around the waist in front of him. He had a scant moment to
think
she has a tiny waist
before all of his attention
was on just staying alive.

Chapter 4

They were still
nearly two hundred yards away from the crash site when Lyrianne
began powering the bike down. By the time they got close enough
to hear the activity within the clearing, the bike was gliding,
nearly silent. She guided it into a thicket and hopped down.

“Stay with the bike
while I see who's there.” She was already certain who it was,
based on the distinctive bass tones of the voice that carried to
them. There was only one she knew of who had that voice and that
was Fat Farley. Without looking at her passenger, she fluffed
out her hair and unbuttoned the top of the coverall she wore,
exposing just a teasing glimpse of cleavage. “I'll be right
back...“

The pilot's eyes had
dutifully lowered to the swell of her breasts and he felt an
instant response that tightened his stomach and provoked a
proprietary instinct. “Wait-” he said, and held out a hand to
forestall her. “Where are you going?” It was implied in his
tone, the 'like that' he wisely left off. “I thought you said
this could be dangerous.”

Her hand had gone to
her neckline, spreading to cover what she'd just revealed in a
reflexive reaction when she saw where his stare had gone. It was
quickly followed by the return of the blush he seemed capable of
bringing out in her with little or no effort. Though her temper
had cooled during the ride, she felt it heating up again. This
time it was caused by his tone and maybe more than a little bit
of irritation at herself for feeling pleased that he'd looked...

“I told you where I
was going.” Just to spite him for that tone, she released two
more buttons then glared at him. “And, it could be dangerous.
For you. It's just Fat Farley and unless he's drunk, which it
doesn't sound like he is, I can handle him.” She hoped. More to
defend herself to herself at what she was planning, she added an
explanation. “I have to be able to distract him so I can talk
him into leaving.”

The pilot frowned and
turned his head, his eyes black but full of expression. He
clearly didn't approve of her plan. “If your fat friend is here,
he has no intention of leaving without my ship.” He brought his
eyes back to hers, a tenseness about him that wasn't there a
minute ago. “I cannot allow that,
querida
. Forgive me
but no, there must be another way.”

“You cannot allow?
You? I don't think I asked for your permission and I know I
don't need it. I know what I'm doing.” She wasn't so sure of
that, but she wasn't going to admit it to him. Before he could
react, she turned and walked away, wincing at first as pain shot
up her leg from her abused ankle. She never should have hopped
down from the mule, not sure how much more damage she'd caused
with that show-off behavior. And why
was
she showing
off? For him? He was arrogant, bossy, mean -- and an enemy
pilot, for glory's sake.

Fueled by her temper,
her strides lengthened and she was able to disguise the limp.
She shrugged her shoulders which were tensed as if expecting him
to stop her. “You'd better not, mister Mee-gell-alon-so-whatever
man,” she mumbled to herself, “or you'll be sorry.”

“How sorry?” His
voice seared her ear, his lips breathing against the soft shell.
Unlike her, he wasn't limping and he'd been combat trained. If
she thought she could escape him with a toss of her bouncy curls
or a swish of that killer backside, she was in for a treat.

A hand came 'round to
cover the woman's mouth and an arm, the same as had encircled
her already twice now, had her in a hug around the waist and was
lifting her off of the ground. His mouth pressed against her
hair.

“Do not struggle and
do not make a sound. Your fat friend is coming this way.” Then
Lyrianne was drawn back and tight against him as he moved her
further into the dark trees. “Stay silent,” he warned her, his
voice a liquid sugar whisper.

She felt like she was
melting against the heat of his body. At first she was too
distracted to struggle, caught up in sensations she was not used
to feeling. She was shocked at her reaction then annoyed by it,
blaming him. Still, she didn't attempt to fight. As close as he
held her, it was impossible for her not to be aware of how much
stronger he was. She'd never be able to win out in a struggle;
not without her handy-dandy flashlight, anyway. That was stashed
in a compartment on the mule.