Darkness Bound

3

“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 c****d 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 s*x 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.

She stood there looking at him a moment, sticky from the humidity, acutely aware of the way the material of her damp T-shirt was clinging to her breasts.

Why was she aware of her breasts?

She asked, “What’s your name?”

His brows lifted. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“It’s a journalist thing. Who, what, where, when . . . you know.”

He just kept looking at her, brows c****d, but once Jack decided she wanted an answer to a question, she didn’t relent until she had it.

“So? What is it?”

He paused for a beat, and she realized he had a habit of that, as if he carefully deliberated each and every word.

Interesting. She knew several people with the same habit, all of whom had warehouses of skeletons they were trying to hide.

Finally, he relented and gave her his name in a clipped monosyllable.

“Hawk.”

It was Jack’s turn to raise her brows and pause. “Hawk? As in, a bird?”