The Colton Marine. Lisa Childs
the horse had returned without him?
He should have ducked and run away. But River wasn’t the coward he’d once been. Apparently he wasn’t that smart, either. The last thing he needed was a shot of pepper spray in his good eye. But instead of running away, he rushed forward and clasped the screaming woman’s wrist. Careful not to hurt her, he raised her arm, so if she sprayed, it wouldn’t hit him directly in the face.
She struggled against him, bringing her body flush against his. While she was slender, her breasts were full and lush against his chest. And she smelled so damn good...
Like sunshine and some flower he couldn’t quite place.
“Let me go!” she demanded, her voice sharp despite its thick Southern drawl. She didn’t sound like she was from Texas. She didn’t smell like it, either.
“Let go of this damn can,” River said. With his other hand, he pulled the pepper spray free of her grasp. But he didn’t release his hold on her finely boned wrist, even as he lowered her arm. Her skin was so silky and her pulse pounded wildly beneath his fingertips.
She stopped struggling and stared up into his face. And he saw the recognition dawn in her brown eyes. It was better than the look of horror she’d had when she’d initially seen him. When would he get used to that—to that reaction when people first saw him?
No. They didn’t see him. They saw only the injuries. The damage.
He was damaged—and not just physically. He released her and stepped back into the shadows outside the circle of light cast from the dim bulb, and he pulled his hat down lower over his face.
“You’re a Colton,” she said. “River?”
He nodded, not surprised she recognized him. Every local news broadcast included some kind of report about the Coltons of Shadow Creek—either a history lesson on their illustrious family or a recent Livia-on-the-lam sighting. But this woman looked vaguely familiar to him, as well.
Where had he seen her?
He should remember. She was such a beauty with her flawless dark skin and long, thick, black hair that she would definitely be unforgettable had they ever officially met.
“You don’t own this place anymore,” she told him.
“I never owned it,” he said. And for the past ten years the FBI had had custody of it, having seized it and whatever other assets of Livia’s they’d been able to find. Of course they hadn’t found them all. She had too many hiding places—so many just inside this house. He glanced around the cement walls of the cellar, wondering what lurked behind the concrete.
“Do you own it now?” he asked. She looked young, though, so young that he wondered how she would have been able to afford it. Unless it hadn’t gone for much at auction.
Who would want a house with such a notorious past?
“I am here at the new owner’s behest,” she said. “You’re not. You’re trespassing.”
He shook his head. “No. I was just out for a ride when I heard you. Why were you screaming?”
She shivered. It was chilly and damp in the basement and she wore only a tank top and some long gauzy skirt. But he didn’t think she was shivering because she was cold. She was scared.
“I saw someone...something...” She narrowed her dark eyes and studied him with suspicion. “Was it you?”
He shook his head again. “I didn’t come inside until I heard your first scream.”
She continued to stare at him as if weighing his words for truth.
“It wasn’t me you saw,” he insisted. A frisson of uneasiness chased down his spine, but he resisted the urge to shiver, as well. He reached for his weapon—before he remembered he wasn’t wearing a holster. He wasn’t armed. He hadn’t thought he would need to be when he came home. But he should have known he’d never really been safe here—not with a mother as mercurial as his.
He probably didn’t need a gun, though. But then he remembered the scream—her first one, which had been full of terror. She had seen something.
“I’ll check it out,” he told her as he turned toward the door. Before he could step through it, she closed her fingers around his arm.
“Wait!”
“What?” he asked. Maybe she just wanted him to leave. Maybe she didn’t believe that he wasn’t the someone or something who’d made her scream the first time.
“Be careful,” she urged him with obvious concern for his safety.
He held up the can he’d taken from her. “I have this.” He took her hand from his arm and pressed the canister into it. “On second thought, you keep it.”
She glanced down at it. “But why?”
“In case we really aren’t alone down here,” he said. “If there is an intruder, you’re going to need it.” He would have told her to leave, but he didn’t want her walking alone through the house or getting so far away from him that he couldn’t protect her from any potential danger. If she stayed in the basement with him, he could get back to her quickly if someone else was in the house. And she had the pepper spray for protection, as well.
She shivered again. But she closed her fingers around the can and clasped it tightly. “What about you—what will you use for protection?”
Images flashed through his mind—images of when he’d had to improvise in order to protect himself and his unit during combat. He flinched at the memories before focusing on her.
“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. He closed his hand over hers on the canister. “Don’t hesitate. Next time someone comes through that door, you spray.”
“But what if it’s you?”
“Then aim for my right eye,” he told her.
Her gaze moved toward his right eye—to the patch—and her lips parted on a gasp.
He turned away again then and stepped through the door before he was tempted to do something stupid—like kiss her. It was safer for him to take on an armed intruder in the dark than make a move on a woman armed with pepper spray.
* * *
Intruder?
Their voices emanated clearly from the speakers inside the hiding space, summoning anger from the person listening to them.
They were the intruders. Neither the woman nor the man had any business being inside La Bonne Vie. The man hadn’t appreciated the house when he’d lived there. And the woman...the one who’d opened the basement door and screamed...
No matter who her boss was, she absolutely had no business being here.
What had she seen? Had the light on her phone illuminated enough for her to make an identification? She hadn’t told the man anything specific about what she’d seen. She’d been vague, but maybe that had been on purpose. She would be smart to not trust him.
Trusting anyone was a mistake—one the listener would not make again. Nobody and nothing could be trusted.
So what had the young woman seen?
Enough to get her killed?
Probably.
The risk was too great to let her live. Whoever she was, she would have to die—like so many others already had to keep the listener’s secrets.
* * *
His remark had shocked her so much that Edith took a few seconds before remembering what else she’d learned from all the horror movies she had watched: people never go off separately. Once that happened,