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His Girl From Nowhere
Tina Beckett
Equine therapist Trisha Bolton has a secret. One she’s not allowed to tell anyone. Finally given the chance to start over, she just needs the backing of local ultra-gorgeous neurosurgeon Mike Dunning! No stranger to betrayal, Mike has every reason to be wary of Trisha. Yet each touch sparks long-extinguished flames in Mike, and soon their sessions in the barn become more steamy than either of them bargained for! Mike’s had enough of secrets in his life. But can he convince Trisha that she can trust him with hers?
Dear Reader (#ulink_7ae976d7-f5a8-526e-ae49-c4e478d450a0)
There have been times in my life when I’ve jokingly said, ‘I wish I could start all over again—change my name, my location … go someplace where no one knows who I am.’ That got me thinking. What if, for reasons not of my choosing, I had to do all those things? What if I wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time and my life was put in danger—or the lives of my loved ones? Could I do it? Give up everything and assume a new identity?
That’s what hippotherapist Trisha Bolton must do when she enters a witness protection programme and finds herself in a new town with a brand-new name. She’s not allowed any contact with those from her past and has learned the hard way that it’s better not to trust anyone—not even neurologist Mike Dunning, whose quiet intensity puts her on guard from their very first meeting. Yes, there are sparks erupting between them, but it’s better not to become too attached—because at any moment her past might just catch up with her.
Thank you for joining Trisha and Mike as they navigate the waters of trust and betrayal and learn the true meaning of new beginnings. I hope you enjoy reading about these very special characters as much as I loved writing about them.
Love
Tina Beckett
His Girl From Nowhere
Tina Beckett
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dedication (#ulink_ea9acfd7-de02-5c7a-bd77-0df7e96dfed2)
To my three children. Each of your births marked a new beginning. I love you very much.
Praise forTina Beckett: (#ulink_d4bf470c-7b73-5233-9dea-784ad688993f)
‘… a tension-filled emotional story with just the right amount of drama. The author’s vivid description of the Brazilian jungle and its people make this story something special.’
—RT Book Reviewson DOCTOR’S GUIDE TO DATING IN THE JUNGLE
‘Medical Romance™ lovers will definitely like NYC ANGELS: FLIRTING WITH DANGER
by Tina Beckett—for who doesn’t like a good forbidden romance?’ —HarlequinJunkie.com
Contents
Cover (#u2abd8948-48bd-5a62-8dc0-e765542d3e7c)
Dear Reader (#ulink_680a32c0-8e9d-5348-a7a6-ba03dd0b79f5)
Title Page (#u7000ce03-a253-53dc-9da2-75633e02fd99)
Dedication (#ulink_88f55682-6a54-5422-a5fa-4f081c414961)
Praise (#ulink_3f7d52e3-612b-596b-952b-82b2b150095d)
Chapter One (#ulink_13bfe088-fc58-58c2-8f70-f4203bbb4ca5)
Chapter Two (#ulink_c1910967-aab4-572f-83d9-7bc26012a7d7)
Chapter Three (#ulink_9f5d5bfd-ffbd-5413-ac20-8f2fee179bac)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2f4df603-073c-5a52-a1c3-731c7360f316)
SOMEONE WAS IN her barn.
At least, according to her horse’s soft nicker there was. Balancing the bay gelding’s right rear hoof on her thigh, Trisha Bolton paused, the curved metal pick in her hand coming to a halt as she listened. Great. It had taken a couple of firm nudges to get Brutus to lift that last leg so she could finish scraping the debris from the bottoms of his hooves. She didn’t want to signal she was done until she actually was. Because she doubted he’d co-operate a second time—even for a chunk of carrot.
Brutus snuffed, a huge exhalation of sound, and shifted his weight. Maybe he was just impatient to be let out to graze with the other horses.
“Steady, boy.” She readjusted her grip so his hoof didn’t slide down her thigh and drop onto her foot. “We’re almost done.”
“Hello?” she called out, just in case. “I’m over in the cross ties.”
No one responded.
She frowned as she caught the soft sound of footsteps at the far end of the concrete aisle between the stalls, heading her way. So there was someone here. The shoes were quiet, making little sound, each step planted carefully. Not rubber-soled quiet like a tennis shoe, but not the defined click of a riding boot either.
Five miles south of Dusty Hills, Nevada, her little chunk of land lay at the very end of a quarter-mile dirt track. Not the kind of place someone just happened upon. If you found her operation, it was because you came looking for it. And she didn’t have a client at all today, which meant...
Oh, Lord. Roger?
She swallowed hard, then forced herself to relax. No, he’d been moved to Virginia. Would be there for a very long time, according to the courts.
Today was their third anniversary, though. It would be just like him to reach out and remind her that he was still a part of her world, no matter how many miles separated them.
Brutus would be able to see whoever was here from his position at the front of the stall. Trisha, however, still hunched over his back hoof, had her choice of two lovely views: the slatted back wall of the grooming area or her horse’s muscular backside. She could take her pick.
She tried again. “Who’s there? Larry?”
Her barn helper wasn’t scheduled to muck out the stalls again until tomorrow morning. And Penny was out at a supply fair, hoping to score a new bareback pad for those of their patients who had better control over their motor skills. And, besides, both of her workers knew enough to make their presence known when they came through those barn doors. As did all of her clients. There was even a cheerful sign to that effect over the entry beam: Feel free to say hello!
Fear of what could be out there still governed so many of her decisions. Most days she was okay, but today wasn’t one of them.
There was still no answer to her greeting. And the footsteps were closer now. Still quiet. Stealthy, almost.
Brutus tossed his head, the clips attached to either side of his halter jingling in a way that didn’t help her nerves. Her fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the hoof pick. She could always use the tool as a weapon, if need be, although the thought of cutting someone with it made her feel physically ill—reminded her too much of past events.
The agents had sworn her new identity was secure. That assurance, along with the many miles between her and her past, was supposed to ensure her safety. But she’d seen enough to know there were no guarantees—of anything—in this life.
Giving up on finishing her task, she took a step back and allowed Brutus’s hoof to settle heavily on the ground. He shifted his weight onto it and tried to glance back at her, probably wondering what the heck was going on. Then his ears pricked forward, and he looked at something off to the right. She flattened her hand on his haunch, so he’d know where she was as she swiveled toward the front, keeping her body close to that of her horse. The earthy smells of fresh manure and warm animal faded away as she struggled to keep track of the sounds.
Should she call out again?
What if it was someone she didn’t know? Or, worse, someone she did?
Get a grip, Trish, and think.
If it came down to it, an intruder would have to duck under one of the nylon ties that secured Brutus’s head to either side of the grooming stall, giving her a few precious seconds to slip behind the animal and out the other side—preferably without getting kicked in the ribs in the process, if something startled her horse.
Like a gunshot?
“Easy, boy.” The soft quaver in her voice made Brutus’s moist coat twitch beneath her fingertips. He could sense her growing fear.
Why she’d decided to keep her rifle locked in a safe in the house was beyond her. No, it wasn’t. She’d rather risk her own safety than that of her young patients.
She slid her hand back a few inches, tangling her fingers in the long silky strands of Brutus’s tail. There were no true pain receptors in the hairs, so he wouldn’t feel a thing if she had to use it to give herself some momentum to swing behind him.
If they’d found her, they’d target her and not her horse. At least, that was her hope.
There! A man came into view on Brutus’s left, silently facing her from the other side of the aisle with dark narrowed eyes. His shoes were black. Shiny. Leather bottoms. A professional’s shoes. Thick dark hair was swept back from his face, and his hands were buried in the pockets of his gray slacks. If her heart hadn’t been thundering in her chest like that of a racehorse headed for the finish line, she might think the stranger was dangerously handsome.
As it was, he just looked dangerous. Hard carved lines made up his jawline. And a muscle tensed and released repeatedly in his cheek.
Terror swept over her as he withdrew a hand—empty, thank God—and motioned her out of the stall without a word.
She stayed put.
“C-can I help you?” The hand in Brutus’s tail tightened into a fist as she prepared to bolt. She held the pick slightly away from her body, hoping to draw the man’s attention to it and make him think twice about coming in after her. The memory of blood—too much blood—made bile rise in her throat. Could she really slash him with it?
Yes. She’d already proven she was capable of things she’d never dreamed possible.
He motioned to her again, his frown deepening as his eyes moved to the horse and then back to her.
Why didn’t he say something?
If you think I’m coming out of this stall, without knowing exactly—
Her horse had had enough of the thickening tension. He pinned his ears and shied to the right, hindquarters shimmying in an arc away from her. The abrupt movement caused her to lose her grip on his tail just as he let out a shrill whinny.
It was as if a bomb had gone off. Trisha found herself flying through the air, steel bands around either arm as she tumbled through space and landed in a heap on the hard concrete outside the stall.
Scratch that. It wasn’t concrete. It was a body. The steel bands: hands, which still gripped her upper arms. His breath whooshed against her ear in rhythmic gusts.
And the words coming out of his mouth... Well, those weren’t sweet nothings.
So he could talk.
She patted the ground in a panic, searching for her hoof pick. And then her heart stopped as she saw it. Five feet above the guy’s head. Too far to reach.
Her thighs were wedged between his, and she felt every hard muscle of his torso tensed and ready, but that wasn’t what she was worried about. As quick as a bunny she stroked both palms over the stranger’s sides, down his lean hips, and then dragged them back up the front of his thighs, feeling for any lump that wasn’t a body part. Roger had taught her exactly where to look. Had made her pat down her contact. Right before he’d aimed his gun and...
She reached the man’s pelvis, fingers probing, searching.
“What the hell?” The stranger flipped her over so that he was on top—weight resting on his bent elbows, strong thighs still bracketing her legs. Only now her hands were imprisoned by his on either side of her head. “Are you seriously doing this? Now? You could have been killed.”
Her brain hitched. She’d thought she was going to be killed. By him.
There was still one place she hadn’t checked. The back of his waistband. But she couldn’t move. And she was having second thoughts about who’d sent him. Especially since things were beginning to show some interest at the spot where they were joined together.
Breath still sawing in and out of her lungs, she stared up at him, trying to hold perfectly still. “Who are you? And why are you here?”
One eyebrow crept up, and his frown eased. “Maybe you should have stopped to ask that before feeling me up.”
Feeling him...
“Excuse me?”
This was no killer. So who was he? She licked her lips, praying he wasn’t an estranged parent of one of her patients. If so, she’d definitely not made the best first impression. Then again, neither had he.
“Why didn’t you say something, instead of just standing there? You scared me to death. Not to mention dragging me out of the...” She closed her eyes for a second before reopening them and glaring. “You never make sudden movements around a horse. Especially not that horse. You could have gotten us both killed.”
The harsh dipping of something in his throat caught her attention. He stayed put for another second or two then rolled off her with a harsh oath and climbed to his feet. “Believe it or not, I was trying not to scare him into doing something crazy.”
He held a hand toward her, but she ignored it and scrambled to her feet under her own power, hoping she looked more in control of herself than she felt. “Well, consider that a fail.” She glanced at Brutus for proof, only to find him with his head hung low, lids half-shut. His nostrils flared as he huffed out a tired breath.
Really? Trisha rolled her eyes. Thanks for backing me up there, bud. You could at least look a little shaken up.
The stranger eyed the horse as well, looking more than a little wary. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to ask. Are you Patricia Bolton?”
She nodded. At least he hadn’t used her other name. A few more muscles came off high alert.
He continued, “Well, Ms. Bolton, despite our rather questionable introduction, it seems we share a mutual acquaintance.” One of his hands shifted to the small of his back. The one place she hadn’t checked.
