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“I’ve had worse injury, I assure you. Did you not have your gun drawn when you encountered Birkenfeld?”
“Birkenfeld?”
Obviously she was somewhat in shock. “The fugitive whom you were engaging in hand-to-hand combat.”
She frowned. “First, I don’t own a gun. Second, he ran into me when I was coming out the back with the garbage. Third, I don’t know any Birkenfeld.”
Darin scowled. “Did they not inform you that he was the man we would be apprehending?”
“Who are they? And who are you?”
Darin suddenly realized he had made two grave errors. “You are not FBI?”
She attempted a weak smile. “You have the F and B right, but that would be for Fiona the Bartender.”
He gritted his teeth, braced his elbows on bent knees and lowered his head. Ben had been correct in assuming he was not the right man for this mission. Yet, now more than ever, Darin wanted Birkenfeld to pay.
She came to her feet and wiped her hands over her jean-covered thighs. “Let me get the bartender who just came in to relieve me. He can help me get you inside.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because the bartender was more than likely the real FBI agent, and Darin did not want the man to know what a fool he’d been. Letting Birkenfeld escape had been Darin’s mistake, and he would correct it. But how? He was injured. He could not do this alone. He would need help, something he hated to admit.
Darin leveled his gaze on Fiona, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. Even if she was not FBI, she was his only ally at the moment. He would be forced to rely on her assistance, if she was willing to give it. “Do you live nearby?”
“I have an apartment a couple of miles away.”
“Take me there.”
She braced her hands on her waist and stared down on him. “First, you have to tell me who you are and what this is all about.”
He would only tell her what he must to reassure her. He would not subject her to more danger by revealing everything. “If you will see me to your apartment, I will give you details. I will say that I am working for law enforcement. The man named Birkenfeld is very dangerous. I’m here to apprehend him.”
Fiona’s expression brightened. “So you’re one of the good guys?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “How do I know that?”
Darin lifted his arms from his sides. “In the right pocket of my pants, you will find my credentials.”
She crouched down and rifled in his pocket for a few moments. Had he not been in such pain, he might have enjoyed the activity. After she withdrew the black folder, she looked at the fabricated license, looked back at him, then back at the license. “Frank Scorpio? Texas Peace Officer?”
“That is correct.” He shifted his leg and winced from the pain in his ankle. “Could we possibly leave soon?”
“I have to call a cab. My car’s in the shop.”
“I have a rental in the lot.”
“Okay, but I’m driving.” She rose to her feet again. “I’ll have the new guy lock up. It’ll only take a sec, so don’t go anywhere.”
“I promise I will be here when you return. And do not tell him I am here. The fewer people who know, the better.”
“Okay.” She pointed to the gun still in his grip. “Could you put that thing away? It makes me nervous.”
Darin holstered the Beretta for now, but he would take it out again in case Birkenfeld returned. “Anything else I might do for you before I bleed to death?”
She gave him a self-conscious smile. “I’ll hurry.”
Fiona sprinted back into the building, leaving Darin alone in the alley with his pain and the strong sense that getting involved with this woman could be the third mistake he’d made since his arrival in Vegas.
But he had no choice.
Roman Birkenfeld ran into the night. Ran until his lungs burned and his eyes teared. Ran aimlessly through the darkened streets. His throbbing side slowed his progress somewhat and he paused behind an odious commercial trash bin to feel along his ribs where Shakir had kicked him. Nothing broken, only bruised, he suspected. No punctured lung, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.
Damn the woman who’d run into him. He should’ve killed her. He would have, had it not been for that bastard, Shakir. The recollection of his knife slicing through the man’s skin gave him added strength and a good deal of purpose as he continued on at a sprint. He didn’t have to guess how Shakir had found him. The idiot Larry Sutter. The blood-sucking attorney had no doubt ratted him out, setting him up with a promise of money, enough money to purchase passage out of the country. He should have known not to trust him. Should have known that Sutter had lied when he’d said he was leaving the hospital, the meeting tonight a ruse to protect Sutter’s ass.
Damn Shakir and Sutter. If Shakir wasn’t dead, and he hoped he was, he would find a way to take him out. He would take them both out, beginning with Sutter. But how? He couldn’t get close to the hospital; they would recognize him.
Tommy Stokes. The ex-con had escaped from Texas but no doubt he would be back in Vegas by now, frequenting his favorite haunts, keeping company with less-than-upstanding citizens. Places where anyone could get anything, if the price was right. Business was good for a man with a thirst for blood and the absence of a soul.
He didn’t have money to pay Stokes, but one thing was working in his favor—the thug hated lawyers. Stokes would agree to off Sutter for the sheer pleasure of watching him suffer as payback for the attorney who hadn’t saved him from a five-year prison term. Now he would just have to find the ex-con, and he would. Tonight.
As it had been all of Roman Birkenfeld’s life, people had tried to thwart his goals. They hadn’t succeeded until now. His medical career was a bust, all the years of hard work and struggle gone down the tubes because of some determined East Coast loan sharks and a woman who’d enlisted a group of Texas vigilantes determined to destroy him. It always came back to a woman, in this case, Natalie Perez.
Natalie was out of reach this time, but Shakir wasn’t. Someone would have to pay. It might as well be him.
Two
Fiona had finally composed herself enough on the drive to the apartment to stop shaking and help Frank out of the car. Well, she’d wanted some adventure, and she’d definitely gotten it when she’d been rescued from a crazed criminal by a dark stranger with biceps bulging from his iron-man arm now thrown over her shoulder. Thank goodness she lived on the first floor of the complex. No way would she have been able to drag him up the stairs. At least she was still in one piece, thanks to him. If he hadn’t come along, the guy might have killed her. But she sure as heck hadn’t intended to give up without a fight, especially when he’d held her down. Fiona could not tolerate being held down, and that had been more frightening than his knife.
After leaning her savior against the wall outside her apartment, she said, “Hang on a sec,” then turned the lock, pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by Carlotta, her slobbering, over-fed, Shar Pei who possessed enough wrinkles to keep spray starch in business for years. She stopped long enough to pat the dog’s tan head and ask, “Hey, Lottie, what did you destroy today?” The answer to the question came in the form of random scraps that had once been a textbook scattered in the corner on the living room floor.
Fiona pointed a finger at the guilty hound. “Bad, bad girl.” As usual, Lottie responded to the scolding by feigning innocence.
Taking Lottie by the collar, Fiona guided her into the lone bedroom and closed the door on her mournful expression before going back to Frank.
Frank. Ha! That just didn’t fit. In fact, she hadn’t bought that bogus name any more than she was buying his story about being a Texas cop. But she really hoped he was a member of some law enforcement agency and not some drug dealer from the back side of the law. She’d already taken a huge risk by not taking him to the hospital. And she’d be taking a bigger one if she allowed him in the apartment. But she couldn’t in good conscience leave him bleeding on her doorstep. He was hurt and he needed her help. Maybe she might even earn some commendation for valor. Just getting a good look at him in the light would be enough reward.
On that thought she turned around to find he’d already made himself welcome on her green chintz sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back against the cushions, his dark lashes fanning out below his closed eyes. The man was just too gorgeous for his own good. He also looked a little pasty, and she worried he’d passed out from the loss of blood. If that proved to be the case, she was calling 911 whether he wanted that or not.
Fiona closed the front door and double locked it in case the creepy criminal had followed them. Or had she locked herself in with a criminal?
Fiona, you are a fool. But she had to trust her instincts and her belief that she was safe with her friend, Frank.
She stood over him, her gaze coming to rest on the gash at his thigh where she’d fashioned a tourniquet with two bar towels, there and around his ankle. She took a seat next to him to get a closer look at his injured side, pulling back the jacket a bit to find the bleeding had been minimal. She couldn’t be sure about his thigh unless he took off his pants. Considering they’d only met a few hours ago, disrobing him didn’t seem at all appropriate. But it was pretty darned tempting.
Slowly Fiona lowered her hand toward his fly then drew back. She couldn’t do it, but she could take a peek at the cut by removing the towel, or at least until she had permission to take off his clothes. His pants, she corrected. Only his pants and only to administer some first aid.
As she gingerly gripped the knotted towel with her fingertips, his large hand clamped her wrist with the speed of a cobra, causing her to nearly jump out of her own skin or at the very least, off the sofa.
“What are you doing?” he asked without opening his eyes or releasing her wrist.
At least he wasn’t comatose. “I’m trying to look at your wound. It needs to be cleaned up.”
He raised his head and stared at her with those intense black eyes that made her want to squirm and sweat. “Do you have any antiseptic?”
“You’re in luck. I have that and some bandages.” And limited first aid knowledge thanks to her one-year stint as a volunteer member of Shadowvale, Idaho’s, fire and rescue unit. Of course, she’d probably been on three whole calls during that time, none that had involved knife wounds. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any guarantees.”
“I would appreciate any assistance you might give me.” He gave her a look of concern. “Are you certain you’re not injured?”
She was moved by the sincerity in his expression and his worry over her well-being. At least he had that much honor. “I promise, I’m fine. Nothing more than a scratch or two on my back.”
“I’m relieved. I was afraid he might have cut you, as well.”
“He tried, but I managed to keep him from doing it.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for myself.”
“But you saved me. I doubt we’d be here now if you hadn’t come along.”
“Had it not been for me, you would not have been put in that position.”
Fiona didn’t care to debate the workings of fate, so she said, “Uh, you might want to get comfortable. I mean, you might need to take off…” Why couldn’t she just say it?
He lifted a dark brow. “My pants?”
“Yeah. So I can see it better. Your cut. The one on your thigh. And your boots and socks, of course.”
“Should I remove my shirt, as well?” He sounded almost amused, but then she sounded like a blithering idiot.
Her traitorous gaze picked that moment to land on his fly. “Sure. Or I could just lift it up.” She yanked her attention back to his face. “Your shirt, I mean.”
For a minute she thought he might actually smile, but it didn’t happen. “Anything else you require of me?”
“Can I have my hand back now?” she asked.
“Most certainly,” he said as he released his grip, but not before he brushed the inside of her wrist with a fingertip. Or at least that’s what she thought he’d done. Maybe she was just hovering in imagination overdrive.
Attacked by a sudden case of the chills, Fiona came to her feet and pulled the throw her grandmother had knitted from the back of the chair. It was lopsided and an interesting shade of lime green, but it should be big enough to provide some privacy for him should he decide to undress. Of course, there was the matter of all those little holes and loose threads, thanks to Lottie’s incessant chewing. But it was the best she could do at the moment.
She tossed him the throw and told him, “You can cover up with this,” then headed for the bathroom before she did something really stupid—like insist he remove his pants immediately so she could get a good look at all his assets. How desperate she must be to consider seducing an injured stranger. At least she’d be assured he wouldn’t be able to move very fast.
Stop it, Fiona.
Once in the bathroom, she rummaged through the cabinet beneath the sink, knocking over several boxes and bottles before she found what she needed. After retrieving bandages, a damp rag and some antiseptic cream, she made her way back into the living room…and nearly dropped the supplies she clutched tightly to her chest.
Two bare, blatantly masculine legs covered in a fine layer of dark hair extended from their owner who had stretched out on his back lengthwise, his head resting on the sofa’s arm and his eyes once again closed against the light. His bare chest, smooth as a baby’s behind except for a slight shading of hair between his pecs, revealed valleys and planes of tanned muscular terrain. No shoes, no socks, no denying the man was prime perfection without his clothes. But Fiona couldn’t see anything vital due to the throw draped across his manly strategic area.
Manly strategic area? A few hours in his presence and she was thinking in sexual military-speak. She was also thinking that she would bet her dog that he had one notable missile beneath his briefs. Black briefs, she’d guess. Maybe she would have the opportunity to confirm that. And she needed to get her mind out of the sewer and back on the situation at hand—examining his wounds, not his essentials.
Fiona dropped to her knees beside the sofa and considered praying to Planet Mars for strength. Instead, she took the warm cloth and pressed it against his side. His eyes drifted open but she saw no indication she was hurting him.
She focused on the cut, willing her hand to hold steady. “This doesn’t look too bad. I don’t think it even needs a bandage.” She could use one to tape her mouth closed before she moaned with approval.
“Only a scratch,” he said, his voice grainy and seriously sensual. “I’m more concerned with my thigh and ankle.”
Fiona was more concerned with what was above his thigh. Putting away those concerns for the time being, she scooted down and examined the gash. “This looks worse. It could probably use a few stitches.”
“A bandage will suffice.”
“If you say so,” she said as she dabbed at the cut, then applied the ointment. After positioning several adhesive glow-in-the-dark, happy-face bandages lengthwise across his skin, she noticed they did little to close the edges of the wound. But boy, did he have one heck of a solid thigh. Lots of muscle and tone. She wondered if he did squats or if he just came by his physique naturally.
He scrutinized the bandages, looking displeased. “Very festive. And somewhat ridiculous.”
“It’s all I have, so you’ll have to live with it.”
“My ankle now,” he said in a tone that sounded just a little too demanding.
She sent him an acid look. “I’m getting to that. Roll over.”
He did, and Fiona nearly swallowed her razor-sharp tongue. Well, now she knew. He didn’t have on black briefs or white ones. He didn’t have on boxers, either. Nothing covered his sculpted buttocks aside from taut skin a shade paler than his hair-spattered thighs. His lack of underwear somewhat surprised her, not to mention what it did to unseen places on her person. She could analyze his reason for removing his drawers, or she could get back down to business and check out his ankle.
But who in their right mind wanted to look at a foot when faced with a fine, bare bottom? Come to think of it, she had no doubt his feet were probably as sexy as the rest of him.
Fiona tore her gaze away from his fanny and forced her attention on his injured ankle. When she flexed his foot forward, revealing the depth of the gash, she heard his sharp intake of breath, the only indication whatsoever he was in any pain.
This particular wound was much worse than the others. This cut couldn’t be fixed right with a few flimsy bandages and cream. Since he had his face now buried in his folded arms, Fiona stared at his bare back that sported a lengthy horizontal scar. “You need to go to the hospital.”
“It will heal.”
“Dear Frank,” she said in a syrupy-sweet voice. “The guy nearly cut your foot off. You’ll be lucky if you’re able to walk on it again. Someone needs to look at this.”
He regarded her over one broad shoulder. “Do you know a doctor? Someone you can trust?”
Fiona didn’t know any doctors aside from the one she’d seen annually since she’d been in Vegas. She doubted he made house calls, and even if he did, this was not a gynecological problem. But she did know Peg, her friend two doors down who worked as a nurse in a medical office. Peg might know what to do. It was worth a shot.
Fiona pushed up from the floor to stand. “I know a woman who can help.”
He frowned. “A female doctor?”
“Do you have something against women, Frankie?”
He looked as if he’d just downed a dill pickle. “No, and I do not answer to Frankie.”
“Your name’s not Frank at all, is it?”
