Sniper Fire (Love in the Crosshairs) (12 page)

The sheriff’s warning played in her head.
“With that bullet wound, Craddoc won’t be able to make it far on foot. Might try to break in somewhere, maybe steal a vehicle.”

Farrah forced herself to stay still, to not run to the sliding glass door she’d stupidly left ajar. Craddoc was closer to it than she was. Even with his limp, he might reach it first. As it was, if he noticed the door was open…

Luck was with her. The dangerous man turned his back on the house and limped toward the edge of the balcony. She could see he’d picked up a stick from somewhere and was using it as a cane. Farrah moved cautiously to the door. She reached for the handle, then paused. Should she try to close it? He was sure to spin around at the first grating sound. The fact he was supposedly armed was the least of her worries. Joshua’s wall of glass was bullet proof, including the sliding doors. The problem was getting the door to slide in the track. Could she get it to cooperate before he reached her? Before he shoved the gun through the opening and forced his way in?

The man took another limping step away from the house. Even with the lack of light, Farrah could tell he was right at the edge of the balcony. The plan that popped into her head was reckless, dangerous, and so not her. But if successful, she’d not only have time to close and lock the door, but grab her clothes and escape up the back stairs to the patch of yard above where her car waited.

Hardly daring to breathe, Farrah wrapped the towel around her, wishing with all her heart she hadn’t chosen tonight to embrace her less responsible side. Then she eased out onto the balcony. A couple of tip-toe steps brought her to the patio table. She reached for the heavy pitcher and tried to pick it up without making a sound. The faint whisper of ceramic grating against glass might as well have been a siren. The man spun to face her, wobbling, favoring his injured leg. He raised his left hand. Something glinted duly in his clutched fist.

Farrah gasped. Oh, God! He was going to shoot her! She heaved the half-filled pitcher at the man with all her strength. He cursed as the heavy jug hit his shoulder, succeeding in knocking him further off balance. He staggered back near the edge, arms wind milling wildly. Afraid he’d catch his balance, Farrah ran forward, arms outstretched. She didn’t get a chance to shove him. The harsh curse as he fell into the darkness below made her wince. Farrah waited for the satisfying sound of the big splash before turning to run back into the house. A shout drifted up from below.

“Damn you, Farrah Hastings! What the hell was that for?”

She whirled around. No! It couldn’t be.

Cuss words, as blue as a mountain lake, floated up from the pool.

Yep, it was. She’d recognize that colorful vocabulary anywhere.

Hurrying to the balcony’s edge, Farrah couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or cover her ears. The quarter moon finally broke through the clouds as she gazed below. She could just make out Kyle’s flailing form. He was churning up an awful lot of water to be such an excellent swimmer. But then, that had been before.

Farrah frowned. The memory of Joshua’s phone call had her gasping.
Muscle weakness and constant pain despite the numerous surgeries.

Even as she watched, the splashing stopped suddenly as Kyle sank beneath the water.

Oh, God, what had she done?

Knowing she had no time to turn on the lights much less go back for clothes, Farrah dove off the balcony. She hit the water in a clean dive, aiming deep. Blindly she pushed in the direction she thought she’d seen him last, arms out, sweeping the water. Once her fingers skimmed across something that felt like fabric, but it was gone before she could clutch it. Another few seconds of futile searching used up her air and she had no choice but to kick to the surface.

“Kyle!” she called as soon as she got a breath. “Kyle!”

No answer.

Farrah sucked in more air, folded her body, and headed for the bottom again. Why hadn’t she turned the darn lights on as soon as she got here? It was next to impossible to see anyth—

Something touched her arm. A hand, she realized, relief flooding her as fingers curled, tightened, and pulled up. The strong grip reassured her. Thank God she wouldn’t have to call Joshua and tell him she’d accidently drowned his best friend.

Water swirled around her from his kicks. Worried he’d do more damage to his leg from thrashing around, she got her own legs in motion, propelling them upward. His welcome cough was the first thing she heard after they broke the surface. Immediately she turned, trying to get behind him so she could get an arm around his shoulders and tow him to the edge. He shrugged her off with another hard curse.

“Damn it all, Farrah! You’re not happy with shoving me in this damned spring, now you’re trying to strangle me?” He hit the water with his fist, splashing her in the face.

She sputtered and shoved water back at him. “Strangle you? I’m trying to save you from downing, you idiot. And stop swearing at me. You know I don’t like it.”

They were close enough she could see his face. Anger glittered in his eyes. “Maybe you should have thought about that before knocking me in here in the first place.”

“I thought you were someone else.”

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

The question made her pause. “Never mind. I see you don’t need my help after all.” She struck out for one of the ladders.

“Damn it, Farrah, wait!”

She stopped at the ladder. Not because Kyle said so, but because she was suddenly,
acutely
, aware of her lack of clothes. The towel had come off shortly after she’d dived in, so she didn’t even have that to cover her. Good Lord, this was embarrassing. Keeping her back to him, she looked over her shoulder. He’d almost reached her. “Stay there,” she squeaked, thrusting out a hand.

“What the hell? Why?”

“Because.” Lousy reason. She’d never accepted it herself, so what made her think he would.

The faint moonlight caught his narrowed eyes as he tread water merely feet away. “Because why?”

She licked her lips, turning reasons over in her mind one after the other. She couldn’t think of a single one that didn’t have her cheeks warming in embarrassment.

“You’re not wearing a suit, are you?”

Her gaze flew to his face. The speculation in his eyes coupled with the way his lips spread into a slow grin caught her completely off guard. More than her face heated up.

He inched a little closer. “I’m right, aren’t I? Miss Prim and Proper has finally slipped off her pedestal.”

She shoved water into his face again.

“Hey!”

“You get back on the other side of the pool, Kyle Fagan. Right now! How dare you scare me half to death and then try to, to ogle me!” She winced a little at her choice of words. Had she really said ogle? How could she blame Kyle for his prim and proper remark when she sounded like a starched heroine from a Victorian novel?

“You’re the one skinny dipping, Farrah Hastings, in case you haven’t noticed. Me? I’ve got all my clothes on, thanks to you.”

Farrah bit her lip, unable to deny either charge. At least he obeyed her order without more fuss. He leaned back, a few lazy back strokes taking him all the way to the other side of the pool. His gaze never left her.

“Turn around,” she instructed when he did nothing further.

“What if I just close my eyes? I promise not to peek. Much.” Teeth gleamed in the moonlight.

Wicked, wicked, man
. She tried desperately to keep her face stern. He really hadn’t changed a bit.

Chapter Seven

“Turn. Around. Now.”

The exasperation in her voice had Kyle chuckling softly. Damn, the woman was a miracle worker. Not in her presence two minutes, and she had him laughing. He hadn’t felt like doing that in months. But then, he’d always enjoyed teasing Farrah, watching the fire slowly build in her eyes, the way the color darkened her cheeks. He’d imagined more than once that was how she’d look when making love. Intense, passionate, focused only on her lover. He’d tease her some more, but kicking around in the cold water after that hike through the woods wasn’t doing his leg any good.

“Kyle!”

He blew out a fake sigh. “All right, all right, I’m turning.” What other choice did he have? He couldn’t very well tell her that seeing her naked had been a secret desire of his almost from the day they’d met. A desire he’d never imagined satisfying. Now here she was, in all her bare glory, only a few feet away. How the hell was he going to keep from peeking?

He was still debating whether or not to give in to temptation when he heard the splash and drip of water. Damn, she was out of the pool. It was now or never.

No, this was Farrah.
Joshua’s Farrah
. While she and Josh hadn’t been together for years, to Kyle, she would always be Josh’s girl. Lusting after her in his dreams was one thing. Ogling her in real life felt too much like a betrayal of Josh’s friendship.

He heaved a real sigh this time and propped an arm on the side of the pool. Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Now, this was interesting. Turned out the tinted glass forming the back wall of Joshua’s house was a great reflector. Details were fuzzy, true, especially in the dark, but he could easily make out Farrah dashing quickly to the towel chest tucked next to the patio storage shed. A delightfully naked Farrah.

Kyle grinned and leaned on his arm to enjoy the show. He ignored the tiny bit of conscience that managed to stir before he squashed it. Not looking was out of the question. She was too damn beautiful. Despite the cold water and lack of details provided by the poor reflection, Kyle felt his body stir. He’d often wondered how those breasts peeking through the strands of her wet hair would fit into his hands. How they would feel as he cupped them, rubbing his thumbs over the pert nipples. No doubt they’d be as smooth as satin, just like the rest of her delectable body. The body he couldn’t see well enough at all now, damn it. Even her face was turned away, though he didn’t need the visual reminder of her features. Not with each detail engraved in his brain, clear hazel eyes tending toward a forest green, a small nose, high cheeks, and full, sensual, kiss-you-all-night lips.

Kyle swallowed hard. How many nights had he spent fantasizing about those lips and that body, knowing damn well she was off limits? “Glutton for punishment, Fagan,” he muttered, watching as she struggled to open the chest. The weather tight seal had a tendency to stick. She bent over and strained to open it, her pert ass wiggling in the air.

The harsh cuss word slipped out before he could catch it.

Her head turned sharply. He didn’t move as she checked to make sure he still had his back to her. If she didn’t notice the whole reflection thing, damn if he’d call attention to it.

She worked on the lid a bit more before it popped open with a sucking sound. He watched her pull out a towel, shake it out, and wrap it around herself. The damn thing was huge, covering her from breasts to knees. Kyle took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Show over.

Damn it.

He reached up and laid his walking stick well back from the edge of the pool. The fine grain wood exterior was deceiving. Inside was a core of steel that made the cane, with its heavy knob handle, one hell of a club. The solid metal core also made the stupid stick sink like a rock. Unlike his knife, which he’d pulled the second he’d first heard a noise behind him, he’d lost hold of the cane when he hit the water. Diving for it in the dark hadn’t been fun, but he needed the damn thing.

Palms flat against the smooth slate forming the pool’s edge, he pushed, levering his body out with his arms. That was the easy part.

Kyle shifted his legs out of the water next—or tried to. His right one dragged, feeling like it, too, had a core of iron instead of just an outside skeleton of metal. He tried again, swearing when it refused to obey at all. He could feel a cramp starting, the tightening creeping inexorably up his leg. Soon his pitiful excuse for a limb would be nothing but one big knot of painful, useless flesh.

Anger flared, fueled by a heavy dose of frustration. The words “useless flesh” echoed over and over in his mind. He grabbed one of the brace’s straps fastened just below his shitty excuse for a knee and jerked up, ignoring the multiple sharp pains the movement generated. Shifting around, he made room for the leg, all but throwing it down. The brace hit the slate with a dull ring.

For a second, he stared at the miss-matched pair of limbs. His left leg, so strong, so vibrantly alive, and his right one, weak, shriveled, dying day by day in its prison of metal bars and leather straps. Why the hell hadn’t he let them just cut it off? Would it really have made a difference? At least he wouldn’t have to put up with times like this. Times when, except for the pain, he felt as if he was dragging around a dead weight.

He thought about taking the rack of metal off before trying to stand, but knew from experience it wouldn’t help much. He reached for the cane. The next minute wasn’t going to be pretty. The VA doctor had said the cramping should get better over time, but Kyle wasn’t holding his breath. The same doctor had said his movements should get smoother with time as well, that compensating for the new weakness would become second nature. Well, that time hadn’t come either.

“All ri—”

Farrah’s words broke off. Kyle tried ignoring her, still struggling to get his damned leg under him. Soft footfalls came closer, almost running. Despite the awkwardness of his position, he stopped mid-motion and snapped his head up. Her expression fired his simmering anger. “I don’t need your help,” he growled.

She stopped. As much as he hated the pity on her face, it was almost worse watching it drain away to be replaced by an expression he’d never seen on her before. An expression he didn’t have a name for. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Kyle went back to his gymnastics, twisting and turning and heaving until he finally stood on both feet. Well, one foot and a cane, anyway. Only then did he meet her disturbing gaze again. She gestured.

“You need to get home and get off that leg.”

Ah, yes, clinical detachment. That was the name of her expression. The good Dr. Hastings no longer saw him as an old friend. Not even as an equal. She saw him as a damned patient. He remembered getting a glimpse of that expression back in Cairo when he’d been flat on his back. He hadn’t liked it then and liked it even less now. Damn if he’d let her reduce him to a stranger. A man who could barely stand up by himself.