LITMIR.BIZ

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slid into the seat across from her and thrust out his hand. “Okay, Dr. Rawlings. Do your worst.”

      She eyed his hand with trepidation. After what had happened outside when she touched him—that odd, silvery shower of sparks—she was reluctant to make contact again.

      This is ridiculous, she thought, and forced herself to take a deep breath. She was a professional. She could handle putting antiseptic on a man’s hand without getting all fluttery over it. Couldn’t she?

      Her nerves firmly in check, she picked through the first aid kit until she found a small dark bottle of iodine, then reached for his hand. The sparks threatened to return, but she sternly suppressed them and examined the injury. His hand was a testament to years of hard work, with a varied collection of nicks and scars.

      Instead of a new injury, as she had assumed, it looked as if the jack had ripped open an existing wound, a jagged, ugly cut that traced the curve of his lifeline. “What did you do here? Before tonight, I mean.”

      He looked at it for a moment and she could swear he was being evasive again. “Uh, a cowboy’s curse. I was putting up fence line and snagged it on some barbwire.”

      “Looks like it was painful.”

      He grunted in response and she managed not to smile. “Oh, I forgot. You macho cowboys don’t feel pain like the rest of us. Now if you weren’t a cowboy, I’d tell you this is going to sting a little. But since you are, I won’t waste my breath.”

      Cowboy or not, he stiffened as she poured the iodine on, and Maggie winced. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have teased you.” She instinctively blew on his palm to cool the burning.

      He grinned. “Now there’s a mother for you, thinking you can make it all better by blowing on it. My mother used to do the same thing when I was a kid.”

      She couldn’t stop her smile, intrigued by the idea of him as anything other than the completely adult, completely masculine person in front of her. “Sorry. It’s a habit I picked up with Nicky. You’re lucky I didn’t kiss it to make it feel better.”

      “Am I?” he murmured.

      Was he flirting with her? She’d been out of the manwoman scene so long she simply couldn’t tell. She shot him a glance under her lashes, but his strong, chiseled features remained impassive.

      Unsure how to respond, she cleared her throat and opted to change the subject, even though the one she picked didn’t make her any more comfortable. “Speaking of Nicky,” she began, “I wanted to apologize for this morning. About calling you a saddle bum and all. I overreacted. It’s just that I panicked when I woke up and he wasn’t there. I’m afraid you bore the brunt of that lingering fear.”

      “No harm done.”

      “No, I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that. It’s just...I tend to be a little overprotective of Nicky.” She forced her gaze away from his to the bandage she was wrapping around his hand. “It’s too bad today was the last day of the rodeo and we’re moving on tomorrow. If we had more time, I would have let you take Nicky up on your horse. If you were serious about your offer, that is.”

      “Would I lie to a big, bad outlaw like Nicky the Kid?”

      She couldn’t help her laugh, one of the few genuine ones she’d enjoyed in quite a while, then instantly regretted it when he gave her an odd look that sent her pulse skittering.

      “Where’s your next assignment?” he finally asked. “Maybe we’ll run into each other down the road.”

      “Butte, Montana. The Butte Vigilante Rodeo.”

      “Now there’s a coincidence. I just sent in my entry fee for the same show this morning. They have a nice calf-roping purse I’ve got my eye on, so I’ll be heading into Montana ’round about Wednesday. I’d be happy to take your little guy up on Scout one day next week.”

      She shouldn’t have this little hitch in her stomach at the idea of seeing him again. Darn it, she knew perfectly well she shouldn’t. “I’m sure Nicky will look forward to it.”

      “Maybe you and I could get together, too, before the show one night. I know a great steak place in town.”

      He was definitely flirting with her. Oh mercy. What was she supposed to do now? “I don’t... That is, I haven’t...”

      “Relax, Doc. You don’t have to decide tonight.” He twisted his bandaged hand and rubbed a rough thumb over her knuckle. She felt hypnotized by his grin, like a rabbit caught in the hard, killing glare of headlights. “Just think about it.”

      She carefully gathered her composure around her and tugged her hand away. “We’ll see,” she managed to say, then slipped from the seat and headed for the door. “Thank you again for fixing my tire. It was a very nice thing to do.”

      To her confusion, he scowled. “Niceness has nothing to do with it, Doc. Not one damn thing.”

      She gave him a puzzled look, but he didn’t seem inclined to explain. If the man wanted to keep his secrets, who was she to argue? Lord knows, she had enough of her own. “Well, good night, then. I suppose I’ll see you in Butte.”

      He was still scowling when she walked out into the rain. He swore under his breath and lifted the moth eaten curtains to watch her hurry into her own trailer. A light switched on inside, but the trailer went dark again after only a few moments.

      Colt let the curtain fall. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Any degree of objectivity he might have claimed going into this assignment had just died a quick and painful death when Maggie Rawlings laughed back there, sweet and unaffected.

      Unless she was the world’s greatest actress, the woman was about as innocent as a newborn calf. No way could she be a party to the illegal activity of her husband. Nobody with that much vulnerability in her eyes could be involved in the ugliness of Michael Prescott’s world. He would be willing to bet the entire Broken Spur she didn’t know what her husband had been involved with, that she was just running scared from the men who had killed him.

      He thought of the stunned amazement in her dark eyes when she had found him changing the flat tire on her truck—the tire he’d purposely punctured himself.

      His plan was to quietly fix the tire and leave a note about it for her to discover in the morning, in another attempt to insinuate himself into her life. Instead, she’d awakened and come out armed with a cast-iron skillet and a flashlight, ready to take on a drunk cowboy.

      His mouth twisted in a wry grin. The woman had grit, he’d give her that much. Another few seconds and she would have beaned him.

      Instead, she had been pathetically grateful when she discovered he was repairing the flat tire. His scheme couldn’t have worked better. So why did he feel no satisfaction, just this guilt churning around in his gut for deceiving her?

      Maybe because he was inexplicably drawn to the woman, in a way he hadn’t been to anyone since his wife walked out five years ago.

      With another oath at the thought of his ex-wife, he dug through the briefcase carefully hidden in a cabinet under the bench where Maggie Rawlings had been sitting. He picked up his slim cellular phone and quickly punched one of the preprogrammed numbers.

      Beckstead sounded tired when he answered—it was after midnight, California time—and wasted no time on pleasantries. “How is the assignment progressing? Are you any closer to Maggie Rawlings?”

      “I want out.”

      He could practically hear his boss’s frown over the phone. “What happened?”

      Maggie Rawlings, and her big eyes, happened. He couldn’t very well voice the thought, though. “Nothing’s happened. I just don’t think I’m making any progress gaining the woman’s trust,” he lied.

      “You’ve been on the job less than a week. Give it some time.”

      “I

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