Jenna Kernan – Firewolf (страница 1)
When opposites attract, the sparks ignite more than they bargained for…
Dylan Tehauno is a hotshot, an expert in preventing and fighting forest fires. He knows that the inferno that killed a tech billionaire was no accident—and he suspects that he and filmmaker Meadow Wrangler were supposed to die, too. When lawmakers identify Dylan as a prime suspect, he and Meadow decide to find the real arsonist themselves.
Dylan and Meadow have nothing in common. He’s a proud Apache and a war hero, a self-made man. She’s a rich girl with a tabloid past. But there’s no denying the heat between them. Is there more to their attraction than physical desire? Will they survive long enough to find out?
Apache Protectors: Tribal Thunder
Had the roaring decreased? She wasn’t sure.
“How you doing?” he asked.
She could hear him now. He wasn’t shouting.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered. The words came as a surprise to her. Yesterday there was nothing she wanted to do. Nowhere she wanted to go. And now she just wanted to see the sky again. Dive into cold water. Inhale the scent of peonies.
“We’re both going to live.” He brushed his cheek against hers. “I’ll keep you safe, Meadow. It won’t get you.”
She closed her eyes and tried to control the ball of pain that wanted to escape her throat as a sob. She failed. Here she had thought there was only a thin veil of foil between her and the fire. But it wasn’t so. Dylan stood between her and the flames. He protected her with his body and his promise and she loved him for it.
Firewolf
Jenna Kernan
JENNA KERNAN has penned over two dozen novels and has received two RITA® Award nominations. Jenna is every bit as adventurous as her heroines. Her hobbies include recreational gold prospecting, scuba diving and gem hunting. Jenna grew up in the Catskills and currently lives in the Hudson Valley of New York State with her husband. Follow Jenna on Twitter, @jennakernan, on Facebook or at www.jennakernan.com.
This book is dedicated to hotshots with special consideration to the Granite Mountain Hotshots and their families.
Contents
Dylan Tehauno would not have stopped for the woman if she had not been standing in the road. Her convertible was parked beside her, a black Audi of all things, impractical as her attire. It was impossible that she did not hear him crunching over the gravel road. Yet she continued to stare in the opposite direction, presenting him with a very tempting view of her backside and long bare legs.
Killer curves, he thought, as dangerous as the switchbacks between him and his destination on the mountain’s ridgeline. Her pale skin had tanned to the color of wild honey. The Anglo woman wore no hat, and only a fool went out without one in the Arizona sun at midday in July. He let his gaze caress her curves again as she sidestepped and he glimpsed what he had not seen beyond that round rump. She was bent over a small tripod that had spindly black spider legs. Each leg was braced with a sandbag. On the pinnacle sat one of those little fist-sized mobile video cameras.
Her convertible blocked the right lane and her camera sat on the left. There was just no way around her as the graded gravel road dropped off on each side to thick scrub brush and piñon pine. It was a long way from his reservation in Turquoise Canyon to Flagstaff, not in miles, but in everything else that mattered. There were some pines down here, piñon mostly, not the tall, majestic ponderosas. Up in the mountains they had water and an occasional cool breeze, even in July. The McDowell Mountains could not compare to the White Mountains in Dylan’s estimation. The air was so scalding here he felt as if he were fighting a wildfire. He rolled to a stop. The dust that had trailed him now swirled and settled on the shiny hood of his truck.
He rolled down the window of his white F-150 pickup and leaned out.
“Good morning,” he called.
But instead of moving aside, she turned toward him and pressed both fists to her hips. The woman’s clothing was tight, hugging her torso like a second skin. Was that a tennis outfit? She looked as if she had just spilled out of some exclusive country club. The woman wore her hair swept back, a clip holding the soft waves from her face so they tumbled to her shoulders. It was blue, a bright cobalt hue. Mostly, but there were other hues mixed in including deep purple, violet and turquoise.
It seemed the only protection she did use from the sun was the wide sunglasses that flashed gold at the edges. These she slipped halfway down her narrow nose as she regarded him at last with eyes the color of warm chocolate. She had lips tinted hot pink and her acrylic nails glowed a neon green that was usually reserved for construction attire. A sculpted brow arched in disapproval. Was there anything about her that was not artificial?
Dylan resisted the urge to glance at her breasts again.
“Mind moving your vehicle?” Dylan added a generous smile after his request. It was his experience that Anglo women were either wary of or curious about Apache men. This woman looked neither wary nor curious. She looked pissed.
Had her car broken down?
“You ruined my shot,” she said, motioning at her tiny camera.
She was shooting in the direction he traveled, toward his destination, the house that broke the ridgeline and thus had caused so much controversy. Dylan had an appointment up there that could not be missed, one that marked a change in direction.
“The dust!” she said, and dropped a cloth over her camera.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Dylan’s years in the Marines had taught him many things, including how to address an angry Anglo woman. “But I have to get by. I have a meeting.”