The Seduction Of Fiona Tallchief Page 3

  Joel waited. Eunice did not answer, despite the questions the woman shoved at her.

  Fine. His frown started the hammer pounding in his head. Eunice, in addition to ramming convenience stores with an eighteen-wheeler, talked to herself. Joel eased the bag from beside his head, and peanuts slid from it. The crinkly sound around his ears stopped when he removed the disposable diaper used to cover the two bloody cuts on his forehead. He listened to the excited chatter on the truck’s citizens’ band radio—the sheriff investigating a convenience store robbery.

  “We’ve got you covered, baby doll,” a trucker’s raw, deep tone cut into the woman’s steady talk. “Don’t worry about a thing, sweet thing. You got any idea where you’re goin’?”

  “Oh, fine, Eunice,” the woman muttered quietly. “The big boys rescuing little old helpless me.” After the click of a microphone, she said, “I’m working on it. Thanks.”

  “Anytime, sugar,” the trucker drawled.

  Another trucker cut in to correct and to give Fiona a CB name. “Beefcake, the lady doesn’t like being called sugar. She’s a lady, okay? Warrior Lady is her handle. Anytime you talk to her, you use that name, got it?”

  The woman continued to talk now, quietly, steadily, as if to herself. “Oh, fine. Just fine. Now we’re in a convoy, Eunice. Three trucks ahead of us and three behind. So much for being inconspicuous. So much for taking back roads and letting you exercise in hidden valleys and deserted barns. Don’t think that you’re the cause of this problem. There was no way I was ignoring that robbery. And you know me, I’m a woman who takes action—”

  “Breaker. Truckers, this is the sheriff.” While the man spoke over the radio, the muffled sounds of opera sopranos trilled in the background. “I’m looking for a big rig. Burgundy, fancy grill, lights across the top. He’s just smashed into a convenience store and stopped a robbery in progress. A big, tough-looking guy helped, was injured, and the trucker hauled him off. Come back?” he asked, requesting an answer.

  Joel glanced at the clock fastened above his head. Forty-five minutes had passed since he’d dropped into the trucker’s war against the thieves. He noted his gun—minus the bullet clip—tossed into an opened canvas backpack. He eased it from the cluttered rainbow of lacy lingerie and gingerly stuck it into his belt.

  The truckers were protectively quiet. “Aye and blast,” the woman cursed. “Sorry, Eunice. I didn’t mean to say that. I reserve it for when I really mean it.”

  “No big burgundy rig on the roads this morning, Sheriff,” one of the truckers stated over the sounds of Elvis Presley.

  “I know you’re awake,” the woman said over her shoulder to Joel. “You might as well come sit up front. I want you out of my rig as soon as you think you’re able. There’s a thermos of hot coffee up here, courtesy of the store clerk, and some packaged sandwiches. In fact, there’s three grocery sacks up here that he filled, and more diapers for your head. Has the bleeding stopped?”

  Joel’s stomach rose as the truck rounded a curve. He sat slowly and touched his head. He patted the cuts gingerly with a fresh diaper. “I’m okay.”

  He was badly bruised, had a headache the size of the Mack and felt woozy. Or was the scent of the woman who geared the truck in swift, competent and irritated movements causing him to feel light-headed? He took a deep breath and moved carefully into the passenger’s seat, tossing the Simple Everyday Elephant Care book into the sleeper and easing his feet around the grocery bags on the floor.

  “It’s almost three o’clock in the morning, and I could use a cup of coffee. Pour one for me, okay? Now, listen up. I do not have time to spend on a car thief, nor can I become involved in your problems. I do not care why you are running from the law and hot-wired that fast little number. I do not care if your children need braces and your wife has left you and your brother needs another sterilization because the first one didn’t work and he has ten kids. I just do not care,” she underlined firmly. “Just get your sizable self out whenever you can stand and drive. It was no easy job packing your weight into the cab. I had to have help. That expensive toy you stole is rigged to the back of my trailer. And do not try anything funny. I’m not in the mood,” she added grimly as Joel began to pour coffee.

  “You’re a mouthy little thing. What makes you think I stole the car?” Because he needed coffee more than air at the moment, he sipped the hot brew, feeling it revive him. He took a quick inventory of his bruised body and decided he’d live.

  She expertly shifted for a long hill, then tossed him a bottle of aspirin from the cluttered dash. “Your outfit doesn’t match the money the car would cost, and that is an expensive Dirty Harry gun, and you know how to handle yourself in a robbery situation. You knew to cover the back exit and to distract the men from firing at me. I’d say you’ve been on the other end of the situation at some time, and whatever it was, I don’t care, because you did save my life. I couldn’t leave you. Someone else can allow you to go to jail. You saved my life. I was too—angry to have good sense. So that is that.”

  Joel swallowed the aspirin and poured a second cup, handing it to her. He paused and inhaled sharply, for in the light of the dashboard and the moonlight coming in through the truck’s windows, was Fiona Tallchief.

  Two

  Joel’s heart kicked up into overdrive, and he forced his hand not to tremble, locking it to his tense thigh. He’d been tracking Miss Fiona Tallchief through the press for years, keeping tabs on her, and now she sat within reach. He skimmed the features beneath her ball cap, the flashing eyes that had reminded him of steel wrapped in smoke, the long silky lashes without cosmetics and the firm, somewhat sharp line of her chin, giving her face an elfin look. The striking contrast had set him simmering. There was no way he could forget her mouth, though the last time he’d seen her, she’d been stalking back and forth across his office and ripping him apart: “You money-hungry, spoiled, brand-name-toting capitalist, fed by the suffering of our ecosystem. Wear this and see how you like it!” had preceded the bucket of sludge.

  Though she was now dressed in a loose sweatshirt and jeans, there was no mistaking that long, lean, taut body. Two years ago, she’d been dressed in a conservative, gray suit. The slit in the skirt had opened as she’d stalked, revealing endless legs. Joel’s secretary in the outer office hadn’t been able to stop her—when aroused, Fiona Tallchief was an army of one, plowing through any defenses.

  She wouldn’t recognize him now, of course. He’d been wearing her bucket of sludge over his head and down his expensive suit.

  Joel had wanted to wrap both fists in that long, glossy hair swaying down her back and fuse his mouth to hers. In the light of the truck’s dashboard, he traced the uneven, short, boy cut that framed her unique, high-boned cheeks and winged eyebrows. The longer wisps sliding down her neck emphasized the slender column that he knew he could circle with one hand. The uneven lengths of hair fluttered in the warm air coming from the heater, looking like soft, black, glossy feathers. “Did you cut your hair yourself?”

  Fiona flicked an impatient glance at him. “I don’t have time for chitchat or your problems. If you need a hospital, I’ll pull over and one of the truckers will take you.”

  “You’re an independent, competent lady on the move, with no time for anything but exactly what suits you,” he murmured, remembering how quickly Fiona became involved with issues that caught her attention. She moved through life at warp speed, never at a loss for a male companion.

  She glanced at him impatiently and geared down for another curve. “Think of it this way, buddy. You’re in my space and as welcome as three-day-old dead fish in the tropics. Got it? Now, those truckers will remove you forcibly if I want—”

  Joel locked his jaw, the muscles tightening, sending a shaft of pain straight into his head. No one was prying him away from Fiona Tallchief, not when fate had dropped her into his hands. But Joel knew her weaknesses very well; he’d studied her for years. Though she shielded her private emotions, a single gli
ttering tear on Fiona’s news photograph had captivated him. A tender smile while she’d held a baby had touched Joel’s hardened emotions. She was like a warm, magic crystal, shooting off a myriad of color and leaving him waiting for more. Oh, hell, he admitted reluctantly, she’d enchanted him for years, tantalized him, ruined him for other women. He laid his head back against the headrest and groaned slightly, just enough to catch her attention.

  “I knew it. You’ve probably got a concussion. Seeing double?” she asked worriedly and held up two fingers in front of his face. “How many?”

  “Four,” he lied. and tried another groan, which echoed painfully in his head. To the toughened Palladin brothers, a man who groaned was a sissy. Joel had a quick image of Rafe and Nick sneering.

  “Oh, aye and blast You’re sick,” she muttered darkly. “I’m stuck with you.” She shoved her palm against his cheek and jerked it away. “Aye and blast! You’re hot with fever. Maybe one of the truckers could take you off my hands?” The question was a desperate plea.

  He would like Fiona Tallchief to be desperate, wary and needing something from him. “I don’t think I can move,” he said, meaning it.

  A fighter, fighting duty, she tried again, as he knew she would. “Look, whoever you are. I’m in a fix. I really don’t care to chat with the law right now, and if you’re wanted for hot-wiring that toy, I can’t afford to keep you.”

  Keep him? Like a pet? Joel inhaled slowly, holding his temper. He’d never asked a woman to keep him, care for him, but he wanted Fiona within sight. You’ll keep me. I know exactly which buttons to push. I’m very good at solid, logical thinking. He groaned again and flopped his hand down on the seat. He wasn’t entirely acting; Joel had a headache the size of Manhattan, ached from bruises from the gang and the cans, and he badly needed sleep.

  Fiona’s gloved hand squeezed his. “You’ll be fine. I’ll take care of you. They won’t get you.”

  “They will,” he murmured, tossing bait to his prey. Once Fiona adopted a cause, a person, nothing could stop her from protecting them. Meanwhile, he had her within his grasp.

  “You are with the best, buddy,” she stated confidently and patted his knee. “I’ve done this before.”

  “Really?” he asked, prodding her. Joel quickly calculated that Fiona had been arrested for demonstrations in at least four states. When she believed in a cause, she was fearless and impressive. “Are you on the lam, too?” he asked.

  She stiffened and clamped her lips closed, and Joel knew he was right Fiona had been living quietly in Amen Flats, surrounded by the Tallchiefs’ growing family, but now she was on the move again and standing up for an issue in which she believed deeply. The first article he’d read about her was when she was nineteen and embroiled in a protest with a slumlord. With computer access to news articles, Joel had found it easy to trace Fiona.

  She squeezed his hand. “I’ll take care of you. A hospital would be the first place they’d look. But I’ve got other...problems.”

  “Like what?”

  Fiona released his hand and concentrated on sailing around a tight curve. “I need a barn, okay? A good one that’s nice and warm and has available water. A big one. That way I can park this rig in it and—”

  “I know of a place not far from here,” Joel offered quietly as he placed his hand to his throbbing head. “It’s mine. About a quarter of a mile, and down that lane. You’re welcome to use it.”

  “Oh, right.” Her hand slid to smooth his head, a comforting gesture. “Your hideout, right? The old Watkins place, isn’t it? All run-down and isolated and that big barn—that big lovely, sweet, accommodating barn with inside water,” she exclaimed in the tone of a thirsty person discovering a desert oasis.

  She stared at him. “Don’t tell me. You’ve stashed stolen cars in the barn and run a car resale ring. You’ve got extra used parts in the sports car’s back seat, some new parts, and that isn’t an average road toolbox.”

  “I don’t think you have any choice but to accept the offer,” Joel stated smoothly, covering the flash of temper her accusation aroused. He’d learned at an early age to carry a well-stocked toolbox, and he couldn’t wait to tinker with the old pump—a therapy that soothed him.

  “Mister, I have always had a lot of choices,” she shot back. “By the way, I don’t like guns. I threw your gun clip away several miles back.”

  “That was an expensive statement. Take the offer of my barn or leave it,” he returned carelessly, despite the tension running through him. An intuitive, elemental heat skittered around Joel’s body. He loved the look of Fiona Tallchief now, all revved up, determined, color high, ready to fight for any cause. He wanted her to want him as desperately as she wanted his barn. He held the deed to his “hideout” and he wanted to get very close to the woman who had haunted him for years.

  “At least you’re not using this barn to strip stolen cars, reselling the parts or painting and changing the indentification numbers on them,” Fiona said, looking around the barn as she helped Joel out of the cab. “It’s a shame you cut the top of this convertible, but that’s an easy way to steal it. I’ll help you into the house and then I’ll come back to...ah, bring in the groceries and my things. It’s a good thing the entire rig and your stolen car fit into the barn with room to spare. The Watkins built the barn to keep all their stock in during bad winters—Hold on...I’ll help you. I’ve got brothers who are as big as you are, and I’ve managed them, before and after a brawl.”

  We’ve got that in common, Joel thought, remembering the times he had to tend Nick and Rafe. He studied her hands on his chest—slender, pale, capable—and knew that he didn’t want her touching another man.

  She glanced at the chestnut gelding in the stall and flicked a suspicious look at Joel. “I do not steal horses,” he stated tightly. “Meet Dante, and I’ve got a bill of sale in my pocket.”

  “One just never knows when one will have to use a mountain trail for a getaway, does one? And a horse would definitely make the difference,” she murmured, and glanced at the big gold watch on his wrist. “That’s a classy watch you’re wearing, very pricey for a guy dressed like you.”

  “I earned it,” he stated grimly. The watch was his reward to himself, a man who worked very hard to succeed. “I’ve got suits that cost more than you make in a year,” he muttered, defending his favorite leather Jacket.

  “Sure. I believe you, Cinderella,” she returned, unimpressed, her tone disbelieving as she glanced around the barn.

  “Wrong sex,” he managed, amazed that despite his bruises and light-headed feeling, he was still very aware of her soft breast against his side. It was too soft, as if she wasn’t wearing a bra. Joel closed his eyes, clamping down on the quick rise of desire. He allowed himself to lean on Fiona, enjoying her arm around him. He draped his arm around her shoulders, focusing on her slender hand taking his. Strength lay in it; a woman who was used to physical work.

  She glanced down at his stomach, to the gun stuck in his belt. “I’d prefer you put that away, and in case you have another gun clip, I’d really prefer you didn’t have a shoot-out while I’m with you, okay?”

  “I’ll try not to,” he murmured, standing in the cold wind as Fiona turned to shut the big double doors on the barn. She returned to support him, and they moved into the house.

  “You’ve got a key?” she asked, as he opened the door to the darkened house. “Don’t tell me where you found it. I don’t want to know.”

  Joel surveyed around the barren, dusty old house. He’d purchased the house unseen, and this was his first view of it. This was what he wanted for Cody, a place to call home, to build together, to belong. The old house felt like home already, despite the lack of water and electricity. Rooms angled off the large living room: a big farm kitchen at one end and several bedrooms. A wall in the sunroom was covered with shelves. In the living room a wood cookstove stood where a heating stove should be, and Joel fell in love with the house instantly, wanting to clean and poli
sh it.

  “I used to come here for Mrs. Watkins’ apple cobbler,” Fiona murmured, glancing around the old house. “She needed me almost as much as I needed her. Her husband had died, and she was trying to manage this place and failing. I had to be ‘good,’ you see, and I didn’t want to tell my brothers and sister how—”

  Fiona stiffened beneath Joel’s arm. “There was a time when I was so scared that I’d do something wrong and ruin our family.”

  “That’s rough. But I know what you mean.” Joel thought back to when he was Rafe and Nick’s protector and stealing food to feed them. He was only fourteen when he was first brought before the judge for hot-wiring cars. Fiona was right. He was experienced in theft...and the aftermath of survival that faced Lloyd Palladin’s sons.

  Joel had the unique experience of Fiona Tallchief gently depositing him in the huge, old, pioneer bed in the living room. The bed was a solid walnut affair, topped by a new, plastic-covered mattress set. Amen Flats Furniture had found the right house and deposited the order he had given by telephone.

  “All the comforts. You must be planning to use this place as a base for your operations,” Fiona said as she moved quickly to the old cookstove at one end of the living room, crushed a paper sack and stuffed it into the stove. She expertly adjusted the damper and placed kindling and wood on the paper. One strike of the match lit the fire, and she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Lie still. I’ll only be gone for a minute.”

  After she lit a thick serviceable candle, she came to the bed and looked down at him. “You look pale. The bleeding has stopped. Just lie still. Do...you...understand?”

  Joel stared up at her and scowled. Seconds before, the pounding in his brain had offered to stop. If he could just hold Fiona close. She had spoken to him as if he was a half-wit. She was the only person, except his father, who had ever spoken to him in that tone. It nettled—Joel was accustomed to giving orders, not receiving them. He rubbed his aching temple. “Don’t you ever get tired of giving orders?”