Page 4 of Cursed (Decorah Security 2.0, #14)

When he spotted a splash of persimmon color out in the water, his heart lurched inside his chest. The blob of color resolved itself into fabric.

Her blouse, half open. As the frightening picture came into focus, he saw the graceful column of her neck and her short blond hair.

She was in profile to him, with her arms clinging desperately to a slender tree trunk, as the water tore at her.

“Morgan, hang on,” he called. “I’m coming. Just hang on.”

If she heard him, she didn’t answer above the roar of the water.

He focused on keeping his mind working rationally as he ran back to his vehicle and grabbed the rope that was part of his emergency kit.

First, he thought that he could throw it to her.

Then he canceled that idea. She might be partially sheltered by the tree trunk but turning it loose to grab the lifeline would be too dangerous.

Instead he tied one end of the rope to a nearby tree. After testing it, he tied the other end around his waist and waded into the water. Immediately, the current gave a vicious tug on his body, trying to drag him away. But he gritted his teeth and kept his footing.

“Hang on,” he called again as he struggled toward Morgan.

Over the sound of the raging elements, Morgan thought she heard someone calling to her.

That could only be someone who knew her name. Someone who had been expecting her.

Hoping against hope, she called out, “Mr. Gascon?”

“Yes,” he answered, his deep voice carrying above the roar of the water.

“Thank God.”

“I’m coming.”

He was closer now, in the water, but she dared not twist herself around to look at him.

“I think under the circumstances, you can call me Andre.” He said it with a wry note in his voice between puffs of breath.

He must be strong. Strong enough to waste his breath on talking.

“You’re doing great. Fantastic. I’m almost there.”

She clung to the sound of his words, and he kept talking to her, his voice steady and reassuring over the raging water as he told her that everything was going to be all right. In just a few more moments he would pull her to safety.

Centuries passed before she felt a hard-male body press against her back, cupping itself protectively around.

She let out a deep sigh of relief when his form blocked the worst of the raging water.

He held her tightly, his cheek against the top of her head, as though his relief at making contact was as great as hers.

“Thank the Lord,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“I’ll get you to shore. But don’t let go yet,” he cautioned.

He moved behind her, doing something she couldn’t see, and a rope slipped over her head and shoulders.

“Loosen one hand,” he ordered as he held her in place.

She released her death grip on the tree, feeling the tug of the water. But he shielded her as he worked the rope farther down her body.

“Good. That’s good. Now turn around. Then I’ll turn—so we’re facing back toward the shore.”

The water buffeted them as he rotated her in his arms, clasping her to himself like a lover—as though she were precious to him.

He was too close for her to see him well.

But she had studied his picture and knew he was a striking man.

His amazing green eyes were deep set. His gaze intense.

His chin was strong. His lips finely shaped.

But he hadn’t bothered to smile for the camera.

She imagined that a smile would completely transform him.

Now she could tell that his frame was tall and strong as he wrapped her close, and she couldn’t get the notion out of her head that they had held each other many times before, his body as familiar as her own.

Nonsense. She had never met him in person until a few moments ago. But she had come to know him through their correspondence.

She let her head sag to his broad shoulder, clinging to him for long moments before he cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”

“Yes,” she managed as she came back to her senses. They were still in danger, and she was going all dreamy on him.

As promised, he turned away from her.

“Circle my waist,” he said gruffly.

She did as he asked, wrapping her arms around him. When she realized her grip was too low, and her hands were pressed over the fly of his slacks, she jerked, then quickly moved her grasp a couple of inches higher.

A fresh surge of water tore at her, trying to break her grip on his waist. It almost did, and she was glad that the rope bound them together.

Her teeth were gritted as they inched toward blacktop. He was using the rope, pulling them along hand over hand. And she hoped he’d tied the other end to something solid.

He didn’t spare the breath to talk now. It was all he could do to keep them moving toward shore.

Something large slammed past them, and she gasped from the impact.

“Are you all right?” he asked urgently.

“Yes.”

Redoubling his efforts, he hauled them the last few yards through the water and out of the deluge.

Breathless, they both sprawled on dry land, panting.

For long moments, all she could do was lie still with her eyes closed, grateful to be on a solid surface again.

When she realized that the solid surface was Andre Gascon’s body, she tensed, then tried to push herself away. She managed to put a few inches of space between them before the rope pulled her back, and she flopped onto his chest again.

“Go ahead, use me for a trampoline,” he said.

She was icy cold from the water, but she had to laugh.

The comment was so typical of the dry humor that she’d enjoyed in his e-mails. He’d struck her as a man who used humor to defuse a tense situation. Apparently, he was still doing it.

Large hands moved over her back and shoulders, untangling her from the rope, then lifted her up and onto her feet. She blinked into the intense green eyes she remembered from the picture.

His dark hair was plastered to his head, his tee shirt to his chest. When she wavered on her feet, he scooped her up and strode away from the water.

She anchored her hands on his muscular shoulders as he carried her to an SUV parked on the shoulder, well out of the reach of the flood that surged across the road.

Even though he’d been in the water, a pungent aroma clung to him—as though he wore some kind of strong aftershave that she couldn’t identify. It was a natural fragrance that drew her as the man had drawn her.

Setting her in the passenger seat, he worked the lever to push the seat back so that she could stretch out her legs.

She threw her head back, and her eyes closed, contemplating her narrow escape.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice gritty.

“I … think … so,” she answered between panting breaths. Opening her eyes, she stared into his face, taking in the stark lines. “But I wouldn’t have been, if you hadn’t come along. Thank you,” she murmured.

“I’m glad I got here in time,” he answered, the words carrying a depth of feeling that overwhelmed her.

Perhaps she was struggling to put some distance between them when she said, “This isn’t a very auspicious way for you to meet your private detective.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he clipped out.

He looked across the water toward her rental car. “How did you end up in a ditch?”

She huffed out a breath. “My brakes failed. I couldn’t keep the car on the road. Of course, that was after two men from town started following me, and I speeded up to get away.”

He swore under his breath. “What men?”

“Two guys from the gas station where I stopped to fill my tank. When I told them I was coming here, I caused a little bit of a stir.”

“You should have kept that information to yourself,” he muttered.

“I was gauging their reaction,” she countered.

“Well you have it. They ran you off the road. They’re getting bolder,” he said, his tone turning rough with anger.

“We’ll deal with that later. How did you know … to come looking for me?”

“You were later than I expected,” he answered. “I thought I’d better see if you were in trouble.”

“From … what?” she asked, struggling to keep her teeth from chattering.

“The rain. We’ve had some flash floods like this. I wasn’t thinking anyone would follow you from town.”

“They didn’t stay around.”

“Why not?”

“A jaguar scared them off,” she said, suddenly wanting his reaction to that statement.

His expression turned fierce. “As I told you in my correspondence, someone in town is playing jaguar.”

“That may be true. But I saw a … a real one,” she answered, losing the battle to keep her teeth from clanking together.

“If so, the animal isn’t the problem,” he bit out, then gave her an appraising look as he changed the subject. “You need to get warm. You’d better get out of your wet clothes—what’s left of them.”

She’d been so grateful to be back on dry land that any thought of her appearance had fled her mind. Now she looked down at herself, seeing her bare legs, then her blouse clinging wetly to her breasts, plainly showing the darker outline of her tightened nipples.

Embarrassed, she stammered, “I … need …”

“Clothing,” he supplied. “In the back, I have some things I was taking to the church sale. Climbing out again, he went around to the back of the vehicle. Swiveling, she watched him rummaging through large plastic bags, heard him muttering.

When he returned, he was holding out a lady’s robe, made of soft ecru silk, the front panels decorated with delicate embroidery.

She reached out, stroking the fabric, trying to keep her fingers from trembling, aware of his eyes on her.

“That’s beautiful. You were getting rid of it?” she asked, her voice turning soft.

“Janet said it was in an old trunk,” he answered, sounding offhand. Yet she sensed a current of meaning running below the surface of his words. When he laid the robe across her knees, it felt warm and alive against her chilled flesh. And dangerous.

Janet. His housekeeper. He’d mentioned her in his correspondence.

She continued to stroke the fabric. The robe would cover her; still, she heard herself asking, “Do you have something else?”