Without a Trace by Nora Roberts Page B

more good-naturedly than she’d expected. “Name ten Irishmen you know who drink in moderation.”
    “You, for one.” She turned to walk around to her side of the Jeep when he swore again and grabbed her. She was about to snap at him when he pulled her shirt loose from the waistband of her slacks. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    “You’re bleeding.” Before she could protest, he’d yanked her slacks down enough to expose her hipbone. The cut wasn’t very deep, but it was rather long. Blood had seeped through to stain her shirt. For an instant—and an instant was often too long—the dull red haze of fury clouded his vision. “Why didn’t you tell me he’d hurt you?”
    “I didn’t realize.” She bent to examine the wound clinically. “I was trying to slow him down and stumbled. He gave me a jab; I guess for incentive. It isn’t serious. Nearly stopped bleeding.”
    “Shut up.” It didn’t seem to matter at the moment that the cut was shallow. It was her skin, her blood. Trace half lifted her into the Jeep, then popped open the glove compartment. “Just be still,” he ordered as he broke open a first aid kit. “I told you not to take any chances, damn it.”
    “I only— For heaven’s sake, that hurts worse than the cut. Will you stop fussing?”
    “I’m cleaning it, damn it, and you’re going to shut up.” He worked quickly, and none too gently, until she was cleaned and bandaged.
    “Congratulations, Doctor,” she said dryly, and only smiled when he lifted angry eyes. “I never expected a man like you to get so flustered at the sight of a little blood. As a matter of fact, I would have taken bets that—”
    She was cut off quickly and completely when his mouth covered hers. Stunned, she didn’t move a muscle as his hands came to her throat and passed up into her hair. This was the promise, or the threat, she had glimpsed from the top of the pyramid.
    His mouth, hard and hungry, didn’t gently persuade, but firmly, unarguably possessed. The independence that was an innate part of her might have protested, but the need, the desire, the delight, overlapped and won.
    He didn’t know why in hell he’d started this. It seemed his mouth had been on hers before he’d even thought of it. It had just been. He’d been frightened when he’d seen her blood. And he wasn’t used to being frightened—not for someone else. He’d wanted to stroke and soothe, and he’d fought that foolishness back with rough hands and orders.
    But, damn it, why was he kissing her? Then her lips parted beneath his, and he didn’t ask any longer.
    She tasted as she smelled, of meadows and wildflowers and early sunlight on cool morning dew. There was nothing exotic here, everything was soft and real. Home … Why was it she tasted of home and made him long for it as much as he did for her?
    What he’d felt at the top of the pyramid came back a hundredfold. Fascination, sweetness, bewilderment. He coated them all with a hard-edged passion he understood.
    She didn’t cringe from it. She lifted a hand to his face. The echo of her heartbeat was so loud in her head that she could hear nothing else. His kiss was so demanding, she could feel nothing else. When he drew away as abruptly as he had come to her, she blinked until her blurred vision cleared.
    He was going to have to get rid of her, and fast, Trace thought as he stuck unsteady hands in his pockets. “I told you to shut up,” he said briefly, and strode around the Jeep.
    Gillian opened her mouth, then shut it again. Perhaps, until she could think clearly, she’d take his advice.

Chapter 3
    Trace nursed a beer. He figured that if Abdul was smart, the message would be delivered to the right people before nightfall. He intended to be out of Mexico in an hour. He gave a brief thought to warm Caribbean waters and lazy snorkeling, then picked up the phone.
    “Make yourself useful and pack, will you, sweetheart?”
    She turned from the window. “The