the end of the porch, Cody didn’t hesitate. He made a flying leap and tackled the lurker, forcing him to the ground.
“Let go of me, you creep.” An elbow thrust hard into his ribs, followed by nails raked across his face. “Get off of me!” The voice—definitely not a man’s—demanded.
Cody couldn’t get off fast enough. The beam of a flashlight blinded him. “Cody Rankin!” Bette said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Cody held up a hand to shield his eyes and took another step back from an enraged Bette. “I saw someone on the porch and thought they were trying to break into your cabin,” he said.
“I couldn’t sleep and I was sitting out here, enjoying the moonlight.” She gathered what appeared to be the quilt from her bed around her. A knit hat covered most of her blond hair, and thick gloves on her hands had probably prevented her from doing more damage to his face.
“It’s zero degrees out,” he said. “Who sits outside in that kind of weather?”
“It’s not bad if you’re wrapped up,” she said.
He was feeling more foolish by the minute. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She lowered the light so that it was no longer shining in his eyes. “You scared me half to death, but I’m not hurt. What about you?”
He rubbed his side. “My ribs are going to be sore for a few days, I think.”
“Serves you right. Who appointed you my personal protector, anyway?”
“I was on my way back to my cabin and I saw someone lurking on your porch. Someone I didn’t think should be there. And protecting people is what I do.”
“No, you pursue them.”
“I pursue bad guys as a way of protecting law-abiding citizens,” he countered.
“Well, you can stop pursuing me.”
He started to argue that he wasn’t pursuing her, but he was tired of standing out here in the freezing cold. “I’m going to bed,” he said, and limped past her.
“You are hurt!” She touched his shoulder, stopping him.
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Sure you have, tough guy.” She wrapped both hands around his biceps. “Come inside and let me have a look. You might have broken ribs.”
He let her lead him into her cabin. Inside, warmth wrapped around him like a cocoon. He sank into the single armchair while she went around turning on lights. She dropped the quilt back onto the bed and divested herself of hat and gloves, revealing herself dressed in knit leggings and a long sweater that clung to every curve. “Take off your jacket and pull up your shirt so I can check your ribs,” she said.
He took off the jacket, then took off the shirt, as well. When she turned toward him again he was standing beside the chair, naked from the waist up, and enjoying seeing her flustered. “I didn’t tell you to get undressed,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
“It’s easier this way.” He held his arms out to his sides, wincing only a little from the effort.
She moved closer and, after a brief hesitation, felt gently along his rib cage, where a faint bruise was already starting to show. Now it was his turn to be unsettled, the silken touch of her hand sending a jolt of desire straight to his groin. He shifted, trying to get comfortable in an impossibly uncomfortable situation.
She looked up, her eyes soft with concern. “I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”
“No.” He took a step back. It was either that or pull her into his arms and kiss her until she was as hot and breathless as he felt. Or until she punched him in the mouth for presuming too much. He reached for his shirt. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “A little sore, but I guess that’s no more than I deserve.” He turned away, trying to hide his arousal. “I’ll just use your bathroom, then say good-night.”
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and practiced deep breathing until he had himself under control. Unfortunately, every breath pulled in the soft, feminine scent of Bette’s perfume, which did little to lessen his arousal. For whatever reason, Bette Fuller checked every box on his list. His head could tell him to play it cool and keep his distance, but his body was determined to go full-on caveman.
He looked around for a towel on which to dry his hands and wipe his face. Finding none, he opened the cabinet beneath the sink. He spotted a stack of hand towels, but as he reached for one, his hand knocked against something. Crouching and peering into the cabinet, he spotted a paintbrush—and a can of red paint.
The same crimson color that had been used to paint the warning message on her cabin door.
* * *
BETTE PACED WHILE Cody was in the bathroom, trying desperately to cool down and calm herself and act like a sensible woman instead of some sex-starved maniac. The sight of Cody Rankin, all six-pack abs and muscular chest, was one that would haunt her dreams—and her fantasies—for no doubt years to come. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she had seared her fingers touching him—he was that hot.
And she was in so much trouble if she even thought about fulfilling the fantasies he inspired. She had lost her head over a man like this before, and he had come close to ruining her life. She didn’t put Cody in the same category as Eddie, but he had the same potential to distract her from her goals and make her act recklessly.
The door to the bathroom opened and he emerged—fully dressed and looking grim. Obviously, she had injured him worse than she thought. She straightened. She wasn’t going to feel remorse over that. He deserved a little pain for tackling her like that.
She expected him to head for the door, but instead, he sat in the chair again. “Tell me a little more about yourself,” he said. “How, exactly, do you know Lacy?”
She frowned. She was tired, it was late and this was no time for a get-to-know-all-about-each-other conversation. Then again, she had been looking for a way to put some distance between herself and this sexy cop. The truth was sure to do that.
She sat on the end of the bed and pulled one end of the quilt across her lap. “We were cellmates in prison.” She kept her head up, defiant. She wasn’t proud of what she’d done, but she wasn’t going to deny it, either.
He blinked. Clearly, he hadn’t expected that one. She waited, then he asked the question she had known would come next. “What were you doing in prison?” he asked.
“Ten years for robbing the bank where I worked as a teller,” she said. “Though I was paroled early because I was such a model prisoner.”
His eyes narrowed. “So you admit you’re guilty.”
“Oh, yes. There were five of us—four of us were caught. I was the person on the inside. It was the stupidest thing I ever did and I don’t intend to so much as
