Page 5 of Buck

The sun peeked over the horizon in pink, but to him, it was crashing through the trees like a spotlight in the darkness.

She was the only thing that felt good right now, her lean body wrapped around his, her breasts flattened against his chest.

It had been a while. Buck didn’t cultivate female relationships very well, and after a few disasters, he stayed mostly to himself unless opportunity knocked. It was as much his fault as his job’s. Most women couldn’t handle it, nor understand his real purpose. He didn’t bother to explain and holding onto his secrets put women off easily.

She shifted, and he noticed his sidearm in her hand. Okay, that was a new one. He happened to be the damsel in distress, and she’d been protecting him. She exhaled long and low when he disengaged the pistol, sliding it back into his holster. Her eyes opened. She lay there for a moment in sleepy limbo, and he waited for the moment she realized where she was. She stiffened. Then pushed up from him.

Gee-zus…what a fucking gorgeous woman. The sight of her actually made his knees weak. That had never happened before in his life. He was going to chalk this up to his ten-mile sprint after a helicopter crash had knocked the shit out of him. Cowboys didn’t get weak knees. They were too busy ropin’, ridin’, and wranglin’.

But right now, he wasn’t too busy to take in that body. Beneath the V of her short, champagne silk robe, Buck caught a glimpse of full breasts straining the confines of a scrap of coffee-colored lace. With that body and all its lush curves, this woman was made for silk and lace. The damp material molded her shapely breasts and tight nipples like a second skin. No bra, but then she was in her nightwear. The provocative peek at her sexy lingerie left enough to the male imagination, and he had a good imagination.

She cleared her throat, reached for a glass with a straw, and put it to his mouth. He drank thirstily. When he was finished, she wiped the bottom of his lip with her thumb. A fission of heat went through his aching body. He met her gaze, the instantaneous sparks of awareness between the two of them nearly tangible.

She cleared her throat again, running her fingers through her semi-damp hair, combing the strands away from her face, something he found too damn fascinating and tempting. Most of the rebellious strands sprang back into place, and his fingers itched to push them back again, just as an excuse to see if her hair was as silky-soft as it looked. The robe parted, revealing her legs, exposing way too much of those smooth, toned thighs and delicate ankles of hers. He noted how her feet were dirty, muddy, and bare, the nails painted in a soft pink color.

“Hi, there.” She fluttered her hands toward his chest. “Sorry about that. Being woken up in the middle of the night from gunfire sort of disturbs one’s sleep.”

“No problem, darlin’. I’ve been called a lot worse than a pillow.” She had a very light accent, and her English was flawless.

She smiled, a slow, sweet smile that affected him like a blow right to the gut.

“Joker?”

Her gaze captured his and searched deep, past those emotional barriers he’d erected, and seemingly touched a piece of his soul in the process. “The man you were carrying?”

“Yes. He’s our lieutenant.” His voice was rough. Buck was aching with worry over Joker’s fate. He couldn’t have failed to save him.

She nodded. “My sister is stabilizing him while your DEA calls in enough helicopters to medevac all of you out. You didn’t fail him,” she murmured.

Buck’s lungs squeezed tight, making normal breathing difficult. How the hell she’d managed to hit him where he was most susceptible, he didn’t know. This woman was more trouble than he’d thought. He half rose. “Your sister?”

“Dr. Sofia Morales. He’s in good hands.”

“The guys?”

She pushed him back down, immediately contrite, her face softening. “Are all as battered, bruised, and beat up as you are? I understand you were in a terrible helicopter crash. I’m so sorry for your losses. But although you’re all dehydrated and exhausted, there are no gunshot wounds, thankfully. One of our men was wounded, but he’s going to be all right.”

“That’s good news,” he said, relaxing back into the comfort of the stretcher. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“You’re on our property, La Buena Tierra Plantación. It’s totally family-owned and operated. You might know us as the Golden Grain. We have several coffee shops in San Diego. Your gun battle ended up here, instead of a piece down the road where your DEA was waiting for you. Our guards held them off until the DEA arrived.”

The Good Earth Plantation, he translated. He did know those shops. There were at least four in San Diego, and he often frequented the one near the base. He nodded. “That’s some damn fine coffee.” She smiled again, this time with pride. It shone out of those beautiful blue eyes. “And you are?”

“Oh, right. I’m Maritza Elena Solano Navarro. I’m the owner’s daughter, vice president, and head roaster. This plantation has been in my family since 1808 when coffee was first produced for commercial consumption.” He was also quite attracted to this fascinating woman. He felt a kinship with her that went family-deep. She helped to run a family-owned business, and he was part of a working ranch, very much involved in its present and future, wholly proud of its past.

He was suddenly very tired from lack of sleep and from all that turmoil over Joker, the memory of Rock, the men he’d had to leave behind, and their deaths at the hands of Ignacio Siachoque’s men. He was widely known by his nickname, Nacho, and although it was amusing, there was nothing funny about the Siachoque Cartel. Much as he hated to admit it, Buck was feeling physically weak, as well as emotionally battered.

“That was quite a mouthful.”

“Most people call me Mari or Zazu. Take your pick.”

“Zazu?” he repeated, the name so jazzy and cute, he smiled even as fatigue pulled at him. “So, you’re the one responsible for that damn fine coffee?”

She nodded with a laugh, her eyes dancing. He found that he wanted her eyes to dance a lot. “Yes, I am.”

He reached out, grunting softly as his side protested loudly. “Sam Buckard. I go by Buck.” Her hand slipped around his and they shook, lingering longer than necessary. The movement of her shoulder caused those damp, disheveled waves to caress her cheek and jaw. Feeling gut-punched again, he had the uncontrollable urge to get closer to her.

“Sam…a strong name,” she said softly.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com