| Another thump hit the door, hollow and disturbing. She licked her lips, her heart pounding like a triphammer.
“Who is there?” Gina asked with conviction.
When she received no answer, she wondered if a bear or other large creature had found its way to her door. Gina didn’t know which to be afraid of—human or animal interference.
She undid the deadbolt and left the safety chain hooked. Slowly, she inched the door open and peered around the side. A head of thick black hair appeared at foot level. Not a disembodied head, but one attached to the big, gorgeous body lying on the porch. A body belonging to a man she’d know anywhere.
Ryan Ahern had materialized right from her fantasy straight into reality. “Oh my God.”
He moaned and she undid the chain to open the door completely. Ryan flopped onto his back, half in the door and half out, his eyes closed. He clutched a nasty-looking firearm in his right hand. Stark fear gripped her.
Stunned into immobility by Ryan’s abrupt appearance, Gina stared at him.
“Shit,” she murmured as she knelt by his supine body and felt for a pulse in his tanned throat.
A steady beat under her fingertips sent a sigh of relief between her lips. Glancing over his formfitting blue T-shirt and worn blue jeans told her nothing about his condition. No blood. No tears in his clothing. The weapon gripped in his hand like a lifeline shouldn’t have surprised her—he’d joined the same government agency Tara’s fiancé Marcus belonged to. Was Ryan on assignment?
Thunder growled, and moisture scented the air. She had to remove him from the elements. Placing one hand on his stubble-rough cheek and one on his shoulder, she tried to rouse him. Damn, but his muscles felt solid. Big and invincible. She palmed down to his muscular chest and her breath caught as he heaved a soft moan. Laced with pain, the sound worried her. Nothing mattered now but making certain he was all right.
She placed both hands on his chest. “Irish? Come on, Ryan. Wake up.”
His eyes popped open, and he sat up so fast she toppled back on her ass with a squeak and grunt. His eyes, mountain-sky blue and ringed by thick black lashes, latched on to her without remorse. An angry gaze pinpointed her like a laser. A weird little thrill tumbled in her belly at the intensity in that expression. She’d become so used to warmth and acceptance in his gorgeous eyes—the fierceness in his gaze startled and aroused her in a whole new way. Wow. She’d had rare glimpses of his kick-ass-and- take-names personage years ago, but this glaring, forceful man startled her. She stood rapidly.
“Who are you?” His voice, a raspy, deep sound tinged with a hint of Ireland, always sent tingles straight to her stomach.
“Who am I?” Her echo sounded incredulous. “We’ve known each other for a long time. How can you ask that question?” He blinked, his gaze turning a bit unfocused and confused. “I found you lying on the porch up against my door. Did you hit your head?”
He scrambled upright, his muscles fluid as a panther as he came to his feet, still in possession of the gun. He towered over her, his gaze laser strong. He swayed and his eyelids flickered as he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. While he defined black Irish with his tousled, collar-length black hair, blue eyes and normally pale complexion, he’d acquired a tan in the last couple of years during the summer.
She approached him as she would a wounded animal. “Ryan, why don’t you sit down?”
He glared at her then his eyelids flickered again.
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said in alarm, afraid he’d pass out. Quickly, she went to his side. Ignoring the gun he still clutched, she slipped under his arm. “Come on. Lean on me.” To her surprise, he did as told. She staggered under his weight as they wove their way to the leather couch. She eased him down. “Here. Lie down.”
She expected him to protest, but his gaze turned foggy. He slid sideways onto the pile of pillows, his eyes closed. She scooped his heavy legs up onto the couch, and he sprawled in a male abandon both defenseless and primal. He still possessed the weapon, his arm lying over his stomach. God, if she tried to take it from him—no, that wasn’t a good idea. She hurried back to the front door and closed it, then returned to the couch.
Apprehensive about touching him again, she got down on her knees beside the couch. Slowly she brushed a tangle of thick hair away from his forehead. She gently touched the pulse point in his throat. His pulse beat rapidly under her fingertips. She didn’t see any blood or obvious bruising.
“Ryan? Ryan, can you hear me?”
Worried, she stood and went to the kitchen to get a cold cloth for his forehead. She had to try to rouse him and obtain medical attention. Reaching into a small cabinet, she retrieved a cloth and then went to the sink to wet it. After soaking it thoroughly and squeezing the cloth out, she turned around.
“Oh, shit!” she gasped, startled.
Ryan stood not that far away, just beyond the kitchen counter, weapon in hand. Muscles tensed, he represented uncompromising masculinity. Once a soldier, always a soldier described him.
No one compared to Ryan Ahern. Every line of his body boasted tensile strength and sinew. Corded muscle bunched, flexed and made sensual promises. She recalled one day when she saw him chopping wood during the summer. Raw power had drawn her eyes to the long lines and distinct masculinity in each powerful swing as he brought ruthless metal down into wood.
“Ryan, what happened? Why are you here?”
He turned toward the front door with a jerk then stalked in that direction. He swept the door open and surveyed the wilderness outside. He closed the door and locked it with a firm click, engaging the chain.
“Damn it.” He rammed the deadbolt home. “This might not hold for long once it finds out where I am.”
“It?”
He continued to stare at the door, as if expecting something to crash through it any minute.
Fear returned as she watched his broad back ripple with strength. “Ryan—”
“Lady,” he said as he swung back toward her, “we don’t have time to play games. We’re in serious trouble.”
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