Read Online Crossfire Christmas by Julie Miller - Free Book Online Page A

without batting an eye to open that window and hurry down to Mrs. Walker’s to use her phone. But the one thing on the man that didn’t seem to be affected by his injuries was his grip on that gun. And, as intent as he was on ripping open the vest’s Velcro straps beneath each arm, she believed his assertion that using her bed as an examination table was only about keeping her prisoner, nothing more. So she set her supplies on the bed beside him, pulled on a pair of sterile gloves from the first-aid kit and went to work.
    “Here, Mr. Charles. Let me.” She took over getting the jacket and protective vest off him, dumping both on the rug at her feet. She touched his right arm, pushing his hand up to the scarf, avoiding the gun while asking for his help. “Keep pressure on the wound.”
    “It’s just Charles,” he answered, pressing the wool against his shoulder. “Charlie, to some.”
    She pulled a pair of scissors from her sewing basket. “Do you have a last name, Charles?”
    “Be careful with those.” She was keenly aware of his eyes following her every move as she cut away the left side of his black knit shirt and T-shirt. “You get any idea about stabbing me and I’ll—”
    “So no last name?” She carefully peeled away the bloodied layers of cotton, exposing a landscape of corded muscle, dark bruises and faint white scars dotting his skin. “
Madre de Dios.
What happened to you?”
    “Had a disagreement with three guys who wanted to kill me, wrecked my truck, tussled with a petite brunette in the snow.”
    “Stop it.” Compassion fisted in her gut as she touched her gloved fingertip to the oldest and palest mark branding his biceps, tracing the puckered ring, raising goose bumps across his ashy skin. “This is from an old gunshot wound. My brother has a scar like this. The kind of work you do must take a terrible toll on your body. And yet you keep going back for more punishment. Who did this to you? Who’s after you?”
    “You feeling sorry for me, Peewee?” He turned his face to hers, the low rumble of his voice whispering across her skin like a warm breeze.
    “You’ve been hurt so many...” Her voice trailed away when she realized how close she was standing to him. Her fingers still rested against his arm. Her thighs were touching his. And if she angled her head a fraction to the left, her cheek would slide against the raspy stubble of his jaw. Her heart rate kicked up a notch, thundering in her ears. Those firm male lips were just a hairbreadth away from the apple of her cheek. Seriously? She couldn’t catch her breath? She was turned on by this brute? Surprise and shame poured through her blood, and she pulled her hand away, retreating a step from his disturbing masculine heat.
    What was happening to her? She must be suffering from some form of Stockholm syndrome already, feeling this perverted connection to her captor. She hated this man for threatening her life, for endangering Florence Walker and the rest of her neighbors simply by being here. He’d taken advantage of her desire to help someone in need and made her feel like a fool for doing so. He’d made her angry and afraid. She couldn’t feel sorry for the terrible harm that had been done to him over the years, and she certainly wasn’t attracted to him.
    Yes, the men her sisters usually set her up with were safe and boring. None of the men she’d dated had ever made her heart thump against her ribs with an irrational awareness like this. This reaction to Charles No-Name Mystery Man was just fear talking. Adrenaline. These unwanted feelings of compassion and attraction to the hard planes of his body and the soft color of his eyes didn’t mean she had a death wish to get involved with anyone as dangerous and controlling as this creep.
    She picked up a washcloth. “No. You made the choice to do what you do. If you want to lead a life of violence, I suppose it makes sense that you’d bear the marks of that decision.”
    But