Larger Than Life by Alison Kent (read the beginning after the end novel .txt) 📕

that blossoming warmth in her belly. Why hadn't she at least put on her bathrobe or a bra? "Just sit still. And trust me."

Right. Trust the man who'd told her he was here for the mule deer. "I'll sit still, but that's all. And only until you give me reason to move."

He got up, dragged his chair around and positioned it behind hers. "I'm not going to give you reason to do anything but fall asleep."

Something she wouldn't be doing until she got to bed behind her locked door. "Just to clue you in, I'm not the type to fall asleep just anywhere. Not on a plane, never in a moving car. I even have trouble in hotel rooms."

"That's gotta be hell on your love life," he said, sitting and settling his palms on her shoulders, his thumbs at the base of her neck.

"I was talking about falling asleep. Not... other things." And dear Lord, but his thumbs felt good, rubbing pressure circles against her nape right where she most needed to be rubbed.

"I've slept in planes, trains, and automobiles," he said, and she smiled. "I've also slept in a Turkish mosque, a Russian freighter, on the ground in the Australian Outback, and underground in a Tuscan winery."

"A Turkish mosque?"

"Yeah. Don't mention that to anyone. I probably shouldn't have been there."

Funny man. Amazing hands. She was halfway asleep already. "In Turkey? Or in the mosque?"

He hesitated a moment then seemed to chuckle under his breath. "Both, now that you mention it."

Her head lolled forward as he massaged the tendons at the base of her skull. She closed her eyes. "If that's putting too much stress on your shoulder—"

"No worries, mate," he said, and she groaned.

"You don't have an accent. Did you pick up the vernacular while sleeping under the outback moon?"

"Actually, it was on the Russian freighter. I spent a bit of time there chained in the cargo hold with two blokes from Melbourne."

"What?" She tried to turn; he wouldn't let her, but held her head still while he worked his knuckles and fingertips along the slope to her shoulders. "Chained? You mean like a prisoner?"

"You could say. But being chained didn't make me the enemy."

The gun. The knife. "I guess these were your pre-engineer-ing days?"

"About thirty of them, yeah."

"What were you hunting then? Sables? Minks? KGB informants?"

"Bad guys," he said, and left it at that.

She wasn't about to drop it that easily, no matter the fabulous magic of his hands. She shifted to the side, tucking one leg beneath her, and turned in the padded red seat. His gaze, when she met it, was indecipherable, though he did lift a brow.

He'd curled his hands around the padded top of her aluminum frame and red Naugahyde diner-style chair. She placed one of her hands atop his and shook her head slowly, thinking, wondering. "Who are you, Mick Savin? And don't give me that mule deer bullshit."

"What makes you so skeptical, Nevada Case?" he responded, hooking her fingers with his.

"Because I've been lied to by too many people in my life." She narrowed her gaze and her mouth. "And don't call me Nevada."

He didn't say anything in response. He didn't release her gaze or her hand. In fact, he seemed to tighten both holds. It was the only explanation for why she couldn't break away, because she wanted to break way. Of course she did; why wouldn't she?

"Then I'm not going to lie to you," he finally admitted. "I'm here on a hunt. And there are some men out there who don't want me to find what I'm looking for."

She didn't know why he'd told her that any more than she knew why she believed him. But she did. And she found herself twining her fingers tighter with his. "What are you looking for?"

"The truth?"

She nodded, unable this time to find her voice.

He smiled softly. "I can't tell you."

"Is that a lie by omission?"

"The lie is only in the lack of details. The truth is that I don't want you to get hurt."

"By you? Or by the men who caught you trespassing?"

"Both," he answered honestly, and she cringed.

"Am I putting myself in danger by having you here?"

"The truth?" he asked again.

And again, she nodded.

"I'm not a very nice man."

She looked down to where their hands were joined, said, "I guess that depends on the judge."

He said nothing, and she feared looking up. Not because he frightened her; he no longer did. And the only thing that had changed was the response of her intuition to the truth he'd told. He wasn't here for her. That much she trusted to be true.

What she didn't trust was the warmth of his skin, the secure hold of his fingers, his claim of not being a very nice man. But more than anything, she didn't trust what she was feeling. And she didn't like at all not trusting that about herself.

In the end, however, she was helpless against the pull of his gaze, and raised her eyes to meet his. The way he looked at her, the way he stared into her eyes searching for . . . she didn't know.

And so she asked, the ache in her chest subduing her voice, "What are you looking for?"

"I think I'm trying to decide if you mean it," he said.

"I don't make a habit of saying what I don't mean."

"What have I done that you would give me that benefit of a doubt?"

"You forget that I'm used to being lied to." Dear Lord, but her chest was aching, her heart hurting. "And I don't see anything but truth in your eyes."

"Even if it's a half truth?"

"If that's all you're able to tell..." She shrugged, looked back at their joined hands, admitting to herself that it wasn't so strange that they both had secrets. What was new here was that they both recognized—and respected—the same in the other.

"Neva?"

At his whisper of her name, she once again found her gaze drawn to his.

"If I could tell you more, I