Larger Than Life Alison Kent (read out loud books .TXT) 📖

be a black and blue canvas, one big fat tribal tattoo. Before that happened, however, before local law enforcement started questioning him or the hinky information on the hunting lease, he needed his clothes and his ride, his gun and his dog, and to hit the road.

Adios. Sayonara.

Right. He winced, his shoulder throbbing from the reduction, his midsection pounding and waiting to be taped, his head roaring with the force of a typhoon blowing through. Like he'd be hitting anything but a morphine drip anytime soon. Not good, but not the end of the world. No one—including his fellow SG-5 operatives—would come looking for him until he signaled for help. Which brought to mind thoughts he wasn't too keen on thinking.

If he hadn't been seen, if no one had stopped, he'd have baked to death, a dehydrated, shriveled corpse wearing combat boots and fatigues, no dog tags, no government-issued I.D. That had been the way he'd lived for so long, the very way he'd expected to die, that it shouldn't have been but a bug on his mortality radar. Instead, it was a fullblown attack.

The only reason he could figure was that he owed his survival, his life, his future to the woman. Nevada. The redhead. With the big eyes. The freckles. The great rack. The mouth that reminded him how much he loved women. Especially those who had the wits and the snap this one did. Her resourcefulness impressed him all to hell.

If she'd been scared, she hadn't let on. If she'd been panicked, the same. All that was left to do now was follow her lead . . . though right now the idea of following her anywhere left him dizzy. He was lying on the gurney in a big examining room, and she was pacing around and around like she was trying to spin the cement floor below into but-ter—or however that kids' story went.

"Hey. You mind doing your laps over there?" He indicated the far side of the room with a lift of his chin. The lights in the ceiling fifteen feet overhead had been dimmed while he waited for the doctor to finish stitching the dog's jaw and get back with the drugs. "My head's spinning, and I'd prefer not to puke up my guts."

She came to stand at his side, and he sensed her fingers on the edge of his stainless steel bed, sensed her stroke the loose folds of his T-shirt. "You're awake, good. Because now you can tell me why the hell you didn't let the doctor move you into one of the smaller rooms and bandage you up. You'd be so much more comfortable there."

Mick did his best to focus on her face, on her eyes which refused to meet or hold his. "Like I told the doc, getting bandaged and comfortable can wait. I need him to fix up the dog."

She laughed, a sound that seemed a bit hysterical. "You need to have Ed fixing up you."

"I'm fine." Relatively speaking. And keeping FM in good working condition was more vital than having his own bumps and bruises diagnosed as bruises and bumps. He wasn't going anywhere. The doc would be back soon enough to tape and patch him to death. "The shoulder I needed taken care of. The ribs and the scrapes can be done when he gets back. The rest is all a matter of time and taking it easy."

"Lying on this gurney is hardly taking anything easy." She knocked twice on the shiny surface. "This thing is hard as a rock."

The echo of the ringing metal clanged in his ears. "All the better to be lying on when he hoses me down to get rid of the dirt and the blood."

She looked over at him then, making eye contact at last, even if it was a wary regard. "Hoses you down?"

He nodded, enjoying the show of nerves breaking her voice. A strong competent woman uneasy at the idea of his taking a shower out here in the wide open spaces. "Sure. Like any large animal. The concrete floor. The drain. The showerhead on the retractable hose." He gestured up toward the ceiling. "If it works for a horse, it'll work for me."

For a long moment, she stood still, frowning up at the contraption Mick was pretty sure the doctor used to clean the room after surgery. And so he was watching her when the truth dawned, when she realized he was kidding, doing what he could to break the ice that had frozen between them since he'd handed her his gun.

She crossed her arms, stepped back and lifted a brow, no longer incredulous, aghast, or even marginally amazed— much less intrigued. "Comparing yourself to a horse, are you?"

He did his best to grin. "Only in the most flattering way."

"I see." She let her gaze drift the length of his body. "So, should I get you ready? I could lend Ed a hand and ditch what's left of your clothes."

If he hadn't been halfway concussed, he would've had the presence of mind to say no. Or to insist she get out of her own clothes, as well. But he wasn't thinking straight. He wasn't thinking at all. Not even to fully remember how much trouble accompanied a sexually charged dare.

Besides, having a woman touch him, undress him, even if it was a twisted, kinky nurse and patient fantasy, hit every one of his buttons just then. "Sure," he said, and could tell by the ice age of the next few moments that she'd never expected him to say anything but no.

He wasn't sure what that said about her, whether it meant she was all talk and no action, that her low, throaty, and very hot bark was worse than her bite, or that she simply didn't like men. Could be it meant she was a thinker, slow to respond until she knew the lay of the land.

It was when she moved to his feet, however, when she began unlacing