Without a Trace Read Online Free PDF Page B

shoulder blade to the waist. His face, a little less harsh, a little less forbidding, in sleep, was inches from hers. She felt then, as she had felt when she’d first seen him the evening before, that it was the face of a man a woman would never be safe with.
    Yet she’d spent the night with him and had been safe—safe from him and from whatever forces were after her. More significantly, the moment she had stepped into the room and had finished unburdening herself, she had felt a wave of relief and confidence. He would help, reluctantly, resentfully, but he would help.
    Sighing, she shifted in bed, preparing to get up. His hand shot out. His eyes opened. Gillian froze. Perhaps she wasn’t as safe as she’d thought.
    His eyes were clear and alert. His grip was firm, and just shy of being painful. Under his fingers, he felt her pulse speed up. Her hair was barely mussed, which told him that exhaustion had held her still through the night. The hours of sleep had faded the shadows under her eyes, eyes that watched him warily.
    “You sleep like a rock,” he said mildly, then released her and rolled over.
    “The traveling caught up with me.” Her heart was bumping as though she’d run up three flights of stairs. He was dangerous to look at, and too close. Perhaps it was the morning disorientation that caused her to feel thatdull sexual pull.
    Before she managed to resist it, her gaze had flicked down—the strong column of neck, the broad chest—and froze. A long red scar marred the tanned skin just right of his heart. It looked as though he’d been ripped open, then put back together. And recently.
    “That looks … serious.”
    “It looks like a scar.” His voice held no inflection at all as she continued to stare at the wound with horrified eyes. “You got a problem with scars, Doc?”
    “No.” She made herself look away, back at his face. It was as hard and blank as his voice. Not my business, she reminded herself. He was a violent man who lived by violent means. And that was exactly what she needed. She got out of bed to stand awkwardly, smoothing her clothes. “I appreciate you letting me sleep here. I’m sure we could have arranged for a cot.”
    “I’ve never had a problem sharing a bed.” She was still pale. It gave her a delicate bone-china look that made him edgy. “Feel better?”
    “Yes, I—” She reached a hand to her hair as she felt the first wave of embarrassment. “Thank you.”
    “Good, because we’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.” He tossed the sheet aside and noted her instinctive flinch. His own discomfort turned to amusement. He wore flesh-colored briefs that left little room for modesty or imagination. Rising without any sign of self-consciousness, he gave her a slow, cocky grin. He liked the fact that she didn’t avert her eyes. Whatever her thoughts, she stood where she was and watched him coolly.
    Her throat had gone dry as dust, but she made a passable stab at casualness. “You could use a shower.”
    “Why don’t you order up some breakfast while I do?” He turned toward the bath.
    “Mr. O’Hurley …”
    “Why don’t you make it Trace, sweetheart?” He looked over his shoulder and grinned again. “After all, we just slept together.”
    The water was running in the shower before she managed to free the breath that was trapped in her lungs.
    He’d done it on purpose, of course, she told herself as she sat on the edge of the bed. It was typical of themale of the species to flaunt himself. The peacock had his plumage, the lion his mane. Males were always strutting and preening so that the female would be impressed. But who would have guessed the man would be built like that?
    With a shake of her head, Gillian lifted the phone. She didn’t care how he was built as long as he helped her.
    He’d have preferred it if she hadn’t looked so frail and vulnerable. Trace kept the water cold to make up for three hours’ sleep. His problem. Lathering his face, he