Protecting His Brother's Bride. Jan Schliesman

an ass.”

      “So I’ve been told.”

Chapter 3

      “More diamond dust?” Kira yanked her arm from his grasp and fell sideways into the mud. She didn’t realize what the mud was until the beam of light fell across the stone. Joshua Kincaid Matthews, loving son and brother.

      Kira immediately wanted to scream what a bastard Josh was. She recognized yet another lie to add to the long list her husband had told her. But if he hadn’t used his real name with her, had they really been married?

      “Do you still think I didn’t know Josh?” She stood, wiping her mud-covered hands down her pants. There wasn’t anything physically similar about the two men.

      “You aren’t acting like the mourning bride.”

      “How I mourn is none of your business. What motive could I possibly have to stand here if I’m not married to that man?”

      He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. She refused to show any sadness for the man who’d abandoned her. But what made her want to sink to her knees in despair was knowing that her last hope to identify Griffin and clear her name was gone.

      It was a long shot to begin with, and now she’d truly run out of options. There wasn’t anyone left to turn to for help. No family to lend support or friends to phone for advice. Now her freedom hung in the balance.

      Strong fingers latched on to the soft flesh of her shoulders.

      “You’re an imposter.” He gave her a slight shake.

      The eternity candle from the mausoleum was doing weird things with Josh’s brother’s features. It cast a glow that made everything appear more sinister.

      Cemeteries in general were creepy. And visiting one in the middle of nowhere, with an armed stranger, was more creepy than usual. The likelihood anyone would stumble upon them was minimal, but being so far out in the boondocks only magnified the otherworldly feel.

      Dalton Matthews looked angry enough to kill, and Kira’s mind jumped into overdrive. A moment of sudden clarity struck. What better place to dump a body than in a private cemetery with a fresh grave? The longer she stood next to him, the more certain she was that leaving was less likely. He’d been furious when she’d mentioned Josh’s name and then he’d immediately driven her to this isolated cemetery. Brother or stranger? BCA, Inc. could stand for Brawny Commits Assault for all she knew.

      Stay or run? If she could get the jump on him and sprint to the car, she could lock herself inside and drive away. Then Kira remembered he’d pocketed the keys.

      She wanted to punch something, and violence had never been an option in her life. Until today. She knew it was wrong, even before her fist connected with a set of rock-hard abs. Hitting him hurt her much more than she’d expected, forcing her nails into her palm with razor sharpness.

      “What was that for?” Dalton grabbed ahold of both her fists and shook her till her teeth rattled.

      Hysterical laughter escaped her lips. Was he serious? As if being chased, blown up and tied to a chair wouldn’t cause the average person to become a little cranky? Kira tugged against his grip, but he held tight, startling her into throwing up a well-placed knee, barely missing its mark. Then training from her Saturday-morning self-defense class kicked in and she released a bloodcurdling scream, hoping to attract someone’s attention.

      Dalton spun her away from him and quickly pinned her arms at her sides, drawing her back to his chest.

      “Knock it off or I’m finding a place for you in the trunk,” he threatened, tightening his grip for emphasis.

      “This is against the law,” she said, trying to fight her way out of his grasp.

      “Guess it depends which side you’re on, right, Blondie?”

      “Blondie?”

      “I’ve got to call you something, unless you’d rather tell me your real name?”

      “I’m so not amused by you, Brawny Boy.”

      The afghan fell to the ground, leaving her arms bare against the coolness of the night. His forearms crossed beneath her breasts, shoving her assets even closer to overflowing from her worn and torn shirt. His breath fanned against her neck, causing a chill to run down her spine.

      “Let me go.” Kira resisted the overwhelming desire to struggle, for what seemed like an eternity plus a day. In the span of fifteen or so seconds she knew exactly when her traitorous body shifted to the dark side, recognized that she would have been better off avoiding the heat he radiated and finally identified what a tactical mistake she’d made.

      “You sure do love a good fight, don’t you?”

      “I wasn’t fighting,” she mumbled, “just expressing a difference of opinion.”

      Kira relaxed a tad, hating the fact she enjoyed the security of feeling his arms wrapped tightly around her ribs. Very bad. Or maybe she should consider the possibility that she’d suffered a concussion when she’d whacked her head. Whatever the reason, being pressed against Dalton forced her to catalog his attributes, which were many.

      First there was the heat he radiated, and not gosh-he-feels-warm heat, but the honest-to-goodness hey-it’s-hot-in-here-so-turn-the-furnace-down kind. Big difference.

      And muscles. The man had muscles upon muscles. Kira flattened her palms against his thighs for balance. She should admit that she was cold and shoeless, and he might allow her to return to the car.

      “Are you finished?” His rich baritone shot warm air across her ear.

      Had she really allowed herself to relax against this superbly built man? He could be lying. Remember the fresh grave? What if he was another of Griffin’s assassins? She jerked against his grasp once more.

      “You can’t haul someone out to a cemetery after dark and think they’ll willingly go along with their own murder. Unless you’ve done this before?”

      * * *

      “Murder?” Great. He’d scared her more than the assassin at his house had.

      Evidently Dalton’s lack of human contact over the past few months had turned him into one of the bottom-feeders he claimed to detest. Was he really standing in a cemetery, attempting to exert some kind of control over a woman he hardly knew? He should say something reassuring, right? But her disposition made him edgy and off balance.

      Before he could form a suitable explanation, he released her and she stumbled forward. One hand covered her mouth as she coughed, while the other signaled for him to give her space.

      The flashlight beam silhouetted her figure and he caught himself staring at the damp T-shirt clinging to her heaving chest, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. All her struggling against him had caused the fabric to bunch below her breasts, exposing her midriff. Her pants had also shifted, revealing name-brand underwear.

      Then his disbelieving gaze slid down her slim legs to her bare feet, planted in ankle-deep mud. He should have taken her to the hospital, not a cemetery.

      “Don’t. Touch. Me.” Each word she spoke was emphasized by a cough.

      “You shouldn’t have gotten out of the car without shoes.” He glared down at her, feeling like a Sunday school teacher trying to persuade an unruly child to see the light.

      After one final cough, she jabbed a finger in the center of his chest. “You didn’t get my shoes, remember?”

      Yeah, he remembered. The first one she’d thrown at his head, and the other fell off as he’d carried her from his house. “Get in the car.”

      He shoved his hand into his pocket for the keys, clicked the remote and popped open the trunk. It was loaded with T-shirts,