The Baby Chase. Jennifer Greene

as a tornado. Given an option between the two evils, Gabe would have chosen the less chaotic.

      That wasn’t the redhead.

      For the second time, he dipped the washcloth under the faucet, wrung it out and aimed the cool cloth at the lump on her forehead. Rain was still battering the windows like bullets. March was early for a thunderstorm in Minnesota. No point in complaining; at least it was rain, instead of snow. Still, thunder shuddered through the house, and the lights winked and blinked at every flash of lightning. They’d be lucky if they didn’t lose the electricity altogether.

      Losing the electricity wouldn’t bother him. Gabe was a resourceful man. He’d spent years in the Special Forces proving his ability to cope in even the most impossible of situations. Danger had never stopped him. Neither had adversity. He’d never counted on luck or God to solve a problem—in the past.

      Conceivably, though, a few concentrated hours with Rebecca Fortune could turn even a hard-core heathen into a praying man.

      “Yee-ouch. What, did you take lessons under Torquemada? Leave me alone, you bully.”

      He didn’t stop working, didn’t look up. Right now, Rebecca was propped up on the kitchen counter, her face tilted toward the sink light.

      He had a clear view of the gash on her forehead, but the chances of keeping her pinned and still for long wouldn’t make bookie odds. “It’s your own damn fault it hurts. There’s little specks of something in the cut. Maybe paint from that window frame. They have to come out. If you’d quit squirming, I’d get done a lot faster. I think you need a couple of stitches—”

      Her response was swift. “No.”

      “And since God knows what you connected with to get all those scrapes, you probably need a tetanus shot—”

      Her response was even swifter. “I had one a couple of weeks ago.”

      “Sure you did. And cats swim. You’ve got a real talent for fiction—which is a good thing, since I don’t think you’re gonna make it as a career criminal. Breaking and entering doesn’t seem to be your thing at all.”

      “Don’t you start again with me, Devereax. I did this for my brother, and it wouldn’t matter to me if I’d ended up with all four limbs in casts and traction—I’d do it again.”

      Gabe believed her. That was what scared him.

      Most people could be appealed to through reason. Most women had a concept of safety, personal limitations, how to protect themselves. Bring that stuff up with Rebecca and she went blank. Nobody home in those pretty green eyes. No synapse connections indicating any brain function at all.

      He dropped the washcloth and angled her face toward the sink light to study the welt again. Finally, it looked clean, but the ugly gash marring that soft, cream white skin made him furious. At her.

      The punch-in-the-gut response to touching that soft, cream white skin made him even more furious. At himself.

      When a man was standing between a woman’s thighs, an arousal was a natural, unavoidable biological reaction. Gabe understood perfectly well why he was harder than a hammer. And one day out of 365, a guy was entitled to feel unreasonable for a couple of minutes.

      But he was mad at her for that, too.

      When he stepped back, Rebecca mistakenly seemed to assume she was free and promptly leaned forward. “If you get off that counter, you die,” he informed her. “You need a bandage on that.”

      “Sheesh. It’s just a little lump. It can’t be worth all this trouble.”

      “If it isn’t taped right, you’ll get a scar.”

      “My brother’s in jail on a murder one charge. Who the patooties could care about a stupid little scar? We’ve wasted enough time on this thing.”

      “One more minute and this’ll be done.” He stepped between her thighs again. He had to. He didn’t trust Rebecca not to fly off the counter and start playing sleuth. He’d found the makings of a butterfly bandage in the antiquated first aid box. Leaning this close to her, Geronimo naturally stood at attention again, as stiff as a warrior’s lance.

      Like his namesake, Geronimo should have figured out by now that a guy couldn’t win every time. Gabe ignored that problem. He wished he could ignore her.

      She was relatively cleaned up now. Technically, no one was supposed to remove anything from the estate until all the legal tangles surrounding Monica Malone’s death were settled. Those legal complications meant that the cupboards and drawers and closets in the house were still jammed with stuff. Gabe had had no trouble finding a towel, washcloth, the first aid supplies and some clothes. He’d also caught sight of some thirty-year-old Scotch in the top kitchen cupboard.

      He was considering leveling it.

      “You done?” she said hopefully.

      “Yeah, I’m done.”

      “Gabe…thanks. I really couldn’t see the cut myself, not at the angle it was. I didn’t mean to be a pistol. I appreciate the help.”

      “No sweat.” A total lie, Gabe thought. Everything about her was a sweat.

      Rebecca wasn’t vain or spoiled, he gave her that—and she sure as hell could have been both, given the enormous wealth and affluence of the Fortune family. It wasn’t her fault that she’d never been outside a protected environment. Her background just made her inescapable trouble. She was a hopeless idealist, plenty bright, but no street smarts, no practical life experience. She’d never run across the seamier, more realistic side of life. She’d never been near it. She was a believer in love, in white knights and honor, and as far as Gabe could tell, she didn’t have a clue that there were predators out there who could hurt her.

      Worse yet, she fancied herself a Nancy Drew, just because she’d written a few mystery novels. The complications she could cause, “helping” with this investigation regarding her brother, were enough to give Gabe an ulcer.

      So was she.

      As she slid off the counter, his eyes homed on the view of a lace-trimmed bra and the shadow of cleavage. More shadow than cleavage. There’d been no way he could talk her into peeling off the muddy, soaking-wet sweatshirt until he found something else for her to put on—he’d yanked the V-necked black sweater from a drawer upstairs, and he assumed it had belonged to Monica Malone. The late Monica, like so many of the Hollywood glamour stars of her era, had been built like a battleship on the upstairs deck.

      The V neck gaped on Rebecca as if she were an orphan waif playing dress-up. Her black jeans were finally dry, and snug enough to outline long, lean legs and a nonexistent tush. Since she couldn’t sit without squirming, he strongly suspected she’d bruised that bitsy tush, but for damn sure she’d never admit it to him. There was far more pride than sense in those soft green eyes, and that about summed up the rest of her appearance, too.

      The face was valentine-shaped, the skin too white, the eyes too dark, a mouth that looked dangerously butter-soft, and a nose with an impertinent tip. He guessed her height at around five-five. A respectable height—except next to him—but it was hard to resist calling her “shorty” when the least teasing got such a rise out of her.

      Her hair was dark cinnamon, and at the moment layered to her shoulders in a snarled tangle of curls. She’d obviously had no chance or time to brush it, but he’d spent time with her before this, and he knew her hair always looked like she’d just climbed out of a man’s bed after a long, acrobatic night. Since she was a Fortune, there was no question that she had the money for a decent haircut, so apparently she just didn’t think about it. Maybe a haircut wouldn’t help. Give her a butch cut and drape her in iron—she was still going to look skinny, sexy, half put together and, dammit, vulnerable.

      Gabe had never been attracted to vulnerable-looking females, so he had no idea why she so revved his engines—and he didn’t want to know. If and when a man was inclined to make a mistake, Gabe generally