To Protect a Princess. Gail Barrett

settled behind him, and he wheeled the horse around, then urged him into a lope—and tried not to think about the soft curves pressed to his back, the ecstasy of that kiss. Because he wasn’t kidding about the urgency. If there really was someone out there, he needed to find out fast.

      He pressed the horse into a gallop, depending on the hard ride to keep his mind on track. But despite the danger, despite the pace, his unruly mind kept veering to the swell of her breasts, to the soft, moist heat of her mouth, returning to that kiss again and again.

      And he couldn’t help wondering how much experience she had—or which rules she’d be willing to break.

      By the time they reached the bluff above the abandoned bridge an hour later, his frustration was reaching the flash point. He slowed the horse, then reined him in by a eucalyptus tree, glad for the short reprieve. “We’ll stop here for a minute.”

      He helped her off, winced when she staggered away from the horse. But he bit back his words of sympathy. She might be stiff now, but the ride would get harder yet.

      He leaped down after her, pulled his binoculars and rifle from the pack, while she hobbled toward a bush. He didn’t loosen the gelding’s cinch. If someone was out there, they had to be ready to ride.

      His nerves ratcheted tight now, he crept as close to the edge of the cliff as he dared, and crouched behind a rock. The canyon was deep, hedged in by bluffs stripped bare by the constant wind. A hundred feet below him, the ancient rope bridge swayed over the plunging gorge like a stringy, tattered net.

      Still using the boulder to shield him, he rose, scanned the opposite ridge for signs of life, careful not to let the afternoon sun catch the binoculars’ lens. The trail leading down to the bridge was steep, treacherous even before the landslide had blocked it off. Now it would be suicidal to even try.

      He charted a path through the landslide debris, angled the binoculars down.

      And stopped. Right there, picking his way through the rubble, was a man leading a mule.

      Logan’s lungs went still. He zeroed in on the man, noted the ammo pouches on his assault vest, the Dragunov sniper rifle slung over his chest. Former military. Moved like a professional.

      And he’d come armed to kill.

      Logan didn’t believe in coincidence. That man was hunting them. But why? The dynamite in his packs wasn’t worth much, except to the miners who needed supplies. And he wasn’t hauling silver or gold.

      Which left the woman.

      His mouth thinned. The renegades wanted her for obvious reasons. There weren’t many females around. And a terrorist might try to hold her for ransom, to fund some personal war. But a sniper? Why would a sniper pursue an archeologist?

      Unless the woman had lied.

      Her footsteps crunched behind him, and he rose. His face burning, so angry he couldn’t speak, he seized her arm and yanked her back through the trees, his vision hazing with every stride.

      “What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding breathless. She trotted beside him to keep up. “Is someone there?”

      “You might say that.” He stalked to the horse and released her arm, his blood rushing hard through his skull.

      She’d lied. The damned woman had lied. Just what the hell was she up to?

      “So what are you going to do?” she asked, her voice anxious, high. “Blow up the bridge?”

      “No.” The cliff was too unstable, too exposed. And that sniper would pick him off before he could set the charge.

      Which left two choices. They either outran that man or they died.

      He sprang into the saddle, jerked her up behind him. “We’re going to ride hard,” he warned. “You can use the time to think.”

      “Think?” Her hands clutched his waist.

      “About the truth.” He twisted in the saddle, and his gaze nailed hers. “Because when we stop, you’re going to tell me what you’re really doing out here.”