Комбат. Олимпийский характер. Андрей ВоронинЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter 4

      Tamara struggled to regain her composure, find her professional detachment. She’d seen enough corpses through her job to stomach the grisly sight and even tolerate the smell to an extent. But the shock of finding the body so unexpectedly, the eerie shadows her key-ring light cast, having nearly fallen on top of the dead man…

      She swallowed the sour taste that rose in her throat. Clenching her teeth to endure the sharp pain, she pulled herself to her feet. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase to climb out of the pit. By using the toes of her shoes to dig footholds, she managed to pull herself out of the sinkhole, one excruciating inch at a time.

      Overwhelmed by the pain, the stench of death, the horror of what had happened to her, she braced on shaky hands and knees and retched—which sent fresh paroxysms of pain through her chest. The unforgiving Texas sun beat down on her and made her head swoon. Common sense warned her she had to get to her car, had to get out of the heat, had to get help for her injuries.

      She had to report finding the dead man.

      She shuddered.

      A body.

      The driver of the stolen car? Maybe. But if so, who put him down in that hole?

      After struggling to her car, holding her aching ribs as still as possible, Tamara drove slowly toward the ranch’s main house. The idea of facing Clay again hurt almost as much as the jarring bumps and jolts of the uneven pasture and pothole-riddled driveway.

      She blasted her horn as she approached the house. Within moments, two irritated ranch hands stalked toward her car, shouting for her to quit honking. Others looked on, clearly curious about what she wanted. She scanned the approaching ranch workers, looking for the one man she wanted most to see and yet dreaded facing.

      Finally she spotted Clay, hurrying through the front door of the white house and crossing the wide porch. A familiar beagle rose from his nap on the porch and romped across the yard at Clay’s feet.

      Tears of relief pricked her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to force them down. She swore to be strong in front of Clay if it killed her. Gaze fixed on her ex-husband, she waved off the ranch hands when they opened her door and offered her help.

      The moment Clay realized who was behind the wheel of the Accord, his gait faltered for a second. His irritated scowl morphed into a look of shock then concern. He sprinted the remaining distance to her driver’s side door.

      Pushing aside one of his workers, he squatted in the V of the open car door. “Tamara, what’s wrong? Why—”

      “I fell…into a sinkhole. Out by the ravine.” She closed her eyes and waited out a new wash of pain.

      Clay mumbled a curse. “How bad are you hurt? Can you walk?”

      Before she could answer, he shoved to his feet and leaned in to check her. Taking her chin in his fingers, he swept her face with his gaze, then touched a scrape on her temple.

      Wincing, she grabbed his wrist to stop his ministrations. “I found a body.”

      Clay’s thick eyebrows dipped, his dark eyes homing in on hers. “A body? Where?”

      “In the pit. A man. He’s been dead at least a couple days, judging from the stink.”

      Clay stiffened at the news, barely brushing her chest, but the contact sent a fiery spasm through her. She gasped and gritted her teeth.

      “Where are you hurt?” he demanded, snatching his hands away from her.

      A prick of self-consciousness filtered through her haze of discomfort. She must look frightful, scratched, bleeding and covered in grime. And after baking in the heat for hours, wallowing in a dirt pit, then dragging herself to her car, she had to be ripe.

      By contrast, even breathing shallowly as she was to avoid pain, the aroma of sunshine and leather clung to Clay and filled her nose. Her heart gave a hard thump. So many precious memories were tied to his seductive scent. Memories that now left her emotionally raw.

      “I…may have cracked…a rib or two. I can hardly…breathe. It hurts…every time I move—”

      “Can you walk or should I carry you inside?”

      Just getting to her car had hurt like hell. She was tempted to let him carry her, but she hated to seem needy. “I can walk.”

      “Hobo, get back,” he told the beagle, who stuck his nose inside the car to greet the ranch’s visitor.

      Tamara smiled through her pain at the sight of the mutt, her old friend. She held her fingers out for him to sniff and scratched his head. “Hi, boy.”

      Clay placed a hand under her elbow to steady her as she rose slowly, stiffly from the car. New aches from the tumble into the pit assaulted her. Muscles cramped, joints ached, scrapes throbbed.

      She hobbled a few steps and couldn’t stop the groan that escaped her dry lips.

      “That’s it,” Clay said and carefully lifted her into his arms.

      She clutched the shirt at his shoulder when pain ripped though her chest. “No, Clay, I—I’m okay.” She stopped to suck air in through her teeth. “Really. L-let me down.”

      He scoffed. “You can barely stand, much less walk.”

      “But if I move slowly, I can—”

      “Don’t argue.” His penetrating espresso gaze silenced her.

      Cradling her ribs, she rested her cheek on the soft cotton of his shirt. Being this close to him again stole her breath. Feeling the power of his arms around her, hearing the thud of his heart left her a bit dizzy. With Hobo barking excitedly at his feet, he strode with smooth quick steps, mindful not to jostle her, and soon had her in the blissful air-conditioning of his house.

      He bypassed the living and dining rooms, heading straight down the long hall, through the kitchen and into the family room at the back of the house.

      “Marie!” Clay called as he settled her on a cool leather couch.

      A Mexican woman came out of the laundry room and appeared in the kitchen. “Sí, Mr. Clay?”

      “I need the hydrogen peroxide and a damp cloth.”

      Tamara met the woman’s startled expression and gave her a strained smile.

      The woman pressed a hand to her cheek and hurried closer. “Oh, my! What happened?”

      “I fell in some kind of sinkhole…out in the south pasture.” She opted to leave out the detail about the dead body until the sheriff had a chance to investigate.

      Clay made quick introductions between Tamara and his housekeeper. If the woman found it odd that Clay’s ex-wife had been hanging around one of his pastures, she hid it well.

      Tamara winced as she tried to find a more comfortable position.

      Marie waved a hand toward her. “Mr. Clay, she needs to see a doctor. She’s hurting.”

      Clay unclipped his cell phone and started dialing. “I know. I’m calling Doc Mason right now.”

      The older woman shook her head. “But Doc Mason is not here. He went on vacation,