Naughty Stranger (Dangerous Love 1)

“On it.” Rhett grabbed his phone, placing it to his ear. “It’s Rhett. Any accidents called in?”

Boone didn’t look back. He took off running for the station, toward his motorcycle, with the worst thoughts going through his head.

When he reached the station’s back parking lot and spotted his motorcycle, his cell rang. “Where?” he asked, breathless.

“Accident just came in. Route 182,” Rhett said.

Boone shoved his phone in his pocket and hopped on his bike. The engine roared beneath him and the tires squealed as he sped away.

Peyton.

Chapter 9

The summer sun rested over the mountains, white fluffy clouds spreading across the blue sky, in sharp contrast to the carnage on the ground. Peyton placed a 911 call and then exited her car. “Please be alive,” she said beneath her breath. The accident had played out before her, and she’d been helpless to stop anything while the semi spun, hitting the car that had been driving ahead of it. That hit had sent the semi in a different direction, barely missing Peyton’s car when she slammed on her brakes, staying out of the collision.

Metal and glass scattered the roadway. Steam hissed from the front of a crushed white sports car.

With shaky hands, she gathered her hair waving around her face, and then peered inside the car. Or what once was a car. The semi was resting sideways across the road. It had obviously hit the car that had been in front of it with incredible force. The steering wheel was now where the back passenger should be sitting, and she could see that blood soaked the cream-colored leather seats. The only evidence anyone had been driving was a leg sticking up from behind the engine, the foot covered in a bright red high heel.

Peyton called on her nursing knowledge and reached into the smashed window, grasping the woman’s ankle, searching for a pulse. She couldn’t see any evidence the driver had a passenger. If there had been another person in this car, they were most definitely dead—as was the woman belonging to this foot.

Ice coursed through Peyton’s body, a familiar numbness settling into her core. Her hands shook as she forced herself to carry on, moving toward the semi. A turkey vulture soared overhead, like the bird knew death had come. The warm wind was calming against the coldness of her skin as she pushed on, knowing someone likely needed her help.

Smoke billowed from the truck’s hood when she climbed onto the running board, grabbing on to the handle to pull herself up to the driver’s-side window. There, she discovered a man in his mid-fifties wearing a Detroit Tigers baseball cap, his expression twisted in pain.

“Sir, can you move?” she asked.

“No.” He grunted. “I think my leg is broken.”

While Peyton recognized that being this close to vehicles that might burst into flames was precarious, the man’s face worried her most. His skin was pale, ghostly even. “I’m a nurse,” she said, feeling like her nursing career ended a lifetime ago, “and I’ve already called 911. Help’s coming, but I should still take a look.” She moved out of the way and opened the door to a flood of blood. “Was something stuck in your leg?” she asked quickly.

“Yes,” he hissed. “A piece of metal. I yanked it out.”

Big mistake, she wanted to say. Instead of worrying him, she focused on the blood again, taking in the sheer amount of it, now realizing the reason for his gray skin. “Do you have any head or neck pain?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Back pain? Loss of sensation anywhere?”

“No, it’s just my leg,” the man grunted.

“Okay, sir, I’m sorry, but I need to see your wound.” She slid her hand behind his back. “I have to get you out of here.” Taking in his height and weight, she added, “You’re going to have to help me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His thick bloody arm slid across her neck and she grabbed his sides and tugged. His screams sent birds scattering into the sky. “Goddammit,” he roared when she finally managed to help him lie down a few steps away from the truck.

“I know that hurts. I’m sorry.” She dropped to her knees, finding his ankle crushed. She reached for the hole in his jeans edged with dark crimson and stretched the dense fabric open, finding exactly what she didn’t want to see.

“Is it okay?” the man asked, voice fraught with worry.

“Yes. Yes. You’re fine,” Peyton lied, yanking her white T-shirt over her head, revealing her lace bra. Blood spurted from the man’s femoral artery with the beat of his heart at such a rate that Peyton knew it wouldn’t be long before he lost his life. She quickly made a makeshift tourniquet with her T-shirt, tying the fabric as tight as she could manage around his thigh. “I’m sorry, please forgive me, but this is going to hurt.” She pressed her hand down against the wound on his leg, and his screams blasted like a firecracker through the air, until either pain or blood loss sent him into unconsciousness. “You cannot die today. Do you hear me?”

No moans. No screams. Nothing.

No, this couldn’t happen again. Her skin flushed hot, the world spinning around her. She pressed harder, trying to keep herself in the present, feeling disconnected. Like she was there, but not there too.

Time seemed to slow, a second feeling like an hour when the roar of a motorcycle came closer. Boone.

Then he was there, his powerful gaze boring into hers, and somehow, she no longer felt alone. “You’re hurt,” he stated.