John Bracco lay awake in the thinning gray light that precedes dawn, listening to the sounds his prisoner made as she slept. He knew she had to have been both physically and emotionally exhausted, but in spite of that she’d spent a restless night, whimpering intermittently like a child with bad dreams. As a consequence, his own slumber had been fitful, but he didn’t let that trouble him. He’d been trained to go for several days at a stretch without sleep, if need be.

It came to him that it had been a long time since he’d shared sleeping quarters with a woman. Since his return to the Arizona mountains of his troubled youth, he’d kept his sexual encounters brief and businesslike, with a minimum of emotional involvement-at least on his side. Intimacy was too risky for a man undercover; he accepted that as just another part of the job and didn’t waste time and energy on regrets. It wasn’t his way.

He had to admit, though, there were times when he’d thought about the simple pleasure of holding a woman in his arms while she slept, of waking with her warmth in his sheets and her scent on his pillow, even if long-term relationships weren’t in his cards.

With the coming of daylight, he allowed himself the luxury of studying the woman without her knowledge-an invasion of her privacy that he acknowledged with only a twinge of guilt. Even in this, the first light, he could see that she was lying on her side. He let his eyes follow the outline of her body from shoulder to waist to hip, a trail more gentle than voluptuous. But why was that so exhilarating a journey nonetheless?

And now…yes, he could see that she was facing him, the shadowed oval of her face only hinted at, nested in the slightly darker tumble of her hair as she rested her head on her folded arm in lieu of a pillow.

And why was it, though he’d never been particularly drawn to blondes, that he found himself remembering again the wild-grass color of it, the way it reflected back the sunlight in rippling waves when the wind caught it?

From there it was only the space of a single thought to a reprise of her green-apple scent, the softness of her hair against his cheek as they danced to a slow song at Smoky Joe’s, a memory still so vivid that he could feel her body’s shape in his arms and the thump of her heartbeat against his chest. Odd, when he could seldom recall even the color of a woman’s eyes the morning after he’d made love to her.

Don’t even go there, he cautioned himself. She was off-limits for all sorts of reasons, both personal and professional.

Ah, he told himself, but he was merely curious about her, this daughter of the man who, unless Agent Bracco failed in his duty, was likely to become the most powerful human being on the planet. He wondered what sort of person she was, this daughter for whom a father would give up unimaginable power and fame. And what it must be like to grow up so privileged, so valued, so cherished.

Shadows of childhood demons hovered on the edges of his consciousness as he checked the illuminated dial of his wristwatch. They fled completely, though, when the woman suddenly stirred, as if she’d sensed even that slight movement. He lay absolutely still and watched her come awake in the space of a few heartbeats, sensed the changes in her breathing, the infinitesimal differences in the atmosphere of the tent-the electricity of tension, awareness…alarm.

“Good morning.” He spoke softly, in the same tone he might have used to introduce himself to an unbroken mustang, but wasn’t surprised when, in spite of his caution, she jerked her head and shoulders upward and gave a small gasp of fear. He said nothing else, giving her a chance to sort it out, remember where she was, who he was and what had happened to her.

He knew the moment it all came back to her, the moment when her shoulders relaxed into lines of…not defeat so much as acceptance. She shifted her legs, keeping them bent at the knees in order to remain under the sleeping bag as she sat up.

He was not prepared for the next sound she made-a sharp involuntary cry of pain. At the same time she froze, her body cramped, as if she was afraid to move in any direction.

Bronco didn’t have to ask what was wrong; they’d spent a long day in the saddle yesterday, probably eighteen hours straight. “Little sore?” he asked in a casual tone, mentally kicking himself for not having thought of it before. However, figuring it wouldn’t be in character for her abductor to be too free with sympathy, he went briskly on, “Best thing to do is walk it off. You’ll feel better after you start moving around.”

At first she didn’t seem to have heard him. She was rocking herself slightly, eyes glazed, all her concentration turned inward on herself and her pain. Then, in a voice so low he could barely hear it, she confessed, “I don’t think I can.”

“Sure you can. Might be a little uncomfortable at first-”

And then he stopped. Because suddenly he really did understand. Lord help her, she wasn’t just muscle-sore from being so long in the saddle, she had saddle sores. And from the way she was acting, they were third degree. In rapid sequence his mind replayed images of the previous night, their arrival at the camp, the way she’d hung on to the saddle sort of hunched up and breathing hard, the way he’d goaded her. It brought him no joy, remembering every move she’d made, every step she’d taken, up and down the cabin steps, climbing the hill to her tent. He knew from personal experience what a bad case of saddle sores was like. When he thought what it must have cost her to keep him from knowing…

Empathy flooded him. Distilled through his guilt, it emerged as anger.

Quicker than thought, he left his bedroll and was across the tent and down on one knee beside hers. “Let me see ’em,” he commanded. He swore when she shook her head. “I said let me-”

“No.” And she ground out the word between clenched teeth. “I’m fine. Damn you, leave me alone.”

Bronco rocked back on his heel and looked at her for a long moment. She stared past him, jaw set like concrete. He said dangerously, “Lady, I will haul you out of there if I have to. We can do this easy, or we can do it hard, but I am going to have a look at those sores. What’s it gonna be?” Her eyes flicked at him; he thought of the sting of a rawhide whip. “I’m going to count to three. One…”

At that she let out a breath in an infuriated gust and muttered under her breath, “You sound like my mother.” She moved back slightly and looked away, but not before he saw her cheeks ripen to a dusky pink. She cleared her throat. “I’m not…wearing pants.”

Bronco’s heart gave an unexpected lurch, but he only grunted. “Good thing, or else how am I gonna see your legs? Come on, haul ’em outta there.” As encouragement he snagged the sleeping bag’s zipper and pulled it down with a prolonged metallic growl.

Still she hesitated, looking mulish and somehow childlike in her resistance, but now he felt a surprising impulse to laugh. He resisted it and, instead, looked at her from under his lashes and said mildly, “You think I’ve never seen a woman’s legs before? What, one look and I’m suddenly gonna turn into a sex maniac? I’ll tell you something, Laurie Brown. I’ve seen a whole lot of legs, and trust me, it’d take some a lot more spectacular than yours to make me lose control. Come on-out.”

He was watching her closely, so he knew he didn’t imagine it when he saw the corners of her mouth twitch.

With a deliberation that bordered on insolence, she peeled back the sleeping bag. Even more slowly unfolded her legs, biting her lip, breathing suspended. Then at last, rolling her eyes, looking anywhere but at him, she leaned back on her hands in grudging surrender.

“Thanks,” Bronco said dryly. It had been such a subtle striptease that he couldn’t quite decide whether it was intentional or not. And if it was, whether that was as dangerous a notion as he suspected it might be.

He noted that she’d worn his sweatshirt to sleep in, along with, it appeared, underpants and socks. Since he’d watched her pack pretty much everything she’d brought with her from Texas into those saddlebags and knew it hadn’t included any sort of nightgown, he had to wonder what she normally wore to bed. Just underwear? Nothing? Another dangerous thought. He pushed it from his mind and concentrated on his examination.

He’d told her the truth, as far as it went; there wasn’t a pair of legs in this or any other world that was going to make Johnny Bronco lose control. Though he had to admit, when it came to fantastic legs, hers were right up there. But oddly enough it wasn’t the legs that intrigued him so much as her embarrassment about showing them. He found her awareness of him intensely erotic. He could feel his heart begin to thump.

A moment later, though his heart still banged against his rib cage, every erotic thought had fled. Instead, as he stared at the oozing silver-dollar-size patches on the insides of her knees where the skin had literally been rubbed away, he felt chilled and sick. My God, he thought. What she must have suffered. In silence. An unaccustomed emotion filled his chest-more than admiration, more than respect, almost…awe.

“Those are gonna have to be doctored,” he said flatly, confident that his voice, like his features, would give away nothing. He sat back on his heel again, his forearm once more draped across his knee, and met her eyes. He found them bright as stars, blazing defiance. “You got ’em on your butt, too?”

She responded in a valiant whisper, “You are not looking at those.”

After a long electric moment, it was he who looked away and let out an audible breath. Damn. Now what was he going to do? The medical supplies were in the cabin. To get her taken care of, he was either going to have to make her get dressed and go down there with him, or he was going to have to leave her while he went to fetch what he needed. He didn’t care for either option. The thought of her walking all the way down that hill with her jeans rubbing against those sores made him feel light-headed. On the other hand, to leave her alone in a tent, unguarded, seemed, at the very least, risky.

Then he remembered the handcuffs.

He’d put them on the floor of the tent beside his bedroll along with his boots and the flashlight, things he liked close at hand in case he needed them in a hurry. He reached for the cuffs now, laid them across his lap while he pulled on his boots. Fully dressed, he rolled his bed, pushed it away from the entrance and stood up. From there he regarded his prisoner, keeping his face devoid of all expression as he told her, “I’m going to have to go get something to put on those sores. Under the circumstances, I think it’s best if you stay here.”

She nodded, but her eyes were fixed on the stainless-steel bracelets dangling from his left hand. She’d dragged the top half of the sleeping bag back over her knees, covering her legs but leaving her feet and ankles peeking out. They looked vulnerable and delicate as a child’s. He fastened his gaze on them so he wouldn’t have to watch her face. “I won’t be gone long, but just to be on the safe side…”

She caught her breath and blurted out in a rush, “It’s not really necessary to handcuff me, is it? I mean, my God, where am I going to go? You saw-I can barely even move. I won’t try to run away, I swear.” Please, her eyes begged him; her pride wouldn’t let her say the words. Please don’t.

Bronco stared at her in a crackling hissing silence. Dammit, what was he supposed to do? He knew she wasn’t going to run-all logic told him she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But in his gut…what if she did? He’d been wrong about women before. What if? If anything happened to her, not only would his ass be grass and his career toast twice over, but what was infinitely worse, he’d never forgive himself.

He gave a soft sarcastic snort. “What, am I supposed to take your word for that? Just…leave you here on your honor?”

She nodded eagerly, her eyes luminous and pleading. “I promise, on my word of honor. I won’t go anywhere. Not even to the latrine. Swear to God. Please-can’t you just trust me?”

It was the word trust that got him. He let go a laugh that was like the sound of a whip striking leather. “Lady, I haven’t trusted a woman since I was seven.” He knelt and with a deft twist of cold steel, snapped the cuffs on her ankles.

Then he was outside the tent and moving fast, leaving it and the woman behind him as quickly as he could. He felt cold through and through. And unbelievably shaken-by the words he’d spoken even more than by what he’d done.