Some Kind of Magic Read Online Free

wanted him and his gun out of there.
    He smiled. “Somebody could come along and kidnap you, and you wouldn’t be able to call anybody for help.”
    Her muscles began to unknot—now that she knew rape wasn’t on the agenda, but she refused to laugh at his pathetic joke.
    “If you don’t have a phone, then get me some dry clothes. The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll be out of here.”
    Thank God! Oh, thank God!
    She hurried from the room and quickly dug through some of Anton’s abandoned clothes, ones she hadn’t yet burned. Her visitor was taller, heavier compared to Anton’s lithe frame. She ended up settling on a pair of jogging pants, plus a flannel shirt she’d given Anton last winter.
    He’d hated it.
    She also came up with a pair of striped boxer shorts, a white T-shirt, and a pair of heavy wool socks. When she stepped back into the living room, the man had stripped to the waist. The right side of his torso, above the rib cage, was one massive bruise.
    “You need a doctor.” It was merely an observation. She didn’t care if he got medical attention. After all, he’d kidnapped her at gunpoint.
    “Just gimme the clothes.”
    She threw the bundle on the couch.
    He unbuttoned his jeans, then reached for the zipper.
    On his arm was a strange tattoo, below the tattoo, writing that she couldn’t make out. A gang symbol?
    “If you don’t want to get an eyeful, I suggest you turn around.” Without waiting for her to comply, he began peeling off his pants.
    She remained where she was, reluctant to turn her back on him.
    “But then, maybe you do want to get an eyeful. That’s okay with me. I’m not modest.”
    She slowly turned away, and had taken three steps when he stopped her.
    “Stay here. Where I see you.”
    She waited, her ears fine-tuned. She heard the sound of boots hitting the floor, heard the sound of fabric moving over skin.
    She imagined him slipping into the shorts, the pants, the shirt. Until she became aware of the silence behind her.
    She waited.
    And waited.
    Then slowly turned in time to see him collapse on the couch.
    Sitting, he lunged for the nearest receptacle, which happened to be the kindling bucket, his gun clattering to the floor. With one hand to his stomach, the other gripping the bucket, he threw up.
    When he was finished, he retrieved the gun and fell back against the couch, eyes tightly closed, breathing shallow, his skin the color of paste. The plaid shirt was yet to be buttoned, the tails lying across his thighs.
    “Do something with that,” he whispered.
    If he hadn’t given her such a direct order, Claire would have had no trouble complying. As it was, Claire had a problem with people trying to tell her what to do. “No.”
    “I’ve got a gun.”
    “I won’t clean up after you.”
    “Shit.” He got to his feet, grabbed the bucket, shuffled to the front door, put the bucket outside, and let the dog in.
    He made it back to the couch, Hallie following, tail wagging, her body language seeming to ask, Am I supposed to be doing this? Even if I’m not, I like it.
    With his eyes closed, the man jammed the gun into the waistband of the gray jogging pants.
    Claire stared. And stared some more.
    At his pallor. At his face that needed to be shaved. At the gun jammed into his pants. Why did men put guns there? It didn’t seem like a good idea.
    For a guy, it was like putting a gun to his head.
    A hysterical giggle rose in her throat. She put a hand to her mouth, trying to stop it.
    Too late.
    Dark, hooded eyes flew open. They were gray. She could see that now. “What’s so funny?”
    “Isn’t that kind of cold?” She pointed to the weapon in question.
    It took him a moment to figure out what she was talking about. When he did, irritation flashed across his features—his reaction to such an inane question. He had bigger problems than cold metal against his belly.
    “No," he said slowly. “Haven't you heard? Happiness is a warm gun.”

Chapter 4
    “What else do you