But he managed to keep himself from getting up, leaving his room, and running down the hall shouting for help. That would be like announcing Cash Baker was a nut case, and he was in enough trouble already.
Trouble? What kind, exactly?
As he lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling, knowing he wasn’t getting back to sleep any time soon, a noise riveted his attention.
Listening intently, he thought he heard the knob turn. Then the door opened just far enough for someone to slip into the room before it closed again. Someone who assumed Cash Baker was sleeping and they could sneak around without him being the wiser. So, what the hell was the intruder up to? Murder or robbery?
Too bad Cash hadn’t checked the quarters for a weapon. He had nothing but his hands—and surprise—to defend himself. For the moment, all he could do was remain very still, feigning sleep, hearing the sound of harsh breathing.
So, the guy was nervous.
Was he planning to shoot the sleeping man? No. He could have done that already. So maybe he had a knife? That would certainly attract less attention.
When the assailant came softly across the floor, Cash forced himself to stay where he was. Because he’d been shot recently, he wasn’t exactly in top fighting form. But in the dim light, this guy looked small, and maybe he could take him.
As a hand reached out, Cash made his move—springing up and grabbing the outstretched arm, twisting it over and back.
The guy tried to cry out, but Cash clamped a hand across the man’s mouth, pulling him back against his own body.
“Call for help, and I’ll kill you,” he rasped.
Still holding the arm in a grip that would dislocate the guy’s shoulder if he moved the wrong way, Cash slid his other hand downward, searching for weapons.
He didn’t find a knife or a gun.
Instead his hand closed over a woman’s breast.