Someone had sabotaged his truck.

He shut off the engine. “Get out of the truck, Maya.”

“Why? What are you talking about?”

“I think there's a bomb under my seat.”

She didn't ask any more questions, just unhooked her seat belt and reached for her bag just as his ass started to smoke.

He hooked one hand around her waist and her mouth opened with surprise as he dragged her out of her seat and through the driver's-side door. A faint hissing sound pricked his ears, and it was sheer instinct that had him picking her up off the ground and throwing her away from the truck.

Her body arced through the air, her hands moving to shield her face, her knees curled to protect her stomach and groin as she hit the ground.

Logan felt the force of the explosion a split second before he landed on top of her, covering every square inch of her head and back and legs and arms from the flying shrapnel.

Where am I? And why am I lying on the ground under someone? were the first thoughts in Maya's brain as she slowly came to. Her body ached in a hundred places. She felt bruised and battered all over.

And then she realized that Logan was covering her body with his own, his hard muscles a blissful blanket of safety. His chest rapidly rose and fell against her back as he worked to catch his breath.

Oh God, his truck had blown up. And they'd almost died.

She could feel the heat from the explosion all around them. She hadn't braced herself for hitting the gravel, and her cheek was pushed painfully into the sharp gray rocks, along with the rest of her. But it didn't matter how much it hurt.

They were alive. And Logan had nearly died trying to save them both.

Violent shaking started at her chest and worked down her arms and legs, even beneath Logan's heavy weight. Her teeth chattered and sobs built up in her stomach and chest.

She heard herself moan, heard him whisper gentle, encouraging words against her hair, but the sounds came at her through a long, dark tube.

Everything faded to black and she welcomed the darkness.

He'd thrown her too hard. She hadn't had time to prepare for the landing. He was too heavy for her. He shouldn't have crushed her like that, could have broken her ribs when he'd landed on top of her.

But she was alive. And getting her out of the truck had been the only thing that mattered.

It was obvious that they were both moving targets. And odds were it was only a matter of time before the next attack. They had to figure out who was behind all this, and fast. Before they paid with their lives.

His back and legs stung like hell, but he ignored the pain as he shifted to his hands and knees. Gently, he ran his fingertips over Maya's rib cage. Thank God, everything was where it should be. Moving to his feet, he scooped her up in his arms.

Her eyelashes fluttered open, then closed. She moaned again, working to focus on his face as he carried her toward the house, and he was so damn glad to get the chance to look into her beautiful brown eyes again.

Her golden skin was ash-gray and pockmarked with indentations from the gravel. The color had fallen from her lips. No longer rosy, they were pale, sallow.

He wanted to kill the person who'd done this. Coming after him was one thing. But almost killing Maya was unforgivable.

For now, the wildfire—even the investigation—had to fade into the background. Everything else would wait while he tended to Maya.

“You saved my life.”

She didn't owe him anything. He didn't want her thanks. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Someone tried to kill us,” she whispered.

He hugged her closer to him, the heat of her body further reassurance the she was all right. She'd had an enormous shock. And he wasn't ready to let her go yet.

“We don't have to talk about this now.”

She tried to wriggle out of his arms while he carried her to his front door and kicked it open. He'd taken care of countless survivors. Her legs would buckle when they hit the floor. Not because she was weak. But because she was human.

Still, he admired her pride. Her strength. Slowly, he let her toes touch the ground, keeping the bulk of her weight in his arms.

She pushed back to stand on her own and her face immediately lost all its color. He pulled her close again.

“Steady, now.”

She wrapped her arms around him and gasped. “Logan, you're hurt.”

His back had taken the brunt of the damage from the explosion. It was going to hurt like a bitch to clean up.

“I've felt worse. I'll be fine. Right now, you need to focus on getting your equilibrium back.”

“No,” she said, that determined glint in her eyes, “I need to focus on helping you.” Her eyelashes fluttered down. “I can never repay you for saving my life, Logan. Please, let me help you. It's the very least I can do.”

He was helpless against her soft plea, against the warmth of her touch. She slowly ran her fingers over his shoulder blades, down his spine to his lower back, making contact with cuts and bruises and a couple of pebbles embedded in his skin.

He bit back a groan of pain. He didn't want her to see his wounds and feel at all responsible for what had happened.

“You're probably still in shock. Go lie down on the couch,” he instructed in a rough voice. “I'll be right back.”

“I need to help you,” she insisted, ignoring his command as her hands found the edge of his T-shirt.

She didn't wait for him to agree as she walked around his body. She sucked in a breath when she saw the damage his back and legs had sustained, but she didn't faint.

“Hold still.”

He clenched his teeth as she pulled the sweat- and bloodstained CSI Tahoe shirt away from his battered skin.

“I hope this wasn't David's favorite shirt.”

Any other woman would have been babying him, crying over his wounds, maybe even getting sick at the sight of so much blood. But not her. Instead, she was trying to make him smile, just as he had with her. She inherently understood he needed to focus on something else.

It felt like white-hot flames were dancing across his shoulders. “His wife probably staged the explosion to get rid of the damn thing,” he said through clenched teeth.

Maya's hand stilled on his back. “You don't deserve this, Logan. Not any of it. I'm sorry.”

“It's just a truck,” he said, even though he knew she was talking about much more than that. She was apologizing for doing her job and pulling him off duty. She was apologizing for coming into his home to take back samples for the lab.