by Sharon Sala
“I can’t protect you here, honey,” Trace said. “And he’s getting serious. He just cut, or had someone cut, the brake lines on your car.”
Honor’s anger swiftly changed to fear and melted the bones in her body as she slumped against the wall. This was a nightmare.
“Come on, Honor. There’s a place where you’ll be safe. I’m taking you there tonight.” Trace slid his arms around her shoulders and gently walked her toward her room. They would need as many warm clothes as she owned and there was no time to waste.
“Where will you be?” Honor asked, as she tried to swallow the tears that thickened her speech.
“Right beside you, baby,” Trace promised, and leaned forward, sealing his promise with a kiss. “All the way.”
Honor looked up, saw the truth and something else in Trace Logan’s eyes that made her hurry. Whatever, or whomever, was waiting for her beyond the walls of her home might just have gotten more than they’d bargained for. Trace looked ready to kill.
Chapter 10
The sun was almost at the horizon of a new day, but it was obviously not going to reign long as a line of thunderheads rolled over the mountain ahead of Trace’s four-wheel drive vehicle. He maneuvered the narrow tree-lined road with ease as he searched its border for the familiar landmark that stood at the entry to his property. A quiet sigh of relief slid through his lips as the tall, skeletal branches of the dead tree standing guard at a graveled side road came into view. They’d made it! And with little time to spare! The inclement weather was rolling in with a vengeance. Trace knew from many years of experience with Colorado weather that one didn’t want to be caught on a mountain road in a thunderstorm. If a falling tree didn’t get you, a disappearing road bed would. He rubbed the back of his neck wearily and ventured a quick glance at Honor who’d managed to curl herself into a ball and go sound asleep after they’d disembarked from the flight Trace had chartered out of Odessa. This way, there had been no public airport to deal with or tickets to purchase. There was no easy way to trace their exit from Texas.
As Trace turned off the blacktop onto the graveled side road, the sound of the tiny rocks bouncing against the underside of his vehicle awoke Honor with a start.
Trace frowned. “Sorry,” he said, as Honor sat straight up in her seat and looked around with a soft, befuddled expression on her face.
“Where are we?” she mumbled, rubbing her fingers against her eyelids, trying to rub away the dry, burning sensation.
“Home,” Trace answered quietly.
The sound of the word and the sound of his voice were like pouring a warm, soothing oil on the turmoil inside her heart. Honor looked at Trace, so solid and so near and felt for the first time in weeks that everything was going to be okay.
She leaned back and watched the driveway widen into a yard surrounding the most enchanting home Honor had ever seen.
“Oh!” escaped her lips, as she glanced upward and watched the impending storm clouds mirrored in the expanse of windows on the face of the cedar-and-glass two-story home.
The house blended into the thick, wooded area as if it had been birthed on the spot. The peaks and gables on the rough, cedar shake shingles struggled for domination among the tall stands of pine and aging oaks.
“Do you live here?” Honor finally managed to ask.
“Not year round,” Trace answered. “But it’s mine. And not many people know it. This is one place I can come to and not be chased down to solve a problem at work.” He pulled the four by four under the carport just as the heavens unloaded. “Made it, and just in time,” he said.
He reached behind the seat, grabbed the bulky suitcase bearing Honor’s quickly packed wardrobe, and headed up the steps with Honor in tow.
“Welcome to my home,” Trace said softly, and resisted the urge to touch her again.
In some way, he still felt cheated by the fact that he wasn’t the one who’d come to her rescue. He supposed if he was honest with himself, he was jealous. Rusty Dawson’s relationship with this leggy beauty was entrenched in years. He’d had only a few weeks and still felt on shaky ground.
“This house is beautiful. I feel like I should be carried over the threshold or something,” Honor said, and then nearly swallowed her tongue at the wild, dark expression that leaped into Trace Logan’s eyes.
“What you better do is not put any more ideas into my head, lady. There are already more there than you’re ready for.”
Honor stifled a grin, knew when she’d pushed too far, and sedately walked past him into the house.
“Trace…” she said softly, as she entered the vast space encompassing the living area of the house. “It’s beautiful.”
Her eyes ran up the length of the tall cathedral ceiling and caught on the polished wood rails surrounding the open upstairs balcony that overlooked the living area. Everything was natural finishes and natural woods. It blended in with the magnificent view so perfectly it gave one a sensation of still being outdoors yet able to enjoy all the modern comforts.
Lightning flashed and, directly following, came the deep, angry rumble of thunder echoing against the neighboring mountain peaks. The storm was right on top of them. Honor jumped and then flashed a guilty look at Trace, who stood watching silently as Honor absorbed his home.
“I’m not scared of storms,” she said quickly. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“You’re not scared of much, are you, Honor? I, on the other hand, wake up in a constant cold sweat imagining that I’ve lost you.”
His terse remark reminded Honor that Trace was still more than put out with the fact that she’d called her uncle instead of him for help. She sighed and followed him up the stairs, knowing it would take more than an apology from her to get back in his good graces. But he was wrong about one thing. She was scared of the dark and of the possibility of losing Trace Logan.
Trace dumped Honor and her baggage in a large, airy room with a sloping ceiling, muttered something about food and heat, and left. Honor let him go, knowing that a little space and silence would do wonders for a disgruntled man’s disposition.
She began to unpack and was doing fine until she began opening drawers and doors to put away her clothes. She shuffled through their contents with a sense of panic. Unless Trace was into wearing lace and lingerie, some other woman had a claim on him that Honor had known nothing about.
She turned angrily, certain that she was justified in being furious after the commitment of loving that had passed between them, and stomped from the room, her unpacking momentarily forgotten. She found him in the basement fiddling with an enormous contraption she assumed was the boiler that heated the house.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me about the clothes in my room?” Honor yelled, as she cleared the last three steps in one giant leap.
Trace jumped up and backward from his crouched position, startled by her presence and tone of voice, and bumped his head on a low-hanging rafter. A long string of unintelligible curses slid from between his tightly clenched teeth as he grabbed at the top of his head and shoved a hand through his hair.
“For pity’s sake,” Trace groaned. “What did you do that for?”
“I didn’t do anything,” she muttered. “I didn’t even touch you,” she argued. “I only asked you a question…which by the way, you conveniently neglected to answer.”
“What the hell did you say?” Trace muttered, a bit relieved that nothing but a rapidly forming knot was under his fingertips.
“Whose clothes are in my room?”
Trace felt a quickening in the pit of his stomach, and a tiny flash of awareness began growing into a relieved certainty. If she was angry at the presence of women’s clothes in his home, that meant she was jealous. Good! But he wasn’t buckling under this quickly. She’d worried him to death with no thought of his feelings and now when she was upset, demanded an instant answer.
“Patsy’s,” he finally answered, watching her face for a reaction.
; “Oh!” she muttered, shocked by his quick, open answer to a question she expected him to ignore. “Well, I just wondered,” she said, and then waited for him to elaborate. When he volunteered nothing further, she spun about in frustration and started back up the stairs, certain in her heart that some other woman he’d never mentioned had a prior claim she couldn’t fight. She got halfway up the stair steps before her curiosity and anger got the better of her.
“So! Who the hell is Patsy?” Honor yelled back down the stairs.
“My baby sister,” Trace said, and hid the glee he felt as he saw her anger turn to instant embarrassment.
“Well! I hope you enjoyed that,” she muttered, and stomped back upstairs to finish unpacking.
Trace sat down on an overturned box of Christmas decorations and watched Honor’s backside and long legs disappear through the doorway. He rubbed his head, wincing as his fingers grazed the knot on top, and began to grin. The grin became a smile, the smile, a full-fledged laugh that he quickly muffled. She was already angry enough. He didn’t need to rub it in.
* * *
Hastings watched his fiancée’s apartment building, the frustration level building inside him until he could barely control his fury. The man he’d hired to tamper with Honor’s car had called with the news that the job was completed. But he doubted it would do any good because Honor O’Brien was gone and no one seemed to know where.
Hastings saw Erin come out of her apartment building and then stand just under the doorway, sheltering herself from the rain while obviously waiting for a cab. He jumped out of his car and dashed across the street before she had time to realize what was happening.
“Where is she?” he growled angrily, as he stepped between Erin and freedom, pressing her against the building in a threatening manner.
She trembled, knew instantly who he was referring to, and knew her answer was only going to make things worse.
“I don’t know,” she said. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did. Why in God’s name did you push her down the stairs? She might have been killed!”
“That was the whole point, baby,” he whispered, and pushed himself against Erin in a suggestive manner. “Then it would all be yours.”
“I don’t want it all at that price,” Erin argued. “You’re crazy,” she added and tried unsuccessfully to move him away.
“Not crazy,” he whispered, and casually wrapped his hand around her throat. “Just careful.” Then his gaze shifted to the rapidly throbbing pulse beneath the palm of his hand and watched the panic flare in her eyes. “Did you tell?” he asked, referring to Honor’s fall.
“No! Of course not,” she cried, and struggled within his grasp. Her life depended on making him believe her sincerity.
“Good girl,” he growled, and pressed a hard, punishing kiss against her lips. “See that you don’t.” And then he was gone.
Erin tasted blood from her bruised mouth and shuddered. This man was unlike the man she’d bullied and cajoled for years. He was hard, forceful and dangerous. She didn’t know him at all. With panicked relief, she saw her cab coming up the street and dashed out into the rain. She had to get to work and tell her father about this, and then she was going to disappear. She had a friend who’d moved to Lisbon some time ago. Portugal was supposed to be nice this time of year. Maybe it was time to see for herself.
* * *
Honor stood at the immense expanse of window overlooking the front yard and stared into the darkness. A gust of wind blew a sheet of rain hard against the glass just as a bolt of lighting illuminated the night. Honor blinked and jumped back in surprise. For a girl from west Texas who saw less rain per year than she’d seen today alone, it was definitely culture shock.
She pulled the tail of her sweatshirt down and rubbed her hands against the matching white sweat pants. She shivered in spite of the roaring fire in the fireplace and the heat emanating up into the floor vents from the boiler below.
“If you’re cold, come away from the window,” Trace drawled, and patted the cushioned seat beside him.
Honor shook her head and sighed, then sauntered toward the fireplace, ignoring Trace’s invitation. Instead, she curled up on the braided rug in front of the fire. She was still miffed about Trace letting her have that fit and a bit worried that he’d made absolutely no personal overture toward her since their arrival, not even a hug.
She didn’t know that he was fighting every instinct he had not to peel her naked and bury himself in her softness. She didn’t know that he kept seeing a replay of the array of bruising on her body and feared that he would hurt her.
Her eyes were stormy, a mirror image of the sky outside as she turned her face up to Trace and spoke. “Are you still mad at me?” she asked, fiddling nervously with the inseam of her pants as she sat cross-legged before him.
She didn’t give him time to answer as she jumped to her feet and started poking about the gallery of framed portraits and snapshots lining the massive mantel above the fire.
“Who’s this?” she asked, and pointing to a picture of a tall young man who greatly resembled Trace Logan.
He could keep his distance no longer. “My brother, Ron, his wife Carol and their family.” He took the picture from her hands and placed it back in line, then took her by the hand and led her down the minigallery of Logans, naming each as he went along. “These are my parents, Conrad and Susan. They are in Denver, visiting my brother, Ted and his family. He and Julie have twin boys. And this is Patsy, my baby sister.”
He looked at Honor, cocked his eyebrows in a mocking gesture and ignored the flush that rapidly spread across her cheeks. “This is Patsy, her husband, Carl, and their daughter, Trish. She’s nearly three, and quite a handful. We usually all meet here for the holidays. It’s the only place large enough to hold us.”
“You’re so lucky,” Honor said quietly, and pulled her hand away from his grasp. “I always wanted to belong to a large family but there was only Momma and me.” She turned away and stared into the fire. “Then, when I discovered I actually did belong to a family like that, look what I got.”
Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears as Trace came up behind her and made her turn and face him, still careful of her fading bruises.
“I won’t be mad at you, if you won’t be mad at me,” Trace whispered in her ear. “And, I know where you belong.”
She smiled against the bulky softness of his sweater, and buried her face in the curve of his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne, the woodsmoke from the fire, and Trace the man.
“Where do I belong, oh, wise one?” she teased, and felt his body tense against her.
“In my arms, in my heart, and,” he reluctantly withdrew before he continued, “from the looks of the dark circles under your eyes, you also belong in bed.”
“Who’s going to tuck me in?” Honor asked. But all she received for her trouble was a glare from Trace as he ushered her upstairs to her room.
Leaving Honor alone was the most difficult thing Trace had ever attempted. And so far, that’s all it was—an attempt. He had to make it through the night before it became an accomplished feat. He walked quietly through the downstairs rooms, carefully checking the locks on the windows and doors before retiring. He was at the bottom of the stairs when a tremendous crack of lightning flashed through the wide expanse of glass, nearly blinding him by its intensity. The thunder that followed actually rattled the windows. Then the lights went out!
Trace jumped, startled by the violent sequence of events, and knew before he ever heard her scream that Honor would be scared to death.
She had just emerged from her bath when the thunder came crashing down through the mountains. It was when the lights went out and she saw nothing but total darkness that she lost it. She could deal with darkness in her own home, it was even comforting and familiar. But not this.
The scream that erupted from her throat scared her nearly as much as the storm. She hadn’t been expecting it, either. It was too much like bein
g stranded in the elevator.
Honor reached in front of her, blindly searching for something to which she could orient herself. But it was no use. She couldn’t assimilate the unfamiliar surroundings by touch alone and she couldn’t find the doorway. So she did the only sensible thing. She wrapped her arms around herself, refused to move another step, and screamed again, only louder.
“I thought you weren’t afraid of storms,” the deep, familiar voice teased, as he opened the bathroom door on her second scream.
“I’m not,” Honor cried, as she flew straight toward the sound of his voice and into his arms. “But I’m afraid of the dark.”
It took little more than a heartbeat for Trace to realize Honor was wet and shaking and bare as the day she was born. The knowledge and the sensuous sensation of touching her slick, satiny body did two things to his resolve to leave Honor untouched this night.
The first thing was, he totally forgot why he’d ever considered it necessary, and he couldn’t remember the second thing, either. Nothing but the feel of her soft, damp skin beneath his fingertips registered in his brain. He groaned, wrapped his arms around her, pulling her soft, generous curves as closely against him as breath would allow, and tried desperately not to stagger from the feel of her bare hips pressed against the blossoming ache below his belt buckle.
Honor knew the moment her bare skin brushed against his clothed body that what she’d done in fright would have consequences resulting from love. There was no mistaking the increasing urgency of Trace’s body against her or the near-desperate way he’d caught and stopped her frantic flight.
“Oh, my God!” Trace muttered, as he ran his hands along her rib cage, feeling his way down past her tiny waist to the gentle flare of her soft, shapely hips. His hands splayed and then pressed as he fitted her between his legs. He groaned against her lips, still damp from the dew of her shower, and covered them with his own in deliberate devastation.
Honor moaned as an ache began in the pit of her stomach. Were it not for the fierce, unrelenting hold of Trace’s arms, she would have fallen to the floor. It felt as if the bones in her legs had suddenly disappeared.
