Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems

by Anne Stuart

  “Do they?” she asked, forgetting about her french fries for the moment.

  “No.”

  To his surprise she didn’t ask him any more. She simply nodded, leaned back and concentrated on her food with a dedication that was single-minded and erotic.

  He stared down at his own plate. Nothing short of starvation could get him to touch the hamburger, but the potatoes were smelling surprisingly good, and he needed something to cut the taste of the reheated coffee. “Tell me about Uncle Vinnie,” he said, starting in on the fries.

  “Nothing to tell. He’s not really my uncle, he’s my college roommate’s uncle. He looks out for me.”

  “I’m a fairly obscure person. How would he have heard of me?”

  She shrugged, managing an innocent smile. “Beats me.”

  His hand shot out and caught her wrist. He did it gently, afraid of his ability to hurt her, but there was no escape, and a flash of pure rage appeared in her warm brown eyes as she tried to jerk away. “Don’t lie to me, Suzanna,” he said quietly. “I’ve got top security clearance, and if someone has heard of me, it’s someone who shouldn’t have. Who and what is Uncle Vinnie?”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Answer me.”

  “He’s just someone who looks out for me.” He increased the pressure on her wrist, just slightly, and her face paled. She was lying to him, and he couldn’t afford to let her do that. His life depended on it, perhaps hers as well, if he hadn’t been wrong in trusting her. But he couldn’t let her keep anything back.

  “Who is he?” he asked one more time.

  She wanted to keep resisting, he could see that. He could read the struggle, the furious acceptance. “His name is Vincenzo Dartaglia. He’s retired from the restaurant business and he has certain contacts—”

  “He’s organized crime,” Daniel corrected flatly. “What has he got to do with Beebe?”

  “Nothing. He’s just heard things, that’s all. He warned me…” She took a deep, shaky breath.

  “Warned you about what?”

  “To keep away from you.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “He was right,” he said, releasing her wrist. “But you didn’t listen.”

  “I’m not in the habit of listening to good advice,” she said. She didn’t rub her wrist, but he knew she wanted to. “He heard rumors about something going on at Beebe, and I decided to investigate. Obviously I got more than I bargained for.”

  “Obviously,” he said quietly.

  “I’ve learned one thing, though. You and Henry Osborn have a great deal in common.”

  He held himself very still. “What’s that?”

  “You both like hurting people when you want something.”

  “Osborn hurt you?”

  She smiled at him. It was a cool, brittle upturning of her generous mouth, and he almost thought he could see the faint sheen of tears behind the glasses, in the depths of her defiant brown eyes. But Suzanna Molloy wasn’t the kind of woman who’d ever cry. Who’d ever let a man like him make her cry.

  “I’m tougher than that,” she said. “He tried.” She pushed her plate away. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “Are you going to run away?”

  She rose, and he noticed for the first time that she’d somehow found the time to put on a bra. It was the least he deserved as punishment. “No,” she said. “I have a stake in this as well as you do. But, Crompton…” she leaned forward, smelling like flowers and french fries, utterly delicious.

  “Yes?”

  “You put your hands on me again and I’ll cut your liver out.”

  He watched her saunter out into the parking lot, knowing his weren’t the only appreciative male eyes marking her course. He could almost smile at her threat. Almost—if he weren’t so thoroughly disgusted with himself.

  He told himself he’d had no choice. And it didn’t matter. He’d never hurt a weaker, more vulnerable human being in his life. And the fact that he wanted her—needed her—made him even sicker.

  Her wrist had been delicate beneath his encircling fingers, the bones and skin vulnerable. He thought about what he’d done to the locked door at Beebe, and he wanted to throw up.

  What had Osborn done to her? He already had a score to settle with the man—Suzanna had just upped the ante. And it was only coincidental that when he smashed his fist into Osborn’s fat, smiling face, he’d be aiming at his own, as well.

  He’d hurt her, and he’d had no choice. And the damnable thing was, he might have to do it again.

  Chapter Nine

  Suzanna had already taken the passenger seat, fastened the belt around her and closed her eyes by the time Daniel joined her. Her wrist throbbed, and she wondered whether he’d actually hurt her, or if it was simply the heat from his skin. She didn’t care. He’d used force on her, something she wouldn’t easily forgive. So what if he was drop-dead gorgeous in a remote sort of way. She didn’t need gorgeous. She needed tenderness, gentleness and decent behavior.

  She turned her face toward the window, away from him, to hide the reluctant smile that curved her mouth. One of her worst problems, she’d learned long ago, was that she saw herself far too clearly. Life would be a great deal easier if she had some illusions about her own sweetness and gentleness. She’d left a number of her favorite T-shirts behind, including the one that read 51% Sweetheart—49% Bitch—Don’t push it!” She wished she was wearing it right now. It might remind her who she wanted to be when she grew up.

  “You must be used to subservient females,” she muttered.

  “If I am, you’re a refreshing change.”

  She bit her lip again, hoping he wouldn’t notice. But Crompton was a damnably observant man.

  “You couldn’t be smiling, could you?” he asked in an astonished voice as he started down the two-lane highway.

  She gave up, turning back to him. “What can I say? Life’s too bizarre to be taken seriously.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, at the last minute turning his attention back to his driving before they ended up in a ditch. He drove in complete, utter silence for another five minutes, long enough for Suzanna to regret her remark, long enough for her to begin to drift off to sleep.

  “I’m sorry I had to hurt you.”

  His voice was quiet, so low she should have missed it. He’d pitched it that way deliberately, and she knew he wasn’t the sort of man who apologized. No more than he was the sort of man who made a habit of bullying people. He did what he had to do, and pity any poor creature who got in his way.

  But she wasn’t a poor creature; she could stand up to him. “Just don’t do it again,” she muttered.

  She wasn’t expecting it. He reached over and picked up her hand as it lay loosely in her lap. Her muscles tightened as she started to pull away, and his own grip grew stronger. She wasn’t sure how a tug-of-war would end, but suddenly she didn’t care. She let her hand lie in his for a moment, watching in fascination as he brought it to his mouth.

  His lips were burning hot and dry as they pressed against the side of her wrist, where he’d crunched her bones together. The heat was like an electric current, shafting through her, and she turned, looking at him, wanting to move closer to that source of heat and strength.

  But if he saw her reaction, he pretended he didn’t. He set her hand back in her lap and kept his face turned into the night. “Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got a long way to go.”

  She turned her face away again, uncertain what she wanted to say or do. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, and within moments illusion became reality, as he drove through the endless darkness, the quiet drone of the car’s engine lulling her to sleep.

  She woke up several times during the night, turned to look at him, then drifted off again. The man wasn’t human, she decided sleepily. No man could be so single-minded, so impervious to physical needs and discomfort. She slept again, dreaming erotic dreams—that his long, elegant hand skimmed her cheek, brus
hed against her breast, caught her hand in his once more and put it in his lap. And she didn’t pull away in maidenly horror. He was hot for her, ready for her, as he drove through the night, and her hand on him was a kind of claiming.

  When she finally surfaced from sleep, it was light outside. The radio was on, playing softly, something old and bluesy, and Suzanna shifted in her seat, a sleepy smile on her face.

  And then she screamed.

  “Damn!” he cursed, and the car swerved off the road, coming to a stop halfway up an embankment. “You scared the hell out of me. Did you have to scream?”

  “Did you have to disappear again?” she shot back, furious, hoping he wouldn’t notice that her hands were trembling.

  “It wasn’t up to me,” his disembodied voice said, as the gearshift lever was put back into reverse, the steering wheel turned, and as the car started down the postdawn road again. “And I was right—this clock is three minutes fast.”

  She glanced down at the digital clock. It was almost seven. At least she’d missed close to an hour of Daniel’s unnerving appearance. Or lack thereof. “Shouldn’t I be driving?”

  “The road’s deserted. There aren’t many people living out this way. If anyone looks too closely, they’ll just assume this is a British import with the steering wheel on the opposite side.”

  “That’s pretty farfetched.”

  “This entire situation is farfetched, but it’s damnably real,” Daniel replied. “We’re not too far from my place now, and with luck we won’t be passing anyone. Just let me concentrate on the driving, and we’ll be there by eight.”

  “Just as well,” she muttered. “I’d have a hard time following you otherwise.”

  Suzanna wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when they arrived at their mysterious, final destination almost an hour later. He’d called it a cabin in the woods, and she’d expected something rustic, with no amenities, just a reclaimed hunter’s camp.

  Either that, or another square box, as soulless and modern and characterless as Daniel’s apartment.

  The reality was astonishing.

  Her companion stopped the car at the foot of a narrow, winding path, unfastening the seat belt and taking the keys. “We’re here,” his voice announced.

  “Where?” she demanded, looking around her at the empty clearing, the tall, dark trees all around. They hadn’t passed even a shack since she’d been awake, and she’d yet to see any sign of a building. “I’m not in the mood for a tent or a cave, Dr. Crompton.”

  She felt the air brush by her, warning her, and then his hand on her chin, cupping it, tilting her face upward, until she spotted the house.

  It perched halfway up a cliff, and was made of glass and stone and wood, like some sort of new-age tree house. If he hadn’t moved her head she would have missed it. As it was, the house blended in perfectly with the surroundings. “How do we get there?”

  “We walk.”

  “I was afraid of that.” She didn’t bother to keep the mournful tone from her voice. He was still cupping her chin, and she could feel his long fingers against her jaw, delicate, strong, ridiculously erotic to her confused mind. And hot. “You can let go of me,” she said caustically.

  He did, quite promptly, and she had no idea whether there was any reluctance in him. One moment he was touching her, in what felt uncannily like a caress, in another he was gone.

  The door opened and closed, and she could only assume he’d climbed out. She followed, grabbing her duffel bag as she went, unnerved to see his own canvas bag floating in the air. “I wonder,” she said deliberately.

  The canvas bag ahead of her stopped moving. “Wonder what?”

  “If you took a cold shower, would the water sizzle?”

  She heard him laugh, that damnably, sexy laugh. “I have no need of a cold shower, Molloy.”

  Depressing thought. “No, I suppose you don’t,” she said grimly, wondering if one would help her irrational state of longing.

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” he added cryptically.

  For a moment she considered his words. Would his body temperature withstand an icy bath? Or would his libido?

  As far as she knew, the man didn’t have a libido. And she had suddenly developed far too much of one. It must have come from having squashed it down for so long, she thought. She’d ignored any little trace of attraction she’d felt for the men she’d met during the last few years, and that squashed, downtrodden sexuality had decided to assert itself at the most damnably inconvenient of times.

  She could fight it. She was tough. And fortunately Daniel Crompton had no sexual interest in her whatsoever. Right?

  “Lead the way,” she said wearily. “Unless you’d rather wait until you’re visible again.”

  “What time is it?”

  “You’re wearing a watch.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “Oh.” She glanced at her own. “Ten of eight.”

  “I don’t want to wait. Move away from the car.”

  “Why?”

  “A little experiment. Come over here.”

  She moved in the direction of his voice, trying to quell the uneasy feeling that washed over her. She walked to the edge of the narrow, snaking path that led up the cliff and stopped by the duffel bag that had recently floated through the air. “Is this far enough?” she asked in a deceptively even voice, bracing for the feel of his hands on her.

  “Far enough.” His voice was abstracted. She stood there, unmoving, listening to the wind rush through the tall pines overhead, bringing the scent of fall and resin to her nostrils. Nothing happened.

  “Damn,” Crompton muttered. “I can’t do it.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “Can’t make the car explode. I was certain…”

  The force of the explosion knocked her down. Where Jackson’s little car had once stood, a fireball erupted, shooting flames into the sky. Suzanna lay on the ground, watching in horror, the heat enveloping her. She tried to rise, but something pushed her back down into the dirt, something unseen.

  “Stay down,” he ordered, but there was no panic in his voice. Merely a distant, sort of fascinated sound.

  She did as he told her. Not that she had much choice. A hand rested between her shoulder blades, keeping her pressed to the earth, as the remnants of the automobile flamed furiously, burning out of control, and black smoke billowed toward the sky.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and shuddered. When she opened them, the first thing she saw was his thigh. He was sitting cross-legged beside her, staring at the inferno, his hand still holding her down.

  “It must be after eight o’clock,” she muttered, struggling to sit up.

  He released her, casting a cursory glance over her doubtless rumpled figure. “I figured it was. The cramps weren’t quite as bad this time. Maybe I’m getting used to it.”

  “How did you do it?”

  He nodded in the direction of the burning car. “You mean that? I’m not quite sure. I concentrated on it, but nothing happened. I think my nose itched, and I may have blinked a few times. I’ll have to try to isolate it a little better. Find out whether it only works on cars, what causes the explosion, whether I can make other things—”

  “I don’t know if there’ll be any more cars to spare,” she said, her voice caustic. “How are we going to get out of here now that you’ve incinerated our only form of transportation?”

  He had the grace to look momentarily abashed. “We couldn’t go in Jackson’s car, anyway. They’d be looking for it.”

  “You don’t think anyone’s going to notice the little bonfire we just had?”

  “Not likely. We’re in a very remote spot.” He rose, and she looked up, way up the length of his jean-clad legs. God, it was a sin to be as good-looking as he was, she thought wearily.

  “Let’s hope so.” She struggled to her feet, ready to slap away any helping hands. He didn’t offer. He was already starting up the narrow winding path into the woo
ds, and she had no choice but to follow.

  She paused at the edge of the clearing, taking one last look at the charred remains of Jackson’s car. Whatever had torched it had burned so hotly that even the frame had collapsed into the smoldering embers. It no longer even looked as if a car had been sitting there. The smoke had dissipated into the clear blue sky, and only the lingering smell remained. That and the blackened circle of earth.

  She shivered again, despite the lingering warmth. And, hoisting her bag to her shoulder, she started after Daniel.

  The woods were dark, overgrown, the path steep and slippery from early morning dew. Daniel forged onward, making no effort to wait for her, and Suzanna struggled to keep up, cursing underneath her breath. She’d just about given up hope of ever reaching the top, when Daniel stopped short, and she barreled into him, absorbing the solidity of his warm body, catching herself on his arms for a moment before she released him.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here,” he said in a meditative voice, still not moving out of her way.

  She craned her neck around him, taking in their destination. It was like nothing she’d ever seen. A bizarre, crazy quilt of a cabin, it seemed cobbled together of wood and glass, iron and tile, a mishmash of found objects and odd humor. The door looked as if it belonged to an English castle, the windows on either side were crescents set in the thick walls, the roof was the greeny metallic of old copper. It looked like the Seven Dwarfs’ cottage on drugs, and Suzanna stared at it, enchanted.

  “This is yours?” she breathed, rapidly adjusting her opinion of the staid Dr. Daniel Crompton, as she’d had to so frequently in the last forty-eight hours.

  “This is mine.” His voice was neutral, exhibiting neither pride nor embarrassment.

  “Where did you find it? Did you trade some crazed old hippie for it?”

  He finally moved out of the way, advancing down the ornately patterned brick walkway and reaching up over the vastly high door to fetch a key. “No.” He opened the door, standing aside with one of the first shows of gallantry she’d seen him exhibit, and ushered her in.