by Lisa Gardner
“Or someone else to come along.”
She looked at him abruptly. “You’re not going to hurt anyone, are you?”
He was silent for a minute, as if he were unwilling to commit either way. Finally, he said, “I don’t want to cause any more trouble than I have to, Maggie. In chess, there is something called a quiet move. It’s a move that neither checks nor captures. It doesn’t contain any direct threats, just helps improve your positioning for the final, last thrust of direct, decisive action. That’s how I would like to pursue this game and locate Ham—quietly. If such a thing is possible with half the state after us.”
“If you turned yourself in, my brother would help you. You heard what he said.” A feeble, overused line but she had to offer it.
Cain didn’t look impressed. “Let’s get in the car, Maggie, and crank the heat. We’re both soaked to the skin and if we stay out here much longer, we might fulfill your prophecy of catching pneumonia and dying.”
His fingers began unbuttoning his shirt. She froze, though her gaze didn’t leave his chest.
“You’re taking off your clothes?” she whispered at last.
“Some of them.”
“Your . . . your pants?”
His fingers stilled. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Oh.” His fingers started moving again. His outer shirt opened up and fell limply, like an overused dishrag. He stripped it off casually and she saw the gun. He followed her gaze.
“You promised to cooperate, remember?”
“Yes.”
He removed the gun from the waistband of his jeans, and with one quick move yanked the T-shirt up off his head.
She stared. She couldn’t help herself. She’d wanted him naked and here he was, pale, sculpted and breathtaking. He didn’t have chest hair, so nothing marred the smooth, defined lines of biceps, triceps and pectorals. His flesh was corrugated over his ribs and rippled like a washboard down his stomach. She would be delighted to scrub soap and cloth against that belly. She’d be delighted to press her lips there and taste his rain-streaked skin.
“I’m going to get into the car now,” he said quietly. His gaze rested on her thin silk blouse, which was plastered against her arms and chest. “You do what you think is best.”
He bent over and climbed awkwardly into the tiny car. She remained frozen with the rain battering against her. She licked her lips.
Strip it all off and straddle his lap with a sexy, husky smile, the way great-great-great-grandmother would’ve done.
He’s an escaped murderer. He might seem very intelligent and even-tempered for a man who allegedly committed a crime of passion, I might even harbor the secret belief that he’s innocent, but he’s still an escaped murderer and I can’t seduce a murderer. How would I explain it to my grandmother?
No, you know there’s more to it than that. You’ve spent nearly twenty hours with this man. If he’s a murderer, then your grandmother runs the gestapo. There is more to this than meets the eye, more to him. Besides, look at that chest!
Exactly. He’s a Rodin sculpture and I’m a stick figure drawing. He’ll take one look at me, pat me on the shoulder and start out with, “I always wanted a little sister. . . .”
Stop it, Maggie. You know that’s not true. You know he’s attracted to you. His kiss was not a brotherly kiss; his gaze was not a brotherly gaze. He wants you, too. Why can’t you accept that? What are you so afraid of?
I’m not strong enough, she thought abruptly, desperately. I want him, but I want all of him and he’ll never be mine. I want to hold him and keep him. I want to wake up in his arms every morning. I want to see his face smiling and strong every night. But he won’t stay. They never stay. Nobody ever stays and I can’t bear the parting yet again. I can’t stand the emptiness.
She was clutching her locket. She didn’t know why, but she clutched her father’s locket, containing the picture of some beautiful woman Maggie had never met. The locket was the last thing he’d given her. Keep it for me, Maggie. But don’t tell anyone about it. It’s our secret, my secret with my little girl, he’d said.
You have to try this, the voice insisted. You can be strong enough—you know you can be strong enough. Do you really want to be safe, sweet Maggie, forever? Think of your great-great-great-grandmother. Think of the legend of the Hathaway Reds.
But I’m not like them. And abruptly, horribly, she knew it was true. She couldn’t just seduce a man. She couldn’t just crawl on his lap and say, Take me, I’m yours. Catch me on fire, Big Buddy. She wasn’t that . . . adventurous. The other Hathaway Reds had been bold rebels, living outside the constraints of society. Herself . . . she could not even stand to cheat at solitaire.
Well, then, Maggie, it’s a good thing he’s not a deck of cards.
“Maggie,” she heard him call softly. She blinked rapidly, then looked up. Cain had rolled down the window. “Sweetheart, you’re getting soaked. Come inside the car, Maggie. Please.”
“Okay,” she whispered. Her feet moved forward. Her hand clutched her locket. Her eyes remained locked on his face.
And God, was he beautiful to her.
Chapter 9
“I’m . . . I’m ready.” At the last minute, she realized she should have stated those words defiantly. Maybe with a come-hither toss of the hair. Instead, she sounded like a woman on the verge of strangling to death.
Cain nodded. As she watched, he seemed to take a deep breath. Moving very carefully, he opened the door and stepped outside.
He stood very close and felt very warm. She had an eyeful of pectoral and was wishing it could be a handful, but her fingers were fisted tightly at her sides, her knuckles clenched in sheer terror.
She could do this. She could do this. Taking a breath as deep and careful as Cain’s had been, she ducked and climbed into the car. The front consisted of two bucket seats, separated by a gearshift. She dripped mud and water all over the vinyl, then slipped and nearly gutted herself on the stick shift as her hands went flailing one way, and her legs the other.
Instantly, Cain’s hand was on her calf, his long, strong fingers curling around her stockinged leg. She quietly stopped breathing, moving, thinking.
Was now the time to passionately exclaim, “Take me, I’m yours!”?
“Let me help you,” Cain said quietly, his voice not as steady as it had once been.
She nodded, eyes wide and teeth digging into her lower lip as he slowly pushed her leg up onto the seat. He had such strong hands. Warm and rough. She let her eyelids fall shut, dewed lashes brushing her moist cheek, and concentrated on the sensation of his hand. That ridged callus, that vibrant heat, that slight friction of his palm cradling her calf—all that was being touched by a man.
She was beginning to understand the glazed look in her friends’ eyes.
“Okay, now just lift your legs over the gearshift.”
She nodded and managed the movement. Slowly, she righted herself, getting her feet on the floor where they belonged, her butt in the seat where it belonged, her hands on her lap where they belonged. Only her head remained out of her control, lost somewhere in the clouds, where she was now the great Margaret Hathaway, ready to perform the lambada in just a black lace shawl.
Cain resettled in his seat, closing the door. Small movements momentarily bridged their discomfort. His fingers turning the ignition on. Her fingers turning up the heat. His fingers adjusting the vents so that most of the warm air blew on her. Her fingers adjusting them back so he got equal share. His fingers playing with the radio dial until one lone AM country station provided a raspy, crooning cowboy singing about looking for love in all the wrong places.
The heat filled the tiny car and steamed the windows. The rain hammered against the roof and windows, still in fall fury and competing ruthlessly with the radio. It sounded as if they lived in the middle of a cellophane wrapper being madly crinkled.
There was nothing more to do. Just sit here. Wait for the glow of headlights. Pra
y they didn’t belong to a cop. Wait for the rain to end.
Maggie’s fingers began to fidget on her lap. She took a deep breath, then another. Even with the heat pouring out of the air vents, she was chilly; water was still pouring from her hair down her shoulders and back in tiny, maddening rivers.
“My shirt is wet, but you could see if it makes a difference on your hair,” Cain said at last.
“All right.”
He handed her his crumpled shirt; then his hands returned quickly and quietly to his side of the car. She risked a glance at him. His gaze was still focused on the windshield, which had steamed over completely.
Her lips curved down a little. Finally, she leaned her head forward, spread out his shirt and used it as best she could to blot at her dripping hair. She accomplished nothing.
“If you . . .” His voice trailed off. She heard the sound of another deep breath. Then his hands were abruptly curling around her scalp. “May I?”
Maggie could only nod.
Oh those fingers, those glorious fingers. They wove into her hair, finding her sensitive, chilled scalp, making small, miraculous circles that brought the blood rushing to her head, her nerve endings tingling to defiant life. He didn’t hesitate; he didn’t go slow. He conquered her hair and she surrendered every strand to him, her eyes drifting shut, her neck arching to meet the soothing heat of broad palms cupping her head.
With relentless precision, he drove the water forward, pushing it along until his hands were tangled in the long, stringy ropes of rain-laden hair, pressing and massaging, working the moisture to the very ends. And then his hands began to wring, wrench, wring, and the water fled from her hair in a torrent, defeated and vanquished.
At last Maggie lifted her head and looked at Cain. His hands were still there, fingers woven into her long red hair.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her blue eyes wide, her cheeks damp.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a comb,” he said hoarsely.
“Yes.”
His hands slowly slid away. She wanted to tell him not to, but her throat was too tight to get out the words. His Adam’s apple bobbed, then bobbed again.
Belatedly, she turned her gaze to the dashboard, her fingers knitting together on her lap. She leaned against the seat, but the sensation of vinyl against her soaked blouse was unpleasant. More heat piped out the vents but it was feeble now. The car appeared on the edge of death, gasping and wheezing.
Finally, Cain reached out and shut off the ignition. “There’s not much gas,” he said. “We’ll have to ration it.”
She nodded. “Do you . . . do you think it will be long before someone arrives?”
“I don’t know. It’s a hell of a night to be on the road.”
“Yes.” Her gaze returned to the near-empty gas gauge. “Even if it stops raining, we can’t go very far,” she said softly.
“No. We can’t.”
“It’s my fault.”
“You think too much of yourself, Maggie.” He glanced at her. “I accepted your proposition. I turned back and stopped the truck on my own volition. The choice, the risk, was mine as well. So don’t accept responsibility for my actions. That belongs to me.”
“Oh.” She brought up her chin, and for a moment her eyes gleamed defiantly. “Then why did you escape from jail? That’s escaping the consequences of your actions, isn’t it?”
His lips twisted. “No, only the consequences for my alleged actions.”
“What? Did—”
“Maggie, you ask too many questions.”
Her gaze fell down to her lap at the softly spoken rebuke. He turned away from her, the small gesture putting even more distance between them. She shifted restlessly and uncomfortably in her bucket seat. There didn’t seem to be anything more to say. There didn’t seem to be anything more to do.
The heat escaped from the car too quickly. Soon she was shivering again. Goose bumps raced up her arms, prickling tiny hairs. She wrapped her arms around her middle and rubbed briskly. It didn’t help much.
“You would warm up faster without the blouse on,” Cain commented at last. His voice was level, but barely so.
“Yes . . . yes, you’re right.”
Her fingers came up slowly to the first button. She struggled with a tiny pearl. Maybe because her fingers were cold and thick. Maybe because the silk ruffles that rimmed the neckline were plastered over the button. Maybe because she was scared out of her mind.
Either way, she couldn’t quite claim that she nonchalantly shrugged off her blouse and casually flung it aside with a last, dramatic toss of her head. More like she wrestled with it. It clung to her skin and to her fingers and so she struggled and wriggled and writhed and contorted as if she were fighting a coiled serpent. At last, with a hissing sigh and victorious grimace, she ripped the clammy cloth from her torso, and promptly got it tangled around her wrists.
Cain wasn’t watching. His gaze was steadfastly focused on the windshield as if it magically sported a mini TV and some important ball game were on. She would have been injured by his lack of attention, but her inept, uncoordinated efforts only made her relieved. Surely when the great Margaret Hathaway had strolled into a hacienda wearing only a black lace shawl and her flaming red hair, she’d done the deed with a bit more aplomb than her great-great-great-granddaughter.
Finally, Maggie wadded up her muddy blouse in her hand and sat tiny and hunch-shouldered. She wore a bra, of course, some sheer pink concoction that her mother had given her and Maggie wore only because it didn’t show beneath the thin silk blouse. Looking down now, she realized just how sheer it was. And her chest indicated just how cold she was, too. Oh Lord.
She glanced up and found Cain’s gaze upon her. Her pink lips slightly parted and her breath caught in her throat.
His green eyes were steady, dark like a forest green. He didn’t blush; he didn’t fidget. He didn’t pretend he didn’t see the hunger in her gaze and she could see in his eyes that he wouldn’t pretend not to feel it. It was there between them, electric and rolling, a vibrant emotion barely restrained and just waiting to break free.
He didn’t make any moves; he didn’t attempt to free the beast. He sat there, as calm as ever. She understood then. He felt the attraction; he did not deny the attraction. But he would not act on it. Maybe he felt that would be improper; maybe he felt that would be taking advantage of “sweet little Maggie.”
She would just have to show him otherwise.
She stole another surreptitious glance at his muscular torso and gnawed on her lower lip. How exactly did you go about cracking that man’s control? Her skills were definitely lacking in the area of seduction.
Finally, she bent over and made a great show of removing her muddy shoes, wriggling around just enough for her skirt to hike up and show a little flesh. It didn’t seem to make a difference and she broke a nail. With a small look of consternation, she sat back again and resumed worrying her lip.
Nylons, she thought abruptly. That was the ticket.
“My nylons are wet,” she announced abruptly.
Cain blinked several times. “Yes. I imagine they are.”
“I think I will take them off,” she said loudly, the words only slightly stilted.
This time, he stiffened a little. “Off?”
“Yes. Off.”
“Are these knee-highs?”
“No, they start all the way at the top.”
“Oh.” Blinking again. “Would you like me to turn away?” he offered in a strained voice.
No, you ninny! I want you to help! She scowled at him. She took a deep breath. “It’s . . . it’s okay. I mean . . . we’re both adults.” She thought her voice came out sounding quite reasonable, which was a miracle given the thundering of her heart against her rib cage.
“Ah . . . that’s true.”
“Yes, that’s true.” She took another deep breath, then worried her lower lip some more. Her mind began searching her mental files and finally settled on classic st
riptease music. Think of the daring, dashing Hathaway Reds. Think provocative. Sexy. Lust-ridden sex kitten.
I have legs that belong to a chicken.
Hastily, she banished that thought to a dusty corner of rotten memories. Everyone had to grow up sometime and this was her moment. She was seizing the day, or an escaped felon as the case might be.
Slowly, her fingertips found the hem of her knee-length plaid skirt. The wool was raspy and smelled as good as wet wool can smell. Don’t rush, she reminded herself. No haste, no clumsiness. Smooth and languid.
She inched the scratchy material up her pale, mud-splattered thighs. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Cain, because if he appeared the slightest bit bored her composure would leave and she would break down into tears. Instead she kept her gaze on her skirt, her teeth embedded in her lower lip, and her ears attuned to the sound of rain and slow, barely drawn breaths.
She reached the barrier of the seat. There was only one thing to do. She arched her hips up, a blatantly suggestive act and with a small rush, abandoned slow and yanked the damn wet skirt to her hips.
Was it her imagination, or did Cain’s breath sound suddenly sharp and ragged beside her? She still couldn’t bear to look.
Another deep breath and she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her nylons. She didn’t buy expensive nylons; she ran them too easily. These were thick, coarsely woven and, frankly, not something she would have chosen to flaunt in front of a man. Silk hosiery, now that was something to sinuously slide down her legs and toss aside. The grocery-store special, on the other hand . . .
Well, too late for that. She slid the dark brown tummy panel down, revealing sensible white cotton briefs. She’d forgotten about that, too. Why hadn’t she worn the panties that matched the bra? Hadn’t she realized she might get taken hostage and, after twenty-seven years, decide to finally seduce a man?
She was a horrible vamp. She would definitely have to listen to her mother’s fashion advice more. Stephanie could probably seduce a granite statue.
