THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS

by Judith Duncan

  Deciding that it was time to talk about the nuts and bolts of getting her back to Chicago, he took her by the hand, led her over to the sofa and made her sit down. Still clasping her hand, he sat on the coffee table so he could face her; then he reached for her other hand. Trapping both of her cold hands between his, he looked directly into her eyes. "We need to talk, Red. And these are the givens. First of all, I'm not letting you go anywhere without me. That's a hard cold fact. The second given is that you're going back." He looked down and rubbed his thumb along the topside of hers; then he looked back at her again. "That's going to present a bit of a problem. You don't have any identification, no Canadian birth certificate, no passport, so they aren't going to let you on a plane without it. So that means we're going to have to drive across the border."

  She stared at him, her lips dry, her eyes wide with apprehension. "But won't that be risky for you?"

  He gave her a wry smile. "Only if they ask. I'm not going to tell them I have a criminal record." Seeing the alarm in her eyes, he gave her hands a little shake. "If they catch me, all they can do is deny me entry into the U.S., Mallory. They can't toss me in jail for trying."

  "But what if they catch you after you're across the border?"

  He looked at her with dark humor. "The trick is not to get caught, Red." He gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. "Once we're across the border, we can try to call Malcolm directly. There'll still be a bit of risk, but since we're going to be on the move, it will afford us a certain amount of safety. We'll just have to be really careful."

  She closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, then she let her breath go and looked at him. "I don't like the idea of phoning Malcolm," she said, her voice stronger. "I think that's just asking for trouble. You have no idea what my father's security force is capable of."

  "Okay. Then the other alternative is for me to call your father and tell him I found the necklace—that I'm going to be in Chicago on business, and I'd like to return it to him."

  She gave him a sharp look. "No. Definitely not. Jackson would be on you within an hour." Absently she toyed with his fingers, tracing an old scar along the side of his index finger. It was as if she'd touched every nerve ending in his body, and it was all he could do not to jerk his hand away. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and controlled as she continued. "I still think the best bet is to get to Joyce, Malcolm's sister. That would set off the fewest number of alarms at the security center of O'Brien Industries."

  She abruptly let his hands go and got to her feet, jamming both hands through her hair, her anxiety back in full force. "I can't afford to make any mistakes. I can't." She paced to the window and back several times. Finally she looked at him, nervous energy radiating from her. "I need to get out of the house," she stated forcefully. Then as if reining in the tension inside her, she took a deep breath. "I need to go for a walk or something. Do you think it would be okay if I climbed up to the stump and back?"

  Understanding that she needed to bum off tension by doing something physical, Finn nodded. "It should be all right. Just take Rooney with you, and be sure to stay out of sight of the road. If someone turns up here, I'll whistle for the dog."

  Her face suddenly drawn, she got dressed and went out, calling for Rooney to come. After he closed the door behind her, Finn went to the window overlooking the ravine. His hands in the back pockets of his jeans, he watched her wade through the snow, Rooney romping along beside her. Somehow he had to stay in one piece through all this, and he had to be damned careful that he never lost sight of who she was or where she was going. It all came back to that.

  And even if she weren't Patrick O'Brien's daughter, she was still years younger than he was. And she was in a situation where she might see him as something he wasn't. But Lord, she did make him feel things he thought he'd never feel again. And he knew, as sure as he was standing there, that Mallory O'Brien could very easily be a whole lot more than he wanted her to be. The realization made him feel very old and dull inside. A surge of aloneness piled in on him, and he turned away from the window, his throat tight. He wasn't sure he could go through this again.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  Mallory was gone for well over an hour, and it was dark by the time she finally came in, covered in snow and smelling of cold air. Her cheeks were rosy, and there was a bright sparkle in her eyes. "Rooney and I walked all the way down to that little clearing at the far end of the ravine. Did you know there was a herd of deer down there?" she asked, her voice lifting in amazement.

  Leaning back against the stove, Finn watched her, amusement altering his expression. "Yeah. I knew."

  "Wow! That is so fantastic—your own private herd of deer." She stripped off her coat and hat, her hair sticking out all over from static electricity. She set her boots beside his. "God, I'm starved. What smells so good?"

  He considered giving her a hard time, telling her it was venison, but decided against it. She'd tear him apart.

  "T-bone steak, baked potatoes and beans."

  She made a sound of approval as she pulled her hair behind her head, rewrapping the elastic band. "That sounds absolutely fabulous. What can I do?"

  The amusement got away from him, and the corner of his mouth lifted. "You could set the table."

  Her eyes brightened, and she whipped into her room and came back, carrying four brightly patterned place mats and four coordinating cloth napkins. "I got you these," she stated, placing them on the table. She grinned at him. "You need to get civilized. You've been living on your own too long."

  The sight of her so pleased with herself as she set his table nailed Finn right in the chest. The sense of loss was so immense, it was almost too much to handle and he abruptly turned back to the stove, his throat tight, the muscles in his jaw jumping. He didn't know how she had managed to worm her way into his life in such a short time. But she had, and he knew that once this was over, he would never be able to look at those place mats again.

  He wasn't sure how he did it, but he pulled himself together. And in spite of that small falter in his mental discipline, the meal itself went fine. She asked him dozens of questions about his business, and she even managed to amuse him again, when she started making suggestions on how he should expand. It was obvious that her father's entrepreneurial spirit was genetic.

  He went out to feed the stock while she cleaned up the kitchen, and when he came back in, he heard her moving around in the spare bedroom. She came out, dressed in her new blue jeans, but she had put on one of his plain white T-shirts and had knotted it at the waist. She had her hair all gathered together, and she was holding it in one hand. "Where are your scissors?" she demanded.

  He set his hat on the hook, then slipped out of his boots.

  He didn't like the sound of that bossy tone, and he became immediately suspicious. "What do you want scissors for?"

  "I'm going to cut my hair," she announced, her mind clearly made up. "It's too recognizable."

  Finn looked at her as if she'd just taken leave of her senses. "There is no damned way I'm letting you cut off your hair, so forget it."

  She gave him an outraged look. "Excuse me. It's my hair, and I'll do what I damn well please."

  Finn could feel the veins on his neck starting to bulge as he glared back at her. "So does that mean you're going to cut off your face as well?"

  She let go of her hair and jammed her hands on her hips. "Who crowned you king?"

  Realizing they were doing it again, Finn bent his head, took a deep breath and held it as he mentally counted to ten. Back in control, he lifted his head and looked at her, taking a different tack. "I like your hair the way it is," he said, his voice gruff. "Don't cut it."

  It was as if his simple request threw a switch and she suddenly acted all flustered. As if not quite sure what to do with her hands, she stuck them in her pockets. "All right," she said, the belligerence gone, a faint flush creeping up her cheeks. "I won't cut it."

 
Watching her like a hawk, Finn assessed her response. Convinced she meant it, he turned and took off his coat. So, he thought, letting go a small smile of victory, there was a way around Miss Spitfire. Ask. Don't demand.

  Combing his fingers through his hair, he went over to the coffee table and picked up the channel changer and turned on the TV, muting the sound. Then he went over to the cupboard he used as a liquor cabinet, taking down a bottle.

  "You get CNN?" she asked, her voice oddly compressed.

  He took out two glasses and set them on the counter. "I'm not some weird hermit, Red. I've got a satellite dish, and I get over a hundred channels. And yes, I get CNN." He poured one glass. "Do you want a drink?"

  "I think I'll go out for another walk," she answered, her voice sounding strangled. He turned around, alarm shooting through him when he saw how pale she'd gone. Then he glanced at the TV, his insides dropping when he saw an image of her on the screen, the mouth of the announcer moving. She was so glamored up, he barely recognized her. Swearing, he crossed the room, grabbed the remote control and switched the set off. Hell, he never even thought before he turned the damned thing on.

  Finn glanced at her, his insides doing another nosedive when he saw her standing there, her head bent, one hand clasped over her face. He had some idea of how helpless and misplaced she must be feeling, and that was bad enough, but what made him feel really lousy was how she kept trying to swallow.

  He knew the worst thing he could do right now was make any comment, so he pretended not to notice as he snagged her wrist. "Nah. You don't want to go out again. I'll bet you twenty bucks I can find a John Wayne movie."

  Wiping her face, she managed an uneven chuckle as she allowed him to tow her along. "You're on." He couldn't find a John Wayne movie, but he did find a really bad western that was so awful it made her laugh. They sat there side by side, drinks in their hands, their feet propped up on the coffee table, making rude comments about the plot and the acting. Finn couldn't remember ever enjoying a bad movie so much.

  It was just after ten when the movie ended, and as much as he didn't feel like it, Finn went and checked the horses.

  There was no sign of Mallory when he got back, and he experienced a sharp rush of disappointment. Shutting off the lights, he went to his room, the sound of her brushing her teeth coming from the bathroom. Trying to ignore that hollow feeling in his belly, Finn pulled his shirt from his jeans, and without undoing the buttons, grabbed the back of the neck and dragged it over his head.

  Just as he tossed it on the chair, he heard her shut off the light in the bathroom; then she entered his bedroom, wearing another one of his blue flannel shirts, her long naked legs nearly putting him into cardiac arrest. It was the first time he'd seen them naked, and it was almost more than he could handle. They made him think about things he had no business thinking about. With great effort, he dragged his gaze higher. She had her wealth of hair secured on top of her head with an orange scrunchie thing, and she was rubbing something fragrant into her hands.

  And as if she had every right to be there, she walked around to the other side of the bed, pulled back the covers and climbed in.

  Nailed with such a rush of relief, Finn closed his eyes and locked his jaw, feeling almost light-headed. Easing in an uneven breath, he unsnapped his jeans, his hands suddenly unsteady. He wanted her there—God, but he wanted her there. And he didn't want her there. Somehow he was going to have to go back to the way it was before she turned up in his life, and every moment he spent with her was going to make it all the harder when she was gone. But he was also pretty damned sure his heart was going to give out on him altogether if he didn't get to hold her pretty soon. And he just might lose it altogether if he did.

  Using at least a shred of common sense, he left on his briefs as he slid his jeans down his hips, then sat on the edge of the bed. Feeling as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs, he kept his back to her as he stripped off his jeans and socks. This had gone too far to turn back. But he didn't have a clue how to play it out. She had him tied up in so many knots he felt like a teenager on his first date.

  His heart hammering in his chest, he switched off the light and slid into bed. And before he had a chance to wrestle with his conscience, Mallory came into his arms. Tightening his jaw against the surge of sensations, he turned toward her. On a ragged intake of breath, she wrapped her arms around him and welded herself against him, and suddenly Finn couldn't breathe, let alone think. Clenching his eyes shut, he tightened his arms around her, his pulse going berserk when he realized she had nothing on under his flannel shirt.

  Struggling not to let the heavy, pulsating rush get away on him, he tried to control his pumping heart and labored breathing, her softness and strength pulling him under. Lord, but he wanted this. Wanted her. Wanted to lose all his loneliness in her.

  Flattening her hand against his naked back, Mallory choked out his name, clutching him with a desperate strength, almost as if she was trying to climb right inside him. "Don't let go," she whispered urgently, her voice breaking. "Please, don't let go."

  Beneath the sexual fever in her, Finn detected a thread of terror, and suddenly he was overwhelmed with such a burst of feelings for her, it was almost as if his heart had exploded in his chest. Easing in a ragged breath, he roughly turned his head against hers and crushed her against him, his heart pounding, his pulse labored. Above all else he wanted to protect her, to give her comfort, to intercept her fear and replace it with himself. More than anything, he needed to do this, to simply care for her.

  Cupping her head, he pressed his mouth against her forehead, his voice rough. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he whispered, clutching her head tighter. "And I'll hold you for as long as you want."

  It was as if his words stripped away any pretense, and she gripped him tighter, her chest heaving. "I'm so terrified that something has already happened to my father," she choked out. "And I hate feeling so damned helpless, knowing someone wants to kill me. And why would they? I'm not a bad person—it's not fair that they want to kill me for the money—especially when I never wanted the damned stuff in the first place."

  A tiny sob escaped, and she pressed her face into the curve of his neck, holding him even tighter. "And I didn't mean to cry. I just wanted to go to bed with you really bad, now I've ruined everything."

  Her honesty about wanting to go to bed expanded the sensation in his chest, and it certainly didn't help the pulsating heaviness in the lower half of his body either. But that hot, heavy need took second place to a far more compelling need—the need to just hold her and comfort her. A need to care for and protect. Sex was nothing compared to that.

  Overcome with a thousand tender feelings for her, Finn swallowed hard, holding her with careful strength. Feeling as if his heart was climbing right out of his chest, he somehow drew a deep, unsteady breath, then managed a gruff chuckle. "From the way I'm feeling, I'm pretty sure that's not ruined." He tightened his hold on her head, trying to reassure her. "And just so you know. I'm pretty damned happy to be right where I am."

  Her face wet against his neck, she tried to twist in his arms, but Finn held fast, whispering against her hair. "Just let me hold you," he said, his voice very gruff. "I like holding you, Red."

  She clutched him, abruptly pressing her face tighter into the curve of his neck, a shudder coursing through her.

  So saturated with feelings for her that he felt as if he was drowning in them, Finn began to stroke her. "You've been hanging on a long time, and I think maybe a good cry is in order," he said, massaging the small of her back. "It's not every day you find out someone wants you dead."

  As if his gruffly spoken assurance gave her permission to let it all go, she began to sob in his arms, holding on to him with a kind of desperate strength.

  His chest clogging up and his throat cramping, Finn closed his eyes and thrust his hand deep into her magnificent hair, trying to provide the kind of comfort she needed. He made himself swallo
w, trying to ease the ache in his chest. He had wanted to be careful—to maintain some distance. But it was far too late. This little wildcat had somehow managed to climb right into his heart, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. And it felt so good to hold her. So good. Holding her was almost enough.

  Mallory eventually cried herself to sleep, still snuggled deep in his arms. Staring into the darkness, Finn continued to rub her back, savoring the simple pleasure of having her there. He hadn't felt this whole for a very long time. Closing his eyes, he listened to her breathing, her face warm on his neck. He wished he could stretch this moment out forever.

  Finn wasn't sure how it happened. One minute, he was holding her, thinking how damned good it felt. And the next moment the ringing of the phone was dragging him out from under a deep sleep.

  Mallory stirred in his arms, and he eased away from her, pulling the covers up over her shoulder. "It's okay," he mumbled gruffly. "Go back to sleep." Rolling over, he glanced at the clock. Then he propped himself up on one elbow and reached for the phone. Who in hell would be calling him at twenty minutes to midnight?

  It was Arnie Jeffery's voice on the other end of the phone. "I'm sorry for calling so late, Finn, but I just got word that Ed Jackson has decided to mount another search. He claims that Mr. O'Brien wants his daughter found. According to Jackson, her old man isn't convinced she's dead. And apparently he's prepared to pay big bucks to make it happen."

  Finn spoke, his voice clipped. "Are you sure these orders are coming from O'Brien?"

  "Don't have a clue. All I know is what Jackson said, and that he, meaning Jackson, is going in to recover Mallory O'Brien, dead or alive, come hell or high water." Finn heard the RCMP officer heave a weary sigh before he continued. "I just wanted to forewarn you that you can expect a visit from Jackson first thing in the morning. He wanted directions to your place, and my cross-shift was stupid enough to give them to him."

  Braced on one elbow, Finn stared into the darkness, a cold feeling churning up in his gut. Now Ed Jackson wanted Mallory's body—come hell or high water. And right now, he needed something to get Jackson off his trail. But most of all, he knew he had to get Mallory out of there, and he had to get her out of there fast.