by Lisa Jackson
She couldn’t argue with that. Hadn’t she, too, decided the very same thing? “I’m not a part of Roy’s crowd.”
“Just who are you?”
“A friend of Laura’s, Rachelle Tremont.”
Eyeing her for a moment, he said, “We don’t have any time to lose. Come on, Rachelle.” He took her hand again and they began picking their way through the undergrowth.
“Where’re we going?” she whispered. She’d lost her sense of direction, but she felt as if they were circling back, heading toward Roy’s party.
“I know a shortcut,” he said. His grip tightened around hers and she felt as if the blood were all pooled in her hand. Jackson was wheezing a little, wincing each time he stepped on his right leg.
“You can’t go on—”
“Shh!” he warned so loudly that some unseen creature scurried through the undergrowth.
Rachelle’s heart was pounding in her ears, but she knew she was right. Closer than before, she heard the sound of voices and the gentle vibration of music. Jackson was leading them right back to Roy!
“You’ve got to be out of your mind!” she whispered.
“Maybe,” he admitted with a sarcastic edge to his words. “But I don’t think so.”
They skirted the Fitzpatrick estate, staying in the trees that surrounded the thick stone walls. When they came to the private lane, Jackson hesitated, his muscles taut, his gaze moving swiftly through the forest. “Okay. Now,” he whispered, half dragging her out of the cover of the woods to dash across the road and into the trees on the far side. They were heading east now, and the lake was visible through the trees. Dark and shimmering, the water rippled with the wind.
Rachelle’s throat was dry and her body ached all over. Rain ran down her neck and seeped through her jacket. It seemed that they’d been wandering through the dripping trees for hours.
Jackson stopped for a second and rubbed his leg. Even in the darkness, she noticed the corners of his mouth turn white. “You need a doctor.”
“I just need to rest awhile,” he argued, taking her hand again and hobbling toward the lake. She followed him blindly, her fate in the hands of the bad boy from Gold Creek.
“Here we go,” Jackson said as they used the beach to get past the fence that separated the estate and a huge house came into view.
“What’s this?”
“The Monroe place.”
She’d heard of it; a grand house that had stood empty during the winters when the Monroe family returned to San Francisco. “I don’t think we should stop here,” she said aloud, worrying, but Jackson had already run to the manor and was standing in a breezeway between the house and garage.
“No one will think we’d have the guts to stay so close to the party,” he reasoned aloud. “They saw us take off in the opposite direction.”
“But—”
“Stay here,” he ordered, then checked all the doors and windows on the first floor.
“You’re going to break in?”
“If they left it locked.”
“But that’s illegal.”
Jackson sent her a glance that called her naive. “We won’t get caught.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No, it doesn’t. So you go ahead and stand here in the rain and figure out what else we’re gonna do. In the meantime, I’ll be looking for a way into this place.”
He disappeared around the corner, and Rachelle shivered. She thought of Roy, how he’d tried to force her, and her stomach turned over. She’d been stupid and foolish and now, here she was, in the middle of nowhere, with a boy whose reputation was tarnished, breaking into the summer home of a wealthy family!
She’d wanted adventure, she’d longed to test her wings, and those very wings were about as sturdy as Icarus’s had been against the heat of the sun. She’d plummeted in a downfall so great, she knew she’d crash and never find herself again.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she considered her options. Maybe Jackson was right. If they could just rest and warm up, then they could decide what to do. Inside the house, there could be a phone; she might be able to call her mother. Her stomach tightened at facing Ellen Tremont, or her friends again. What had happened to Carlie and Laura? What were they doing right now? Were they worried sick about her?
She heard a noise on the roof and her heart nearly stopped. Moving out of the cover of the breezeway, she looked up. Jackson had shimmied up the drainpipe and was working his way across the rain-slickened shakes to a window. She held her breath and crossed her fingers that he didn’t slip, fall and break his stubborn neck. He rattled one lock, swore and moved to the next window. It, too, seemed shut tight.
To Rachelle’s horror, he worked up the slope to the third story, where dormers protruded from the roof. At the second window, he stopped, withdrew something from his pocket, worked on the lock until with a sound of splintering wood, it gave way. A second later, he climbed through.
Great. Not only had they trespassed, but now they were breaking and entering. She waited impatiently, certain that someone from Roy’s party would wander by and discover her. A full five minutes passed and she started to worry again. Had Jackson hurt himself, fallen down the stairs in the dark?
A lock clicked softly. The back door swung inward and Jackson stood with his back propping the door open, obviously pleased with himself.
She didn’t wait for an invitation, but slipped inside, where some of the heat of the day had collected. They stood in the kitchen, dripping water onto the oak floor, listening to an old clock tick and the timbers creak. The furniture was covered in white sheets, and if she let herself, she could imagine that this particular house was haunted.
“Now what?” she asked him, suddenly aware that she was completely alone with him.
“We need a flashlight. The electricity’s been turned off and I wouldn’t want to use any lights anyway. Someone might see us and call the cops.”
“No one will see us,” she said, thinking how remote they were.
“Wrong. There’s a marina across the lake and the bait-and-tackle shop. Someone over there could glance this way, see a light that shouldn’t be on and get nervous.” He opened a cupboard and ran his fingers over the contents of the shelves, grunted, then started with the next cupboard. Before too long, he’d covered half the kitchen.
“This isn’t going to work—”
“Hold on. What’s this?” he asked, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “A candle. Primitive. But just the ticket.”
He struck a match. It sizzled in the night, and in the small flame she could see his face, streaked with mud, a hint of beard darkening his chin, and the reflection of the match’s flame as pinpoints of light in his dark eyes.
Carefully he lit the candle, then searched in the closet for more. Soon he had lit three candles and the kitchen seemed almost cheery in the flickering golden light.
“Aren’t you afraid someone might see the candlelight?” she asked, but he shook his head.
“There’s a den near the front of the house. It doesn’t face the lake or the Fitzpatrick place. The blinds are already drawn. I think we’ll be safe. If not—” He looked at her again and this time his gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. He shifted. “If not, we’ll just have to face the music.”
“We could call—”
“I tried. The phone’s shut off.”
“Wonderful,” she murmured sarcastically, trembling inside. Things were going from bad to worse. “So what do we do?”
Jackson leaned one hip against the kitchen island. His hair was wet, golden drops ran down his face and neck. “I guess we wait, try to dry out and then figure out a way to get back to town. I imagine that if you don’t show up somewhere at sometime,
your folks will send out a search party.”
Rachelle lifted a shoulder. “My mom works nights and I’m supposed to be staying overnight with Laura. My sister is with a friend. So no one’s looking for me yet.”
“What about your dad?”
That old knot in her stomach squeezed tighter. “He, um, he won’t know. He and Mom are separated and he’s living in an apartment in Coleville.” She didn’t add that he was probably with his girlfriend, a woman only a few years older than Rachelle. Glenda. Her father had found Glenda in the middle of his life and had decided that Ellen could raise the girls. He had living to do. “No one will call him,” she said, trying to avoid thinking about her dad.
“But Laura’s mother might call yours.”
“I suppose.”
Again Jackson looked at her and one side of his mouth lifted a fraction. “It’s not so bad having someone who cares for you, you know. Believe me, it’s better than the alternative.”
Rachelle felt suddenly foolish. His mother probably had never cared when he came home and he’d never had a dad to worry over him or scold him or play catch with him or take him fishing.
He left the kitchen and, walking stiffly, holding on to the wall for support, headed for the den. Rachelle followed, carrying two candles and noticing how he favored his right leg. His jeans were soaked and streaked with mud, and the worn fabric clung to his thighs and buttocks as he limped down a short hallway. She forced her eyes away from his legs and found herself staring at the back of his battered old jacket, wide at the shoulders, tapered to the waist.
Over the scent of melting wax were the stronger smells of rain and musk and leather.
He placed his candle on the mantel of a river-rock fireplace and turned to face her.
She was shivering, her feet ice-cold in her wet boots. A crease formed between his brows, and he rubbed his chin. “You’re freezing.”
“A little.”
“A lot. So am I.” He checked the blinds again, closed the door to the room and then leaned over the fireplace. “I guess we’d better find a way to warm up.” He reached into the chimney and pulled, opening a creaking damper and causing soot to billow onto the grate.
There were already logs piled on old andirons and newspaper and kindling neatly stacked in a box near the hearth. He bent on one knee and set to work.
Rachelle tried not to stare at him. “Isn’t starting a fire asking for trouble?”
“Begging for it.”
“Seriously.”
“Maybe.” He grabbed his candle and pressed the flame to the dry kindling and paper. In a few seconds the fire was popping and hissing, shooting out sparks and slowly warming the room. “Come over here,” Jackson suggested, but Rachelle didn’t dare move. She felt trapped in the seductive glow of the blaze, held prisoner by a man she found fascinating yet frightening.
To her horror, he stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. He hung his clothes over the screen and was left standing, half-naked, the golden light playing upon his dark skin and black thatch of hair at his neck. The wound to his shoulder had already stopped bleeding. He winced a little as he moved his arm.
“I—I can’t do that,” she pointed out, and he grinned—not the sardonic smile that twisted his lips cruelly, but a genuine smile of amusement.
“We’ll figure something out. At least take off your boots.”
That, she could do. So she balanced herself on the edge of a couch and tugged on her boots. Her skirt was torn in spots where thorns had caught in the folds and her blouse was in tatters. Her jacket was in better shape, but wet all the way through. She kicked her boots onto the hearth, then self-consciously hung her jacket over the screen.
She felt every bit the virgin she was. She’d seen boys without their shirts before—many times while swimming at the lake or watching them scrimmage in basketball—but they had been boys, with smooth skin and only the smallest suggestion of body hair. Jackson, on the other hand, was a man. His muscles were developed and moved with corded strength, and his beard was dark against his jaw. The way his jeans hugged his hips, hanging low enough to expose his navel, caused her diaphragm to constrict. The back of her throat went dry, and she had to force her eyes away from the raveling waistband of his jeans.
His voice jerked her from her wicked thoughts. “I’ll see if there’s something around here that you can wear, so that that—” he pointed to her ripped blouse “—can dry out.”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?” He lifted a brow in disbelief. “We’re in enough trouble as it is. I don’t want to be responsible if you get pneumonia.”
“I won’t.”
“And I don’t want to get caught with you in something that was obviously torn from your body.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips nervously, aware that his gaze followed the movement. “Well, uh, I don’t want to get caught—period.”
“Amen.” He limped out of the room and Rachelle let out her breath. Good Lord, what was she doing here? If she had any sense at all, she’d grab her boots and jacket and flee.
To where?
Anywhere! Any other place had to be safer than here, alone with Jackson. Her thoughts had turned so wanton that she was shocked. She, who had never much enjoyed being kissed. All that fumbling and groping and panting. She’d thought something was wrong with her because she’d never been “turned on” as some of the girls had confided. She’d wondered about the girls who said they’d trembled because they wanted to sleep with their boyfriends so badly.
Well, Rachelle had never been in love and her parents were a fine example of how love didn’t work out. As for sex, Ellen Tremont had been embarrassed by the subject and had given her daughters minimal information on the subject. But Rachelle had learned a lot. From her friends. From the books she read. From movies. And she knew that something was wrong with her. Because she didn’t want it.
Or at least she didn’t think she did. Until now. For the first time in her life, she knew what her friends meant by thudding heartbeats and sweaty palms and a crackle of excitement—an electrical charge—between two people.
But Jackson Moore? Why not someone safe like Joe Knapp or Bobby Kramer? Someone who wouldn’t intimidate her.
She was still standing in front of the fire, heating the backs of her legs and holding her blouse together when he returned with a couple of blankets. “No clothes,” he said, and she accepted the blanket and tucked it over her shoulders.
“I’ll be fine.”
He smiled then and shook his head. “If either of us get out of this and are ‘fine,’ it’ll be a miracle.” She was suddenly so aware of him…of his maleness that she couldn’t look at him and felt tongue-tied, though she was beginning to warm a little.
From the corner of her eye, she watched him. Half boy, half man and thoroughly fascinating.
He flopped onto the couch, then sucked in a sharp breath as he attempted to struggle to a sitting position. But his knee, stiffening, wouldn’t bend. His face turned white with the effort, and he fell onto the cushions, wincing when his shoulder connected with the back of the couch.
“Your leg. It’s hurting you and your shoulder…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“I said I’m okay.”
Rachelle wasn’t convinced. Every time he moved, he blanched. “You’re a lousy liar.” She glanced down at his jeans and felt sick. A dark stain colored the fabric stretching across his knee.
“So sue me.”
“Let me look at your leg.”
He offered her a lazy, pained smile. “Why, Miss Tremont,” he mocked, “are you suggesting that I drop trou?”
“No, I—”
“That’s a new one on me,” he cut
in, “but if you insist—” He made a big show of sliding the top button of his waistband through its hole and she knew that he was expecting her to yell “stop,” but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Her heart was beating faster than the wings of a bird in flight but she watched, her fingers clenched tight in the folds of the blanket.
His gaze still pinned on her face, he yanked at the worn fabric and a series of buttons released with a ripple of pops. Rachelle’s breath seemed to stop.
Despite his pain, his lips twitched in amusement.
Rachelle was certain he wouldn’t go any further, yet she stared at him as he squirmed, lifting up his buttocks and sliding his pants down his leg with a grimace and groan of pain. For the first time in her life she saw a man in white briefs and she forced her eyes away from the bulge that was apparent between his legs.
“You could help me, you know. This was your idea.”
“You want me to help you take off your pants? No way.” The thought of grabbing that wet fabric, the tips of her fingers grazing his legs and hips brought a blush to her cheeks. He was injured, she told herself, she should help him, but she stood near the fireplace as if cast in stone. It wasn’t a simple situation of patient and nurse; there were emotions charging the air, sensual impulses that she’d never felt before but recognized as sexual. Her insides quivered—in fear or anticipation—before she saw the gash that started above his knee and swept over the joint to dig deep into the flesh of his calf. Blood was crusted around the cut and her stomach turned over.
“That’s horrible.”
“One word for it,” he said. His pants would go no further as he was still wearing black leather boots. Without a word, she grabbed one boot by its run-down heel and tugged, inching the wet leather off his swollen leg. The sturdy cowhide had spared his lower calf from further injury, but still the cut looked painful.
“Nice guy, Roy Fitzpatrick,” Jackson mocked.
“A prince.” She yanked off the other boot, and it slid off to the floor with a clunk. To keep busy, she set both boots by the fire, then turned to find him, nearly naked, staring up at her.
