by Lisa Gardner
And now she no longer cared. She was a Hathaway Red. She wanted it all.
She pushed herself up on his lap, wiping at her cheeks with her shaking hand. She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I . . . I bet, I—”
“Maggie.” His fingers curled around her chin and raised it slowly. “Don’t apologize.”
“Okay,” she said and felt her eyes well up again. His green gaze was so steady, so true, and his callused thumb brushed her cheek, as soothing as a kitten’s lick.
He was shifting restlessly in the seat. She glanced at his lap, and realized belatedly that he was still hard, still hungry. She didn’t ask and she didn’t hesitate. She reached down her hand and found him through the wet, clinging fabric of his jeans.
His head fell back against the top of the seat. His green eyes narrowed to feral green slits and his breath grew ragged.
“I want you,” she whispered fiercely, her hair wild and fiery around her pale face. “I want to feel you with my fingers, to hold you, to cup you. I want you inside me. I want . . . I want everything.” Her hands were already working the stubborn buttons.
“I want that, too,” he murmured thickly. “Definitely.”
Abruptly his hands gripped her face and he brought her lips to him fiercely. This was hard; this was earnest and primal. She wasn’t glass anymore and he seemed to know it.
He split her lip. She liked the taste of blood. He bruised her shoulders with his grip. She wished he would hold her even tighter.
Her hands were fast and furious on his lap, tugging and pulling at the wet, unyielding denim. She could feel the straining desire of him, huge and hot. She should be afraid, because she was small and petite and he clearly wasn’t, but she didn’t care anymore.
He consumed her mouth, a huge biting kiss that she returned just as voraciously. The rain thundered around them. The tiny car rocked with the fury of their movements. The denim, however, continued to thwart her fingers and Cain struggled just as badly with her skirt and panties.
He drew back long enough for a gulping gasp of air. “The backseat,” he suggested harshly. “More room.”
“Okay.” She tumbled between the front seats instantly, falling into the backseat and reaching for his hand.
He’d just risen, when he suddenly stiffened. He was no longer staring at her, but out the windshield.
“Cain!” she demanded without a single shred of pride.
“Headlights,” he said. “Headlights.”
Her mouth opened, her blue eyes widened and the slow sinking feeling in her stomach took her from high to low in one sickening lurch. “No,” she whispered bleakly.
For one moment, he turned back. His jaw worked; his eyes softened. The headlights drew nearer. Big, high headlights, the kind that might belong to a semi.
Cain’s shoulders squared. His face settled into the smooth, composed lines of resolve. And without his ever saying, Maggie knew the moment had come and gone.
He reached beside her and picked up the baseball cap and his discarded T-shirt, which was still wrapped around the gun.
At the last minute, she grabbed his arm. “Don’t you hurt anyone,” she said harshly. “Don’t do that.”
He pulled his arm away without any effort. “You trust so little,” he said quietly and popped open the door. “Get dressed.”
He stood up in the rain, pulling the T-shirt over his bare chest and the gun tucked in the small of his back. He settled the cap over his forehead and began waving his arms.
She watched him for a moment and saw the headlights slow.
He looked strong in the night, relentless and ready to do what he had to do. He turned his emotions on and off so well. She just ached. Her body ached, her heart ached, her hands ached to reach for him. She didn’t know how he pulled himself together so fast. Maybe women with foolish, generous hearts weren’t meant to be able to do the same.
She reached for her silk blouse, drawing the damp fabric over her shivering shoulders with thick, trembling fingers. She didn’t bother with tears and she didn’t bother with regret.
She simply began buttoning the blouse and whispered, “Maggie, be strong.”
• • •
Mike Jeffries was a big man. The “I’m a Harley Hog Man” print on his T-shirt was stretched to the point of near illegibility, and the navy tattoo on his upper forearm bulged to previously unknown dimensions. He sported a blond, handlebar mustache and sideburns Cain thought had gone out of fashion sometime in the seventies. All in all, he looked as if he could give Cain problems if he so chose.
Cain had pumped some iron in his time, sure. He was smart as well. But this truck driver appeared to consume a whole steer in a single sitting.
On the other hand, prison had been educational: It had taught Cain not to look at a man’s biceps so much as look into a man’s eyes. Mike Jeffries had clear eyes, smiling, benevolent eyes as he opened the passenger door and called out, “Looks like you could use some help, mister.”
Cain eased his hand away from the gun nestled in the small of his back. “Yes, sir. Our car went off the road.”
“Our?”
Cain looked at the man once more. Life didn’t play fair. It routinely gave a man five seconds to size up friend or foe and make crucial decisions. And indecision was the worst choice of all.
“My wife,” Cain supplied steadily.
Mike Jeffries simply nodded, no calculating look appearing on his face, no sudden flush of lust darkening his eyes. Of course, the giant hadn’t seen Maggie yet. That long red hair of hers had probably broken more than a few hearts.
Or maybe it was simply the way she moved, the way she spoke. Every act earnest. She did nothing halfheartedly. She tried and she persevered, more than any person he’d ever known.
As if she were reading his mind, the back door of the car popped open and she stepped out. Both Cain and Jeffries turned toward her.
She stood straight in the pouring rain, the slashing drops instantly molding her deep red hair to her pale, oval face and slender shoulders. She was small and delicate, yet remote and ethereal in the dark storming night. It was as if the entire rage of nature didn’t affect her, didn’t touch her, because she willed it that way.
Cain had thought she might look hurt after his abrupt departure. He thought she might sulk. He’d forgotten just how resilient she was.
Instead, in a small endearing motion that impacted him far more than any tantrum would have, she carefully checked both ways of the empty road, and then crossed right toward him, her footsteps direct, even and without hesitation.
He found himself holding out his hand. He found himself wishing the semi had never arrived and he could have stayed with her in the backseat of the car, tasting her skin, listening to her soft cries, feeling her body contract around him.
And afterward, he would have liked to hold her a long time, listening to her soft voice proudly tell stories of her family while he stroked her long, red hair.
He forced himself to turn back to Jeffries and the matters at hand. The bigger man’s eyes were still clear. That was a good thing, because maybe Cain was capable of murder after all.
“I’m heading to Burns,” the driver said. “Then I gotta pull over and get some rest.”
“How far is that?”
“Oh, ’bout another forty miles. Or I can drop you in Riley ten miles from here if you’d like.”
“No, Burns would be great if it’s not a problem.”
“Nah, hop right in and get outta this rain. I got some towels in the back and a thermos of hot coffee if you’d like. Shoot, I’ve never seen two people so wet.”
“Ugly night,” Cain commented softly.
“Sure is. Sure as hel . . . heck—my apologies, ma’am—is.”
Cain decided he liked Mike Jeffries then. Still, he positioned himself between the driver and Maggie on the seat, handing her the towel first as the semi lumbered to life and slowly eased forward into the rain.
“Could
you tell me the time?” Cain asked, turning his torso to shield Maggie from the other man’s gaze as she went to work drying her hair and her clinging blouse.
“Nearly four a.m. You in a hurry?”
“A little.”
“No problem.” Jeffries grinned. “No one can make up time like a trucker.”
• • •
True to his word, Jeffries dropped them in Burns in just more than half an hour, making good time on a straight, flat road that was being consumed by the storm. Ever helpful, the trucker pulled over at a bank in the middle of town so Maggie could use the ATM machine—she’d thankfully found the bank card in the pocket of her skirt, having tucked it there after the last withdrawal. Armed with cash, they requested that the driver leave them at a small, innocuous strip motel just outside the city limits. From there, they would be fine, Cain assured Jeffries.
They tried to offer him money for his assistance, but Jeffries wouldn’t take anything. He shook their hands, blushing a little as Maggie thanked him in her sweet, soft voice, and wished them the best. Then he headed for the truck stop and Cain and Maggie stood under the porch trying to figure out what to do next.
Four thirty in the morning. They’d now covered three hundred miles since leaving Portland and put one hundred miles between themselves and Bend. Their clothes were drenched and covered in mud.
Cain figured there was only one thing to do. He rang the buzzer in the motel lobby, waking the proprietor, and then with all the exhausted charm he could muster pleaded for a room.
The woman’s gaze went from bedraggled Maggie to Cain to Maggie, her expression showing she was disgruntled at having been dragged out of bed. Then she reached beneath the counter, and just as Cain was beginning to hear alarms ring in his head, the woman whipped out a hair dryer, two boxed toothbrushes, a tiny tube of toothpaste and a room key.
“Thirty bucks for the night. Danish and coffee available in here at seven.”
Maggie handed over the money. The woman fairly snatched it off the counter, then tightened the belt of her green velour robe and waddled away.
After exchanging startled glances, Maggie and Cain breathed easier.
“There are nice people in the world,” Maggie said softly, picking up the generously offered toiletries and looking at Cain pointedly.
“There definitely are,” he concurred and picked up the key. “Now let’s find the room and get some sleep.”
• • •
They had to go back out into the rain, but at this point, they barely noticed. The storm appeared to be lessening, which was a mixed blessing. Cain preferred clear weather for faster driving time. On the other hand, the cops, Ham and everyone else would also benefit from the break.
That was tomorrow’s worry, though. He still had to get through the night.
He opened the door of the room at the end of the strip motel, and discovered the night wasn’t going to get any easier. The tiny room offered one bed—a queen-size mattress with just enough room for a cozy couple to sleep tangled in each other’s arms.
He swallowed thickly, feeling Maggie still beside him and knowing she was thinking the same thing. His body was already hard, his hormones insistent. His hostage was a beautiful, passionate woman, and he already remembered the taste of her mouth, the texture of her skin.
God help him, he wanted her. He wanted to slam the door shut behind them, lock it so the world was held at bay and strip off her clothes and consume her. Maybe he should have been fast and furious in the car. Maybe he’d had his opportunity and this unbelievable ache in his groin was his penance for going so damn slow.
He hadn’t wanted to rush, though. Even as a kid, he’d hated to gorge. He and Ham had only gotten candy on the rare occasions Zech had gone into town. Then, he’d bring them back pieces of hardtack or sticks of butterscotch. Ham always devoured his in a single sitting. Cain hoarded his candy, however, stashing the pieces away in secret places where he could pull them out and simply stare at them, knowing they would taste sweet and delicious and deriving as much pleasure from the anticipation as from the actual act.
He ate his candy slowly. One piece every few days, sucked and never chewed as he walked the mountain trails of his home, inhaling the fresh air and tasting the sugar melting on his tongue.
When he’d looked at Maggie, her pale skin, her delicate, supple body, he’d felt the same way. He wanted to take it bit by bit, dragging out each precious moment of delight, holding back until it hurt, because good things were few and far between, and perfect moments passed so quickly, leaving you with nothing afterward.
Now here was a hotel room with a single bath and a single bed. He could climb into the shower with her, a hot, steaming shower where he could strip off all her clothes with leisure and, starting at the widow’s peak of her magnificent hair, soap her entire body. Her skin would be as supple and smooth as satin. Her nipples would be hard pebbles, grazing his palm, and her thighs would be soft and slender.
He would like to hear her moan through the steam. He would like her fingers digging into his shoulders once again, as she clung to him and begged him for release.
A moment of passion, sweetness melting in his mouth. And the aftermath?
He wasn’t so big a fool that he thought a woman like Maggie could separate her heart from her body. He saw the way she looked at him now. He had recognized the shocked wonder of her first fulfillment. She didn’t appear to be that experienced nor to understand the full depth of her sensuality. But now she was discovering it and the more Cain touched her, the more he bound her to him.
It was grossly unfair of him. Blatantly unjust. For the aftermath remained bitter. He was a wanted man with no good plan of escape. His next moves on the chessboard were full of so many assumptions and held such a huge margin of error, he should be ashamed. He didn’t have any better ideas, though. Ham had checkmated him with brutally simple efficiency the first time around, and Cain was still playing catch-up.
He took a deep breath and turned to Maggie. Her blue eyes were huge, slightly wary but also luminescent. She looked from the single bed to him to the bed. Her lips parted and he almost lost his resolve.
“Why don’t you shower first?” he said, his voice uncommonly thick. He cleared his throat. “We don’t have much time, Maggie. I want to be up again at seven.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s only two hours from now.”
“I’m a wanted man,” he said pointedly.
Her back stiffened. “It’s not as if I’ve forgotten,” she fired back.
Her spirited retort made him smile, made him ache. He brushed her cheek with his thumb without conscious intent. “Good.” He hesitated, then was unable to stop himself from whispering softly, “Don’t let me hurt you. Don’t let me do that.”
Her chin came up. “You think too much of yourself,” she said haughtily, using his own words against him. “I take full responsibility for my actions, too, Cain.”
“Then we understand each other.”
Her nostrils flared sarcastically, a new look for her. “Sure, Cain. For all the good that does us.”
She squared her shoulders. “I believe I’ll shower first. Why don’t you get some sleep? We only have two hours, you know.”
He accepted her pointed jabs. She fought—that was good. Even women with generous hearts should know how to throw a few good punches.
She sauntered away from him, her shoulders straight, her head held high, her back graceful. She looked very different from the meek, hunch-shouldered woman he remembered kidnapping twenty hours ago.
He thought she’d never looked so beautiful.
• • •
Maggie showered for a long time, letting the steam soak into her chilled, shattered senses. Her nipples were tight, her breasts more sensitive than she ever remembered. She felt restless and wound up and more aware of her body than she’d ever been.
She shampooed her long hair and remembered Cain’s fingers performing the same, massaging circles. She soap
ed her throat and remembered his soft lips nipping at her pulse. She soaped her breasts and gritted her teeth against sharp sensations that were near pain. Her body didn’t seem hers anymore. Every place she touched reminded her of him.
And she knew from the tightly wound sensations that she wanted him again. And again. And again.
Was passion always like this? So unquenchable? So consuming?
There was so much more she wanted to know, so much more she wished he would show her. If only that darn semi hadn’t shown up . . .
He was back to being removed again. Back to thinking too much, to trying to be honorable. The damn man thought way too much.
She scowled, turning off the water and stepping out of the shower at last. She dried off briskly, still feeling wound up, restless and disgruntled. At the last minute, she took the towel and wiped the steam from the mirror, staring at her naked reflection.
She still looked the same, she thought. Tiny, too thin. But then, maybe she was just slender. Her ankles were delicate, her calves nicely rounded, her thighs supple. Her waist was very narrow, her breasts small, but high and firm. And she had alabaster skin, she decided abruptly. Not pasty-white. Alabaster.
She perused the collection of bottled toiletries lined up around the sink and finally discovered a little bottle of lotion. With a spurt of resolution, she dumped out the rich cream and began massaging the carnation-scented lotion into her skin. Next, she plugged in the hair dryer and attacked her hair.
Fifteen minutes later, she stood still naked, but her skin glowed now, supple and satiny. And her fiery red hair cascaded down her body in rich ripples, falling from her widow’s peak to her navel with warm, crackling life.
She spent five minutes washing out her clothes with shampoo and hanging them over a small radiator. Then she squared her shoulders, adjusted her hair over her shoulders and breasts as a flaming veil and decided if her great-great-great-grandmother could do it, so could she.
She stood in front of the door, took one last deep breath and strode naked into the tiny room.
