Found Wanting

by Joyce Lamb

  "It's too wet. Sorry." Shutting the door, he started off down a short hallway, almost instantly leaving her in darkness. She caught up with him in a kitchen that held only the basics: a small refrigerator, a smaller stove with two burners, a couple of cabinets and a sink.

  Opening a cupboard, Mitch peered inside. "Thank you, God," he murmured, drawing out a lantern. Liquid sloshed in its base. A drawer near the sink yielded matches and a fresh wick.

  "Hold this please?" he asked, handing her the flashlight.

  She did her best to train it on the lantern while he threaded the wick, but she was so cold, her hand jiggled the beam. "Sorry," she said.

  Striking a match, he held it to the new wick until it flared, and a warm glow filled the tiny room. "Let there be light," he said.

  His grin was so disarming that she gave him an answering smile, but it felt weak as she hugged her arms around herself, fighting the desire to let her body fold.

  Mitch's amusement faded. "Your teeth are chattering."

  She shrugged. "It's kind of reassuring, actually. Means I'm not dead."

  He gave her a critical once-over. "You need to get out of those wet clothes."

  "And into what?"

  She followed him into the other room, where he held the lantern aloft to cast its glow into the far corners of the room. "Usually, linens are provided, but since we've arrived uninvited and out of season, we'll have to improvise until I can go get supplies." Spotting a Mexican blanket draped over the back of the sofa, he dragged it up, sending dust dancing into the air. "For tonight, we can share," he said.

  Alaina swallowed the sudden constriction in her throat. She imagined what it would be like to be that close to him, sharing his body heat. She had to admit that in the lantern light, he looked damn good, his dark hair spikey across his forehead, his cheeks pink from the wind. He hadn't shaved in a day or two, and his beard had filled in nicely, tempering the angles of his jaw and making his eyes look like melted chocolate. She imagined what it would be like to kiss him, to feel that rough beard scraping against her cheeks ... and other places.

  Her pulse began to skitter. Which was startling enough because no man had made her pulse scramble like this, but also because this man had seemed to hate her guts only yesterday and now he was being warm and kind and helpful. Plus, she hadn't paid much heed to how attractive he was, because she had considered him the enemy. Now, he seemed to be on her side, and as she assessed him, she conceded that he was immensely appealing.

  Seeming oblivious to what she was thinking, he held out the blanket. "Get undressed and wrap this around you. I'm going to try to find some dry wood."

  She stood for a moment after he was gone, wondering at the foreign feelings bouncing around inside her, until a shudder racked her from the inside out. Feeling like a palsy victim, she began to undress. Chills were racing through her so violently that it took her several moments just to undo her jeans. Shimmying out of the soaked denim was even more of a challenge.

  By the time she wrapped the rough blanket around her bare shoulders, her muscles felt as insubstantial as water. Leaving her drenched clothes in a heap on the dusty floor, she burrowed into the corner of the sofa with her legs up under her and her hands clasping the edges of the blanket closed under her chin.

  Mitch returned from outside, empty-handed and dripping anew. "Everything's too damn wet," he said. Crossing to the sofa, he peered down at her. "You're still shaking."

  She buried her chin under the blanket's edge. "It's c-cold in here."

  "There's no way to heat the place without dry wood." He toed off his shoes at the same time that he began to unbutton his shirt. "The sun should be up in a few hours and start drying things," he said, shrugging out of the shirt and draping it over a chair back.

  Alaina sleepily took in the smooth, sculpted muscles of his chest. If she hadn't been so cold, she was sure heat would have been working its way through her system. She remembered feeling those muscles bunch and flex under her hands when she'd tried to escape the hotel room in Chicago. She remembered the restrained power that she'd sensed in him. Then, it seemed menacing and scary. Now, incredibly, she felt safe.

  She let her head loll against the sofa's cushions. Safe. That was a new feeling for her. She hadn't felt safe in fifteen years. But she was safe now, with Mitch.

  She stopped caring that she was so cold.

  * * *

  Watching her eyes slip closed, Mitch took in the paleness of her cheeks, the blue tinge to her lips. "Alaina?"

  "Hmm?"

  "You okay?"

  "Sure."

  He was standing over her in the next instant, pressing a palm against her forehead. As he feared, her skin was cold and clammy. Symptoms of hypothermia.

  Quickly, he shed his wet jeans and underwear, nudged her fingers away from the edges of the blanket and slid the length of his body against hers on the sofa.

  Shivering, she instinctively pressed against his warmth, and he put his arms around her, flattening his hands against her bare back. He moved his palms over her skin, creating friction that generated heat. "Alaina?"

  She kept her eyes closed.

  "Alaina."

  His urgent tone roused her. "What?"

  "Don't sleep just yet."

  "So tired," she said.

  "I know you are, but sleeping isn't an option, okay?"

  "Why?"

  "Just humor me, okay?" He groped for something to get her talking. "Tell me about the day Jonah was born."

  Feeling her lips curve into a smile against his chest, he tried to force his brain away from the aching awareness that the woman he held in his arms was naked. Yes, she was still shivering, covered with goose bumps, and her feet, captured between his calves, were like ice. But her breasts were compressed against his chest, her head tucked up under his chin, her cold nose pressed to his throat. It hadn't escaped him that they seemed to fit together without the usual maneuvering for comfort. "Alaina?" he prodded. "Tell me."

  She sighed softly, the moist heat of her breath caressing his throat. "I went into labor at home. My mother took me to the hospital, and I had a baby."

  Mitch chuckled, his plan to keep her talking backfiring. "It can't have been that easy."

  "Uh huh. Very easy. Three hours of labor and out he came."

  He felt her goose bumps subsiding, until her skin was silken smooth against his. His pulse kicked up to the next level. "Why did you name him Jonah?"

  "You'll laugh."

  "Try me."

  "I felt like a whale when I was pregnant."

  His laugh broke off when she snuggled into him, her thigh coming dangerously close to venturing into intimate territory. "You feel so good," she murmured. "So warm."

  He closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. It had been entirely too long since he'd held a naked woman. He wondered whether his body would have reacted differently if it had not been this particular woman pressed to him. Yes, she was beautiful. He'd noticed that from the very beginning. But his growing attraction to her, while certainly physical on many levels, had much more to do with the kind of woman she was. Strong. Smart. Determined. Resilient. A fighter.

  As Alaina's shivering abated, her muscles relaxed, and her body went lax against his. He let her sleep, certain the threat of hypothermia had passed. He probably could have eased away from her, but holding her felt good, and he didn't want to interrupt sleep she so desperately needed. After a while, he drifted off, too.

  Chapter 24

  Alaina woke slowly, content to lie with her eyes closed and her brain fuzzy. She tried to remember where she was. One thing was for sure: She was so warm and toasty she could have purred. Eventually, she also noticed that she was naked.

  And that hairy legs tangled with hers.

  Her eyes flew open, and she found herself face to chest with a softly snoring Mitch Kane. Her instinct was to stiffen, but she had become an expert at fighting panic and thinking clearly. She did that now, holding still, taking stock
.

  She was naked.

  Mitch was holding her.

  And it wasn't unpleasant, didn't feel threatening.

  The expanse of his chest, his skin smooth over hard, well-defined muscles, was a hair's breadth from her lips. When her breath caught in admiration, she quickly raised her gaze, seeking less-perfect territory.

  His nose was slightly crooked. Had she done that when she'd smashed the heel of her hand against it in the hotel room in Chicago? But, no, it didn't even look bruised.

  His beard had thickened overnight, darkening the angles of his jaw, the slope of his throat. He had a nice neck, she noticed. His skin tanned and flawless except for a small pucker of flesh on his left shoulder that might have been the memory of a bullet wound. She wondered at the pinch of concern she felt as she studied it. He had been shot. Years ago, from the look of the scar. But shot nonetheless.

  "Good morning."

  Alaina glanced up. His dark gaze, not the least bit sleepy, was locked on her face. She saw the desire in his eyes at about the same time that she felt it against her thigh.

  Startled, she bolted up but was stopped by the blanket, which was trapped under his arm, and the pain that shot through her battered body. She fell back, a groan slipping through her clenched teeth.

  "Hold on," he said, shifting to release the blanket. "There."

  Eyes watering, she sat up gingerly, drawing the blanket with her for coverage as Mitch rolled to his feet. Her discomfort was forgotten as she noticed what a fine butt he had as he hurried across the wooden floor, snagged the jeans draped over the back of a chair and stepped into them. His muscles flexed as he drew them up. Oh, yes, a fine butt, indeed.

  "Good thing it's cold in here," he said as he zipped and faced her. His grin was sheepish, his cheeks faintly red. "Sorry about that."

  He'd left the button of his fly undone, and she had to force herself not to look at it or his washboard abs. Her thigh burned where his heat had scorched her, and she wished she hadn't flinched away from him. The regret shocked her, and her cheeks heated.

  Snagging his backpack off the floor as if he needed something to do, he rummaged through it. "You must be sore as hell," he said, coming up with Advil and bottled water. After tapping two orange pills into his palm, he brought them to her and unscrewed the water.

  She washed down the pills. The water tasted fantastic, and she swallowed more before handing it back to him. "Thanks."

  He gulped some down, his Adam's apple bobbing. "How'd you sleep?"

  Rolling her shoulder to test its mobility, she tried not to wince. "Apparently without moving."

  Setting aside the water, he sat down beside her on the sofa. "Want me to try to rub some of the stiffness out?"

  She hesitated, imagining how it would feel to have his hands on her. Her breath grew shallow with anticipation, and she clasped the edges of the blanket under her chin. This ... attraction ... had to be related to fatigue, she thought. Her defenses were weak, and he was being so kind ... and looking so good.

  Mitch smiled. "You're not shy, are you?"

  She heard the subtle challenge, sensed he issued it because he knew it would goad her into submission. It worked. She shifted so that he was behind her, and she felt his warm breath against her skin as he edged aside the blanket, baring her shoulders to the nippy air.

  But instead of putting those big, warm hands on her, he sucked in a sharp breath.

  "What?" she asked, glancing back to see the faint blush from a few minutes ago gone.

  "You've got some major league bruises," he said, his voice soft but tense. "I'd better not ..." He trailed off, cleared his throat. "I don't want to hurt you."

  Rising abruptly, he went to the table, where the clothing she had dumped on the floor in a sodden heap the night before was draped over various chairs. He must have gotten up after she'd slept to spread them out to dry. Now, he gathered her belongings and brought them to her.

  "Thank you," she said, holding them on her lap, watching him curiously.

  "I'm going to run out and see if I can find some dry wood this time. You can get dressed while I'm gone. Everything's still a bit damp, I'm afraid." He gestured toward the hallway that the night before had led into darkness. "There's a bathroom that way. I got the toilet working last night -- it's one of those pull-chain kinds. Shower works, too, but it'd be cold."

  And he was gone.

  Alaina gazed at the closed door for a moment, wondering at his odd behavior. And her own lingering disappointment.

  * * *

  Several yards from the cabin, Mitch braced a shaking hand against a tree and took deep breaths. He thought about the hike through the woods the night before in the cold rain. She had to have been in screaming pain and hadn't said a word. She'd been hit by a car, had her shoulder dislocated twice and had been knocked around by two brutes. Three, if he counted himself. All the abuse had left a rainbow of marks on her back, around her shoulder and across her ribs.

  Closing his eyes, he berated himself for not being more sympathetic. The woman had been through hell, physically and emotionally, and he had forced her to keep pace with him over rough, slick terrain, all the while freezing her ass off. She'd nearly slipped into shock from hypothermia afterward.

  Hell, if it hadn't been for him, maybe none of this would have happened to her. If he hadn't tracked her down, leading Keller's henchmen right to her, she and Jonah this minute could have been enjoying a lazy Sunday morning breakfast of pancakes smothered in syrup.

  Instead, Alaina looked like she'd been beaten and faced being holed up with him in this godforsaken cabin in the middle of the Shenandoahs for who knew how many days without her son, the light of her life. Because of Mitch. Because he'd been stupid and naïve and easily manipulated. Because he'd led with his anger instead of his common sense.

  Guilt, he was discovering, sucked.

  * * *

  Alaina was dressed when Mitch returned, his arms laden with newly chopped wood. Kneeling, he stacked a few logs in the fireplace and began breaking up pieces for kindling.

  "Isn't it kind of a waste to start a fire now?" she asked.

  "What do you mean?" He gestured at the backpack. "Could you grab the matches out of there?"

  She dug around inside it until she found them in a Ziploc bag. As she handed them over, she said, "We're not going to be here long enough to enjoy it."

  His brow creased. "Where else are we going to go?"

  She felt a sinking in her chest. "You said you were going to help me get Jonah back."

  "I am. But it's not going to happen today."

  Straightening, she folded her arms as a chill passed through her. The fire cast heat into the room, but her body and slightly damp clothing seemed unable to absorb it. "You said you have access to Layton."

  He rose, pocketing his hands, his expression sober. "We're going to need a plan, which is going to take at least a few weeks --"

  "Weeks?" She barely managed to not yell it.

  "You know what it takes to plan, Alaina. You did it very well for fourteen years. You can't rush it."

  "No, but a sense of urgency --"

  "It's not just Keller we have to worry about. It's the feds. If they get a whiff of something, they'll do whatever they have to to stop us. I guarantee that."

  She forced herself to be reasonable. But it was difficult when every instinct screamed at her to run to Jonah and shield him from Layton's twisted world. How could she stand to be away from him for weeks? He was her anchor.

  Something in her chest shifted as she realized that she was as desperate to get to Jonah for her sake as much as for his, probably more.

  "You don't have to worry about him," Mitch said. "Chuck's a good agent. He'll look out for Jonah. If he's anything like you, he can handle himself."

  "You don't know that. You don't even know him."

  "I know you. You've prepared him."

  "Not nearly enough," she said, turning away.

  He grasped her arm, draw
ing her around to face him. His dark gaze searched her eyes, and she tensed, as much unnerved by the scrutiny as the way her pulse tripped and raced. "What?" she asked, irritated at the rasp in her voice.

  "You have no reason to trust me," he said. "I understand that. But I'm asking you to do it anyway. I'll get your son back, but it will take a little while. Can you trust me to do that?"

  She wanted to pull away, alarmed by her body's response to his touch. He emanated heat in waves, and her skin absorbed it until she was almost uncomfortably warm. It heated the air around them, too, making it seem too thick, too heavy. Breathing took effort.

  And what he wanted ... trust ... it was too much to ask. She didn't know him. All she knew for sure was that at one time he had hunted her on Layton's behalf. He might well be playing her right now, stalling her while Layton accomplished whatever the hell he was trying to accomplish with Jonah. But what choice did she have? She was at his mercy here, in this cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere. If he'd wanted to harm her, he'd had ample opportunity. More simply, he could have let the hit man kill her the night before.

  Yet, if she trusted him, she risked everything. Her life. Jonah's. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she lifted her arm out of his grasp. "I don't think I can."

  If he was hurt, he didn't show it. "But you understand that it's going to take time," he said. "My partner will need to do surveillance, get a sense of Keller's security, his schedule. If we had help from someone on the inside ..." He trailed off, waiting expectantly.

  "You're the only insider I know."

  "What about your sister?"

  That surprised her. "Addison?"

  "If she could give us information about the security system --"

  "No. She'd tip off Layton."

  "She's working with the FBI."

  "So?" Alaina asked.

  "Whatever happened between you two is the past. She's on your side now."

  "She's on her side. That's the only side she's ever been on. I don't trust her."