by Alicia Scott
She wanted him, too, and that was all that mattered.
His left hand reached out, the tightening of his jaw the only sign of the pain. He could feel her gasping intake of breath, and it fueled the fire. He took her lips with his own.
It wasn’t gentle or beguiling or sweet. It was hot and angry and needful. His tongue plunged into her mouth without preamble, and she welcomed it without regret. His hands jerked her forward until every soft curve of her was pressed against every powerful muscle of him. She could feel his hard length, rigid and demanding against her own dampening need, and she pressed closer. But even that wasn’t enough. He brought her left leg up and around his waist, pressing himself intimately against her until she moaned at the contact. His tongue plunged in once more while his right hand found her breast and the rigid nipple there.
She moaned again, the intensity of the passion sudden and consuming. Never had she wanted anyone like she wanted him right now; never had she needed anyone like she needed him. The need should have scared her, but there was no time for fear. His hand on her breast was demanding, his tongue skillful and the rhythm of his hips compelling. She wanted him inside her, hot and slick and strong. She wanted to rake his back with her fingernails, bite his shoulder with passion.
She wanted all of him, now.
The knock on the door threatened to kill them both. Mitch swore, low and vehement and not even a fraction of what he truly felt. He felt Jess go rigid in his arms, the sound crashing them back to reality while his raging hormones protested the trip. For one last moment, he clutched her to him, burying his groan of frustration in the thick beauty of her hair.
“I’m so sorry,” he breathed. “Oh, sweet Jess, I’m sorry.”
He felt her press against him in response, and if he could have seen her face at that moment, he would have seen tears.
The knock sounded again, loud and insistent. Mitch was half sure he would murder the bastard.
“Occupied,” he managed to call out, his voice so hoarse, he barely recognized it. It took one more moment to collect himself, and even then his body felt pain.
“We have to go,” he whispered to Jess, her body still pressed against his own.
She nodded her reply against his shirt, not trusting herself to speak. The frustration tangled with the pain and emptiness of earlier today, until she felt raw and vulnerable and totally exposed. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, couldn’t bear to see her own shattered face reflected there.
Slowly she drew in a deep breath, searching for the control that had been her mainstay. But the Ice Angel was growing tired, and the control was hard to find. At last she managed a low, shuddering sigh. She pulled away, patting his shirt and the faint dampness from her tears.
She still couldn’t meet his eyes.
The truck driver was more than a little surprised when the door opened and a good-looking woman walked out, followed closely by a man. He might have said something, but the dark look on Mitch’s face promised it would be the last words he ever said, and the truck driver had no desire to die young. He took the offered key, and hastened to his business.
Mitch paused long enough to ask the gas attendant a quick question about where they were and where they might go, then hoisted himself up into the truck. Jess was pressed far against the passenger side, her head resting against the door, her eyelids already shut. She looked exhausted and amazingly vulnerable to him.
He felt a pang cross his stomach, and once more that unbearable tightness in his chest. When he looked at her now, her pain and loneliness staggered him. There were so many things about her he still didn’t know. Such as, why was her mom in prison? Why hadn’t she told him about her? Did she have a father, too, then? Perhaps a brother or sister?
So many questions, and looking at her now, he wondered how painful the answers would be.
He started the engine as quietly as possible.
Darkness was beginning to fall as he drove. A light mist turned to rain, and the rhythm of the windshield wipers filled the cab. He looked over at Jess and saw that she was now completely asleep, slumped like a child against the window. She most likely needed the rest.
He reached for the radio, finding the tail end of a country-western song. He sat back again, satisfied with the choice. But what came on next made his spine snap to rigid attention, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip on the wheel.
[u93]“In a surprising announcement earlier this morning, Mafia boss Les Capruccio’s trial was ruled a mistrial. The federal court of appeals concurred that the jury had possibly been biased by the media surrounding the event. A new trial date has not yet been declared. In the meantime, Capruccio has been released on a million dollars bail.”[ql
Damn fast mistrial ruling, Mitch found himself thinking darkly. And how many palms had been crossed to accomplish this? He spared a swift glance over at Jess, but she slept on, peaceful and oblivious against the door. He reached over a hand to wake her, then realized there was little point. All that the information would do would be to add to her tension, and in fact, neither of them could do anything about Capruccio’s release. It merely added one more dimension to a puzzle already far too complicated.
Mitch’s gaze grew dark and hard in the rainy night. He’d been in tough spots before, but none quite like this one, he thought grimly. He was willing to bet right about now a good several hundred people were looking for him and the woman sleeping beside him. Les’s men were probably flooding the area, coupled by any low-life street scum interested in the five-hundred-thousand-dollar bounty on Jessica Gavornée’s head.
The FBI had most likely also tried to find them. Surely, by now, they knew something had gone wrong at the retreat. No doubt they were also aware of Les’s sudden release.
All these bodies trying to find them, some definitely for bad, some ostensibly for good, and he had no clear way of telling the difference. Jess said she didn’t call her mother from the retreat, which meant there had to be a leak somewhere.
Once more his gaze slid to the sleeping woman beside him. He’d told her he would keep her safe. Mostly because it was his job. And now, because looking down at her vulnerable features, soft with sleep, he knew he’d kill the man who tried to hurt her.
He eased his grip slightly on the wheel, concentrating on maneuvering through the dark, slick night. The soft sounds of Mary Chapin Carpenter filled the cab with stories of love and heartbreak. He drove on.
Through a series of twisted roads and byways, he came to the small lakeside community the gas station attendant had spoken of. Through the darkness and the rain, he could make out the glassy smoothness of a lake on one side, and the endless flow of fields on the other. Up ahead, he saw the first sign for a bed and breakfast, followed by others. He drove by all the inns once, then selected a smaller, whitewashed old house that looked clean and trustworthy. He turned the truck around and drove back to it.
Jess woke as he killed the engine. She blinked several times, her face looking sleepy and disoriented.
“Where are we?” she managed at last.
“A small town,” he replied with a slight shrug. “It’s out of the way, and there’s no logical reason for anyone to ask for us here. I think we’ll be safe for the night.”
She nodded, rolling her shoulders as she finished waking up. Mitch pulled out the duffel bag, their only luggage, and jumped out into the pouring night. He jogged lightly up the porch, hearing Jess’s rapid footsteps behind him. The rain was cold and insistent, but felt somehow cleansing after a long day.
He’d killed a man today. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on.
The older couple at the makeshift front desk were midwestern friendly. They smiled a lot, looking at Mitch and Jess and already cooing romantic assumptions. Mitch didn’t bother to clarify their relationship. He went along with their smiles, saying he and Jess were passing through from Connecticut, driving west. He paid for the room up front, learning a continental breakfast would be supplied in the morni
ng.
He thanked the couple, and led Jess upstairs before too many more questions could be asked.
The room was almost too perfect, Jess thought. The hardwood floor shone with fresh wax and smelled of pine. The huge, four-poster bed wore a large, brightly colored blue-and-pink quilt, while dried flowers adorned the nightstand. The dresser looked antique and country, the drawers large enough for thick sweaters and warm flannel. Peering into the bathroom, Jess spotted an old, claw-foot bathtub that practically begged to be used for a long soak.
“You first, me first, or together?” Mitch asked behind her, easily following her thoughts. She turned with a small jump, only to find him grinning down at her. She hadn’t seen that grin in a couple of days now, and its impact on the fluttering of her heart was unmistakable.
“You should go first,” she said quite seriously, her gaze falling to his arm. “You must be exhausted, and tomorrow you’ll be stiff.”
He grimaced a little, recognizing the truth of her words. But as he went to push himself away from the doorframe, she startled him with a light touch.
“Mitch,” she said softly. He stilled, looking at her hand so slender and white on his huge shoulder. “I’ve never thanked you for everything you’ve done.” She paused for a moment, her eyes falling down to his chest. Her throat seemed to grow tight. It was the exhaustion. She really did need more sleep. “I...I want you to know,” she said shortly, “I’m grateful for what you’ve done. And I’m glad...you’ve been there.”
The words were hard for her to say, and they seemed to take a lot out of her. She wasn’t used to thanking people. She wasn’t used to needing anything from them to thank them for.
Slowly Mitch’s large hand folded over her own.
“I told you in the beginning I’d keep you safe,” he said simply.
She nodded and felt the unexpected burning of tears in her eyes. It was silly, this desire to cry. It was silly to want to bury her head against him, to throw herself in his arms. He was just doing his job, after all. And she was just passing through. It didn’t matter what he’d done for her. In the end, she was putting him in danger by staying with him. In the end, she would leave once again.
It seemed to make her eyes burn even more.
Mitch saw the sudden softening of her face, the suspicious sheen in her gaze. Once again he could sense the pain inside her, and it drew him in. There were so many things about this woman he didn’t know. And he did want to. He wanted to be the one she trusted. He wanted to be the one she turned to. He wanted to be the one to hold her.
His jaw clenched, but he forced himself not to move. She was like a skittish colt, his Ice Angel. If he pushed too hard, she would simply turn away, folding inside herself and shutting him out altogether. He was a patient man, and he knew what he wanted. He would succeed.
“Jess,” he said softly, “why didn’t you tell me about your mother sooner?”
She shook her head, the reference causing more pain when she already felt like an exposed wound.
“Honey,” he persisted, his voice low and strong, “there’s a lot worse sins in life than having a mother in prison.”
She smiled, a wry, tremulous smile. “Even if she shot my father?”
She hadn’t meant to say the words. They whispered out on their own, and she was rewarded by Mitch’s shocked gaze.
“Maybe you’d better start at the beginning,” Mitch said.
The funny thing was, she did want to start at the beginning. She wanted to start at the beginning and do her whole life over again. Maybe this time she’d do it better. Maybe this time fewer men would die.
“My father...” she said, the words flat and emotionless as she stared at her hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “My father liked his fists. And his belt and hot water and cigarette butts and anything else that was handy. And my mother...my mother I guess just didn’t know how to leave and stay away. So we took it, for fourteen years. Until this one night, you see.” She paused. She couldn’t say the words. She’d never spoken them out loud; she never would. Maybe if it was never said, then eventually it would be as if it was never done. It made her smile a wry, bitter smile that brought shivers to Mitch’s spine. “This one night he really drank too much. And he came upstairs, but not to his room. And I woke up and screamed. My mother came, and she shot him.”
And he fell, down down down onto the gold-patterned carpet, while her silent scream echoed down the long, long corridor.
There was silence in the room. Mitch looked at her, with her gaze fixated on his chest but not really seeing him at all. And he thought he’d never felt so inadequate since his little sister’s husband had been shot, and all he could do was hold her while she cried.
“Jess,” he said at last. She didn’t look up, and finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t ask ermission, and he wasn’t even sure who exactly he was comforting. He simply reached down, and with one strong arm, he pulled her tightly into his embrace. She went rigid; he could feel her spine so stiff and straight, he was afraid she might snap. But he didn’t move, didn’t let her go. He simply held her, and after one long tense moment, she seemed to collapse suddenly in his arms.
He felt her sag against him, her face pressing tightly against his chest as if somehow that could press the memories away and the nightmares would be no more.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, his large callused hand stroking her hair. “It’s all right now.”
She didn’t move, didn’t respond other than to press herself more fully against him. As if his arms were suddenly essential, his embrace the only defense against the darkness she knew too well.
Then suddenly she was no longer passive. Her head came up, but not to speak or to cry. Instead, her lips found his, desperate and hungry and filled with an urgency that sparked the embers still glowing in his own blood. Her hands closed around his shirt, pulling him tight against her while her lips assaulted his.
She tasted wild but he tasted strong.
“Make love to me,” she whispered, kissing him so thoroughly, he had no breath left to reply. “Make me feel so alive, Mitch. Make me feel so warm.”
He groaned in the back of his throat, the low deep groan of a man’s surrender. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and though a part of his mind called him a fool, he couldn’t say no. It might be another trap. Maybe once more she thought to seduce him to sleep so she could run off again. He couldn’t be sure, but maybe at this moment he didn’t care.
He scooped her up in his arms, ignoring the pain, and carried her to the four-poster bed.
Chapter 14
She was like wildfire in his arms, scorching his skin with searing kisses while her hands fought and tugged at his shirt. He would have calmed her, but her urgency inflamed his own blood, igniting his own passion. She wanted his shirt gone—he pulled it off in one fluid motion. She wanted bare skin against bare skin—he tossed her sweater to the floor. She wanted all of him, naked and hard—the remains of their clothes puddled on the floor in a flash.
She didn’t wait for him to join her on the bed, but pulled him down hungrily. Her lips slanted across his with mad desperation, her legs entwining around his waist until she could feel him, hard and rigid against her own softness. She rotated her hips and his gasp was unmistakable.
“Now,” she breathed against his lips. “I want you now.”
He knew he shouldn’t. It was much too fast and she was too much woman to be rushed. But then her hips moved and she took the matter out of his control.
She tensed at the first penetration. She hadn’t allowed her body sufficient time to adjust, and she was still tight and uncomfortable. She could feel him draw back, trying to pull away. But her legs tightened, not letting him go. She needed him in ways she would never tell him. She needed him hard and hot and driving the emptiness away. She needed his lips on her breast, his hands on her skin. She needed to feel him, thrusting inside, filling the hollowness, taking her places where nightmares didn’t exist and
the fear wasn’t real.
She drove him back inside, feeling the pain and welcoming it.
“No, Jess,” Mitch managed to utter. “Slow down. Let me please you.”
But she shook her head, feeling the prickle of tears behind her eyes. “Take me, Mitch,” she whispered, pulling him tighter. “Please just take me.”
He groaned, knowing it was wrong and helpless to slow down. His own body betrayed him, surging deep into her while his mouth found hers. He couldn’t stop the thrust of his hips any more than he could keep her still under him. She wriggled and pushed against him, driving him deeper as his breath caught in his throat with the intensity.
He wanted to take her slowly; he wanted to show her the magic of a man’s touch, the gentleness of control. He wanted to watch her eyes darken with wonder, he wanted to coax her over that cliff, reveling in her passion.
But instead, she drove his blood to boiling, until his body was no longer his but hers. And he let her use it, let her use him to fill an emptiness too deep for quiet comfort. She needed the intensity and she even needed the pain.
She felt him tense, knew he was on the verge of exploding, and her legs wrapped tighter, drawing him in so deeply, she lost even herself. She could feel his muscles bunch, could feel the sweat rolling slick and salty down his back. And it was strong and powerful and pure. Her eyes burned, the tears gathering behind her lashes.
And as his head came back, his teeth gritting with the passion, the tears rolled out, blind and heedless. She cried for the childhood that would never be hers. She cried for the father with whom she would never make peace, cried for the mother she’d lost along the way. And she cried for this man, because he was everything she’d always wanted and never hoped to find. And she would run from him anyway, because even as he filled the emptiness, he couldn’t fight the shadows. He offered her warmth and comfort, but she could only reply with the death and destruction that encircled her life.
He climaxed, a giant muscular explosion she felt deep inside. She absorbed each shudder, clinging to his shoulders, and the tears mixed with the sweat.
