by Amber Scott
Her eyes were so tired, anyway, all she wanted to do was rest them and listen to him breathe. He didn’t respond. But, he didn’t press further, and while she couldn’t gauge if her answers had satisfied him with his eyes so guarded, she wasn’t about to verify if they did.
*
Charles Whittaker might not be the nicest or friendliest person in the world. He let waiters know when they’d failed proper service. He didn’t hedge the truth if someone asked how he or she looked. He might be blunt and opinionated, but he was not inconsiderate. He had done absolutely nothing to deserve being ditched, or worse—forgotten—at the airport.
“Samantha, where the hell are you?” he asked her voice mail, the third message since landing.
His plane landed three hours ago. Not one. Not two. Three. Sam was nowhere to be seen. He’d had her paged; he’d called their home number and her cell. He’d left three messages, ranging from annoyed to furious to plain and outright worried. He refused to leave more.
Every man had a limit. He had reached his. Charles ignored the curious and sympathetic stares from the kiosk workers who’d no doubt watched him pace and come and go and call and hem and haw. Screw them. So his ride hadn’t shown. They probably had five different friends to call as backup in such a situation. Charles did not. They probably made minimum wage and picked pimples on their back for each other. Charles did not.
Holding his head high, he dragged his limping wheeled luggage, which had seen far better days but still had a respectable and clear Gucci logo, onto the walkway. He would have to take a cab. Hopefully, he would get a driver who didn’t rattle on in a monologue and didn’t listen to rap at supersonic volume.
Samantha was going to get more than an earful over this little stunt. He hoped against the sick feeling in his belly it was, in truth, a stunt. Let her be in the bath, or off with some guy who’d swept her off her feet in the last forty-eight hours, or just mean and mad. Let her be any of those things, as long as she was alive, safe, and okay.
He’d clearly been watching too many reality crime shows. He should simply stick to being pissed and plot exactly what he would say to scathe the insensitive bitch.
Samantha wasn’t insensitive. While she might seem bitchy, she was no bitch, either.
A cab pulled up in the line. Charles peered in and tried to hide his distaste. The old driver looked like a raging alcoholic, with those ruddy cheeks and puffy nose. He shrugged. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, now could they?
Wishing he could hold his nose, Charles climbed in and stated the address. The scent of old cigars emanated from the man. Oh, dear, this was going to be one long ride home. …
As Charles left the cab and it pulled away, he jiggled the lock open on the front door, the screen pressing heavily against his back. The little wires from the screen portion poked into his skin through his thin cotton shirt. The door and pokes may as well have been an evil little imp menacing his temper into full force. When he saw his wayward roommate of four years, going on five … If she was lucky, and he forgave this insult, he would give her a scolding that would make Manson blush.
Unforgivable. Rude. Inconsiderate. Did he mention rude? Charles pushed open the creaky door and pulled his luggage in after him, trying to fight the persistent screen door and find a light switch at the same time.
Rather than calling for her, he’d make a hell of a lot of noise. She would rush out of her bath, a look of supreme shock and dismay on her face, and he would put his hand up and... The screen door smacked shut, his bag settled, and Charles closed the door. The lamplight showed the furniture undisturbed, and silence blanketed all the unused space. Unused. Unoccupied.
She wasn’t here. He didn’t have to check any of the five rooms to verify it, but he walked through them anyway. They only proved what he already knew.
In his second turn of the rooms, he looked for a note of some kind, a sign of where she might be, or when she might’ve gone there. At least he didn’t notice any signs of foul play. No broken windows, no blood. Only a missing body.
If Samantha had any sort of social life, he wouldn’t be so worried. But she didn’t. She was young and hot and stayed in on Friday night to study or watch reruns and romantic comedies. He dragged her out twice a month, usually to one of his gay establishments, which she tended to adore anyway, straight men present or not. But she hardly ever went out with any of her few girlfriends, who were mostly in relationships, so even those nights out were tame. A movie. A middle-aged bar and grill.
She hadn’t talked a lot lately. He figured it was because of her father’s death. They’d been rather estranged, and it had always bothered her. What if she’d gone back to her dad’s place? What if she’d been stalked to the front porch and kidnapped?
Fuck. Charles sat down on the avocado-colored sofa and put his hands into his hair. Fuck. He didn’t know the first place to look for her. It, this, wasn’t like his Sam.
An hour passed of nail biting, pacing, and scanning the fridge for notes. He even looked under the stove, in case she went to magnet one up in the usual spot, but in a hurry, she didn’t see it fall to the floor like a leaf.
Nothing. He watched the clock, willing the universe to make her call, checking the dial tone, and making sure he had service.
Twelve o’clock. If she hadn’t called back or showed up by then, he would call the police. He made sure to say so on her cell voice mail, in case she was mad at him or worried about calling, or something.
The clock ticked. Twelve-o-one. He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Police non-emergency,” a tired-sounding female voice said.
“Yes, I’d like to report a missing person,” Charles said, clearing his throat.
“How long has the person been missing?”
“I’m not sure. The last contact I had with her was two days ago.”
“Would you like a car sent out now, or in the morning?”
“Now.”
~~~
Chapter Ten
The morning sun warmed the chilled room. Birds chirped and chanted in the day. Samantha rolled over and hugged close the warm male body next to her. She was still here with him. Smiling, she thanked whatever forces were in charge and sighed. If she were dead, this was heaven.
He was heaven.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, secretly tickled to watch him sleeping. She glanced upward. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. From where she lay, she could see right up his nose. She adjusted herself gently and quietly so their faces were even.
Over five hundred banks and sixty train robberies were credited to Jesse Kincaid. Her dad liked to say at least a third of those were copycats that Kincaid let folks believe were his. Good for business. He buried loot all over Nevada and Northern California, and rumors spread of him playing Robin Hood to widows and orphans. That was a myth, a legend.
Lying beside her was the man.
Asleep, he looked so much younger. Boyish. She wondered how old he actually was. As much as she shouldn’t, she began to think of him as real. Jesse. Beyond his age, she found herself wondering so much more.
Like how long this would last. A pang rippled from her heart down to her belly. Her throat tightened a little. She blocked the thought before it could take root, before it could even be fully defined. With it, the pain receded, finally hiding.
She wouldn’t mourn what she might soon lose. He was here now. That was all she cared about. She was here with him.
His skin was tan and smooth. A small, faint scar showed above his left eye, parting into the path of his eyebrow. His hair wasn’t black, but dark brown. Under the sunlight, it shined auburn. Not all over, though. In hints and glances.
His chin was stubborn, with a slight cleft under the stubble, his Adam’s apple well defined by corded muscle. His collarbone dipped and gave way to those wonderful shoulders, that chest.
Samantha sighed again. He was a fantasy come to life, and he was all hers. Surprisingly, that never came into question. Unlike other men s
he’d met, she didn’t wonder if he wanted her. Or whether she was pretty enough, sexy enough, or what he was looking for.
She didn’t wonder now. Inexplicably, she knew.
The trail of her thoughts resonated in her body. All hers, to do with what she wanted. To tease. To please. While she could see the world had weathered him, she was curious, as well, to know how many women he had.
A man this good-looking probably didn’t lack for attention ... and from an early age, she had no doubt. But attention and experience varied.
Samantha became bold. Maybe it was thinking of all those women—how many, how beautiful—she could only imagine. Or perhaps, it was from the possessiveness.
Whichever or both, she wanted to erase the mark of any other woman. She wanted to be the only one who mattered, who ever would or could.
She wanted to ruin him. To do that, she would need to brave unfamiliar territory. Well, unfamiliar in action, but knowledgeable enough in theory. A tiny voice told her to behave, that sex was just a way to avoid what was real. Samantha ignored it.
Every women’s magazine article and each midnight, three-too-many martini conversations with Charles and all his exploits, collected in her mind.
She began with her hand.
Samantha traced a path from Jesse’s chest down his belly and crept her fingers under the coverlet and sheet. While her breath grew bated, his breathing maintained an even rhythm. Her thighs tingled with anticipation. Beneath the sheet, she drew closer, passing the area of eroticism.
Down to his inner thighs, she wisped her fingers over the relaxed muscles and came up the other leg, teasing him as he had her. She wanted to touch him where it counted, to grip his hardness and stroke it, but was determined not to do so until she knew he was awake.
She wondered if he dreamed of her hands, if he incorporated his physical sensations into his resting imaginings. As she got near his groin, his body twitched. The covers moved, tented by his erection, growing steadily.
He was real to her. Alive and breathing. Real.
A slow, lazy grin spread over his mouth. He stretched out his legs and hugged her shoulders.
“Don’t stop,” he mumbled, his voice thick.
She wasn’t about to. Her body responded to his voice, to her accomplishment, by wetting with a little throb of want. She raised a leg across his, pressed her need against his hip, so he could feel her arousal.
He groaned. “What are you doing to me, Samantha?” He kept his eyes closed, but he rolled her way.
“I’m teasing you.”
“Teasing? You’re making me crazy.”
Pride swelled inside her. This kind of crazy was good. He’d done more than that to her. She slowly raised her hand up his body and gently slid it over his stiff flesh.
He groaned again, opened his eyes, and cupped her face. His eyes shone pale green and glassy, a tenderness reflected in them. A pang twinged in her chest. Samantha swallowed.
Jesse’s hand left her cheek and found her hip. He rolled toward her, her hand the only thing separating his desire from her own. His eyes locked with hers. She watched, fascinated, as pleasure washed through them. His lids became heavy, the green darkened, but his gaze remained on hers.
Her wet arousal turned urgent. Suddenly, all designs of impressing him with skill and innovation vanished. She could think only of feeling him inside her while he caressed her with his gaze.
She moved her hand away, letting the smooth tip of his erection skin her palm and fingertips. She raised her leg and shifted her hips. He brought his hips to hers. Samantha wasn’t sure she could take being driven crazy again. Her need had grown so rapidly she wasn’t sure she could take his prolonging it—enflaming it any more than it already was.
She blinked, wanting to close her eyes and feel him with all her other senses. But his gaze held hers rapt. As he slipped his proud attraction into the mouth of her sex, she watched. God, she was so wet. He felt so solid. Satisfying in such a basic, primal way.
Like he belonged there.
*
Jesse felt it, too, and didn’t speak. He focused on controlling his body, but found it difficult when every nuance of pleasure painted her face so honestly, so openly. He’d never known a woman like her, never experienced such magnificence. It should intimidate him.
It didn’t.
She didn’t.
He could see the wild mustang in her soul, the untrusting, untamed part of her. He wanted to conquer it, to win it. He also needed to taste it.
The first stroke might as well have been their first touch. Each time their bodies came together, called together by this unseen, feral force, it got better.
Every time he thought to tame his passion, to rein it in and show her a new world of pleasure. He saw one, instead, and chased after it like a fool in the rain. It blinded his reason and clouded his logic, and soon all he could do was feel. Feel her as he pulled out and thrust back in. Wet. Hot. Exquisite.
Each plunge took on a new level of pleasure, so sweet it was almost painful. Each wave of pleasure showed on her parted lips, her flushed cheeks, her widening eyes.
He felt like master and slave all in one. He thrilled in what he gave, equally desperate to take the same.
Her hands roved and gripped his shoulders. He rolled her on top, gripped her perfectly shaped ass with both hands. His mouth watered; his pulse kicked.
She whispered his name. “Jesse. … Jesse.”
Her eyes begged him, thanked him.
She cried out, and his body poured into her. He fell into the oblivion of climax, hoping he’d not left her behind, then feeling he hadn’t. Samantha’s body clutched his, cinching up and releasing, and she cried his name, again and again, rocking up and down. Up and down. Up. Down.
She fell against his shoulder.
He wrapped his heavy arms around her, his heart slamming down. Reality stayed away, not ready to rudely intrude on them. He was grateful for the polite delay, because he knew when it did, things would change.
Once he knew she hadn’t gone back to sleep, Jesse spoke.
“Samantha.” His voice sounded strange in the silence of his home. “I don’t know who you are or where you’ve come from, but we can’t keep going on like this.”
She sat up. When he looked up at her, he prepared himself for a full offense. She wasn’t insulted. She was smiling.
“Why not?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and tucked her chin.
His eyes narrowed. Unusual. Different, to be sure, from any other woman. Why? Why was she not offended by being naked in his bed, in the full light of day, when anyone could come upon them, though it was unlikely any would since he tended to have few visitors. Still, even a widow, free to live as she pleased, had standards and expectations within society to conform to.
Why did she trust him so implicitly?
“People will talk. I don’t want you ruined. And,” He glanced at the window and back, “I can’t offer you a proper proposal, should anyone find us in our compromising state.”
Samantha shrugged. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. There’s really no reason to. I don’t regret what we’ve shared.” Her eyebrows drew together. “Do you?”
“Christ, no.” Jesse sat up. “But we can’t just hole up in here and act like rabbits for the rest of our days. Nice as the thought may be.”
She pushed out her lips, wriggling the lower one like she was chewing on his words. “No, I suppose there have to be other things to do in this state.”
Jesse chuckled. “Not many more. But my stomach can think of at least one other thing.”
“Mmmm. Food. Yes.” She licked her lips.
Jesse rose, tossed her the long shirt he’d given her before, realizing she’d want proper clothes. Hers needed a washing, still covered in mud from when Tommy had found her lying on the ground.
Ginny would have something that would fit her. He could send her to town to get more. Christ knew he had enough money. They might as well eat with Tommy a
nd Ginny, as well. He became so caught up in his musing he didn’t see her up and leave.
~~~
Chapter Eleven
Samantha focused her eyes and shrieked when Carla’s face came into view. She sat upright, pushing the woman’s hands away.
“What are you doing?” What happened? She must have passed out in the woman’s kitchen. She was still here, sitting on the awful-colored linoleum. Carla was trying to make her drink something.
“It’s all right, Sammie. Drink this. You blacked out.”
Samantha pushed the cup away. Hard. It spilled onto Carla’s low-cut shirt, and the cup clattered to the floor.
Carla reached after the cup and stood after rescuing it. She ignored Samantha, searching the cup for damages. When the woman held it to her bosom and looked heavenward, Samantha’s little itch of guilt vanished.
Good. Well, not good. Not bad, either. She looked around her, for what she didn’t know exactly. For a sign of what happened to her, for evidence it wasn’t real.
That it was over.
A hollow feeling spread out inside her, pain along the edges. It opened and widened until her whole body numbed a bit.
“Are you okay?” Carla stood above her, cup set down on the counter behind her. The older woman’s tone wasn’t one of surprise. In fact, it sounded annoyed, even exasperated.
Samantha tried to stand. The room went all topsy-turvy on her, so she sat back down in the middle of the kitchen floor and glared at the owner of the auction house.
“Tell me what happened,” she demanded, realizing that Carla probably couldn’t tell her much, but needing to hear some sort of explanation—a run-through of how she went from sipping tea to having the most erotic and realistic dream, outside of all time and place, and then back to here. Sitting in an ugly and old kitchen, staring at the knees of a woman who made her somewhat uncomfortable. “Tell me exactly what happened in the last ten minutes.”
