by Connie Hall
She scowled at him and said, “Either you keep your end of the bargain, or I leave you right here. I’ll just go inside and get warm and comfy. What’s it gonna be?”
A sardonic grin twisted up a corner of his mouth. “Admit you’re a witch, a hex weaver.”
Nina sighed and knew his stubbornness was going to be a problem. Since she was freezing and didn’t want to stand out in the snow any longer, she said, “Okay, I’m a witch full of tricks. Anything else you want me to be?”
“Afraid.”
“Okay, I’m a witchy fraidy-cat.” She didn’t give him time to answer and said, “Good. Now that we’ve established my finer points, let me help you.”
“You can’t. It’s too late.” He looked devilishly handsome and sexy and hardly able to focus on her face without his heavy lids closing.
“I like a challenge. Let me try.”
He waffled for a moment on trusting her, then reached over and leaned on her shoulder.
Nina slid her arm around his waist and guided him toward the cabin. He weighed much more than she, and it was difficult keeping him in a straight line.
“Nina Rainwater… A witch who refuses to be kissed.”
It was the first time she’d heard her name on his lips when he wasn’t angry, and she liked the deep resonance of it bounding from inside his chest. What she didn’t like was the bullying tone he’d used after it and the fact he’d spoken as if he were giving a press conference about her.
“Don’t make generalizations about my character. You don’t know me at all. And I’ve kissed thousands of men.” Thousand was stretching it. Three, max. She could count her dates on one hand. Pretty pitiful love life. It was disconcerting that he could read her so well, even when he was light-headed. But she was not a witch. He was way out of the ballpark with that one. “Now if you’d hurry it up, we won’t turn to ice cubes out here.”
“I’m hot.”
“Yeah, that’s an understatement,” she said ruefully.
He nodded in agreement, sending his long golden hair down into his face; then his brow furrowed as he concentrated on walking.
She felt the steady loss of blood mellowing him considerably. In fact, she detected his strength slipping away. No matter how maddening he was, she didn’t want him to die. “Okay, a little more and we’ll reach the steps,” she said, hurrying him along.
“Steps,” he parroted.
“Yes, you have to climb them.”
He acted like he hadn’t heard her and walked like a drunken man, zigzagging through the snow toward the porch. She felt his hand shifting where he touched her shoulder, his claws pressing into her skin, then his finger tips as he shifted.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Our place.”
What had he meant by our? Had he referred to a current lover? Was this a cabin he kept for other more sordid activities like forcing hostages here to party with their jugular then dispose of them? She quelled a panicky feeling and turned her mind back to helping him stay upright. “How much land do you own?”
“Two thousand acres.”
“A small country. How far from civilization are we?”
“Boonies.”
She thought of the journey back to Monterey she’d have when she left. The roads were almost impassible even with the Jeep. Soon there’d be no leaving unless on foot.
She pulled him up the two porch steps and paused before the door. “Is it locked?”
“Open.”
“You’re pretty confident no one will break in.”
“No one would dare.” Even weakened as he was, the warning in his voice caused chills of fear to ripple through her. “I defend what’s mine.”
Her memory swung back to the fight he’d had with the gleaner, a stark visual aid depicting just what he meant by defending. Though he appeared vulnerable and at her mercy, her skin still grew clammy from the tension of being this close to him.
With a wary eye on him, she propped him against the cabin and tried the door. The hinges and lock looked ancient and rusted. With a big shove, she flung the door open. Darkness and a musty, unkempt smell met her. She took an instant dislike to the dark, closed-in place. A coldness lingered in it that didn’t seem penetrable by any kind of warmth.
She felt around for a light switch by the door. When she found it, she flipped it and nothing happened.
“Wasting time. Electricity rarely works. Use generator.”
“Great. Stuck out here in blizzard, in the middle of nowhere, with iffy electricity, no cell phone. Could things get any better?” She shook her head. “Of course not. Come on, then.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” he mumbled.
“And I guess you’re Mr. Perfect Kidnapper.” She grabbed his arm, none too gently, and helped him cross the threshold. She slammed the door with her foot, then stared into the dark room. “We need candles.”
“Mantel.”
“Where’s a chair?” She wanted to speed things along and stow him somewhere.
“I’ll find it.” He let go, and she heard his wet feet plodding unevenly on the floor.
“Which way to the mantel?”
“Left…no, right.”
She made a face in the darkness, then heard him plop down on something. She went in search of the candles, arms outstretched, feeling totally at the mercy of the dark room.
Without a disaster, she crossed the floor and found the wall. The hewed and sanded logs were smooth to the touch as she felt her way down them.
“A little farther.”
She’d forgotten that he could see in the dark with his heightened senses. “I should’ve made you find the candles,” she said.
A loud snort came from the other side of the room. It was the beast’s voice, low and grumbly and cranky. “No one makes me do anything.”
“I bet,” she said.
“Believe it.” His voice sounded weaker, human again.
“Oh, I do,” she said, patronizing him. Her finger connected with the mantel. She felt across the top and found the candles and a lighter. “Aha, found them.” She grinned, delighted with the discovery. Quickly enough she had the candles lit. There were five large ones, each in its own canning jar.
She surveyed the cabin. It was one large room, divided into a kitchen and a sitting area. The waist-high hearth stood before her. It was made of smooth river stones, the prettiest part of the cabin. The living-room area was furnished with two huge leather sofas and a rugged pine coffee table. The braided rug that covered the whole room added a little homey warmth. It didn’t seem as bad as her first impression.
The galley kitchen was small but appeared well-stocked. Pans hung from a rack over a stove. Open shelves held a set of dishes. Someone had added a feminine touch by lining the shelves with little muslin skirts. A door stood off from the kitchen. She raised the candle higher and peered through the doorway at the iron railings of a bed. The only bedroom?
Van Cleave had flopped down lengthwise on one of the sofas. He looked pale, and he’d stopped shifting. Blood darkened the whole front of his shirt. She noticed her borrowed coat had his blood on it, too. His eyes were closed, and he looked still as death.
Nina ran to his side and checked the pulse in his neck.
He was still alive, but his clammy skin felt ice-cold.
She hurried back to the fireplace and used the logs and kindling there to start a fire. Then she grabbed a quilt off the bed in the bedroom and threw it over him.
She had to stop the bleeding. She found a bathroom off the bedroom and in it an extensive first-aid kit. She pulled out butterfly strips and gauze and bandages.
She noticed a modern sink and faucet in the kitchen and an old hand pump, which meant the cabin probably had running water when the electricity was on and the electric pump was working. Yeah, but that didn’t help right now. She went to the hand pump and primed it. It groaned in protest; then icy water flowed into the sink. Nina knew how to operate a hand pump. Her grandmother kept a manual pump
in the backyard for when they lost power—and it seemed to go out a lot on the reservation. The value of running water was one of the first things you learned growing up in the country.
She filled an iron pot with water and warmed it by the fireplace. She found a towel and set up the first-aid kit near him and the pan of warm water.
She threw more logs on the fire. The room began to heat up as she undressed him, not an easy feat with someone so much larger than she. The jeans were impossible to get off, and touching the zipper just didn’t feel right. She left them alone, but it was impossible to miss the worn places in all the right places, accentuating his lean hips, muscular thighs and the masculine bulge between his legs. No, the pants were definitely staying on.
She forced her attention back on undressing him. She rolled him from side to side and pulled off his flannel shirt. That’s when she spotted the raised scars that crossed his back. Whip marks of some kind. No one should be beaten that badly. An unbidden surge of sympathy for him overwhelmed her.
She blinked it away and forced her gaze back to his bare chest. She took in his torso, all sculpted abs and muscles. Candlelight did strange things to his skin, and it glimmered gold with an exotic iridescence that only shifters possessed. He was beautiful, even with the blood smeared over the golden hair on his chest.
She tried not to look at the line of hair that went down his belly and below his jeans while she extracted the blood-soaked bandages. She cleaned the wounds on his chest, shoulder and arm, then moved down his belly to the caked blood that had pooled around the waist of his jeans.
She stopped there and assessed the wounds on his chest. Two were very deep and jagged on his upper shoulder. Three were on his forearms and biceps. An open gash slashed very near the base of his neck, but it wasn’t as bad as his shoulder injuries.
She tried to use the butterfly strips, but he was bleeding too profusely and they wouldn’t stick. If she didn’t do something soon, he’d die for sure.
She glanced around, then walked over to the fireplace and pulled out the poker. She’d never attempted this before, but she’d seen it done in the old Westerns her grandmother liked to watch. She prayed it worked. She thrust it into the fire and didn’t take it out until the tip was burning red hot.
She gulped, summoned her courage and thrust the poker down into the deepest gashes, cauterizing them. He bucked and thrashed but didn’t wake up. Thank goodness, because she could smell the scent of burning flesh, and it sickened her. It was the same scent the gleaner had left behind when he’d killed Emma Baldoon. Bile rose in her throat, and she ran to the bathroom to vomit. After she rinsed her mouth and splashed icy water on her face, she returned to his side.
Once cauterized, the wounds stopped bleeding. She smeared antibiotic ointment on them and bandaged them tightly, winding the gauze around his whole shoulder. She couldn’t help it, but her fingers itched to touch his powerfully built body. It seemed safe enough. Her fingers trembled as she explored his muscular contours. He really was an exquisite male specimen. Her heart began to pound as she felt her body becoming excited. She’d never explored a man’s body at her leisure. She’d just never gotten that close to want to stroke a man intimately. She’d petted two-skins in animal form, but that was different. She was helping them. Touch was a powerful tool for healing. But touching Kane’s bare skin didn’t feel useful, it felt naughty and forbidden, something she could easily grow to enjoy. She pulled her hands back, afraid of her own response. He was her abductor, she reminded herself.
She meant to draw her hands down to her side, but her fingers paused over the swollen wounds. It was a shame, but now his chest would be as scarred as his back. Seeing such perfect male beauty damaged in such a way saddened her, and she wondered again who had put the wounds on his back.
He was shivering now, uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. It brought Nina back to her senses and she scolded herself for enjoying the wicked little pleasure of exploring his body. She went in search of blankets and found them in the bedroom cedar chest, along with a down comforter—a nice surprise.
On her way into the living room, she paused before the dresser. She held the candle close to three pictures sitting there. One was of a beautiful woman, standing outside. She had bright blond hair, laughing, upturned, catlike brown eyes and full, smiling lips. Her face exuded confidence, and Nina was willing to bet she was an alpha female seniph. She was stunningly gorgeous. No doubt one of Van Cleave’s conquests. An unwelcome pang of jealousy nagged at her. Silly, she chided herself, but it wouldn’t go away.
The other picture was of a couple. Gray streaked the man’s golden hair. He wore the stern, harsh expression of an unforgiving taskmaster. The woman was smaller, auburn-haired, and her face held a frail smile. Her eyes looked trapped and needy and full of sadness. If the picture was any evidence, they weren’t a happy couple. Were these Kane’s parents? The man’s handsome features resembled Kane’s in many respects.
The last photo was of Kane, his arm around a younger man. They each held up two huge bass they had caught, grinning like proud fishermen. The younger man was almost as tall as Kane, but smaller in stature. He had the same deep green eyes, but there was something unsure and unknown behind them, and his smile was there for the camera. His tawny golden hair was cut short. He was definitely one of Kane’s family members. The resemblance to Kane and the older man in the photo was unmistakable.
Her gaze strayed back to the pretty woman, and she frowned as she left the room. She spread the blankets over him and waited. He stopped shivering and looked peaceful and quiet.
Suddenly she felt very alone and weary, events of the past day and a half and all the stress that had accompanied them folding in on her like a landslide. She craved her quiet place, but knew that if she summoned Koda, he wouldn’t take her there. He’d already made that plain. Abruptly she felt depressed and exhausted and trapped with a man who saw her only as a hostage.
She forced back her present depressing situation and felt hunger gnawing at her gut. When had she last eaten? She couldn’t remember and dragged herself to the kitchen. After rummaging through the cabinets, she found a bag of pretzels and a stash of sodas. Then she strode to the living room. She sat on the floor and leaned against the sofa next to Kane. Not a very substantial meal, but the pretzels filled her empty belly and the sugar in the soda tasted like manna from heaven.
When she was full, she blew out the candles and pulled some of the down comforter over her. It took only a few moments of listening to the fire popping and Kane’s deep, even breathing before her eyes grew heavy and closed.
She missed the face that peered in through the window and the two flaming eyes that stared at her.
Chapter 7
Kane woke, aware of the agonizing burning below his skin. Then he remembered driving here, but not much else. Had Nina Rainwater escaped? He thrust open his eyes, only to find her asleep on the floor near him, curled up at the base of the sofa, cocooned in a comforter. The pulse beating in her throat was the only sign that she was alive. A half-eaten bag of pretzels and an empty soda can turned over on its side lay beside her.
He peeled back the comforter and let his gaze roam over her. She was lying on her side in a fetal position. Her mouth was slightly open. He traced the line of her sultry and pouty lips, perfectly sculpted, her deep, even breaths gliding through them. Long, sooty lashes formed dark half moons on her cheeks. Her thick hair was voluptuously mussed around her face and shoulders. She looked small and childlike, but womanly and desirable, too. Something about her made him want to stare at her like this forever.
But he forced his gaze back to his own body. He remembered blood, lots of it. He lifted the ton of blankets on him and peered at the wounds. She’d changed his bandages and managed to stop the bleeding. She must have helped him walk inside, too. Most captives would have left him to die or gotten their revenge. Nina Rainwater had a kind heart. The notion disturbed him, made him feel beholden to her and responsible for her. He
found himself reaching down to rub a strand of her hair between his fingers. It felt like tantalizing silk caught in his fingertips. Everything about her felt surreal, enchanted, bewitching.
He stared at her luscious full lips. Vaguely he recalled trying to kiss her and the way she had pulled back from him. Always keeping her distance. He had a fuzzy impression of the term “witch” coming up several times. He remembered being angry that he couldn’t control his shifting and wanting to dominate her and feel her not pull away. That he remembered very clearly.
He tamped down the notion. He had to keep his distance. She was like this insatiable thing eating away at him, chipping away at his resolve.
Her eyes fluttered open, the blue in them reaching down deep inside him. She smiled, and two deep dimples formed in her cheeks. He’d never seen a more stunning face in his life. It almost hurt to look into those eyes, and he found himself staring at her lips. They were red and plump and glistening.
She must have felt the awkward moment between them, too, because she sat up and said, “How are you?” She yawned and stretched, and he saw that she had small but nicely formed breasts under that bulky sweater and endless pairs of underwear.
“Better,” he said. “Why did you do it?”
“I was hungry.” She looked over at the pretzels.
“Not that. Why did you stay with me?”
“Because I couldn’t leave you.” She sounded matter-of-fact as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to do. She began finger-combing her long hair.
“You should have,” he said, intently watching her fingers sliding through the glossy mane. He wished it were his hand.
“Do you realize what you’re saying? You could have bled to death.”
“If our situations were reversed, I would have left you and escaped.” He knew he sounded harsh and callous, more to convince himself that he didn’t feel anything for her.
“Well, you’re lucky then that I’m not you.” She threw her hair over her shoulder, and it hit her back with a plop.
