It was too much. It was all way too much.
She wasn’t going to be able to resist him. She was going to turn around, and he would be watching her with those black velvet eyes. And then she would fall headlong, with no hope of landing on her feet, off the dizzying cliff of desire and need.
She turned to look at Felipe. He stood in the doorway holding out the candle, offering it to her.
Carrie crossed toward him and took it. Their fingers brushed, and she jerked her hand away as if she’d been burned.
Holding her gaze, he backed away from her into the hallway. “Good night,” he said, and closed the door.
He was gone.
Carrie stood there for a moment, staring at the rich wood of the door.
He was gone.
Obviously, he’d taken seriously her request to keep their relationship platonic.
Carrie looked around the room—at that enormous bed, at the luxurious plush carpeting, at the rich fabric of the draperies.
It wouldn’t have taken much effort on Felipe’s part to change her mind. In fact, another one of his high-powered kisses would’ve surely done the trick.
But he hadn’t tried. He’d respected her decision.
Carrie wasn’t sure whether to feel happy or sad.
Happy, she told herself fiercely as she went into the bathroom. She was happy.
Happily, she washed her face. Happily, she brushed her teeth with her finger and some borrowed toothpaste. And happily, she climbed into that great big bed all by herself and blew out the candle.
And lay there.
FELIPE STARED at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the house, wishing he could fall asleep.
From his bed, he heard the sound of water running as Caroline Brooks drew herself a bath. It was one in the morning. She’d been quiet for a while, but now she was up and moving around. He guessed she couldn’t sleep, either.
It wasn’t hard to imagine her lying back and soaking in that bathtub. He’d stayed here at this beach house before, slept in the master bedroom. He’d soaked in that tub himself.
He’d been alone at the time. Come to think of it, he’d never brought any of his lady friends here to Sanibel Island. He’d never wanted to share either the peaceful solitude when he was alone, or the friendly atmosphere that prevailed when Diego and Emily Keegan were also here.
True, he’d once or twice brought Jewel Hays and her little boy, Billy. But Jewel was like a sister to him. They were old friends, nothing more.
But Caroline…
He closed his eyes, remembering the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms, the touch of her fingers on his neck and in his hair. Truthfully, his wounded leg wasn’t the only thing that was throbbing.
He could go to her. Right now. He could stand up and walk the few feet down the hall and into the master bedroom. He could push open the bathroom door and she would look up at him in the candlelight, her huge blue-green eyes wide with surprise.
He would move closer and look down at the graceful lines of her body through the clear, warm water of the tub. She would sit up, water falling off her in a sheet, her small, firm breasts like some delicious, exotic, mouth-watering fruit.
Please, he’d say. It would be all he’d have to say, and she’d hold out her arms to him. He’d slip off his boxer shorts and join her in the water…
Felipe’s eyes opened. No, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t supposed to get his stitches wet—at least not with more than a quick shower. Certainly he wasn’t supposed to soak them in a tub.
He smiled ruefully at his overactive imagination. Like hell she would hold out her arms to him and welcome him. Like hell she would urge him to make love to her. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want their relationship to become sexual.
Sure, he could seduce her. He knew that was a fact from looking into her eyes earlier tonight. He could kiss her and ignite the rocket fuel of their mutual attraction, and the earsplitting roar would drown out her protests. He’d kiss her again, and those protests would fade away. It wouldn’t take long before she’d help him undress her, before she’d undress him, all her reservations forgotten.
At least temporarily.
And therein lay the reason he didn’t stand up and go into the master bedroom, he thought with another smile. Caroline had asked him specifically to back off. She’d said no, quite distinctly and directly to his unspoken question, to the look she’d surely seen in his eyes. No. And no didn’t mean maybe. No didn’t mean catch me later when I’m more vulnerable. No meant no.
In the other room, on the other side of the wall, came the sound of water swirling around and then the pipes thumped as the water was turned back on. Caroline was adding hot water to the tub. Too bad. Felipe could think of a dozen or so ways to warm her up. He shifted his position in the bed, trying desperately to get comfortable.
He couldn’t blame her for wanting to keep her distance. Until just a few hours ago, she’d thought he was some kind of criminal, some gang leader named Carlos who ran with an ugly bunch of friends. And just when she finally believed that he was who he said he was, she found out that he was wanted for murder. No, he couldn’t blame her.
Quite honestly, Felipe was amazed she’d come here with him. He was grateful and relieved that she had. Because as he’d watched that news broadcast, as he’d watched her face as she’d watched it, he had been certain that she would never trust him again. And if he hadn’t talked her into going to Montana, he would have had to make her his prisoner, his hostage, just the way she feared. And God, what a mess that would have been. But no way was he going to let her walk around without protection. No way was he going to let Tommy Walsh kill her. No way. No way.
The savage rush, the intensity of his feelings, made him grip the bedsheet like a rope that kept him from falling into some terrible abyss. Dear God, what was wrong with him?
He tried to tell himself he’d feel the same about any woman, about any person who was in danger of being killed, who was a target for Tommy Walsh’s bullets.
But that wasn’t true.
Caroline Brooks was special. If she died, he’d more than mourn the loss of a human life. He’d grieve deeply for himself, for his own loss. And he would miss her desperately, even though he’d only known her for a short time.
She fit. In his arms, she fit perfectly. And she fit in his heart. His heart? Heaven help him, he realized with a sudden flash of icy fear, it wasn’t his heart anymore. Sure, it still beat in his chest, but it was hers. She had stolen it. She’d stolen it all those months ago during that night at Sea Circus. Why else had he gone back all those times to watch her from a distance? Why had he told Diego and Emily about her? Why had she haunted his dreams for months?
No, he tried to tell himself. That had been attraction. Nothing more. Attraction, simple lust. Well, maybe not simple. But it was entirely sexual. Wasn’t it? Just a case of raw sexual attraction. Just as this…this…odd feeling in his chest was nothing more than a case of being over-tired. Or it was heartburn, from the antibiotic. Sure. That was probably it.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. In the morning, in the light of day, he’d feel better. He’d be back on track.
From the other room he heard the sound of water going down the drain. With sudden clarity, he could picture Caroline Brooks, stepping from the bathtub, reaching for a towel, her lithe body wet and shivering with cold and…
Felipe stared at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the house, wishing he could fall asleep.
CHAPTER TEN
A CAR PULLED into the driveway, and Felipe was instantly awake and reaching for his gun.
He sat up and threw the sheet from his legs before the engine was turned off.
It was morning. Daylight seeped in around the shades. He hit the well-polished floorboards running, his mind racing even faster. Hide. They had to hide. But where? He remembered a crawl space underneath the house with an access door on the floor of the closet in the master bed
room. Yes.
Felipe ignored the sudden pain in his injured leg as he scooped his jeans, his shirt and his holster off the chair he’d thrown them over the night before, and snatched his boots from the floor.
He could hear the sound of a car door—one car door—as he moved swiftly and silently down the hall toward the master bedroom and Caroline.
He could hear the sound of footsteps—one set of footsteps—on the back porch as he pushed the bedroom door open.
Caroline was fast asleep, sprawled diagonally across the king-size bed. She’d kicked one tanned leg free from the sheets and her face was partially hidden under a cloud of golden hair. Her arms were spread wide as if she were embracing the world. She was wearing blue cotton high-cut panties and an old white tank top she must’ve found in one of Emily’s father’s dresser drawers.
His body began to tighten, an instant reaction to her state of dishabille, or maybe just a reaction to her presence. But he had no time to consider this, no time to do more than get them out of there, to keep them safely hidden from whoever was coming inside.
Felipe jammed his gun into the holster that was over his shoulder. With one hand, he swept Caroline’s hair back from her face. The other he clamped firmly down over her mouth.
She woke up immediately. Her eyes were wide as she stared at him for a moment, a scream at the back of her throat securely stopped by his hand.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s me. Someone’s outside—they’re coming in.”
Instant understanding filled her eyes and he helped her sit up. She untangled herself from the sheets as he searched in vain for her clothes. Damn, he couldn’t find them. Where had she put her dress and sandals?
But then there was no time. As a key turned in the back door, there was no time for anything but hiding.
Still carrying his own clothes, Felipe took Carrie’s hand and tugged her toward the big walk-in closet. Motioning for her to be silent, he pulled back the carpet, revealing the access to the crawl space. He pulled up the inset brass ring, and the small trapdoor opened with a squeak.
“Go on,” he whispered to Caroline. “It’s a crawl space. It’s not deep—it’s less than three feet down. Just climb in.”
But she didn’t move. She stared down into the darkness, her eyes wider than ever, her hair a golden tangle around her face. She heard the back door open, and she turned, glancing over her shoulder toward the sound, then looked at Felipe.
He threw his clothes and holster into the crawl space, keeping his gun in his hand.
“Quickly,” he urged. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
The back door closed behind whoever had come inside.
Felipe grabbed Caroline around the waist and pulled her down with him into the crawl space.
It was dark and damp and tight and hot and filled with cobwebs and other things he didn’t want to think about. He closed the access door over their heads, taking care to flip the carpet back over it.
And then it was really dark.
There was barely enough room for him to lie on his side without his shoulder brushing the support beams for the floor above. Gingerly, Felipe shifted around, one arm still encircling Caroline’s waist, the gun in his other hand pointed up through the blackness at where he knew the access door to be. Carrie’s back was against his chest, her head tightly nestled below his chin. He could feel her heart pounding and hear her ragged breathing in the pitch darkness.
And then he could hear footsteps.
In his arms, Caroline held her breath as if she was afraid whoever was up there might be able to hear her.
She was terrified. Her entire body was trembling. But she tried to stop herself from shaking, entwining her smooth legs with his as if to anchor herself. It didn’t help.
It certainly didn’t help him.
Her round little bottom was pressed intimately up against him, and now his thigh was wedged firmly between her legs. His left hand was up underneath her shirt, and his thumb rested against the swell of her breast.
Felipe felt many trickles of sweat begin their journeys. One traveled down his back, others slid past his ear, another rolled down his collarbone.
The footsteps moved across the floor again. Whoever was up there was not overhead. The sound was coming from the other side of the house—where the kitchen and living room were located.
Caroline seemed to realize that, too, and she let herself breathe again. She took short, fast breaths as if she were running a marathon—or as if she were nearing sexual release.
That particular image was nearly too much for Felipe to bear. He tried to concentrate on the concentric waves of pain that were radiating from his wounded leg rather than his growing arousal.
But it was no use. Despite the imminent danger, despite his pain, he couldn’t stop himself from being turned on. Afraid of offending Caroline, knowing his silk boxers did little to hide his state, he tried to loosen his hold on her and back away from her just an inch or two.
But she wouldn’t let him go. “No,” she breathed almost inaudibly in the silence, turning her head toward him. “Felipe, please, stay with me!”
There was such desperation in her voice, such fear—and such total trust that his presence could make it all okay. He stopped trying to pull away.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” he whispered. He was experiencing a jumble of emotions he could barely recognize. Protectiveness—he felt fierce, almost savage protectiveness. And he felt possessiveness, yes, there was plenty of that, too. Only God could help Tommy Walsh, or whoever else tried to take this woman away from him. And gluing everything together was sort of an odd tenderness, making all these powerful emotions stick like a painful lump high up in his chest, making his eyes burn and his heart hurt.
And the really loco part of it was, despite the fact that he wanted her so badly, these things he was feeling had absolutely nothing to do with sex, with the desire that was making his blood boil.
Above their heads the telephone rang.
The footsteps moved rapidly toward the kitchen.
In the total darkness of the crawl space, Felipe strained to listen.
“Hello?” a faint voice said. “No, who’s callin’?”
Female. Southern belle accent. Anywhere from thirty to sixty years old. Not Tommy Walsh. Not a threat.
“No, I’m sorry,” the voice said. “The Marshalls aren’t here right now. They’ll be down in February. I can take a message and call the daughter if you wish. She and her husband are in and out all the time.” There was a pause, and then the gentle tinkling of a delicate laugh. “No, no. I live next door. I’m just over to water the plants. Uh-huh. That’s right.” Another laugh. “Bye now.”
Felipe lowered his gun to the floor, suddenly aware how much his arm ached from holding it up for so long. He let himself relax slightly, twisting his head to get the kinks out of his neck.
But in his arms, Caroline still shook.
“Hey,” he said softly, putting the safety on his gun. He set it down, away from them on the hard dirt floor and wrapped his other arm around her. Maybe in her fear she hadn’t heard the phone conversation; maybe it hadn’t sunk in. “It’s all right—we’re all right. We’re not in any danger. Even if she sees the unmade beds, even if she calls the police, we’ll still have time to get away.”
Carrie took in a deep breath and tried to let it slowly out of her mouth. But that still didn’t stop her trembling. “It’s so dark,” she whispered, her husky voice cutting through the pitch black. “I can’t see anything.”
“But that’s good,” Felipe said soothingly. “If we can’t see anything, then no one can see us, right?”
“No,” she said. Her voice sounded choked, unnatural, her breath still coming in sobs. God in heaven, was she crying? Felipe reached up and felt the tears on her face. She was. She was crying. His heart lurched.
“Caroline,” he whispered, his voice nearly cracking with his concern.
“Cara, my God, are you hurt? What’s wrong?”
“I’m okay,” she whispered. But it sounded as if she was trying to convince herself as well as him. “It’s okay. See, I’m claustrophobic, but I’m okay.”
Claustrophobic?
Man, to a claustrophobic, the past ten minutes had to have been a total nightmare, a living hell. And she was still living it. Squeezed tightly together in a narrow crawl space, without any light…
“My God,” he said, hardly aware he was speaking aloud. “My God—”
“Shh,” she said, turning toward him, trying to comfort him. “It’s all right. I’m all right. It’s okay, because you’re with me. I’m not alone. Really, it’s not so bad.”
Not so bad? She was still trembling. He could feel her heart drumming in her chest. And she couldn’t stop the tears that were flowing down her face, wetting his neck.
And, oh, God, give him strength! At Sea Circus, he’d locked Caroline in the trunk of her car. He’d locked her in the tiny, dark airless trunk of her little sports car, all by herself.
Felipe felt sick. His stomach churned and tears burned his eyes. Two hours. She’d been in there for two hours, she’d told him. He knew 911 calls were often dangerously backed up, but two hours! What he’d done to her was tantamount to torture.
“Oh, Caroline,” he whispered raggedly, holding her tightly. “I’m so sorry.”
The footsteps upstairs had been silent for a while. From outside the house, Felipe heard the sound of a car engine. The voice, the neighbor, had left.
He found his gun in the darkness, then moved toward the access door. He was careful to bring Caroline with him, careful to keep as much of his body in contact with hers as he possibly could, aware that such obvious proof of his presence helped her.
With a heave, he pushed the trapdoor open, and light—brilliant, glorious, golden light flooded down on top of them.
Caroline scrambled toward the light, and Felipe helped her up and out. Gathering his clothes and holster from where he’d thrown them, he climbed stiffly after her.
Nowhere to Run Page 35
