TrustMe

by Unknown

  “Please! Just listen. My brother’s innocent. But if you take me back, he’ll feel obligated to try and protect me and—”

  “Get in the truck, Bowen.” He took a step closer, the toe of one big boot bumping her smaller one.

  It took every ounce of her courage, but she stood her ground. “Damn it, Taggart, if you’ll just listen—”

  “No.” With a speed that was surprising for a man his size, he caught her under the arms and boosted her onto the seat. Then he gripped her right arm with one hand, reached under his coat with the other and the next thing she knew, he was slapping a handcuff around her wrist.

  “Don’t!” She tried to twist away but it was too late as he snapped the other bracelet around the door handle. “Surely that’s not—”

  “I don’t like surprises when I’m driving.”

  Frightened, furious, she watched helplessly as he slammed the door and headed around to the driver’s side of the truck.

  Think, she ordered herself as he slid the seat back as far as it would go to accommodate his mile-long legs and climbed inside.

  Taking a firm grip on her emotions, Genevieve turned to face him. “I don’t have much money, most of it went to pay for Seth’s attorney, but you can have my house. I’ll sign it over. My business, too. I’ll—I’ll give you anything you want. Just name it.”

  For a moment it was as if he hadn’t heard her. Then he abruptly twisted on the seat and leaned over so that only inches separated them. His cool compelling gaze slid from her hair to her eyes to her mouth, then flicked back up. “Anything?” His eyes gleamed dangerously.

  He was so close she could see each individual inky whisker shadowing his cheeks, as well as a faint, razor-thin scar that cut through one corner of his hard, unsmiling mouth.

  Her stomach dropped and what was left of the moisture in her mouth dried up. She told herself not to be a fool, to say, “Yes, of course, whatever it takes,” but when she parted her lips, the words wouldn’t come out. “I—I—”

  His head dipped even closer. Swallowing hard, she squeezed her eyes shut, her heart slamming into her throat as his hair—cool and unexpectedly soft—tickled against her cheek.

  Then he abruptly straightened and she felt the pressure as he dragged her seat belt across her waist. Her eyes flew open as he jammed the end into the clasp with a distinctive click.

  He sent her a mirthless smile as their gazes meshed. “Yeah. I didn’t think so. Which is just as well, since the only thing I want from you—” he fastened his own seat belt and slapped the truck into Reverse “—is your word that you won’t give me any more trouble.”

  Embarrassed, insulted, affronted, disgusted—Genevieve couldn’t decide what she felt most. “Go to hell.”

  He gave a faint sigh. “Too late. Already been there, done that,” he murmured. Depressing the clutch, he backed the vehicle out of its slot. He shifted, straightened the wheel and began to guide the truck down the narrow, tree-lined track that led to the road.

  The deer came out of nowhere. One second there was nothing in front of them but an unobscured ribbon of white. In the next, a rangy young stag bounded squarely into their path, its dun-colored hide seeming to fill the entire windshield.

  “Watch out!” Genevieve cried as Taggart wrenched the wheel to the left. He hit the brakes and the old Ford bucked wildly, fishtailed across the snowy ground and slammed driver’s side first into an enormous evergreen tree.

  Taggart’s head hit the door frame with a sickening crunch.

  Genevieve watched with a mixture of awe and horror as he slumped, his big body suddenly as limp as a rag doll’s. Dear God, what if he’s dead?

  Fast on the heels of that thought came another. Dear God. What if he’s not?

  Three

  T aggart surfaced slowly.

  As he did, several things seemed noteworthy. One was that his head felt as if a stake were being driven through it.

  The other was that somebody—a woman, judging from her soft voice and even softer hands—was touching him. “Come on now,” she murmured, her husky voice tickling along his spine while her fingers sifted featherlight through the hair at his temple. “It’s time to quit fooling around. Wake up now. I know you can do it.”

  She knew he could do it. Her faith gave him pause. The first and last female to unswervingly believe in him had been his mother. Yet he knew damn well that the woman murmuring to him wasn’t Mary Moriarity Steele.

  She smelled entirely different, for one thing, like sunshine and soap instead of lavender and baby powder. Plus her hands were smaller and her voice was lower. Besides, his mother had been gone…

  How long? Drawing a blank, he struggled to punch through the fog hazing his brain. For a frustrating moment his mind remained shrouded and sluggish. Then the knowledge abruptly bubbled up.

  Twenty years. She’d died twenty years ago last month, the anniversary of her passing falling on the day after his thirty-third birthday.

  What’s more, with another burst of returning memory he knew that it was Genevieve Bowen who was showing him such gentle concern. He recognized her voice at the same instant the recollection of tossing her over his shoulder and heading for her truck came rushing back at him. Yet after that…Nothing.

  He didn’t have a single, solitary doubt who was to blame.

  Marshaling his strength, he opened his eyes. He felt a perverse flicker of satisfaction as his quarry—hell, no, his prisoner—sucked in a startled breath and jerked back, snatching her hand away from his face.

  “Genevieve.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded raspy.

  “You’re back.”

  “Yeah.” He blinked, tried to make sense of the timbered ceiling above his head and failed. With a prickle of uneasiness, he realized he was lying on a bed in a room he’d never seen before.

  “How do you feel?”

  He told himself to focus. Okay, so his brain seemed to be a few cards short of a full deck and he had a son of a bitch of a headache—so what? He’d survived worse. He concentrated on what he did remember and tossed out an educated guess. “The truck. There was an accident.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “There was a deer. In the road. You swerved to avoid it and hit a tree.”

  “I knew that,” he lied. “What I meant was—how long have I been out?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  A spark of something—it looked a lot like compassion except he knew damn well that couldn’t be right—flared in her eyes. “You’ve been in and out, but mostly out, the past hour. And in case you’re wondering, you’re in the cabin. My great-uncle’s cabin.”

  Of course. He glanced around, taking note of the comfortable-looking furniture, the fire dancing cheerfully behind the glass doors of a big stone fireplace, the stretch of windows looking out on the jagged Montana peaks stabbing into the sky. Bringing his gaze back to her, he wondered how she’d managed to get him inside, given that he was twice her size, then decided there was a different question he was far more curious about. “And you’re still here…why?”

  She was silent a moment, then gave a dismissive little shrug. “You took a pretty nasty knock to the head. I couldn’t just go off and leave you. Not until I was sure you were okay.”

  Yeah, right. Pollyanna reputation or not, she wasn’t stupid and nobody was that good-hearted. More likely she was tired of being hunted and, having finally come face-to-face with what she was up against—that would be him—had realized the futility of continuing to run.

  Then again, she’d saved him a boatload of aggravation by hanging around. If she wanted to pretend she was Doris Do-right, what the hell did he care? He inclined his chin a fraction, ignoring the ensuing howl of protest from his aching head. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Even as she took a step back, putting a little more distance between them, an uncertain smile kissed the corners of her full mouth.

  He scowled as part of him that was unapologetically male whis
pered pretty. Reminding himself sharply that she was his assignment, not his date, for God’s sake—and he never mixed his personal and professional lives—he stared expressionlessly at her. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said flatly as he carefully pushed himself upright. “You’re still my prisoner and I’m—what the hell?”

  Something heavy was dragging at his arm. He sensed Bowen moving even farther away as he glanced down, confounded to see that a handcuff was locked around his left wrist. What’s more, the adjoining stainless-steel bracelet had been threaded through the end links of a heavy chain that had been passed around the end support of the massive built-in bed frame.

  He was trapped like a wolf in a snare.

  Ignoring the pounding in his head, he didn’t think but acted, launching himself at his one chance at freedom.

  He was within inches of grabbing her when it dawned on him that instead of bolting the way she ought to be, his nemesis was holding her ground, and a warning shrieked through his brain.

  Too late. Unable to check himself, he reached the end of his tether and was damn near jerked off his feet.

  The handcuff cut into his wrist. His arm felt as if it was being ripped from his shoulder. Then his momentum snapped him around and his head exploded in agony.

  Gritting his teeth against the howl crowding his throat, he staggered back the way he’d come, braced himself against the bed frame and sank down onto the quilt-covered mattress.

  So much for his luck having changed, he thought savagely. With a snap of her fingers, Lady Fortune had snatched away success and turned him from victor to casualty, from hunter to captive.

  It was a road he’d traveled before, he reminded himself. Under far worse circumstances, with far graver consequences.

  But he wasn’t going to think about that. It was over. In the past. Beyond his reach to change. He needed to focus on the here and now. On Genevieve.

  Locking firmly onto that single thought, he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to hold perfectly still as he waited for the worst of the pain to pass.

  Enduring, after all, was what he did best.

  “Here.” Genevieve set the pill bottle and the glass of water on the nightstand, all the while keeping a wary eye on the big man hunched on the bed. “This should help.”

  Mindful of the terrifying show of speed and strength he’d put on just minutes earlier, she quickly stepped back out of reach. And waited.

  Nothing. He continued to sit perfectly still, head slumped, eyes shut, broad shoulders rigid.

  “It’s ibuprofen. My first aid book says that’s okay for someone in your condition.”

  Still no reaction. With an inner shrug, she decided that if he wanted to imitate a boulder there was nothing she could do about it. She’d give it one more try; then she was done.

  “If you think a cold compress would help, let me know. The fridge hasn’t been on long enough to make ice, but there’s plenty of snow outside.” Silence. “Hokay then, J. T.” With a shrug, she started to turn away. “I’ll just give you some space—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Turning back, she found his gaze fixed on her, his eyes hooded and impossible to read. “What?” Her response was automatic even though she knew perfectly well what he was referring to.

  “J. T.,” he gritted out. “Don’t call me that. I don’t like it.”

  For a second she was speechless. Of all the things she might’ve expected him to object to, her flippant abbreviation of Just Taggart wasn’t even on the list. Still, given that she had the upper hand, she supposed she could afford to be gracious. “All right. Plain old Taggart it is then.” She felt a fleeting flash of amusement as she considered what he’d say if she called him by that acronym.

  Moving carefully, and looking as if he hadn’t smiled about anything in years, he reached for the pill bottle and thumbed off the cap. To her dismay, he proceeded to toss back considerably more than the recommended dosage. Setting down the water glass, he eased back farther on the bed, then sliced her a sharp look. “What?”

  “I—nothing.” She wiped the concerned look off her face, telling herself not to be foolish. He was a grown-up, and bigger than average, and if he wanted to suck down the entire bottle of pain reliever, it was none of her business. While she obviously hadn’t been ruthless enough after the accident to shove him out of the truck and abandon him to his fate, she was neither stupid nor naive enough to think anything had changed.

  He was her enemy.

  A crucial little fact she couldn’t afford to forget, she reminded herself, turning away. Sure, she was lonely. Sure she was dying to talk openly to somebody. And yes, the sight of anyone injured or hurting tended to trigger what Seth had always claimed was her overdeveloped nurturing streak.

  But she’d be grade-A certifiable, lock-me-in-the-asylum-and-throw-away-the-key crazy to let down her guard even an inch where the man on the bed was concerned.

  And it wasn’t only the risk he posed to her freedom, his obvious mental toughness, killer physique or ability to handle himself that she found so threatening, she mused as she walked over to the kitchen and began methodically putting away the groceries.

  No, there was something else, some intangible quality he possessed that made her feel off balance and not quite herself. Something that tugged at her senses and alarmed her recently awakened sense of self-preservation all at the same time.

  Uh-huh. That’s called the thrill of danger, the call of the wild, Genevieve. Women have been drawn to dangerous men like moths to the flame since the beginning of time.

  Add to that the fact that he wasn’t exactly ugly and it was perfectly reasonable that he inspired such conflicting feelings in her. Not that he was pretty-boy handsome. Far from it. Along with that dark hair and those pale eyes, he had the strongly sculpted, slightly ascetic face of a medieval warrior.

  But she wasn’t attracted to him, for heaven’s sake. She absolutely was not. Even if she’d met him under different circumstances—say, when he wasn’t doing his damnedest to hijack her life—he was so far from her type it wasn’t even funny. He was too big, too tightly wound, too…male.

  Plus he had an air of watchfulness, of being apart, that troubled her. Most people had a need to be liked, to connect with others, to smooth their path through life with at least a pretense of mutual experience or interest.

  Not him. He seemed walled off, although she had a feeling she didn’t question that beneath that carefully controlled surface there were strong emotions at play. Perhaps that was why, even chained and hurting, he filled the cabin with his blatantly masculine presence, making her aware of him without ever saying a word.

  Why even now, as she dragged a large cast-iron pot out of the cupboard, set it on the stove and busied herself with sautéing meat and chopping vegetables for the soup, she could feel him watching her. Just as she’d sensed him observing her earlier.

  She gave a rueful little sigh. God. What she wouldn’t give for her earlier foreboding to have been caused by a good old killer squirrel, mutant or not.

  Instead, she was stuck with a much more terrifying human male.

  Of course, she supposed things could have turned out worse—far worse. She’d gotten incredibly lucky with that deer. And Taggart, for all his aura of imminent threat, hadn’t hurt her despite having had plenty of opportunity, not even in retaliation when she’d struck him first. In all fairness, she supposed she had to give him points for that—and consider the possibility that he was more civilized than she imagined.

  “You don’t really think you’re going to get away with this, do you, Bowen?”

  Then again, maybe not. Despite her prisoner’s uninflected tone, she recognized a threat when she heard one. Which, she reflected, as she added a can of tomatoes, broth and seasonings to the meat, really did take an incredible amount of nerve given their respective situations.

  “Do yourself a favor. Undo these cuffs. I swear I’ll go easy on you.”

  Oh, right. Like
she believed that. And even if it was true, what exactly did it mean—that he’d use velvet ribbon to truss her up when he delivered her back to Silver?

  Rolling her eyes, she transferred the raw carrots and potatoes she’d sliced into the pot. She put the lid in place, turned down the heat on the burner and moved to the sink to wash her hands.

  “Okay, I get it now. This—tying guys to your bed—is how you get your kicks.”

  She turned off the water and dried her hands. Surely she hadn’t heard that right?

  “Normally, I don’t go for the Suzy Homemaker type. But I suppose I could make an exception. Of course, first I’d want to see you nak—”

  She swiveled around. “Are you out of your mind? Are you trying to tick me off?”

  Propped up against the headboard, his legs stretched out, he hitched his shoulders a scant half inch. “Got your attention, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, yes, you did do that.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “And to think three hours ago I was actually pining for the sound of another human voice.” She leveled her gaze at him. “So what is it you want to say that I just have to hear?”

  “How long do you plan to keep me chained like this?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  She gave a little shrug. “A variety of things. Your health. My mood. Whether you persist in making any more objectionable personal comments.”

  One level black eyebrow rose. “Is that a threat?”

  “More like a promise,” she said sweetly.

  “What am I supposed to do when I need to use the facilities?”

  “Bathroom’s right there.” She indicated the door some four feet down the wall from the bed. “The chain will reach.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “There’s a half bath up in the loft. Not perfect, but it’ll do.”

  He started to scowl, then appeared to reconsider. “Look, my offer still stands. End this now, let me take you back and I’ll make sure the judge knows you cooperated.”

  “How generous of you. But I think I’ll pass. You may not understand, but as I tried to explain earlier, I don’t care what the judge thinks—not about me. It’s my brother who matters.”