“You appear to have a knack for becoming inseparable with men.” When Ian looked up, flour dusted his cheek.
Jamee had a sudden urge to lick the white powder off slowly, until he cursed and took her in his arms and—
“What did you say?” she blurted.
“Something about your knack for making men want to be around you.”
Jamee toyed with a skein of yarn. “I used to. A good knock in the head always seemed to help things along.” Her smile came and then faded.
“What happened to change all that?”
She wound the skein into a ball, smoothing each curve. Suddenly it was very important that each thread lie perfectly flat. One bump or tangle would throw the balance off and cause something terrible to happen.
Jamee took a shallow breath. “What happened? The summer I turned seventeen,” she said carefully. “The summer…that I was kidnapped.”
Ian put down the dough. “Dhe, lass.” He dried his hands, then crossed the floor and pulled the yarn from her fingers. “Sit down.”
“I think I’d rather walk,” Jamee said softly. “Moving makes me feel more…in control.”
“If you’d prefer not to discuss this—”
“Maybe it’s time I did.” Jamee shoved her hands into her pockets. Anything to keep them from sliding up to Ian’s powerful shoulders. “Not many people know.” She gave a ragged laugh. “It’s not the kind of thing that comes up very often, you know. ‘Pass the ketchup and by the way I was kidnapped when I was seventeen.’”
“Jamee, you don’t have to do this.” Anger flared in Ian’s eyes. He started toward her, then frowned and sank into the chair beside the fire. His fingers opened, then locked on the worn wooden arms.
The raw emotion in his face should have made Jamee anxious, but it didn’t. His fury was for those who had harmed her. “Maybe I should have talked about this long ago. Talking to a stranger is different from family.” She paced idly, lined up several copper pots, then stirred the fire. “Of course, there were the doctors. The trauma experts helped me stop watching for shadows and hyperventilating at the sound of a car backfiring or the squeal of tires.” She gave a tight chuckle. “Pretty lame, right?”
Ian’s fingers gripped the chair arm. His voice was taut. “Not lame. You had a problem and you dealt with it. I’d call that damn brave of you.”
“I still wake up in the night, remembering how it tasted. You wouldn’t think memory has a taste, but it does. Like moldy leaves. Dank air. The faint metallic tang of blood, where I bit my lip to keep from screaming,” she said flatly. “Oh, yes, I know that Dream well by now. It always starts the same way: the scream of tires and two gunshots. Then shouts and someone pulling me from a car. They shove me into darkness and stifling silence.” She didn’t look at Ian as she continued. She couldn’t bear to see the pity fill his eyes. “They used rope on my hands and feet so I couldn’t move. When the door slid shut, I thought I was dead. Maybe I wished I was dead. But I told myself I had to keep busy and I worked at the ropes every second. It kept my mind off…all the rest.”
A muscle moved at Ian’s jaw. “Do you remember what kind of ropes?”
Jamee shrugged. “Heavy, rough. They were damp with a green kind of smell.”
“Mexican hemp,” Ian murmured. The chair creaked as he leaned forward. “How thick were they?”
“Maybe an inch or slightly less.” She frowned, finally meeting his gaze. There was no pity that she could see, only a focused intensity. “Why?”
“Because remembering the details might help you put the experience behind you, Jamee.” Ian nodded at her hands, which were rubbing her wrists. “You obviously remember the feel of the ropes. They’re still hurting you, Jamee. Every movement you make shows that pain.”
“I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”
“Only to someone who’s looking.”
She stared dumbly at her hands. “It took weeks for the rope burns to fade. When they finally came to take me out, all my nails were gone, broken down to the quick.”
“You were bloody brave.”
“Was I?” Jamee shook her head. “Not then. Not in the darkness. I wanted to scream at them. I wanted to beg them to take Adam or William or Terence or Bennett. Anyone instead of me.” Her voice broke at the terrible admission, which she’d never revealed to anyone until now. “How can I ever forgive myself for wanting that? My own family,” she said brokenly.
Ian’s nails scored the wooden chair arms. His hands opened and closed helplessly, fighting an urge to crush her in his arms—an urge that could only bring her more pain. With great effort, he kept his voice level. “It’s perfectly normal to wish someone else was there instead of you.”
“But not my own brothers…”
“They were bigger than you, Jamee. Braver, you thought. I’d say it was a perfectly normal wish for a girl to make during a time of terror.”
She looked shocked. “You do?” She took a sudden, gulping breath. “I’ve never mentioned it. Not to anyone. The guilt has been eating at me all these years.” She blinked, shoved away a tear, then picked up the skein of mohair again, her fingers shredding the fine yarn to threads.
“I’m sure that your brothers were waiting at home, sick with guilt and wishing that they could have taken your place, Jamee. So there’s nothing to feel guilty about, is there?”
“Are you some kind of psychiatrist?” Jamee demanded. “You ask exactly the right question at the right time. And when you listen, it’s frightening—at least it would be if you didn’t make me feel so damned comfortable.” She jerked to a halt. “Don’t tell me you’re a priest!”
Ian broke into startled laughter. “I’m afraid the church would have thrown me out long ago.”
Jamee frowned. “You’re not like any man I’ve known. Most would be fidgeting by now, uncomfortable at what I just told you about the kidnapping and my crazy dreams. They would probably have laughed at my problem with being near men. But you understand, Ian. Why?”
“Because I’ve been in a few tight spots myself,” Ian said coolly. “And I’ve learned that judging other people makes as much sense as trying to fly over the moon in a basket made of feathers.”
Jamee made a low sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I think with enough time you could probably manage even that.”
Ian watched her pace the floor, her bare feet soundless on the old wood. He realized that Jamee Night already had a clear idea of why she behaved as she did. In fact, she was probably the sanest person he knew.
Sane, but desperate.
Ian couldn’t deny his jolt of satisfaction that she had never spent the night in bed with another man. That she felt comfortable enough to ask him to touch her intimately. He wanted to be the first man to hold her through the night, to watch her body dappled with firelight while she cried out in passion, her fear forgotten.
Ian propped one elbow against the chair arm and frowned. There was no way around it. He was becoming involved with a client. Intimately involved. The growing tension in his lower body told him how completely he had fallen under Jamee Night’s artless and irresistible spell.
But involvement was stupid and dangerous. The relationship never lasted. Inevitably, a victim wanted to put the trauma behind her. Sometimes the people didn’t even make it out alive, because one second’s distraction in the field could mean the difference between life and death.
Right now, watching Jamee pace in stiff, jerky movements, Ian realized that logic didn’t seem to carry a whole lot of weight.
“Not that I haven’t ever—well, you know,” Jamee muttered.
“No, I don’t know.”
“Been with a man.” She jammed her hands into her pockets. “In bed. Intimately.”
Intimately. Ian clutched at the chair as every muscle in his body leaped to fierce awareness. He didn’t want to hear—and he couldn’t bear not to hear. “Is that so?” Somehow he managed to give the illusion of sounding calm.
“There were thre
e. The Big Three.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I had to get myself very drunk first. Now I don’t remember many details. They were all perfect gentlemen about it, but I still have the feeling something was lacking. I mean, I should remember, shouldn’t I? Probing tongues. Sweaty hands. At least one straining body part.”
The confusion and humor that mingled in her eyes brought Ian low, humbled by her ability to find something to laugh at amid the dark nightmare of her past.
She was a very brave woman, he decided. Considering all she had been through, her honesty was nearly frightening. And when she smiled crookedly, Ian felt something slam into his chest. His breathing seemed loud, hollow in his ears. His body felt weightless, buoyant, giddy.
Terrified.
He had a terrible suspicion that he was falling in love with Jamee Night. The real, old-fashioned way, that made a man think of bridal veils and stable, long-term bonds and the sound of children laughing.
He couldn’t let that happen. Jamee deserved more than he could give her. Especially now.
Ian cleared his throat. “You can’t remember anything?”
“Not much.” She straightened a row of seashells on the mantel above the fire. “I mean, it’s supposed to be earthshaking and yet I don’t remember any of it.” She shook her head. “I suppose that says something about me.”
“Not you,” Ian said harshly. “It says something about them. Any man with half a brain could have made the experience special, something you would always treasure.” He broke off, scowling at his locked hands, forcing himself to stay in the chair so he wouldn’t pull her into his arms and kiss her until they were both pleading for mercy.
Ian wanted to do all that for Jamee. Right now, he wanted her so badly it was painful, damn his corrupt, degenerate soul. He was savagely jealous of each and every one of the Big Bloody Three. His zipper was straining with the evidence of his need.
He was relieved when she wandered to the window and stared out at the mist.
“I don’t like knowing I’ll have to get blotto every time I want to—well, you know.”
“Kiss a man?” Stay calm, McCall. She needs that much and no more.
“And then let him take off my clothes. Feel him crawl into bed beside me. Touch me. And then—Like with the Big Three.”
Ian felt sweat streak his brow. The Big Three. How many women would write off their disappointments with such whimsy?
Ian couldn’t think of one.
“That’s why I thought this time. With you…” Jamee’s eyes were huge as she turned, toying with the satin ribbon until it slipped sideways, trapping her lustrous hair on her left shoulder.
When had this fragile, indominable woman come to hold such fatal power over him? Ian wondered. How had she unerringly found the door that led into his heart, a heart he had thought sealed since the day he had learned of his bleak future?
“At least with me you’d remember, mo cridhe. You’d damn well recall every sigh and every moan. You’d remember the feel of us, the taste of us.”
Color rose and fell in her cheeks, hotter than the firelight that streaked the floor. “Would I?” It was the softest of questions, but it was also a challenge. The kind of faint, sensual challenge no man who was even half alive could ignore.
The challenge sent heat streaming through Ian’s body. At that moment, he knew he was about to make the worst decision of his life.
Suddenly he didn’t care.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“JAMEE.” HE SAID THE WORD slowly while he pushed to his feet, giving her time to run. To curse. To scream.
She only watched him with those huge indigo eyes. “You’d be number four. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I’d be number one. The first one who counted,” Ian said roughly. “The one you will always remember.”
Will, not would.
By the time Ian realized what he had said, it was already too late. His fingers had memorized the texture of her hair and his lips were nuzzling her cheek, her mouth.
God, her lips were like warm velvet.
“Ian.” It was a soft puff of sound.
“Tell me, Jamee. What you want. Where you want it.”
“I think,” she said very carefully, “that I want everything. All at once.”
Ian swallowed and framed her face with his hands. Where were the aliens when you needed them? “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know. I’ve been waiting a very long time to say that to a man. To want it from a man.”
Dear God, she was serious. She wanted him, only him.
Her fingers smoothed his rigid shoulders. His stomach tensed as her breath feathered his neck. Electricity snapped through him, leaving him acutely aware of every move she made.
Take her, a voice urged. Have her. Love her.
His hand trembled. His hand, not hers. The tension in his body surged to painful urgency as her fingers traced his mouth.
The mouth she had said was beautiful.
Dammit, this was madness. He couldn’t let matters progress any further. She stirred up feelings that were far too powerful and the timing was all wrong.
Ian stared over her shoulder. “Jamee, I don’t know if this is a good idea.” He ran one hand over his jaw. “Hell, I know it’s a bad idea.”
“You’re probably right.” Her hand settled over his and she stared at his mouth as if it were a chocolate sundae she wanted to take her time over. Her fingers dug gently at his chest.
Ian felt like wreckage left from a tsunami. How did she manage to shatter his control this way?
He cleared his throat. “I think I’d better check around outside.”
She made a soft, breathless sound and tugged at the top button on his shirt. “You just did that.”
Ian swallowed. “If I stay, I’m going to do something I’ll regret and you will probably hate me for.” He couldn’t keep the edge from his voice. Jamming his hands deep into his pockets, he pulled away from her. “So I’m going to put what just happened out of my mind. Not because I want to, Jamee. Because it’s the only sane thing to do.”
IAN MANAGED to put Jamee out of his mind for exactly twelve and one-half seconds. He knew because he was staring at his watch.
God, what a mess.
With fog swirling around him, he circled the cottage, searching for footprints or signs of intrusion. He listened for suspicious noises and checked the locks on all the windows and doors.
Nothing was amiss, but the knowledge didn’t make Ian feel the slightest bit better. Only getting away from this enforced confinement with Jamee would help. Meanwhile, he had work to do.
He moved to the back of the cottage and checked the trip wire he had set earlier that morning. Strung seven inches above the ground, the copper wire would be invisible in the fog and a perfect height to send any intruders flying. The tin cans tied on both ends were a bonus in the form of a primitive, but effective alarm system. A second set of wires ran along both sides of the house, extending his defense system. At the front, Ian had been even more inventive, zigzagging half a dozen wires in a random pattern over the sloping hillside.
It wasn’t Fort Knox, but it would have to do until he had backup.
Cursing softly, he pulled the cellular phone from his pocket and dialed the number of Dunraven Castle.
Just as when he’d tried earlier, static broke in shrieking waves.
“—Castle…”
“This is Ian McCall calling for Lord Dunraven.”
“Dunraven—” Static crackled again. “Hello? Hel—” The voice was swallowed by a metallic whine.
Ian muttered in Gaelic. There was no hope of getting a message to Dunraven or anyone else, not with this static.
Muttering, he pocketed the phone and stared out at the blanketing white mist. No telephone. No car. No radio.
Only Jamee.
He took a deep breath. Took another. Time to go back inside. He was a man, not a teenager. He could deal with his feelings for her.
&
nbsp; When he pushed open the door, the first thing he saw was a pair of slender legs below an incredible silken skirt that stopped at the middle of her thighs. “What is that?” he rasped.
“My new skirt, a blend of silk and mohair. I just finished it.” Her voice was breathless. “Do you like it?”
Did he like it? Did he like breathing or whiskey or fishing on a silver loch at dawn?
The skirt was short and silky and clung like a second skin to her softly rounded hips.
Did he like it?
“It’s…different.” Ian managed to sound calm.
“I found the silk noil on my last trip to Asia. I bought all I could find.” She spoke in a rush. “I think maybe I can even sell some of these.”
If she modeled a skirt like that, short and sleek and gorgeous, knit so that it shimmered and clung, she would have women lining up to purchase one.
And men would be lining up to watch.
Ian scowled.
“You don’t think it will sell?”
“I think it will sell. In fact, I think women from Terre Haute to Timbuktu will be clamoring to have one. Maybe two or three.”
“You do?” Jamee eyed her legs thoughtfully, then turned, a pan of steaming water balanced in her hands. “Just a minute while I—” As she spoke, the pan struck the edge of the table. The metal edge swayed dangerously, sloshing hot water onto the floor. “Oh, damn.”
Ian leaped for the handles just as the pan went flying. Quickly, he swung it up onto the table, ignoring the water that had splashed on his jacket. Rescue complete, he turned to Jamee.
She was bent low, wiping the floor with a towel.
Dear God, the skirt had almost vanished. All Ian registered were long golden legs and bare feet. Even her feet were beautiful, he thought blankly. Any minute, he was going to be grinning like a bloody fool, kneeling beside her and tasting that glorious mouth of hers. “No,” he rasped.
“No, what?” Jamee looked up. “It’s just water.”
“No, I—Let me help,” Ian muttered as he strode around the table and bent down beside her. As he did, one hand caught the edge of a copper frying pan, which went flying onto his head.
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