Reese abruptly turned his attention to the road behind him, wishing it was as simple as that. Wishing his mind weren’t as fogged as the rear window.
It took all his skills to maneuver the truck toward the single bridge connecting them with Sanibel Island. Jillian hadn’t said a word since they’d backed away from the compound. He’d half expected her to be sobbing by now, but several quick glances told him that she had turned her head to her window, her gaze glued to the large rearview mirror just beyond it and the increasing distance he was putting between her and the house.
“Maybe the brunt of the hurricane will miss it,” he said after a moment, then felt foolish for trying to comfort her when she didn’t answer.
He made the last turn, his attention drawn to his right and a downed tree that almost blocked their path.
“I hope you’re right,” she said suddenly.
“Why?” he asked, then turned to follow her gaze.
Again, she didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Half of the bridge was gone.
Twisted planks and a crumble of cement were all that remained of their only link to Sanibel and the rest of Florida.
Two things struck Jillian Bonner almost simultaneously. The first was a gut-level response to the scene in front of her, visual proof of the risk she’d taken in deciding to stay. Although it hadn’t really been a choice as far as she was concerned. She’d made a commitment to Cleo.
The second, and almost more overwhelming realization was that she was stuck with this surly Neanderthal for the duration of the storm. Her gaze shifted to the large blond man scowling next to her.
For the first time she wished she’d evacuated with the other locals.
“Well,” she said, looking back to the destruction in front of her. “At least that takes care of one thing.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him hang his head, then shake it slowly, like a man who’d been pushed beyond the point of endurance. All things considered, she shouldn’t want to smile. There was nothing remotely amusing about being ordered around, tossed over a shoulder, then tied to a steering wheel. But she had the oddest feeling that he wasn’t often thrown for a loop. And the idea that she had just hog-tied him with one pricked her admittedly off-the-wall sense of humor.
“And what in the hell might that be?” he asked finally, resting his brawny forearms on the large steering wheel and turning to face her.
Her desire to smile became a distant memory. The serene smile that did cross her face was a calculated one. Calculated to cinch that loop just a bit tighter. Visualizing it around his neck, she said, “Now I won’t have to waste my valuable time reporting you to the authorities for kidnapping.”
“Attempted kidnapping,” he responded, not lifting so much as an eyebrow hair at her declaration.
Determined to match his steady, unaffected gaze, she said, “Exactly my point. Now would you please turn this four-wheel-drive prison around? I’d like at least to be indoors before Ivan pays a visit.” She shifted facing front and folded her hands calmly in her lap, at least as best she could considering she was still in bondage.
It took considerable concentration to control the nerves that made her stomach quake and threatened to start a noticeable trembling in her arms and legs. You’ve faced down more ornery creatures than this one, she reminded herself. Both human and reptile.
And yet the feel of his eyes on her was one of the most unnerving sensations she’d ever felt. She chalked it up to the probable wild shifts in the barometric pressure.
A loud crack made her jump and spin around. A huge limb from an oak tree beside the road had just snapped off like a dry twig. She spun back around to face him. “Can we get out of here? Now? Please?”
“Don’t get those nice cotton undies in a twist,” he shot back, then turned to the road as he threw the gearshift in reverse.
He’s been through my underwear drawer?
So preoccupied by that mental picture, it didn’t occur to Jillian until they’d reached the gated entrance to her compound that he hadn’t jumped at the sudden noise from the breaking tree limb.
Didn’t anything faze this guy?
She watched him give the grounds a surreptitious once-over. A smile threatened again. She knew one thing.
Cleo.
“Give me your wrist.”
She’d noticed his accent earlier, but for some reason it just now truly caught her attention. Probably because he wasn’t yelling at her. She held up her bound hand, and he made short work of the knots. “Thanks ever so much,” she said, mocking his accent by injecting as much dripping sarcasm into the words as possible.
“It’s not like you’re going anywhere,” he muttered.
Before she could respond, he reached behind the seat and heaved one of the trash bags into her lap. “You take this and I’ll take croc watch.”
“American alligator,” she corrected as she grabbed the knotted plastic. “And as long as you don’t get between her and her egg mound, she won’t bother you.”
His answer was a grunt just before he slid out of the truck. Jillian climbed out quickly and toted the bag toward the gate. Any part of her that hadn’t been soaked before became instantly so now. The screaming wind pushed her into a stumbled run. They both reached for the gate at the same time. Slammed into it actually.
“Move back and I’ll open it!” he yelled over the wind.
It was a measure of how much the gales had increased that he was standing two inches from her and she’d read his lips more than heard the words.
“Fine!” she yelled back. She saw him reach for the gun at his waist. “No guns!” He glared at her as they shoved their way through the gate, prompting a dry smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you!”
His scowl deepened, proving he was as good at reading lips as she was.
As best she could in the darkening gloom, Jillian scanned the grounds near the small pond Cleo had staked out shortly after her arrival. She could just barely make out the dark form of the alligator hovering over the huge pile of leaves, twigs, and debris she’d laboriously scraped into a three-foot-high pile to incubate her eggs.
Another gust buffeted her against the large man at her side, pulling her thoughts from Cleo and her nestlings to more immediate problems. Sending a silent prayer—one of many—Cleo’s way, she hunched down and pushed toward the enclosed back porch.
The rain was being driven by the wind into horizontal slashes making it difficult to do much more than squint. Jillian lunged for the screened door to the back porch. A gust caught her just as she was about to push through, jerking her back until she tottered precariously on the top step. A sudden shove sent her snapping forward.
The trash bag went flying, with her landing in an ignominious heap on top of it a second later. She rolled to her left, fearing she’d be crushed if he fell on top of her, then became quickly tangled in the contents of the bag which had split open on impact.
A loud thud echoed next to her in the space she’d narrowly vacated. Swearing followed, his accent thickening to the point of making him almost impossible to understand. She was too busy wrestling with whatever it was she’d become entangled in to care.
Suddenly, a large tan hand reached for her. She leaned away automatically, but he just pulled at whatever had tangled on her head, freeing it with a short snap.
“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Though I don’t see why you bother,” he muttered.
A hot flush crept over her entire body as she took the bra he’d so gallantly offered. She told herself it was anger not humiliation that burned her skin, that she’d long ago come to terms with her underendowed figure. Besides which, the very last thing she wanted from him was that sort of attention. She was grateful he’d made his feelings on the subject clear. Grateful and relieved.
And certainly not surprised.
“Thank you,” she said in the ultrapolite tone she’d been schooled in during her younger years. She hadn’t needed tha
t particular skill in ages, but had to admit it came in handy just now. With the same studied dignity, she tucked the small white cotton bra under her arm and turned away to scoop up the rest of her belongings, already half-soaked by the rain slashing through the screened windows.
For several long moments she sensed him looking at her as she wadded up the pile of clothing. “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not nice to stare?” she muttered. He responded with the same stony expression she was rapidly coming to think was his only alternative to scowling. The least he could do was help, she thought as she struggled to her feet, her own wet clothes making her motions awkward. “I thought you Brits were brought up with impeccable manners.”
“I’m Australian.”
She shot him a look. “Well, that explains it then.”
His blue eyes widened.
And what incredible eyes they were, she thought, distracted momentarily as she stared back at him. Clear and bright. And hard. As if all the soul had been leeched out.
She wondered what had happened to him to make his eyes so empty. She wasted another second imagining what a decent smile would do to them, then snorted at the folly.
Considering his temperament, she doubted she’d ever find out. Nor should she want to, she reminded herself.
Jerking her gaze from his, she stepped forward and stumbled. He reacted instantly, steadying her with a firm grip. His hands felt huge on her. One hand wrapped well around her hip, his palm on her jutting hipbone, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her …
She pulled away, wobbled, then straightened. “Thanks,” she said, chalking up the breathless quality of her voice to her struggle and not the feel of his hands on her backside.
“We’d better get this stuff inside. I still have one window to cover and—”
“Jillian.” His even voice cut her off.
He had the oddest expression on his face. Almost as if he were in pain of some kind. The idea bothered her more than she cared to admit. After all, he’d toted her around like a rolled-up carpet for goodness sake. She should be happy to see him suffer.
But it wasn’t in her to create suffering. She’d been on the receiving end enough for one lifetime. Maybe two. Now she worked long hours to alleviate pain. And doubly hard to avoid it herself.
Besides, she told herself, determined not to soften toward him even the tiniest bit, he was far too big for a simple fall on the porch to hurt him. Too hardheaded to let it bother him if by some miracle it had. She turned back to her task, away from those clear eyes that did strange things to her when he wasn’t bullying her or shouting orders.
“Don’t just sit there,” she said shortly, “the least you can do after dragging me through the rain is to help. After all, it’s your hide on the line too.”
“If you’d come with me when I’d asked, that wouldn’t be the case,” he reminded her.
She pushed the kitchen door open and dumped the heap of clothes on the counter. Turning back, she found him still sitting on her porch, staring at her. The sight of his big brawny body sitting casually amongst her underwear should have been amusing. Instead it twisted something inside her chest. The image of that same big body, all tanned muscles and streaked blond hair, tangled up in lemon-yellow sheets—her lemon-yellow sheets—tumbled through her mind before she could shut it out.
“I didn’t ask to be rescued,” she said tightly. “That was your idea. But now that you’re here, you can turn off the electricity.” She turned for the door. “The fuse box is in the pantry off the kitchen.”
Not giving him time to answer, she headed to the front hall to get her slicker, mentally shutting off electricity of an entirely different—but just as dangerous—sort.
It occurred to her that putting on her rain gear now was somewhat pointless, but she shoved her arms into the sleeves anyway. The wind made the rain needle-sharp and this would give her at least a measure of protection.
“I’ll put the window covers on.”
Jillian whirled around to find Reese standing just behind her. He was also soaked, but somehow his sodden khaki vest jacket, black T-shirt, and faded jeans made him seem that much bigger, that much more masculine. Her pulse leapt into double time along with her heart. She half expected the air around him to crackle and hiss.
“No … I mean, thanks, but getting them into the track is tricky.”
The corners of his mouth twisted. Sardonic grin or grimace. It was hard to tell with him. The expression never seemed to reach those soulless eyes.
“I think I can handle it. Where are the metal sheets?”
Guessing from his earlier tenacity that arguing would only waste valuable time, she sighed and answered him. “Under the back porch.”
“Flashlight?”
“In a cardboard box on the counter in the kitchen. There’s also propane and battery-operated lanterns, extra batteries, and some small propane tanks.”
He nodded and headed down the hall.
“Do you want a slicker or something?” she called after him, unable to look away from the way his wet vest showcased the difference in width between his broad shoulders and narrow waist.
“Hardly any need at this point.” He paused in the kitchen, and she could hear him rummaging through the boxes as she peeled her raincoat off and hung it up.
He looked up as she entered the kitchen. “Here’s the battery lantern. Turn it on before you shut off the power.”
She took it from him, careful not to brush her fingers against his, feeling foolish when the metal handle didn’t spark under her fingertips. His instructions annoyed her and she was tempted to tell him she wasn’t an idiot, but considering her reaction to him just now, she didn’t want to chance having him argue that point.
Expecting—mentally urging—him to leave, she bent her head to check the lantern out. When he remained standing in front of her, she reluctantly lifted her gaze to his.
In the silent moment that followed, neither moved or spoke. The escalating noise of the storm began to make her heart pound again. At least, that’s what she told herself.
“We should shut off the water,” he said finally. “Fill the tubs and sinks with water first, though.”
“Done. I also have bleach on hand in case the water supply is contaminated and several coolers full of bottled water. I’ve prepared for storms before, Mr.—” She stopped abruptly as it occurred to her that during all the tumult she’d never even learned his name.
“Braedon. Reese.”
He rattled it off in a short, flat cadence that made her wonder if he was about to follow with rank and serial number. “Well, Mr. Braedon, I’ve lived here—”
“Seeing as how I’ve been intimate with your underwear, I think you can call me Reese.”
She refused to blush. He’d made it more than clear he found her underwear more practical than intimate. Which, of course, was precisely why she’d purchased it. She had no need for flimsy silk underthings that would fall apart at the first hint of usage. Nope. No use at all.
“Maybe you’d better get outside before it gets worse.”
He stared at her for another silent moment, then turned and went out the back door. Ridiculously, she felt a hollowness in the pit of her stomach. His brief, but thorough appraisal had made it clear that she’d come up as lacking in her choice of underthings. Any electricity she’d felt had been one-sided. The loud thwack of the screen door slamming against its frame startled her from her thoughts.
It had been a long time since she’d had the slightest urge to measure herself on the surface scale of beauty. Physical perfection, and how one could use it to insure personal wealth and security, was her mother’s obsession, not hers. And goodness knows Regina had tallied up her daughter’s shortcomings often enough to compensate for both of them.
Frowning, she shoved all thoughts of her mother to their usual far corner of her mind, then tucked her unusual reaction to Reese Braedon in another dark soon-to-be-forgotten corner and turned to the task of securin
g the rest of the house.
THREE
Jillian reentered the kitchen and noticed the trash bag sitting on the floor. Reese must have picked up her clothes earlier. She hadn’t noticed. She’d been too preoccupied …
Just then the back door blew open with a bang. Reese’s huge frame filled the doorway, a stark figure silhouetted by the black skies behind him. She was immediately drawn to his face. His jaw was clenched so tightly, it made his cheekbones stand out in sharp relief, the light in his eyes was wild, almost feral. What in the hell was wrong with him?
He gripped the doorframe with both hands, as if in fear he’d be sucked back out into the storm. She saw his mouth move, but the noise outside was so loud, she couldn’t hear herself think much less what he was saying. More afraid of him now than when he’d held her against the wall in the upstairs hallway, she knew her greater concern had to be getting him out of the open doorway before the door blew off its hinges. Besides, after the way he’d fought to get her safely off the island, she doubted he meant her any harm now.
She ran to him and grabbed his arm. “Get inside!”
He didn’t answer, but when she tugged, his grip on the frame just tightened. Jillian looked up at him so he could read her lips. “Move!”
“Bloody … I can’t!” His accent had thickened to a growl.
“What?” His words sunk in. “Why?”
As an answer, he slumped against one side of the door and would have lost his balance entirely if she hadn’t shifted quickly to wedge herself between him and the doorframe. As it was he almost squashed her as she struggled to keep him upright. “You’re hurt!” She didn’t know where or how, but it was obvious he wasn’t in great shape.
He bent his head so his mouth was closer to her ear. “Move outta … the way. Gotta … close … the door.”
She wrapped her arm around his waist. It was like hugging a big tree. “Let go!” she yelled, unable to look up so he could see her lips move. Her head just reached his shoulder.
Bracing her legs for his weight, she reached up for the hand still gripping the door, intending to pull it down around her shoulder. It was then she felt the sticky warmth against her hip. Looking down she saw the cause. He had a long slash down the outside of his thigh which had bled through his jeans and soaked into hers. She looked up to say something, but he chose that moment to let his good knee buckle, sending them staggering into the kitchen and half across the table.
Wild Rain Page 3
