by Alicia Scott
Cain resettled in his seat, closing the door. Small movements momentarily bridged their discomfort. His fingers turning the ignition on. Her fingers turning up the heat. His fingers adjusting the vents so that most of the warm air blew on her. Her fingers adjusting them back so he got equal share. His fingers playing with the radio dial until one lone AM country station provided a raspy, crooning cowboy singing about looking for love in all the wrong places.
The heat filled the tiny car and steamed the windows. The rain hammered against the roof and windows, still in full fury and competing ruthlessly with the radio. It sounded as if they lived in the middle of a cellophane wrapper being madly crinkled.
There was nothing more to do. Just sit here. Wait for the glow of headlights. Pray they didn't belong to a cop. Wait for the rain to end.
Maggie's fingers began to fidget on her lap. She took a deep breath, then another. Even with the heat pouring out of the air vents, she was chilly, water was still pouring from her hair down her shoulders and back in tiny, maddening rivers.
"My shirt is wet, but you could see if it makes a difference on your hair," Cain said at last.
"All right."
He handed her his crumpled shirt, then his hands returned quickly and quietly to his side of the car. She risked a glance at him. His gaze was still focused on the windshield, which had steamed over completely.
Her lips curved down a little. Finally, she leaned her head forward, spread out his shirt and used it as best she could to blot at her dripping hair. She accomplished nothing.
"If you…" His voice trailed off. She heard the sound of another deep breath. Then his hands were abruptly curling around her scalp. "May I?"
Maggie could only nod.
Oh those fingers, those glorious fingers. They wove into her hair, finding her sensitive, chilled scalp, making small, miraculous circles that brought the blood rushing to her head, her nerve endings tingling to defiant life. He didn't hesitate, he didn't go slow. He conquered her hair and she surrendered every strand to him, her eyes drifting shut, her neck arching to meet the soothing heat of broad palms cupping her head.
With relentless precision, he drove the water forward, pushing it along until his hands were tangled in the long, stringy ropes of rain-laden hair, pressing and massaging, working the moisture to the very ends. And then his hands began to wring, wrench, wring, and the water fled from her hair in a torrent, defeated and vanquished.
At last Maggie lifted her head and looked at Cain. His hands were still there, fingers woven into her long red hair.
"Thank you," she whispered, her blue eyes wide, her cheeks damp.
"I'm sorry I don't have a comb," he said hoarsely.
"Yes."
His hands slowly slid away. She wanted to tell him not to, but her throat was too tight to get out the words. Her Adam's apple bobbed, then bobbed again.
Belatedly, she turned her gaze to the dashboard, her fingers knitting together on her lap. She leaned against the seat, but the sensation of vinyl against her soaked blouse was unpleasant. More heat piped out the vents but it was feeble now. The car appeared on the edge of death, gasping and wheezing.
Finally, Cain reached out and shut off the ignition. "There's not much gas," he said. "We'll have to ration it."
She nodded. "Do you … do you think it will be long before someone arrives?"
"I don't know. It's a hell of a night to be on the road."
"Yes." Her gaze returned to the near-empty gas gauge. "Even if it stops raining, we can't go very far," she said softly.
"No. We can't."
"It's my fault."
"You think too much of yourself, Maggie." He glanced at her. "I accepted your proposition, I turned back and stopped this truck on my own volition. The choice, the risk, was mine as well. So don't accept responsibility for my actions. That belongs to me."
"Oh." She brought up her chin, and for a moment her eyes gleamed defiantly. "Then why did you escape from jail? That's escaping the consequences of your actions, isn't it?"
His lips twisted. "No, only the consequences for my alleged actions."
"What? Did—"
"Maggie, you ask too many questions."
Her gaze fell down to her lap at the softly spoken rebuke. He turned away from her, the small gesture putting even more distance between them. She shifted restlessly and uncomfortably in her bucket seat. There didn't seem to be anything more to say. There didn't seem to be anything more to do.
The heat escaped from the car too quickly. Soon she was shivering again. Goose bumps raced up her arms, prickling tiny hairs. She wrapped her arms around her middle and rubbed briskly. It didn't help much.
"You would warm up faster without the blouse on," Cain commented at last. His voice was level, but barely so.
"Yes … yes you're right."
Her fingers came up slowly to the first button. She struggled with a tiny pearl. Maybe because her fingers were cold and thick. Maybe because the silk ruffles that rimmed the neckline were plastered over the button. Maybe because she was scared out of her mind.
Either way, she couldn't quite claim that she nonchalantly shrugged off her blouse and casually flung it aside with a last, dramatic toss of her head. More like she wrestled with it. It clung to her skin and to her fingers and so she struggled and wriggled and writhed and contorted as if she were fighting a coiled serpent. At last, with a hissing sigh and victorious grimace, she ripped the clammy cloth from her torso, and promptly got it tangled around her wrists.
Cain wasn't watching. His gaze was steadfastly focused on the windshield as if it magically sported a mini TV and some important ball game were on. She would have been injured by his lack of attention, but her inept, uncoordinated efforts only made her relieved. Surely when the great Margaret Hathaway had strolled into a hacienda wearing only a black lace shawl and her flaming red hair, she'd done the deed with a bit more aplomb than her great-great-great-granddaughter.
Finally, Maggie wadded up her muddy blouse in her hand and sat tiny and hunch-shouldered. She wore a bra, of course, some sheer pink concoction that her mother had given her and Maggie wore only because it didn't show beneath the thin silk blouse. Looking down now, she realized just how sheer it was. And her chest indicated just how cold she was, too. Oh Lord.
She glanced up and found Cain's gaze upon her. Her pink lips slightly parted and her breath caught in her throat.
His green eyes were steady, dark like a forest green. He didn't blush, he didn't fidget. He didn't pretend he didn't see the hunger in her gaze and she could see in his eyes that he wouldn't pretend not to feel it. It was there between them, electric and rolling, a vibrant emotion barely restrained and just waiting to break free.
He didn't make any moves, he didn't attempt to free the beast. He sat there, as calm as ever. She understood then. He felt the attraction, he did not deny the attraction. But he would not act on it. Maybe he felt that would be improper, maybe he felt that would be taking advantage of "sweet little Maggie."
She would just have to show him otherwise.
She stole another surreptitious glance at his muscular torso and gnawed on her lower lip. How exactly did you go about cracking that man's control? Her skills were definitely lacking in the area of seduction.
Finally, she bent over and made a great show of unfastening her muddy sandals, wriggling around just enough for her skirt to hike up and show a little flesh. It didn't seem to make a difference and she broke a nail. With a small look of consternation, she sat back again and resumed worrying her lip.
Nylons, she thought abruptly. That was the ticket.
"My nylons are wet," she announced abruptly.
Cain blinked several times. "Yes. I imagine they are."
"I think I will take them off," she said loudly, the words only slightly stilted.
This time, he stiffened a little. "Off?"
"Yes. Off."
"Are these knee-highs?"
"No, they start all the way at the top.
"
"Oh." Blinking again. "Would you like me to turn away?" he offered in a strained voice.
No, you ninny! I want you to help! She scowled at him. She took a deep breath. "It's … it's okay. I mean … we're both adults." She thought her voice came out sounding quite reasonable, which was a miracle given the thundering of her heart against her rib cage.
"Ah … that's true."
"Yes, that's true." She took another deep breath, then worried her lower lip some more. Her mind began searching her mental files and finally settled on classic striptease music. Think of the daring, dashing Hathaway Reds. Think provocative. Sexy. Lust-ridden sex kitten.
I have legs that belong to a chicken.
Hastily, she banished that thought to a dusty corner of rotten memories. Everyone had to grow up sometime and this was her moment. She was seizing the day, or an escaped felon as the case might be.
Slowly, her fingertips found the hem of her knee-length plaid skirt. The wool was raspy and smelled as good as wet wool can smell. Don't rush, she reminded herself. No haste, no clumsiness. Smooth and languid.
She inched the scratchy material up her pale, mud-splattered thighs. She couldn't bring herself to look at Cain, because if he appeared the slightest bit bored her composure would leave and she would break down into tears. Instead she kept her gaze on her skirt, her teeth embedded in her lower lip, and her ears attuned to the sound of rain and slow, barely drawn breaths.
She reached the barrier of the seat. There was only one thing to do. She arched her hips up, a blatantly suggestive act and with a small rush, abandoned slow and yanked the damn wet skirt to her hips.
Was it her imagination, or did Cain's breath sound suddenly sharp and ragged beside her? She still couldn't bear to look.
Another deep breath and she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her nylons. She didn't buy expensive nylons; she ran them too easily. These were thick, coarsely woven and, frankly, not something she would have chosen to flaunt in front of a man. Silk hosiery, now that was something to sinuously slide down her legs and toss aside. The grocery-store special, on the other hand…
Well, too late for that. She slid the dark brown tummy panel down, revealing sensible white cotton briefs. She'd forgotten about that, too. Why hadn't she worn the panties that matched the bra? Hadn't she realized she might get taken hostage and, after twenty-seven years, decide to finally seduce a man?
She was a horrible vamp. She would definitely have to listen to her mother's fashion advice more. Stephanie could probably seduce a granite statue.
Her legs had more goose bumps, her arms, too. If she didn't get this show on the road, she'd probably die of exposure. She began to peel down the dark, muddy nylons, revealing inch after inch of pale white skin. Alabaster, she corrected herself. Think of your thighs as supple alabaster.
She almost giggled hysterically. She reached her knees without incident. So far so good. Maybe for the finishing touch, she should raise her leg and support it on the dash as she rolled the panty hose down her calf. But the panty hose linked her legs, of course. She'd have to raise both of them. Surely a woman could not look sexy or dignified with her legs straight up in the air.
She leaned over instead, her small, sheer-clad breasts brushing her thighs as she rolled the nylon down her ankle, over her heel and off her toes. With one leg free, she could raise the other slightly, pointing her toes to create a lovely arch in her foot as she slid the hideous panty hose off once and for all.
Her legs were bare now, bare and tingling from the cold and the moisture. She grazed her fingers up her calf briefly and was grateful to notice that at least she'd shaved. Not bad at all. She'd done it.
She raised her head to finally meet his gaze for a bold finish … and whopped her head against the dash.
"Ow!"
"Are you all right?"
His fingers slid into her hair immediately. Her eyes stung anyway. All right? Of course she wasn't all right. His voice was concerned and gentle, just like a damn brother's, and she didn't want another brother! The big, stupid oaf!
She rolled back, straightening at last and staring at him with big blue eyes that were slightly accusing.
"How is your head?" he asked gently.
"Hard as a rock," she snapped back.
His eyes widened some at her vehemence. "Okay." But his fingers were still in her hair, not pulling away. And they were making slow, rhythmic circles that sent a fresh rash of goose bumps down her spine.
"Umm … that helps," she murmured weakly. Her eyes were closing, she couldn't help herself. His fingers were very nice.
"Better?"
"A little bit more."
"Greedy, aren't you?" She heard the lazy smile in his voice.
"I'm trying," she muttered to herself.
But just as a fresh wave of goose bumps fluttered through her and tightened her belly, his hand drew back. She cracked open her eyes to find his fingers laced together safely on his lap. She looked at those fingers, she looked at the soaked denim sculpting his hard, muscled thighs.
And God, she was hungry. Just plain hungry.
For the first time, she understood her mother a little. She didn't forgive, but she began to understand.
She was shivering, shivering and shaking, and it had nothing to do with the cold. She wanted those hands back in her hair. She wanted to wrap her bare alabaster legs around his waist and press her high tiny breasts against his chest. She wanted to feel his skin, she wanted to taste it. She wanted to run her hands through his ridiculous haircut and feel the pale stubble on his cheek rasp across her neck.
She wanted to pounce on him and attack him like a fierce, ravenous feline. Her eyes darkened. Her flesh rippled with the goose bumps and she felt the interior of the car heat another five degrees.
"Maggie," Cain said, his voice faint, hoarse. "Maggie, you're covered in goose bumps."
"Yes."
"Are you cold?"
"Okay."
"Why … come sit on my lap," he said abruptly, his jaw tight, his gaze steady. "It will conserve body heat. It's the sensible thing to do."
"All right." She clambered up on the seat and fell obligingly onto his rain-soaked jeans.
Immediately his arms were around her, his skin still cold and damp, but unbelievably thrilling around her shoulders. Her fingers dug into his forearm, steadying herself as she leaned against the hard, unyielding wall of his chest. His thighs spread, cradling her on his lap, and though he didn't say a word, his hands began to briskly rub her arms.
She released her breath slowly, her eyes wide so she wouldn't miss a minute of what was happening. She was on his lap, in his arms, and she could smell soap and rain and a faint, masculine odor that was his alone. She wanted to sink her teeth in his neck and inhale him.
Instead, she carefully leaned her cheek against his chest, focusing on the feel of his bare skin. Smooth. Cool and yet warm, wet and yet vibrant. She could hear his heartbeat, thump thump, thump thump, fast and sure as a stallion's heart.
"I can hear it," she said without thinking. She raised her hand and splayed her fingers across his chest, marveling at the touch, the sound, the scent. "You sound like you're racing."
His hands began to rub her arms faster. "I suppose." He didn't sound composed anymore. She shifted on his lap.
"My hair must be wet against your chest," she said at last.
"It is."
"I'm sorry." She sat up instantly. He pushed her cheek back against him just as fast.
"You're fine."
She smiled at that, definitely beginning to make progress. If only she could get comfortable. She squirmed a bit more.
"Maggie." His voice sounded very strange. "What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to get comfortable." She sat up again, planting her hands on his chest and looking at him quizzically. "I think you have something in your pocket."
His face looked very strange, as if his lips were trying to do several motions at once. Finally, he said ste
adily, "I don't have anything in my pocket, Maggie."
"Yes, you do. Something hard and uncomfort— Oh." Her eyes got very wide. "Oh!"
"Yes. Oh."
"Did I do that?"
His lips finally curved and he granted her a wry smile. "You might have had something to do with it, yes."
Her face broke out into a brilliant smile. "It was the striptease act, wasn't it? At least until I hit my head."
"You didn't have to do any act, Maggie." His fingers cupped her head, his thumbs brushing her cheek. "Trust me, you didn't have to do an act."
"What … what do we do now?" she whispered earnestly, hopefully.
"I would suggest that you stop moving and hopefully the situation will resolve itself."
She complied immediately, sitting perfectly still with her hands frozen on his chest as she waited to see what would happen next. After another moment, he said, "You can still breathe, Maggie, just don't move."
"Oh." She expelled her held breath and drew in another ragged gulp. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. It's a basic biological function, it happens. We're two adults, sitting half-naked in a tiny car, no one around, soft music, pitch-dark night, I haven't had sex in six years." His voice got definitely ragged and strangled. "Maggie, I'm sorry," he said abruptly and his hands wrapped around her waist. "You're going to have to sit on your side of the car. I can't do this."
She looked up at him, genuinely puzzled. She thought they were beyond all this and moving to the next step, the actual sex part. The part she'd never done before but read a lot about. "Why not?"
"Why not?" He drew in a deep, fierce breath. "Why not? Do I look like I'm made from stone to you? Do you think I'm so cold and remote that a half-naked woman can sit on my lap and I feel nothing, that I remain in total control?" The words held old anger. She recognized the sound immediately and leaned even closer to him, her breath whispering over his throat.
"I hope not," she whispered. "I really hope not." And then her arms curled around his neck, knocking off his baseball cap, and everything clicked for her. She was no longer thinking of her ancestors or her peer group or what kind of woman she wanted to be or what kind of woman she should be. She simply responded to him, woman to man, and recognized in herself that she'd been capable of this all along. With this man, at this moment.
