Blush

by Suzanne Forster

  There was also a grand total of two chairs, one lying on its side with a broken leg, the other an ancient rocker, carved with what might have been Native American designs. The rocker had appeared to be the cleanest thing in the place, so Gus had gingerly dusted it off and draped her bikini bottom over the back to dry, after rinsing the suit out in brick-red tap water.

  The side wall nearest her had no windows, but a curtained alcove Gus couldn't quite see bore some resemblance to a closet. She didn't even want to think about what might be lurking inside the rusty metal cabinet that stood against the back wall. One of its doors was ominously ajar, but nothing could have induced her to look.

  Hiding her face in her drawn-up knees, she let out a groan of despair that came straight from the heart. She was trapped here, in this pigsty of a lizard farm, at the mercy of a man who preferred reptiles to humans and sex with corpses.

  How would anyone ever find her?

  A moan penetrated her shellshocked state. Several more followed, low-pitched and guttural but every bit as agonized. She lifted her head cautiously and looked around. What in the world? The sounds had come from nearby, from outside. If someone was hurt, it had to be him. There was no one else out here but the two of them. Gus had a mental picture of him lying in the sand, half-dead of sunstroke, or fatally bitten by something. The desert was full of poisonous creatures—tarantulas, scorpions, and the snakes he so loved.

  A moment later she was peering out through broken slats of the boarded front window. There was nothing to be seen for miles, except a blazing sea of white sand studded with creosote bushes and blue-gray sage. Her first impression was one of barren emptiness, a wasteland, but that awareness gradually gave way to a sense of vastness.

  The shack seemed to be situated in a huge, quiet basin that swept toward a moonscape of sand dunes in the distance. Beyond the dunes a range of velvet mountains in violet and magenta rose against the cobalt sky. There wasn't a cloud on the horizon. Not even a hint of haze to subdue the dense, vibrant tones.

  The panoramic view was as startling to behold as the eerie silence was to absorb. It gave Gus the feeling of boundless space and unlimited natural power. Her modeling assignments had taken her all over the world, but only the Alps in Europe had left her with a similar sense of wonder at Nature's primacy. For a moment she allowed herself to simply stare and be transported by the scene. It was the last thing she'd expected to see.

  From somewhere nearby, wood creaked plaintively, as if it were splintering. Another low groan startled Gus out of her reverie. A shadow fell across the sand in front of the shack, rippling grotesquely and bringing frightening things to mind. It looked like a body twisting in the wind.

  "My God," she murmured when she saw what had created the effect.

  A man was hanging by his arms from an exposed beam that jutted out beyond the roof of the shack. She couldn't see his face from her vantage point. It was hidden by his arms, but she knew who he was, who he had to be. Her jailer. Blue jeans were the only thing covering his body, and it was one of the most startling spectacles she'd ever seen. He was sheened with sweat, and it looked as if he might be trying to hoist himself up onto the roof. But just the sight of him that way—shirtless and straining—was enough to make her wonder what kind of physical activity gave a man stomach muscles of corrugated iron.

  Gus had never seen such savagely etched muscle definition. It was as if every sinew had been hewn through painful effort. He was powerful by any standard, undeniably brawny and virile, yet without the bulk of a weight lifter. But that was only part of what had drawn her attention. He was also riddled with scars—bullet holes, unless she was mistaken.

  She watched in silence, marveling as he strained toward the beam, then lowered himself. His stomach muscles sucked in violently and one of his legs kicked up reflexively. But it wasn't until he dropped an arm to his side and hauled himself up again that she realized what was going on. He'd apparently been at this for a good long time already, and whether he meant it to be exercise or self-torture, she didn't know, but now he was struggling to lift the weight of his body with the strength of just one arm.

  His neck muscles seemed about to burst as he dragged himself upward. Gus didn't think he was going to make it, and she could barely stand to watch. Sweat poured off him, and the veins in his arm distended grotesquely. Even his leg muscles were knotted, and yet somehow his struggle was mesmerizing, as beautiful as it was horrible. The sun had turned him to gold and set him on fire. His body seemed to steam in the desert heat.

  Gus wanted to shout at him to stop, but she didn't dare. This wasn't exercise. It was something else, something deeply private, a ritual that made her think of purification rites or religious absolution. But if this was penance for his sins, it frightened her to think what they might be. What could a man like him have done that he believed deserved this kind of self-inflicted punishment?

  A moment later he dropped to the ground, landing heavily on his knees. His clenched fists and closed eyes spoke of his brute determination to contain whatever he was feeling—the emotion, the physical pain. The anguish carved into his features made her want to shrink away from the window.

  When he looked up moments later, she ducked back, her heart zinging into her throat. He would never want her to see him this way, hurting and vulnerable, and the last thing she wanted was to embarrass him. She had no doubt that he was capable of anything, including venting his frustration on her if he was provoked enough.

  By the time he came back inside the shack, Gus had reclaimed some of her legendary cool, along with her bikini bottom from the rocker, but she was far from calm. He barely seemed to notice her as he strode to the table and opened the duffel bag of supplies he'd brought from the truck. A ripped seam in his faded jeans exposed a portion of his inner thigh, and his powerful back muscles glowed with heat.

  Gus counted five wounds. White and spidery, they looked like bullet wounds that had healed years ago. They ranged from his shoulder to his hip on the right side, a fourth had cut through his lower back and emerged from his side, and the fifth looked as if it might have shattered his spine. How could anyone have survived such an attack?

  Her desire to know more about him was sudden and sharp. The wounds told her he wasn't invulnerable, and what she'd seen had confirmed that. He was human, he suffered the same pain and anguish as the rest of the race. And yet he wasn't the same, not at all. Her intuition told her that he was as fundamentally different from anyone she'd ever known as dawn was from dusk.

  Her mother'd had a penchant for unsavory characters in the days before she married her stepfather, and Gus had always wondered what the attraction was. Dark, furtive men, losers and users, they'd lurked in the shadows of Rita Walsh's life. At a very young age Gus had already known she didn't share her mother's proclivities, and that hadn't changed. She still didn't.

  This man was dark, but he wasn't unsavory. He was deadly.

  Gus grew very quiet inside as she watched him sort through the bag, pulling out clothing and foodstuffs. Deadly? She'd used that word before but not with this understanding. Her fingers stilled and her heart slowed. Even her breathing dragged as if the hot desert air had suddenly grown thick and heavy.

  But while her body went silent, her mind didn't. Don't be fooled by what he's doing, it cautioned. Appearances deceive. He might look normal enough, emptying a duffel bag like any other man. He might wear ripped denim and worn leather boots, but it's an illusion. Your instincts about him are right. His heart is as cold as stone, and his mind is a trap that frees no one once it's ensnared them. Despite the pain you saw, despite the wounds that make him look human. He isn't, quite.

  Gus hugged her legs beneath the tented overcoat. Though her face was chapped and burned from the sun, a chill tingled the hairs at the base of her scalp. She refused to give in to the desire to shudder, but a tiny gasp welled in her throat. Something had jabbed her in the ribs! She reared back as the hot sensation intensified, and all thought of dark and d
eadly men flew right out of her head.

  It was her bikini top, she discovered once she'd opened the coat to investigate. The bone was hopelessly bent, and it was digging sharply into the underside of her breast. She levered the tight elastic band and moved the bra around, searching for a more comfortable fit, but no amount of adjusting brought relief.

  Knowing he could turn at any moment, she pulled the coat over her head for some privacy. The tent she created cut out most of the light, making it difficult to see, but she had to do something. The discomfort had become intolerable.

  She was swearing softly and fumbling with the underwire when she heard him turn.

  "What are you doing in there?" he asked.

  "Nothing, " she snapped, her patience fraying. By now her battle with the bikini had become a mission. It didn't matter that only moments ago a little voice had warned her to beware of him; Gus never listened to little voices anyway. Perhaps because of her childhood, fear had always motivated her differently than most. Instead of backing down when she was threatened, she went forward. Maybe it was a failing, but she couldn't help herself. "I said what are you doing?"

  "And I said nothing. Ever heard of personal privacy?"

  Something hit the table with a clunk. "Fuck that, " he said. "You're my hostage, and I make the rules. Whatever it is you're doing in there, do it where I can see it!"

  His loudness startled her, but it would have taken a bullhorn to stop her. She twisted the offending bone this way and that, aware that it was so badly bent she might never get it back into shape. The grit and sweat on her flushed skin made the material stick to her. Her flesh was being rubbed raw, and she couldn't see what she was doing or get the leverage she needed because she was wearing the thing. God, would she ever get back to civilization and a hot shower?

  "Goddamnit, Gus!"

  "In a minute—" Now she was trying to take the damn bra off so she could work with it, but she couldn't even manage that. The hook seemed to be jammed.

  "Now!" he barked. "Right now!'

  A gust of air swept over her as the coat flew off her head, leaving her exposed. "Give that back!" she cried, her hands frozen at the snap of her bra.

  "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, gaping at her huddled form.

  "I'm trying to get this thing off, if you don't mind."

  "Yeah, I do mind."

  She gazed up at him, uncomprehending, but very aware of the dark glow of his eyes and the steel in his jaw. "Why?"

  "Because if you take it off, you'll be topless."

  His logic still eluded her. "The woman wants to take her bra off, and the man doesn't want her to because she'll be topless? What's wrong with this picture?"

  "I'm not the man, Gus. I'm Mr. Kidnapper, remember?

  Who drives too fast because he's displacing his primitive sexual urges? You don't want to risk triggering one or two of those urges, do you?"

  Blame it on the heat and the sweat and the gouging pain she was in, but Gus didn't give a rat's behind about his urges at that moment. "If you don't want to be triggered, then give me back that coat, " she muttered, resuming her efforts.

  Her more-than-ample breasts shivered with the defiance that stiffened her entire body as she worked. Glistening with perspiration and swollen with heat, they spilled from the cups of the bra like something ripe and soft and golden, fruit of the gods. As she fiddled and fussed with the jammed hook, trying to free herself, she knew very well what it must look like to him... all that wanton female flesh bobbing and jiggling, all that cleavage. At least she hoped it looked that way!

  Being in the modeling business, Gus had been told often that her body was phenomenal. Perhaps she'd even begun to believe it, though she knew much of what was said by photographers and such was unmitigated bull. But now, more than anything, and probably for the simple reason that he'd ordered her not to, Gus Featherstone wanted to flash a pair of phenomenal breasts at this throwback to the cave dwellers.

  "Ahh, that feels better," she said as she finally got the hook undone. An angry red welt marked the underside of her breast as living proof of her discomfort. With a deep sigh of relief, she looked up at him.

  Her smile wavered a little as she saw his expression.

  "Christ, " he breathed, glowering at her partial nudity. "Are you nuts?"

  "No, but I would have been if I'd had to wear that thing a second longer."

  His eyes narrowed to gleaming slits as he stared at her. "Turn around," he commanded.

  "You turn." Gus wasn't quite sure what had him so upset. Considering his reaction, there were only a couple of conclusions she could draw. Either he had the sexual hangups she already suspected, or she herself was woefully out of touch with everyday mores, which was entirely possible, too. She'd long ago overcome any modesty about nudity. Modeling had cured her of that. You couldn't throw clothes on and off in front of dressers and designers and be shy about your body.

  Vaguely aware that both shocking pink bra straps were slipping off her shoulders, Gus couldn't make up her mind which one of them to salvage and the moment of indecision sent them sliding down her arms. The bra cups fell away next, startling her flesh into a delicate shimmy, which sent the top itself floating to the bed. It was all completely accidental on Gus's part, but, of course, certain parts of her didn't stop shaking, even when she did.

  His face heated up visibly, brightening to an interesting shade of puce. Apparently he'd figured out that she wouldn't have turned around even if he'd been the Pope, nor was she bluffing.

  "I'm counting to three," he growled, shouldering around furiously to face the wall. "If you don't have yourself covered by then, I'll—"

  "You'll what, Mr. Kidnapper?"

  "I'll strangle you with that goddamn thing!"

  By "thing" she imagined he could only have meant the bra. She gazed down at it, wondering if even an engineering student could have repaired it. "I'm not going to do it, " she informed him, speaking directly to his stony shoulders and bright red neck. "And I'm not wearing that damn coat anymore, either. It's too hot. "

  He began to tear through the duffel bag, pulling out clothing. When he came to an oversized white T-shirt, he snapped it over his shoulder at her. "Put this on. "

  Gus quickly rid herself of the damp bikini bottoms and slipped the T-shirt on. It was light and cool against her damp flesh. It was heaven! Unfortunately it barely covered her behind and probably revealed quite a bit more of the loanee than the lender was bargaining on.

  "These, too," he said, lobbing her some jeans, which she caught, but tossed on the bed. It was much too hot for denim. The last things to come her way were a pair of huge canvas shoes, which she left where they fell.

  She crouched down a little as he turned around, hoping he wouldn't notice how short the T-shirt was. She needn't have bothered. He didn't even look.

  "It's time to eat," he announced, fishing once more in the duffel bag, this time for some tin pots and utensils.

  "Eat? What's that?"

  "You're not hungry?"

  Gus was ravenous. Weakness washed over her at the mere mention of food. Her stomach began to roll and clutch and rumble loudly, but she was reasonably sure he couldn't hear with all the noise he was making.

  "What are we having for dinner?" she asked.

  "You tell me. You'll be cooking it." Now he was drawing a huge leather-sheathed knife from the bag.

  "Sure, fine, just point me to the fridge," she said. "I'm great with frozen Wolfgang Puck pizza and a microwave, which, for your information, is the only thing I know how to cook. "

  He walked to the door, hesitating long enough to tie the knife to his thigh with a rawhide strap. "In that case, we're having roast rattlesnake for dinner. "

  Gus shuddered and shook her head. "Oh, God, n-n-no."

  He'd meant it about roasting the rattlesnake.

  Gus nearly fainted when he brought the vile thing into the cabin to cook. One look at her chalk-white face and swaying horror, and he'd had the good sens
e to take it straight back outside, where he'd built a bonfire and roasted it on a spit. Even the smell of it had made her ill, but she'd managed to draw herself some rusty water from the tap for cooking, which, just to be safe, she'd boiled the hell out of before adding a packet of chicken noodle soup mix.

  Rusty chicken soup, warm beer, and stale saltines. To Gus it was a banquet. Russian caviar had never tasted this good. She tucked herself in the creaky rocker and drank the steaming broth straight from the pan, not even bothering with a spoon, except to scoop up the noodles. When the crackers stuck to the roof of her mouth like flour paste, she washed them down with the can of Moosehead she'd swiped from a six-pack in his duffel bag.

  This cooking stuff is a breeze, she thought, feeling rather proud of herself as she piled the dishes in the sink afterward. If he'd been around she would have told him so. But he hadn't come back inside yet, even though it was getting dark. It was also getting chilly, so she bundled herself in the canvas coat and curled up on the cot, fighting off drowsiness to plan her escape.

  Somehow she had to get back to the Blazer and use the car phone to let Rob know where she was. She'd heard the kidnapper say he was changing destinations and would report back, but as far as she knew he hadn't done that, so whoever was supposed to pay him off and make the exchange was still waiting for instructions. Poor Rob, she thought, he must be as frantic as she was....

  She rested her head against the wall with a sigh. The breezes swirling through the broken windows smelled richly of saguaro and sage. Dusty pink light filled the shack with a lambent glow that softened the gloom and lent the place a quaintness Gus might have found charming if she hadn't known there were lizards skulking in the woodwork. Still, her stomach was pleasantly full and she was exhausted.