Here Comes the Rainne Again

by Janet Elizabeth Henderson

  Then a hand clasped over her mouth.

  She sucked in air through her nose and screamed and screamed and screamed.

  She kicked out against her assailant. Her muffled screams useless.

  “Calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

  The voice penetrated. Alastair. The idiot. She sagged back against him as he slowly removed his hand from her mouth.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” she asked, in what she thought was a completely reasonable tone for a woman who’d almost passed out from fright.

  On unsteady legs, she turned to glare up at him.

  He stepped away from her. “It would serve you right. That was a stupid thing to do. You had no idea if someone was in here and you walked right in. What the hell were you thinking, Rainbow?”

  “I was thinking you looked like you might collapse in the snow. I was thinking one of us had to do something. And since I was the only one standing, I did it.”

  “I told you to wait for me.” Alastair snapped the door closed, making her jump.

  “And as you pointed out, I no longer do what people tell me to do.”

  “This is a fine time to get all independent. Couldn’t it wait until after we’re out of this mess?” He put the flashlight on the desk and flicked a switch that lit up another part of the torch. It gave off a diffused light, like a lantern.

  “Yes. I’ll get right on that. I forgot you’re only interested in me when I’m meek, confused and easily malleable.”

  He spun towards her. “What the hell, Rainne? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” she snapped.

  He took a step towards her. His bulk intimidating in the tiny space. “Not nothing. If you have something to say, spit it out.”

  “Fine.” She glared up at him. “You chased me over half of Scotland when you thought I was a weak woman who would do your bidding. You wanted someone to protect. To cosset. It’s no wonder you don’t want me now. You obviously aren’t interested in a woman who can think and act independently.”

  His lips tightened. “You are so far off the mark it’s laughable. I don’t want you because I don’t trust you. When things get tough, you run. You abandon people. Why the hell should I give you another chance? So you can walk out again when the feeling takes you? Aye, that would make me all kinds of a fool. You women are all the same. I should have known better than to trust one of you. Can’t make up your mind what you want, discarding people as though they were yesterday’s paper. I don’t need that. I don’t need you.”

  Rainne took a step back from the sharp attack. The fury emanating from Alastair made her own anger crumble. This wasn’t normal rage; this was something else. She stared into his darkened eyes and saw it. He was hurt. She’d really hurt him. And maybe not just her. She’d obviously stumbled on a deeper pain. One she’d helped to magnify by her thoughtless actions years earlier.

  Before she could say anything, Alastair turned away. Everything about him screamed he was done talking. He pulled down the blinds on the small windows with sharp, angry movements. Rainne let out a sigh then looked around. There were a couple of office chairs, a desk with a huge computer monitor, another table with a coffee maker and microwave. A small fridge, a set of lockers and some shelves. The floor was wooden but had a thick rug. And there was a phone on the desk.

  Rainne fell on it. No tone. It was a cordless phone and needed a power supply to work. What she wouldn’t have given for an old rotary phone plugged into a regular old landline socket.

  “It isn’t working,” she told Alastair.

  “But this is.” He hit the ignition button on the gas fire and it came to life.

  Rainne almost cried with relief. They could get warm. She couldn’t feel her toes any longer, even with the padded boots. And she wasn’t entirely sure if her nose was still attached to her face.

  Once Alastair had the fire going, he wedged one of the chairs under the handle of the door he’d already locked. He was moving slowly, favouring his right side. His teeth were clenched with what she assumed was pain, although it could have been irritation. Still, he didn’t complain. Rainne doubted he would even if he was dying.

  “We need to get out of these wet clothes and warm up.” Alastair started undressing as he spoke, toeing off his boots.

  Rainne looked away. It felt too intimate to watch. An intimacy couples shared. One she didn’t have the right to anymore. Undressing around Alastair brought back memories of the last time they’d been alone together. Memories that made her ache with loss and longing.

  “Maybe there’s something we can wear in the lockers?” she said, trying to avoid undressing.

  She pulled them open one by one. She found a few crime novels, a couple of packets of biscuits, cans of Coke and a Game Boy, but no clothes.

  Alastair was watching her. “We’ll hang our clothes over the chair in front of the fire. They’ll dry in no time.”

  Yeah, and in the meantime, she got to flash her wares to the man who didn’t want her. That wasn’t humiliating at all. Yeah, right.

  Alastair didn’t seem affected by stripping in front of her. He tugged off his black woollen sweater to reveal he wore nothing underneath. The warm glow from the fire glinted off a set of abs he definitely hadn’t had the last time she’d seen him naked. She swallowed hard at the sight. He’d been gorgeous then—now he was devastating.

  “Rainne.” His voice snapped her eyes back up to his face. “Get out of the clothes. You need to warm up.”

  She fidgeted with the zipper on her coat. Alastair watched her as though she was a bug under a microscope. He seemed to come to some conclusion, and smiled slowly. The first smile she’d seen on him since she came back to town. And it was devastating. The sharp angles of his face transformed, softening into something sexy and irresistible.

  “What’s the matter, Rainne? Shy? An ex-commune girl like you shouldn’t be worried about getting her kit off. Didn’t you grow up in a clothing-optional environment?”

  “You’re getting hippies mixed up with naturists. We didn’t run around naked. We wore tie dye and Birkenstock. And we never, ever spontaneously undressed in front of each other.”

  Well, mostly never. She remembered a few late night campfires when she was a kid where she’d witnessed things she probably shouldn’t have seen. And she wasn’t just talking about the fact most of the people she lived beside didn’t know the sharp end of a razor. There’d been one guy who looked like a yeti when he took his shirt off. The hair on his back had been long enough to plait. Rainne was all for getting back to nature, but drew the line at living life as a walking carpet. Seriously, how badly would it hurt the environment to shave your back? It wasn’t like smooth skin hurt the ozone. There really was no excuse for it.

  “You’ve slipped away again.” Alastair sounded amused. “What’s it going to be? Are you going to be sensible, and brave, and take off your clothes so you don’t die of hypothermia? Or do I have to do it for you?”

  Rainne’s head jerked at his offer. No. Not offer. Threat. She gave herself a mental head slap. Wishful thinking was getting in the way of reality. Again. But then, reality was a nasty witch.

  “Rainbow. Take off your clothes.” His voice was low, and slid over her skin like hot honey.

  His eyes darkened as he took a step towards her. “Strip.” The low rumble vibrated through her body, making parts that should have frozen off in the cold snap to attention.

  He reached for the zipper on her coat. His eyes held hers as he lowered it slowly. Rainne wanted to close her eyes and sway in place, but her vision was filled with muscled perfection and she couldn’t look away. She clenched her fists at her side to stop from running her fingertips through the smattering of hair between his nipples.

  The coat fell open. Alastair nudged it off her shoulders and she let it slide to the floor.

  “Get rid of that useless hat,” he ordered gruffly.

  Rainne blinked up at him. “It’s the Pink Panther.”<
br />
  He stared at her for a second, then his face closed up. She watched his eyes harden and his lips thin. The moment was broken. And Rainne felt bereft.

  He reached for the hat, pulling it off her head in disgust. “It isn’t meant for the cold. It’s decoration. Not function.” He threw it to the floor. “Get out of those wet clothes. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. There’s no time to mess around.” Then he turned from her and continued to undress.

  Rainne looked away as she picked up her coat and hung it on the hook beside Alastair’s leather jacket. When she turned back, Alastair was unzipping his jeans. Her mouth went dry as he stepped out of them. He was wearing a pair of form-fitting black cotton boxers. Had his backside been that drool-worthy years ago? This was torture. Like a dieting woman being locked in a candy store. His thighs were like tree trunks, and each time he moved the muscles flexed. Rainne wanted to kneel in front of him and brush her cheek over his thighs. She was losing her mind. She looked away and wiped her mouth, just in case a little bit of drool had escaped.

  “Rainne. Clothes,” he snapped.

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  Her pink fluffy sweater was wet around the cuffs, so she took it off while Alastair dragged the remaining chair in front of the fire and draped his clothes over it.

  “Gimme that,” he said, and she handed him the sweater. “I need the jeans and socks.”

  Like she didn’t know that already. But taking them off would leave her exposed. And she didn’t have washboard abs. She had a little pouch where her flat stomach should be. She looked like a freaking kangaroo.

  Firm hands covered hers and her breath stopped dead.

  “You’re going too slow.” His voice was thick molasses.

  He flicked the button of her jeans and lowered the zip. Breathe, she told herself as she started to feel lightheaded. Slowly, Alastair pushed her jeans over her hips. She felt him crouch behind her. His breath warm on the small of her back through the thin thermal vest she wore.

  “Lift.” He clasped her ankle.

  She lifted her foot so he could slip the leg of her jeans over it. The sock disappeared with it. His fingers ran up the soft arch of her foot before he placed it back on the floor.

  “This one.” He repeated the process with her other leg.

  Her jeans were off. She stood in her pink Hello Kitty underpants and matching thermal vest.

  “More cats,” Alastair mumbled from his position crouched behind her.

  Rainne felt weak enough to crumble. For an eternity they stayed like that. Alastair behind her. Rainne waiting. Hoping.

  “Alastair?” she whispered.

  He shot to his feet and busied himself with hanging her jeans over the back of the chair.

  Rainne worked to breathe steadily. She didn’t have a clue what was going on. One minute he wanted to touch her, the next he didn’t. Her head was spinning from the confused mess of signals he was giving off. She turned towards him, prepared to demand an explanation when she spotted the glint of glass on his neck.

  Rainne gasped as her hand flew to her mouth. “You have glass embedded in your skin!”

  “It’s fine.” He didn’t look at her.

  “It isn’t fine, you idiot.” Her eyes scanned over him. This time she didn’t let his abs distract her. There was a large bruise blossoming at the side of his ribs. “Are your ribs broken?” Her voice trembled.

  “Bruised. Maybe cracked. I don’t think they’re broken. I can breathe well enough.”

  Anger rushed through her. “And I suppose that’s fine too?”

  “Aye.” He glared at her.

  “Your wrist is swollen,” she said. “Were you going to mention that?”

  “Nope.”

  “No. Of course not. Because you might have to hand in your man card if you admitted you were hurt.”

  To stop herself from hitting the infuriating man, she went to fetch the first-aid kit she’d tucked into her coat. He might be able to ignore his injuries in the hope they’d disappear, but Rainne couldn’t. She was going to take care of him if she had to kill him to do it.

  9

  * Megan *

  Joe insisted on untying the prisoner and carrying him, fireman style, up several flights of stairs to the tower. Megan didn’t complain. She got to walk behind Joe and watch his manly show of strength as he took every step. Her prisoner stayed unconscious, which made her wonder just how hard her sister had hit the guy. Not that she cared either way. He was breathing, and that was all that counted.

  When they reached the door to the master bedroom on the fourth floor of the tower, Joe banged it with the butt of his gun. Again—manly. Megan briefly wondered if all of Lake’s guys were born with alpha genes, or if there was a class somewhere they took where they learned how to behave more manly.

  “What’s the password?” a female voice shouted—could have been any one of the retired women from Knit Or Die.

  Joe hung his head for a second before answering. “There is no password. Let me in.”

  “How do I know you aren’t compromised? Somebody might be holding you at gunpoint to make you say that.”

  “Good point,” another woman shouted.

  “It’s okay,” Megan shouted. “It’s me, Megan. Joe’s carrying the prisoner I captured.”

  The locks clicked over and the heavy wooden door swung open.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Shona grumbled. “Who is he? Where’s he from? What does he want?”

  Joe marched past the curious women and unceremoniously dumped the guy onto the bed.

  “He’s unconscious at the moment,” Megan said. “Claire hit him with a baseball bat.”

  The women stared at him. “Shouldn’t he be awake by now? How long has he been out?” Margaret said.

  Megan shrugged. “A few minutes. He’s fine. He’s breathing, isn’t he?”

  “He isn’t fine,” her mum said. “You two can’t go around knocking men out. I didn’t bring you up to behave like that.”

  Megan ignored her. What was she supposed to do? Ask him nicely to surrender? The guy was almost twice her size. How else would she get him where she wanted him to be if he wasn’t unconscious? Sometimes her mother didn’t think things through properly.

  “Should we tie him up in the toilet?” Megan asked Joe. “You know, in case there’s blood when we torture and interrogate him.”

  “One”—Joe counted off on his fingers—“there will be no torture. Two—there will be no blood. Three—there is no we. I will question him alone, but the chances of him telling us anything are less than zero. These guys have been trained. They won’t talk.”

  “And four,” her mother added, “we’re not tying anyone up in the bathroom. How will we pee? I’m not going to use the room if there’s a strange man tied to the sink. We could be stuck up here for ages and we’ve all had a lot of champagne. We need the toilet.”

  Megan frowned at Joe. “He’s my prisoner. I’m going to interrogate him. And if that means torture, so be it.”

  Joe stared at the ceiling for a minute while he mumbled. “You’re right—you found him. He’s all yours. Have at it. Torture away.” He sauntered over to talk to Ryan, who was peeking out the window from behind the curtain.

  Megan narrowed her eyes as she watched him go. That was way too easy. Why didn’t he protest more? She was missing something. She shrugged. Who cared? She got what she wanted. She had a prisoner to torture.

  “Right, ladies,” Megan said, with no small amount of glee. “Let’s get him tied to the bed.”

  “Spread-eagled?” Jean asked as she patted her tight grey curls. Was she preening for the unconscious bad guy? No. Surely not.

  Megan thought about it for a second then shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Spread-eagled it is.”

  “Magenta, you’re good with knots—come and help us,” Kirsty’s mum called.

  “I think I’ll just watch. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “Magenta Fraser,” Margare
t snapped. “You get your behind over here and help right now or I’ll have a word with your mother.”

  Magenta dragged herself across the room. “I’m twenty-three. I’m married. I don’t think my mother would care if I helped you tie up a guy or not.”

  “I care. You are part of this group and you have responsibilities,” Margaret said.

  The goth stared at Kirsty’s mother before turning to Megan. “You owe me,” she said. “You and your crazy twin cause me a lot of trouble.”

  “Suck it up,” Megan told her best friend. “You don’t need us to generate trouble. You cause plenty all on your own.”

  There was no arguing with the truth.

  “Save me,” Magenta mouthed to Kirsty, who was sitting on the sofa with Caroline, watching them like they were the night’s entertainment.

  “You’re on your own,” Kirsty said with a grin.

  Abby and Jena gave her thumbs-up to encourage her, which made Magenta give them her own, less polite, hand gesture in return.

  Megan ignored the laughter as she watched the women of Knit Or Die raid the closets for all of Josh’s silk ties.

  “Should he be naked?” Shona asked Megan.

  “Why?” Megan stared at the woman.

  “To make the torturing easier.”

  Jena Morgan snorted and hid her face in her best friend Abby’s neck while she laughed.

  “Shouldn’t you guys be making Molotov cocktails?” Megan asked the peanut gallery. She gestured to the many alcohol bottles in the corner of the room.

  “Turns out you make them with gasoline,” Abby said. “Not beer and wine.”

  “I knew that,” Jena said proudly.

  “We can probably use the whisky, or the vodka,” Abby carried on. “But we only have a couple of bottles of those. And we already made them into bombs.” She pointed at the dressing table, and sure enough there were two bottles of whisky and one of vodka, each with a rag sticking out of the neck. “That’s it for our arsenal.”

  “We have the prisoner’s gun,” Megan said. “It’s not much, but every little bit helps.”

  “Enough of this—what are we going to do about him?” Shona pointed at their captive, who was now tied to the bed using a fortune in silk ties. “Do you have any ideas for making him talk?”