by Karin Story
Damn, damn, damn. What was the matter with her? She was acting like an undersexed, old-maid slut. Get a grip, Rhodes!
"So, tell me again—just exactly who is this Genny?" The smooth, deep tone of his voice sent a shiver up her back.
"When I was sixteen and we first moved to Colorado and quit traveling all the time, Genny was our next door neighbor. She'd been caring for her mother through a long illness and her mother had just died. Genny lived alone and I'd never really had a woman in my life on a regular basis, so she sort of became my stand-in mom while I was in high school and college. She and my dad became good friends, too, and they eventually got married. They moved to New York three years ago when my Dad took a teaching position at Columbia."
"I see. And she 'knows' things and gets off on herbal mumbo-jumbo?"
"She's a naturopath." Maris stood straighter and glared at him. "A natural healer. A perfectly respectable profession, which she comes by honestly since she's part Cherokee Indian."
"And her nutty pal with the purple passion?"
"May's an old friend of Genny's. They grew up together in North Carolina."
"Uh huh. And your dad? Where's he while Genny's staying with this friend of hers?"
"I told you, he teaches at Columbia. But he's gone this semester, he took some of his grad students to Crete. Genny goes with him sometimes when he travels, but not always."
"Hmm. So tell me then, Maris…" Her breathing space compressed as he moved closer. The hard heat of his thighs pressed against hers, pinning her to the bed post.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and tried not touch him. "Tell you what? I'm getting tired of your little game."
His hand caressed her hip, and she almost choked. "Tell me what a nice girl like you…" His fingers moved intimately against her, "is doing with a nasty little piece like this?" Suddenly, his hand was in front of her face…holding her knife.
Jesus. How had he done that? Breathe, Rhodes. Breathe. Don't panic. He's not going to kill you.
Oh, God, she hoped he wasn't anyway.
As she watched, he flipped the knife open. Its sharp, serrated blade gleamed from the glow of flames in the hearth.
He turned it back and forth, inches from her eyes. "Care to explain?"
Her eyebrows drew together in uncertainty. She stared at the knife in his big hand, then up at him again. Although shadowed, she could see anger written all over his chiseled features, yet it was tempered with something else. Suspicion, definitely. But also…?
Suddenly, his questions and actions gelled in her mind. "No! You don't think…?" She shook her head fiercely. "I found you in my backyard. All your injuries had already happened when I got there. I would never…could never do anything to hurt you."
He turned the knife again, and brought it closer still to her face. "And this?" The sound was deep and cool.
"I carry it for protection."
A questioning eyebrow rose at that. "Protection? And what exactly would a respectable Yale graduate student need protection from?"
The combination of his tone, and the accusing heat of his gaze sent a spark of fury straight through her veins. She shoved his chest, and took small satisfaction in his wince.
"Yes. Protection. Have you opened your eyes and looked around at our world lately? Women are completely capable of defending themselves, you know?"
If it were possible, his eyes narrowed even more than they already were. "Still, the question remains…defend yourself from what?" Her knife made another pass in front of her eyes, then suddenly, it was at her throat. Not touching her, but way too close for comfort.
Breathe. Oh, God.
She stared into his face. Even now it was a curious mixture of hard, savage predator—a man definitely not to be messed with—and a confusing underlying hint of compassion, as if he didn't quite like what he was doing. Who was this man?
"I'm waiting for an answer."
His voice, the deep, rich timbre of it, ripped at her insides…made her want to confess to anything and everything. She didn't like the control he had over her, and in that moment, she wanted to hate him. Really wanted to hate him.
But she couldn't. Not even now, when he tried to pry her deep, dark secrets from her.
Was she that desperate? That she could feel this way about a man she didn't know? That she could give him the benefit of the doubt based on nothing but her own gut instinct? Damn him. Damn him to hell.
"Have you ever heard of the white slave trade?" she asked softly, mockingly.
"Wh-at?"
"You think you're the only one in the world with demons that haunt you? Well I've got news for you…even nice, respectable graduate students can have shitty emotional baggage." She swallowed hard and plunged on. "When I was fourteen, I was kidnapped in Cairo. In broad daylight. There were two of them. They pulled a burlap bag down over my head and hauled me off one of the busiest streets in the city. Either no one saw, or no one gave a damn. I was just a stupid American girl, not important enough to help."
Tom had gone completely still. Except for the muscle that twitched in his jaw.
"They shoved me in the trunk of a car. I was in there for two straight days while they drove. No water, no light, no bathroom breaks."
She pushed his hand, and this time, it dropped stiffly to his side. But he didn't step away.
"Have you ever had to suffer the humiliation of wetting yourself, or defecating on yourself? Have you ever felt such intense darkness that you couldn't breathe, that you clawed at your throat and chest out of desperation until they bled?" She swallowed again, tasting the sheer terror.
"When we got where we were going, I was thrown into a pit in the ground with other women and girls. Again, in total darkness. Some of the girls were younger than I was. I don't know how long I was there. A day. Maybe two. Maybe more. They fed us their leftovers. They'd toss it into the pit, right on the dirt, right on top of us. And we'd crawl all over each other to get it—these chewed up meat and bread scraps and rotting vegetables—like it was ambrosia."
Tom stepped back, gave her some breathing room, finally. But she couldn't move. She squeezed her eyes closed and leaned her head against the bed post. Her body felt heavy, lethargic, as the old memories welled to the surface again after so many years of burying them.
"After a while, they dragged me up out of the hole by my hair. Bathed me. Dressed me. And took me to a man I assumed was one of the leaders." She frowned. "All I can remember about him is that he wore brown leather sandals and he had these long toenails that were painted black. I've thought about it so many times over the years, about why that's all I can remember. No face, no clothes, nothing. Just his feet." She shrugged.
"He felt me up. Inside and out in every possible way. Said he had to make sure I was a virgin, because I'd bring a better price that way. And then I…I…escaped." She could still feel the dull, sickly thud of the iron tent post connecting with human skull. Could still smell the metallic scent of blood. She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. The room felt suddenly cold.
"It took me three days across the desert, hiding during the day and walking at night, to get to a town and find help."
Finally she turned her head and glanced at her current nemesis. His eyes were unreadable as he watched her. He simply stood, his hands at his sides, his brow slightly furrowed, the muscle in his jaw clenching and releasing. Clenching and releasing.
And all she felt was numb.
"So, yeah. After that, I learned how to protect myself. My dad had a friend, a geologist he worked with at archaeological sites sometimes, who was a former Navy SEAL. I learned everything he would teach me. More than any fourteen-year-old should ever have to know—" Her voice broke. "Damn you!" She shoved him in the chest. "I don't owe you any explanations."
She pushed past him, crossed the room, and grabbed a small log off the stack next to the fireplace. She threw it into the grate so hard it hit the back of the stone wall. The fire popped and spit in protest, then
with a whoosh, sucked the new wood into its fury.
"I don't owe you anything," she whispered, staring at the flame.
She hated feeling like a soggy, wimpy female. She'd spent the vast majority of her life struggling to be exactly the opposite. Sickos preyed on the weak and she would never be preyed upon again. There was safety in being strong.
Yet she couldn't seem to stop her chest from heaving.
The hand that settled on her shoulder, firm, yet also curiously gentle, didn't surprise her somehow. But it made her remember the look of suspicion, of downright hatred and anger, that had been in Tom's eyes just a few minutes before. He was so volatile, changing emotions and moods as easily as a chameleon changed colors. And it confused her, frustrated her.
She shrugged him off and tried to step away, not wanting him to see her, to touch her, until she was back in control. His hand returned to her shoulder, this time turning her toward him.
"Leave me alone."
But he pulled her anyway, like she was at the end of some invisible rope he held. Then she was wrapped in his arms, her face pressed against his solid chest. She tried to hold herself aloof, but that lasted about a millisecond before her traitorous body sagged against him.
His hand plowed through her hair, pulling it free of the pins that held it, then stroked down her back. "You've never told anyone about this, have you? Not all of it, anyway." He continued to rub her back in slow, smooth motions.
She tilted her head back and stared up at him. Her heart pounded. "Why do you say that?"
"Just now, when you were telling me, it was as real and terrifying to you as if it had just happened. Which implies to me that you've never really dealt with it." The thumb of his injured hand caressed her cheek as he said it, and his eyes were as deep and soulful as she'd ever seen them. Like he somehow understood.
A tremor shook her and he snuggled her head against him again. God, how could he have seen that? How could he have possibly guessed that even though her dad obviously knew she'd been missing and had called out the police to search for her, she'd never told him, or anyone else, the full details of what had happened. She just hadn't been able to stand the thought of talking about it…had felt dirty and helpless because of it.
"I'm sorry, Maris. So sorry you had to live through something like that."
The tone of his voice was so heartfelt and gentle she couldn't stop the tears from welling in her eyes. And for a long minute, as he held her, she allowed herself the rare indulgence of giving in to them. No sobs. Just a flow of dampness down her face.
He had the grace not to speak until she'd regained control, almost as if he knew how hard it was for her to let go. Then he leaned back from her. "Here, you might need this."
She looked down and saw her knife resting in his open palm. He'd closed the blade at some point.
"Take it." He nudged his hand against hers. "You might even need it to protect yourself from me."
Startled, she glanced up at him and shook her head. "Why would you even say something like that?"
"Because it might be true," he said with a tired sigh. "Take it."
This was the same man who'd had the compassion and insight to comfort her just moments before, and now he was implying she might need to be afraid of him? She closed her hand around the black plastic grip, relieved to have it back in her possession, but also unsettled at his comments. She slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.
"I don't know who to believe in, Maris."
His voice was quiet. Too quiet. She could tell it had pained him to admit that much to her.
She pressed a hand against his cheek, suddenly feeling ashamed for having let her temper get the best of her until she spewed out all her childhood terrors. Her old baggage was nothing compared to what he was going through now. "I wish I knew how to help you."
His gaze probed her, deep inside her, to places no one else had ever been or seen. But rather than scare her, or cause her to put up her defenses, instead, she let him. She wanted him to know she had no secrets, no hidden agendas.
He pushed a curling strand of hair back off her face and his touch burned into her skin like a brand. Then he traced her lips with his thumb. The color of his eyes darkened to a burnished gold. She felt his slight intake of breath.
"You actually trust me, don't you?" His voice was low, commanding, used to being obeyed, but with the subtle undertone of surprise and vulnerability.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because my instincts tell me you have a good heart."
"How the hell can you trust your instincts about something like that? When you add up all the clues, I'm not someone you want to be hanging around with. Your instincts are reckless."
"My instincts have stood me in good stead all my life."
He studied her, his blond brows drawn together.
There wasn't anything simple about this man. Even the lines etched around his eyes and mouth that she had first thought were smile lines, were no longer so clear. They could just as easily be from the serious frown he wore so much of the time, like he carried the burden of the world on his shoulders.
"What do your instincts say right now?"
"About what?"
His fingers traced her jaw, then smoothed over her lips again. "About this. About us."
The question rattled her, and she stared at him for a moment. Then she startled herself by voicing the truth. "They tell me that you'll probably sweet talk me and make me fall in love with you. But when life intervenes, you'll walk away without looking back."
He traced the curve of her eyebrows with one finger, his touch so gentle she wanted to cry.
"I have to leave, you know?"
It hurt to breathe. "I know."
"I know it, too. So then why do I still want you so damn much?"
Her heart stopped beating for one second. Then two. Then resumed at a gallop.
Those eyes…God, those eyes. Pulsing throbs of warm desire spread through her stomach, then lower, as his gaze burned into her.
"I want you, too," she whispered, knowing she was probably being a world-class fool, but unable to fight the battle against what she'd been thinking almost since she met this man.
"I can't promise you anything, Maris."
She pressed a finger to his lips. "I don't expect any promises. I'm a big girl, remember?"
"Even big girls can get hurt," he said softly, his eyes filled with compassion. Then he hooked a finger under her chin, and leaning down, caught her lower lip between his teeth.
Every part of her that was woman sprang to life. The heat of his mouth closed over hers. It was mutual demand, both of them fighting to be master. His hand worked through her hair, kneading and tugging at it until she sighed with pleasure.
She slipped her arms inside his coat, and pushed it off. Then, soaking up the warmth of him through the flannel shirt, she teased patterns with her fingers until she sought out the buttons and began to work them open.
His hand slid from her hair, down her back in a long, smooth stroke, until it cupped her bottom. He brought her close up against him, where she could feel the ridge of his need, hard and urgent, against her abdomen. And God help her, she wanted it. Wanted him.
Her fingers worked faster, more feverishly at his buttons, until finally, she pushed his shirt back and spread her hands over smooth, hot skin. She buried her face against his chest. Her fingertips eased over the knife wounds, which were just starting to heal. Tom stiffened, then groaned deeply as her tongue moved on him, teasing around his nipples.
His mouth moved downward in response, until it settled in the sensitive hollow between her neck and shoulder. Her head fell back, giving him easier access, as her legs swayed drunkenly underneath her.
In the dark room, with the firelight dancing on the walls, she felt as if she were in the middle of some dark, erotic, fantasy dream. Tom's mouth on her neck sent shivers of longing through her so fierce she clung to him, whimpering and moaning. Her clot
hes felt too tight, too hot. The heat of his body scorched her everywhere they touched. He was Dante's Inferno and the fire of Prometheus all rolled into one.
She couldn't remember ever wanting or needing a man so badly. He'd swept into her life and turned it upside down in a heartbeat. And now she was lost in him.
Something bumped against the back of her knees. The bed.
He eased her down onto the mattress, then leaned over her and lowered his mouth to one of her breasts. His tongue swirled over and around her nipple until her T-shirt was soaked. Then he closed his teeth around it, biting with gentle pressure. "God," she gasped, arching upward, trying to wrap her legs around his waist.
Tom stared down at her, his hair tousled, a knowing smile tilting up the corners of his mouth. A smile, she would have to say, she'd die for.
He pulled up her shirt and used it to pinion her arms over her head. His mouth closed on a breast again, this time through only her lacy bra. He sucked, then bit, each time increasing the pressure until she writhed beneath him. With her arms trapped over her head, she felt vulnerable, at his mercy. And it was one of the sexiest things she'd ever experienced. By the time he unhooked her bra and put his hot mouth to her sensitive skin, she was on fire.
At last, with remarkable one-handed dexterity, he tugged off her shirt and divested her of her boots and jeans. Then, more slowly, he did the same with her blue silk panties, bringing them to his face where he inhaled of them before he tossed them aside.
"Sexy as hell," she heard him murmur before he knelt on the floor next to the bed and buried his face between her legs.
"Oh—my—God," she gasped as he set about showing her that her breasts weren't the only place his mouth could work magic.
She plunged toward release almost immediately, a little ashamed at how quickly she'd come. But he didn't allow her to think on it as he brought her to a frenzied, even stronger climax.
Sprawling on the bed, her legs dangling over the side, Maris felt completely boneless, and was slightly amazed at herself for being so physically and emotionally exposed in front of a man she barely knew. Yet the aching pull between her legs proved she still wanted more. She wanted, needed desperately to feel him inside her.
