by Penny McCall
Norah winced at that. Not the word, the tone. Trip was beyond anger, at least the kind with heat. This anger was cold and hard and unforgiving. That alone would have been enough to make her run like hell, but facing Trip wasn’t her only concern. The FBI would never have left her father alone as long as he had the loot. She could get her father out of trouble despite himself, at least where the Gold Coast Robbery was concerned, if she could only handle this the way she’d planned. That hinged on her going in to the FBI willingly, not in handcuffs. Handcuffs seriously compromised her bargaining position.
“Trip, if you’d just listen to me—”
“I will, when we’re in the same room and I can see your face.”
“Seeing my face didn’t make a difference yesterday.” And reminding him of that didn’t help matters.
“I’m coming for you, professor,” Trip said.
“Bring it on.”
Trip smiled. It was not a nice smile, which he knew because the kid at the next table took one look at his face, scooped up his laptop, and ran out the door without shutting it down.
“You’re on,” he said to Norah, “and just to be fair, you should stop using your credit card.”
“I already have. I withdrew enough cash for—Good one. You knew I was smart enough to stay off the grid, and you were hoping to make me reveal something.”
Trip clenched his jaw, hard, just for a second. “I hope you have enough, because your credit cards and bank accounts are frozen. And as for staying off the grid, let’s not forget you’re a bestselling author.”
There was a split second of silence, one of those pauses Norah made when she was absorbing the conversation and choosing her words carefully.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said.
“Don’t be. It was all about the job.”
“For you,” she said. “This was never a job to me.”
NORAH WENT FROM HOTEL TO HOTEL, SOMETIMES twice in one day, thankful at least that Trip wasn’t involving the local police. Still, every time she saw a policeman she practically had a heart attack. Even security guards sent her into palpitations. It was a wonder she hadn’t been arrested just for looking guilty—not that she looked as guilty as she felt.
She’d turned out to be a better grifter than she’d ever expected, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. Part of her, a small part, was proud, but then there was the part of her that had always feared she had too much of her father in her—the part that had suppressed any spark of originality or adventure and guided her into that medium life that had seemed so safe. Looking back now it just seemed . . . gray. Not that her current situation was all sunshine and roses.
Three days after their dismal phone conversation, she found herself in Atlanta, exhausted out of her mind, pulling into the first hotel she found.
“May I help you?” the young woman at the front desk asked, her mouth dropping open before Norah could ask for a room. “Oh my gosh, it’s you.”
“No, it’s not,” Norah said, closing her eyes and shaking her head over how lame a reaction that was. “I’m sorry, Janey,” she said, reading the girl’s name tag, “I’m really tired. I’d appreciate it if you could give me a room, and . . . keep it to yourself that I’m here?”
“Of course,” Janey said, “but could you maybe help me? My boyfriend, Jack, he’s been acting really weird lately.”
Norah sighed heavily. “Explain weird.”
“Well, a couple times I walked into the room when he was on the phone, and he cut off the conversation really fast.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I checked his phone log, and my best friend’s phone number was in the outgoing call log.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And he’s keeping secrets from me. Like I saw him looking in my jewelry box, but he wouldn’t tell me why.”
“You live together, I take it.”
“Yes, for about a year now, and we dated for almost two years before that.”
“So, you’re pretty serious about one another. How’s the sex?”
An elderly couple standing a little way down the counter sent Norah a look. She couldn’t have cared less. She’d say or do just about anything to get to a bed.
“The sex is amazing,” Janey whispered.
“Okay, so I take it you’re not in a rut any other way. He’s still affectionate, still tells you he loves you?”
Janey nodded.
“Has he ever given you reason to doubt him?”
“Not until lately,” Janey said miserably.
“My guess is he’s going to propose,” Norah said.
“Propose? Seriously?”
“He’s talking to your friend because he wants her to help him pick out a ring, and he’s probably trying to come up with a unique way to pop the question. That would be why he cuts off phone conversations.”
“So I don’t overhear his plans. Awwww, what a sweetie.”
“Room,” Norah said, almost blind with exhaustion. “Secret.”
“Sure thing, Doctor MacArthur,” Janey chirped, all happy and bursting with love.
“Doctor MacArthur?” the elderly woman said. “Norah MacArthur, the author? Where?”
Norah took the room key and counted out the cash for a night’s stay, stuffing the woefully small roll of cash she had left in her purse. Even if she was careful, she wasn’t sure she could make it two days on what she had left. But she was sure she couldn’t stay in that hotel. Hell, the entire city was out of the question now.
She took the elevator up one floor, then hit the stairs and snuck through the lobby so Janey and company didn’t see her leaving. She was almost in tears when she slid behind the wheel of her Escape. It was only a matter of time before someone posted online that she’d been spotted in Atlanta, and not long after that Trip would be hot on her trail. When he got there she’d be gone, and he’d have wasted all that time. Now all she had to do was keep from falling asleep at the wheel. Then again, death sounded so restful.
Two days later she dragged her butt through the door of the latest no-tell motel, this one in a questionable part of Washington, D.C. She went inside, flipped the lights on and shut the door, and dropped her purse and overnight bag on the bed, setting the takeout she’d gotten at the greasy spoon next door on the table.
She was glad to be inside, but she couldn’t settle. She was moderately well rested, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Trip was breathing down her neck, which was ridiculous since she’d moved around so much. It was just guilt dogging her heels, she decided, guilt for hurting Trip, guilt for betraying her father. And worry.
For the first time in her life she was flying without a net. No job, no money; well, she had some savings, enough to get her through the next few months. Now she just needed to figure out what she should do with the rest of her life. Turned out teaching wasn’t her thing. She liked counseling, though, liked the feeling she was helping people . . . She sighed, dropping onto the lumpy mattress. Truth was, she didn’t feel like doing anything at the moment. It was hard to think around the heartache. But after tomorrow she’d be able to move on from that. She looked at the clock next to the bed. Almost midnight. Just twelve more hours—
Someone knocked on her door.
Norah froze, just her eyes shifting in that direction. She didn’t even cross the room and look through the peephole, afraid of who she’d see on the other side. Considering the neighborhood she ought to be afraid for her life. What she was worried about was her heart.
“Open up, professor, I know you’re in there.”
Trip. She closed her eyes, not breathing for a second while she made the mental adjustment from possibility to reality. Reality brought her back around to possibility, as in possibilities for escape, which, she quickly discovered, were nonexistent.
Her room, like all the other rooms, opened directly to the outside along a cement walkway. The bathroom, when she got up to check, had no window at all. In hindsight, not her best choice.
She took a few precious seconds to get hold of herself, to start breathing again, before she opened the door. “Unhappier is not a word,” she said.
“Words are not my weapon, they’re yours. And it got my point across.” He pushed past her and took a good, long look around. “Not exactly the kind of place you expected to be living with fifty million dollars at your disposal.”
Norah shut the door and turned around, staying where she was. “It’s not at my disposal.”
“Not yet,” Trip said.
“Not ever.”
“Don’t play with me.”
“I’m not—” The rest was cut off by a gasp as he crossed the room, took her by the upper arms, and lifted her to her toes.
Trip saw the shock on her face, chased away by fear, and then determination. It pissed him off. He added it to the list, what she’d done a week ago, having to chase her halfway across the country. Losing control of the mission.
Hope. The thing that pissed him off most of all.
There was no rhyme or reason to where Norah went each day. She’d never ditched the Escape—aptly named since there were a million of them on the road, and even with the dents and the undisguised license plate, she’d managed to keep just out of his reach. Of course he hadn’t put out an APB on her or her vehicle, and not because he wanted to take her on head-to-head. She was no match for him. He’d kept it between them because he had hope. Hope that she hadn’t absconded with the loot.
Trip wasn’t used to hope. He dealt with the Criminal Element, and the Criminal Element had only one motive: look out for Number One, which meant he pretty much knew what to expect going in.
Norah had been . . . not just good, perfect. Not so much as a smudge on her record going all the way back to kindergarten. Even now, with proof, he had a hard time believing she’d gone bad. Apparently fifty million dollars could do that to a person, even a perfect one.
“I’m not in the mood for games,” he said.
Norah lifted her chin, keeping her gaze level on his. She didn’t say a word, or make a peep, but he could see the pain in her eyes. It shamed him.
“Time for that explanation you promised me,” he said, letting her go.
She rubbed her arms, looking mutinous. “I changed my mind. You don’t deserve one.”
“Start talking.”
“Or?”
“Or I’ll take you in.”
“Great, take me in. That’s why I’m in Washington anyway.”
Trip took a step back, physically and mentally. “What are you up to now?”
“You want me to stop playing games? The games are over.” She took a step forward. “You win. Arrest me.”
He held his ground, his mind racing a mile a minute, trying to figure out what angle she was playing now.
She held out her wrists and stepped forward, so close her fingers brushed his chest. “Go ahead,” she said, “cuff me.”
It was the last straw. He put his hands around her wrists, yanked her against him, and kissed her.
And she kissed him back, God help her. She fought his grip, but her mouth was wild on his, and he pulled her hands out from between them, staking her wrists to the door and trapping her body with his while he plundered her mouth. She twisted, fought, protested, and when none of that worked she nipped his bottom lip.
He pulled back, letting her go and covering his mouth with a hand that shook, staring at her and realizing he’d almost crossed a line. “I’m sorry, Norah,” he began, the rest of his breath wheezing out when she whipped her shirt off and then her bra, her gaze holding his.
He forgot about being gentle, heat exploding through him again, fueled by anger and a need so overwhelming it stole his breath, his control, everything but the clawing drive to have her. He scooped her up and dropped her on the lumpy bed, stripping her jeans off but ignoring his own clothes because he had to get his hands on her, watch the way her skin flushed and glowed as he touched her, a little roughly but not to punish. Not anymore.
No matter who she might be the rest of the time, at least here she was honest. And amazing, reacting to even the lightest touch of his fingertips. Her hands fisted in the threadbare coverlet, her body bowing as he covered her breasts with his hands, palming her nipples before he took one hard peak into his mouth. She gasped, crying out when he slipped two fingers into her, her breath coming fast and short as she rose to peak, as she went stiff, and he felt her climax rip through her. It was all he could do to keep from taking her, hard and fast, taking his pleasure as she’d taken hers. He didn’t want to rush, though he ached from head to toe with the depth of his need. There was no point in returning to reality any sooner than he had to.
He collapsed onto the bed next to Norah, and after a moment or two he felt her touch his cheek, hesitantly. It killed him that she wasn’t sure, even here, so he covered her hand with his and turned his lips into the palm of her hand.
“Trip . . .” she whispered.
“What?” he said without opening his eyes.
“Nothing.” Even if she’d known what to say and how to say it, he wouldn’t have believed her anyway, and if she were foolish enough to bare her heart and he rejected her . . . Well, she’d never get over it.
So she settled for showing him, slipping her hands under his T-shirt and easing it off as he half lifted to help her, then popping the button on his jeans and unzipping them, very slowly, so slowly he cracked one eye open, looking like he was in pain, which made her laugh even though when she got his pants off she could believe he was in pain.
“At least you stopped laughing,” he said, his voice low and raspy, but teasing, which almost broke her heart, but then she decided not to think about what would happen after. She intended to make love with him, even if all the love was on her side.
“Definitely not a laughing matter,” she said, teasing him back.
“Definitely not,” he said, pulling her down beside him.
But Norah was done being passive, not that passive didn’t have its benefits—which were still buzzing along her nerve endings—but she wanted to do for Trip what he’d done for her.
She got to her knees, running her nails lightly along his chest, loving the way he groaned, loving how his breath wheezed out when she took him into her hands, loving him, even when he reared up and said, “Now,” and took her waist in his hands and pushed her onto her back. She didn’t object or take offense. Words were beyond her, too, as he surged into her, hard and fast, and she forgot how to breathe and how to think. Everything was gone but feeling. A dozen different sensations overwhelmed her, the heat of his skin and the feel of muscle sliding under it as she moved her hands to his back, the weight of him bearing her down into the mattress, his fingers moving from her waist to her hips, biting in for a second before he scooped them under her backside and lifted her. He drove into her, deeper this time, so deep she arched, her hands clutching at him and slipping off his sweat-slicked skin as the breath locked into her lungs and there was only the slap of his body against hers, the friction of him stroking in and out, harder and faster as her body coiled tighter and then erupted, another orgasm tearing her into glittering shreds of pure, unbearable pleasure as he buried himself deep and came with a groan that sounded like it was ripped from the soles of his feet.
Norah’s hands slid from his back and fell limply to the mattress, the rest of her feeling just as wrung out, weak and weightless and sated, so gloriously sated she barely found the energy to slide up to the pillows when Trip nudged her. She made it, though, forgetting her dinner, forgetting the loot, so exhausted she even let go of the tension between her and Trip.
He didn’t. She felt him pick up her wrist and then there was the shock of cold metal, the rasp as he closed the handcuff over her wrist, putting the other one on himself.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him from dry soc
kets, the pain so deep and intense and hot it seared the tears away before they could form.
“You think I’m going to sneak out in the middle of the night?”
“I think I’m too tired to wake up if you try it.”
“After . . .” She shook her head, closed her eyes, not, she realized after all, too destroyed to cry.
The bed dipped next to her as Trip climbed in. He spooned himself behind her, his cuffed hand slipping over her waist to cover her cuffed hand.
She couldn’t bear it. The parody of love and trust broke her heart. She pushed away from him, threw off the covers, and tried to search for her clothes. Of course Trip stayed where he was so she came up short.
“Norah?” he said quietly.
She sat on the edge of the bed, shutting her eyes until she could get the pain under control. And the tears. “I’d like to get dressed,” she finally said, almost without a hitch.
“Come back to bed. You can get dressed in the morning.”
“I need to get dressed now. I can’t—” She spied Trip’s jeans, one leg over the bottom corner of the bed, and when she stretched until her wrist screamed in pain, she managed to grab them. The key to the cuff was in the pocket.
She unlocked the cuff on his wrist, ignoring the surprise and suspicion on his face. There were bigger issues to dwell on.
“You think I had sex with you so I could escape,” she said as she gathered her clothes and stuffed herself into them. “I’m not that pathetic.”
“I didn’t—”
“And you’re not that irresistible. I realize it’s been a while, and I’m not—I was never—I’m just a lonely college professor who writes about relationships instead of having them, but I don’t use people.”
“Contrary to appearances.”
“I would have thought you knew me better by now. I was wrong. You’re not that smart.”
“Norah.”
She zipped her jeans, still refusing to look at him.
“Norah.” He caught her arm, swung her around to face him. “I didn’t sleep with you because I felt sorry for you. I don’t think you’re lonely and pathetic.”
