Kitabı oku: «Tempt Me», sayfa 2

Her stomach dropped and what was left of the moisture in her mouth dried up. She told herself not to be a fool, to say, “Yes, of course, whatever it takes,” but when she parted her lips, the words wouldn’t come out. “I—I—”

His head dipped even closer. Swallowing hard, she squeezed her eyes shut, her heart slamming into her throat as his hair—cool and unexpectedly soft—tickled against her cheek.

Then he abruptly straightened and she felt the pressure as he dragged her seat belt across her waist. Her eyes flew open as he jammed the end into the clasp with a distinctive click.

He sent her a mirthless smile as their gazes meshed. “Yeah. I didn’t think so. Which is just as well, since the only thing I want from you—” he fastened his own seat belt and slapped the truck into Reverse “—is your word that you won’t give me any more trouble.”

Embarrassed, insulted, affronted, disgusted—Genevieve couldn’t decide what she felt most. “Go to hell.”

He gave a faint sigh. “Too late. Already been there, done that,” he murmured. Depressing the clutch, he backed the vehicle out of its slot. He shifted, straightened the wheel and began to guide the truck down the narrow, tree-lined track that led to the road.

The deer came out of nowhere. One second there was nothing in front of them but an unobscured ribbon of white. In the next, a rangy young stag bounded squarely into their path, its dun-colored hide seeming to fill the entire windshield.

“Watch out!” Genevieve cried as Taggart wrenched the wheel to the left. He hit the brakes and the old Ford bucked wildly, fishtailed across the snowy ground and slammed driver’s side first into an enormous evergreen tree.

Taggart’s head hit the door frame with a sickening crunch.

Genevieve watched with a mixture of awe and horror as he slumped, his big body suddenly as limp as a rag doll’s. Dear God, what if he’s dead?

Fast on the heels of that thought came another. Dear God. What if he’s not?

Three

Taggart surfaced slowly.

As he did, several things seemed noteworthy. One was that his head felt as if a stake were being driven through it.

The other was that somebody—a woman, judging from her soft voice and even softer hands—was touching him. “Come on now,” she murmured, her husky voice tickling along his spine while her fingers sifted featherlight through the hair at his temple. “It’s time to quit fooling around. Wake up now. I know you can do it.”

She knew he could do it. Her faith gave him pause. The first and last female to unswervingly believe in him had been his mother. Yet he knew damn well that the woman murmuring to him wasn’t Mary Moriarity Steele.

She smelled entirely different, for one thing, like sunshine and soap instead of lavender and baby powder. Plus her hands were smaller and her voice was lower. Besides, his mother had been gone…

How long? Drawing a blank, he struggled to punch through the fog hazing his brain. For a frustrating moment his mind remained shrouded and sluggish. Then the knowledge abruptly bubbled up.

Twenty years. She’d died twenty years ago last month, the anniversary of her passing falling on the day after his thirty-third birthday.

What’s more, with another burst of returning memory he knew that it was Genevieve Bowen who was showing him such gentle concern. He recognized her voice at the same instant the recollection of tossing her over his shoulder and heading for her truck came rushing back at him. Yet after that…Nothing.

He didn’t have a single, solitary doubt who was to blame.

Marshaling his strength, he opened his eyes. He felt a perverse flicker of satisfaction as his quarry—hell, no, his prisoner—sucked in a startled breath and jerked back, snatching her hand away from his face.

“Genevieve.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded raspy.

“You’re back.”

“Yeah.” He blinked, tried to make sense of the timbered ceiling above his head and failed. With a prickle of uneasiness, he realized he was lying on a bed in a room he’d never seen before.

“How do you feel?”

He told himself to focus. Okay, so his brain seemed to be a few cards short of a full deck and he had a son of a bitch of a headache—so what? He’d survived worse. He concentrated on what he did remember and tossed out an educated guess. “The truck. There was an accident.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “There was a deer. In the road. You swerved to avoid it and hit a tree.”

“I knew that,” he lied. “What I meant was—how long have I been out?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

A spark of something—it looked a lot like compassion except he knew damn well that couldn’t be right—flared in her eyes. “You’ve been in and out, but mostly out, the past hour. And in case you’re wondering, you’re in the cabin. My great-uncle’s cabin.”

Of course. He glanced around, taking note of the comfortable-looking furniture, the fire dancing cheerfully behind the glass doors of a big stone fireplace, the stretch of windows looking out on the jagged Montana peaks stabbing into the sky. Bringing his gaze back to her, he wondered how she’d managed to get him inside, given that he was twice her size, then decided there was a different question he was far more curious about. “And you’re still here…why?”

She was silent a moment, then gave a dismissive little shrug. “You took a pretty nasty knock to the head. I couldn’t just go off and leave you. Not until I was sure you were okay.”

Yeah, right. Pollyanna reputation or not, she wasn’t stupid and nobody was that good-hearted. More likely she was tired of being hunted and, having finally come face-to-face with what she was up against—that would be him—had realized the futility of continuing to run.

Then again, she’d saved him a boatload of aggravation by hanging around. If she wanted to pretend she was Doris Do-right, what the hell did he care? He inclined his chin a fraction, ignoring the ensuing howl of protest from his aching head. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Even as she took a step back, putting a little more distance between them, an uncertain smile kissed the corners of her full mouth.

He scowled as part of him that was unapologetically male whispered pretty. Reminding himself sharply that she was his assignment, not his date, for God’s sake—and he never mixed his personal and professional lives—he stared expressionlessly at her. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said flatly as he carefully pushed himself upright. “You’re still my prisoner and I’m—what the hell?”

Something heavy was dragging at his arm. He sensed Bowen moving even farther away as he glanced down, confounded to see that a handcuff was locked around his left wrist. What’s more, the adjoining stainless-steel bracelet had been threaded through the end links of a heavy chain that had been passed around the end support of the massive built-in bed frame.

He was trapped like a wolf in a snare.

Ignoring the pounding in his head, he didn’t think but acted, launching himself at his one chance at freedom.

He was within inches of grabbing her when it dawned on him that instead of bolting the way she ought to be, his nemesis was holding her ground, and a warning shrieked through his brain.

Too late. Unable to check himself, he reached the end of his tether and was damn near jerked off his feet.

The handcuff cut into his wrist. His arm felt as if it was being ripped from his shoulder. Then his momentum snapped him around and his head exploded in agony.

Gritting his teeth against the howl crowding his throat, he staggered back the way he’d come, braced himself against the bed frame and sank down onto the quilt-covered mattress.

So much for his luck having changed, he thought savagely. With a snap of her fingers, Lady Fortune had snatched away success and turned him from victor to casualty, from hunter to captive.

It was a road he’d traveled before, he reminded himself. Under far worse circumstances, with far graver consequences.

But he wasn’t going to think about that. It was over. In the past. Beyond his reach to change. He needed to focus on the here and now. On Genevieve.

Locking firmly onto that single thought, he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to hold perfectly still as he waited for the worst of the pain to pass.

Enduring, after all, was what he did best.

“Here.” Genevieve set the pill bottle and the glass of water on the nightstand, all the while keeping a wary eye on the big man hunched on the bed. “This should help.”

Mindful of the terrifying show of speed and strength he’d put on just minutes earlier, she quickly stepped back out of reach. And waited.

Nothing. He continued to sit perfectly still, head slumped, eyes shut, broad shoulders rigid.

“It’s ibuprofen. My first aid book says that’s okay for someone in your condition.”

Still no reaction. With an inner shrug, she decided that if he wanted to imitate a boulder there was nothing she could do about it. She’d give it one more try; then she was done.

“If you think a cold compress would help, let me know. The fridge hasn’t been on long enough to make ice, but there’s plenty of snow outside.” Silence. “Hokay then, J. T.” With a shrug, she started to turn away. “I’ll just give you some space—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Turning back, she found his gaze fixed on her, his eyes hooded and impossible to read. “What?” Her response was automatic even though she knew perfectly well what he was referring to.

“J. T.,” he gritted out. “Don’t call me that. I don’t like it.”

For a second she was speechless. Of all the things she might’ve expected him to object to, her flippant abbreviation of Just Taggart wasn’t even on the list. Still, given that she had the upper hand, she supposed she could afford to be gracious. “All right. Plain old Taggart it is then.” She felt a fleeting flash of amusement as she considered what he’d say if she called him by that acronym.

Moving carefully, and looking as if he hadn’t smiled about anything in years, he reached for the pill bottle and thumbed off the cap. To her dismay, he proceeded to toss back considerably more than the recommended dosage. Setting down the water glass, he eased back farther on the bed, then sliced her a sharp look. “What?”

“I—nothing.” She wiped the concerned look off her face, telling herself not to be foolish. He was a grown-up, and bigger than average, and if he wanted to suck down the entire bottle of pain reliever, it was none of her business. While she obviously hadn’t been ruthless enough after the accident to shove him out of the truck and abandon him to his fate, she was neither stupid nor naive enough to think anything had changed.

He was her enemy.

A crucial little fact she couldn’t afford to forget, she reminded herself, turning away. Sure, she was lonely. Sure she was dying to talk openly to somebody. And yes, the sight of anyone injured or hurting tended to trigger what Seth had always claimed was her overdeveloped nurturing streak.

But she’d be grade-A certifiable, lock-me-in-the-asylum-and-throw-away-the-key crazy to let down her guard even an inch where the man on the bed was concerned.

And it wasn’t only the risk he posed to her freedom, his obvious mental toughness, killer physique or ability to handle himself that she found so threatening, she mused as she walked over to the kitchen and began methodically putting away the groceries.

No, there was something else, some intangible quality he possessed that made her feel off balance and not quite herself. Something that tugged at her senses and alarmed her recently awakened sense of self-preservation all at the same time.

Uh-huh. That’s called the thrill of danger, the call of the wild, Genevieve. Women have been drawn to dangerous men like moths to the flame since the beginning of time.

Add to that the fact that he wasn’t exactly ugly and it was perfectly reasonable that he inspired such conflicting feelings in her. Not that he was pretty-boy handsome. Far from it. Along with that dark hair and those pale eyes, he had the strongly sculpted, slightly ascetic face of a medieval warrior.

But she wasn’t attracted to him, for heaven’s sake. She absolutely was not. Even if she’d met him under different circumstances—say, when he wasn’t doing his damnedest to hijack her life—he was so far from her type it wasn’t even funny. He was too big, too tightly wound, too…male.

Plus he had an air of watchfulness, of being apart, that troubled her. Most people had a need to be liked, to connect with others, to smooth their path through life with at least a pretense of mutual experience or interest.

Not him. He seemed walled off, although she had a feeling she didn’t question that beneath that carefully controlled surface there were strong emotions at play. Perhaps that was why, even chained and hurting, he filled the cabin with his blatantly masculine presence, making her aware of him without ever saying a word.

Why even now, as she dragged a large cast-iron pot out of the cupboard, set it on the stove and busied herself with sautéing meat and chopping vegetables for the soup, she could feel him watching her. Just as she’d sensed him observing her earlier.

She gave a rueful little sigh. God. What she wouldn’t give for her earlier foreboding to have been caused by a good old killer squirrel, mutant or not.

Instead, she was stuck with a much more terrifying human male.

Of course, she supposed things could have turned out worse—far worse. She’d gotten incredibly lucky with that deer. And Taggart, for all his aura of imminent threat, hadn’t hurt her despite having had plenty of opportunity, not even in retaliation when she’d struck him first. In all fairness, she supposed she had to give him points for that—and consider the possibility that he was more civilized than she imagined.

“You don’t really think you’re going to get away with this, do you, Bowen?”

Then again, maybe not. Despite her prisoner’s uninflected tone, she recognized a threat when she heard one. Which, she reflected, as she added a can of tomatoes, broth and seasonings to the meat, really did take an incredible amount of nerve given their respective situations.

“Do yourself a favor. Undo these cuffs. I swear I’ll go easy on you.”

Oh, right. Like she believed that. And even if it was true, what exactly did it mean—that he’d use velvet ribbon to truss her up when he delivered her back to Silver?

Rolling her eyes, she transferred the raw carrots and potatoes she’d sliced into the pot. She put the lid in place, turned down the heat on the burner and moved to the sink to wash her hands.

“Okay, I get it now. This—tying guys to your bed—is how you get your kicks.”

She turned off the water and dried her hands. Surely she hadn’t heard that right?

“Normally, I don’t go for the Suzy Homemaker type. But I suppose I could make an exception. Of course, first I’d want to see you nak—”

She swiveled around. “Are you out of your mind? Are you trying to tick me off?”

Propped up against the headboard, his legs stretched out, he hitched his shoulders a scant half inch. “Got your attention, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes, you did do that.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “And to think three hours ago I was actually pining for the sound of another human voice.” She leveled her gaze at him. “So what is it you want to say that I just have to hear?”

“How long do you plan to keep me chained like this?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

She gave a little shrug. “A variety of things. Your health. My mood. Whether you persist in making any more objectionable personal comments.”

One level black eyebrow rose. “Is that a threat?”

“More like a promise,” she said sweetly.

“What am I supposed to do when I need to use the facilities?”

“Bathroom’s right there.” She indicated the door some four feet down the wall from the bed. “The chain will reach.”

“What are you going to do?”

“There’s a half bath up in the loft. Not perfect, but it’ll do.”

He started to scowl, then appeared to reconsider. “Look, my offer still stands. End this now, let me take you back and I’ll make sure the judge knows you cooperated.”

“How generous of you. But I think I’ll pass. You may not understand, but as I tried to explain earlier, I don’t care what the judge thinks—not about me. It’s my brother who matters.”

“Damn it, Bowen—”

“You know, if I were you, I really wouldn’t swear at me. What’s more, I’d at least try to be nice. Otherwise, I may forget to tell someone where you are once I’m gone.”

His face hardened. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not buying. If you meant to take off and leave me to rot, you’d have done it earlier. You’re going to have to come up with a better threat than that.”

“I don’t think so.” She came to a sudden decision. So he thought he could predict her behavior, did he? Well, maybe he could as concerned this particular issue—damn him—but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy. It would do his character good to worry a little for a change.

Grabbing her parka off the hook near the door, she slid it on, checking her pocket to make sure the keys to his rig were still in it. “I guess I’ll see you later. Or then again—maybe not.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

She smiled without humor and scooped up her purse. “You think you know everything. Figure it out.” Her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Oh, and just so we’re clear? I wouldn’t sleep with you if you came dipped in chocolate.”

Without looking back, she flicked him a wave and sailed out the door.

Four

Gripping the bathroom doorjamb, Taggart glanced narrowly at the silvery twilight rapidly fading beyond the cabin windows.

Terrific. Just frigging terrific. It was getting dark and there was still no sign of Bowen.

He walked unsteadily to the bed and sank gingerly down on the edge. Careful not to jar his head, he unlaced his hiking boots and slid them off, then lay back and stretched out, letting himself stew as he scowled up at the plank ceiling overhead.

Not that he was worried. At least, not much. While he still didn’t buy the concept that anyone could be as pure of heart as she was reputed to be, he was confident little Ms. Genevieve was coming back—and for reasons that had nothing to do with her supposed concern for his health.

She had, for example, gone to considerable effort putting together whatever was simmering deliciously on the stove. Why do that if she didn’t plan to return to eat some of it? It sure as hell wasn’t as if he could reach it, he thought, trying to ignore the pathetic way his mouth was watering in reaction to the rich, savory aroma.

What’s more, there was no way she would’ve taken off without the duffel bag and the box of books that were currently parked by the door, which she must’ve hauled in from the truck while he was in la-la land. It would also be reckless and stupid of her to have left so late in the day without a plan—and from everything he’d seen so far she was plenty smart.

By now, she was bound to have figured out it would be a day or two before anyone would expect them to show up in Silver. It wouldn’t take much additional brain power for her to realize that even when they were a no-show, an alarm most likely wouldn’t be immediately raised since he was so obviously not the kind of guy to tolerate a short leash.

Which was why the prudent thing for her to do would be to remain at the cabin and take some time considering her next move.

The alternative—that she’d taken off for good—was unacceptable.

Because, damn it, he’d already searched every inch of space he could reach and hadn’t found a thing he could use to pick the lock on the handcuffs. Just as he’d tested each chain link as well as the bed frame for weakness and scored a big fat zero.

So if Bowen didn’t come back, short of gnawing his hand off he’d have no choice but to wait to be rescued.

The mere thought of that set a nerve ticking in his jaw. And not just because of the obvious humiliation factor. Or that his brothers were guaranteed to give him serious grief the second they learned he’d let an amateur—and a woman at that, for God’s sake—get the drop on him. Or even because he’d be forced to start the hunt for a certain annoying little brunette all over again.

No, what was really going to rankle was that he’d have no one to blame for her decision to run but himself.

So what if he had a monster headache? So what if the past three months had been beyond frustrating? Who gave a rip that being at someone else’s mercy seriously teed him off? Or that it was a well-known fact, at least in his portion of the universe, that he sucked at charming chitchat.

Only a freaking idiot would antagonize his jailer without a specific goal or a damn good reason.

Yeah, but that’s precisely what you did, Ace. And you might as well admit that what really pushed you over the edge was Bowen herself. Face it. There’s just something about her that rubs you the wrong way.

The ache in his head ratcheted up a notch and with a stab of impatience he realized every muscle in his body was as tightly strung as a trip wire. More than a little exasperated—control, after all, was his middle name—he blew out a pent-up breath and ordered himself to get a grip.

Okay, so being around her made him feel…itchy. As if his skin was too small for his body. And for some inexplicable reason, probably because the blow to his head had temporarily disconnected a wire, he kept getting unwanted flashes of the way she’d felt against him, all small and soft and perfectly curved, when they’d wrestled in the snow earlier.

It didn’t excuse the fact that he’d screwed up. That he’d flat-out failed the first rule of Hostage 101, which was to make your captor see you as a fellow human being. Worse, he’d let his mouth get ahead of his brain and gone out of his way to antagonize her.

And now all he could do was wait—and reflect on his numerous and varied mistakes.

So that when Bowen did return—and she would, by God—he’d be ready to make nice, to channel some of his brothers’ winning ways with women and try to forge a bond between them, however slight.

But then, slight was all he needed. His goal, after all, wasn’t to become her best friend or her lover. It was simply to get her to stick around long enough for him to regain control of the situation. To regain control of her.

He didn’t have a doubt in the world he could do it. God knew, he’d faced far tougher situations doing recon missions in Afghanistan. And while the make-friends, play-nice-with-others thing wasn’t going to be easy, nothing that mattered ever was.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he had to share his life story with her. Or talk about anything he cared about. Like being banished as a kid to Blackhurst. Or the disaster at Zari Pass, which had put an end to his military career—and been the last time he’d allowed anyone to call him J. T.

No, his personal private business could, and would, remain just that. Personal and private.

All he had to do was be nominally civil. To offer Bowen—no, Genevieve, he admonished himself—the proverbial olive branch until either she lowered her guard enough for him to get the drop on her or he figured out how to free himself. As for payback…he’d see to that later.

For now, all he needed, all he wanted, he thought, finally giving in to the hammering in his head and letting his eyes drift shut against the fading light, was for this frigging headache to take a one-way hike.

And for Genevieve to be predictable for once and walk back through the door.

Nighttime fell like a heavy ebony cape.

Caught midway along the track that led to the cabin, Genevieve slowed the pickup to allow her eyes time to adjust to the swift slide from hazy dusk to inky darkness.

Despite the choppy rumble of the engine, she could hear the wind as it surged restlessly through the towering evergreens around her, making the snow-shrouded trees sway like uneasy ghosts. Overhead, a pack of marauding clouds took ever bigger bites out of the sky, obliterating the moon and swallowing stars a constellation at a time.

A shiver skated down her spine. She tried telling herself she was just chilled—she hadn’t been kidding earlier when she’d told Taggart the truck’s heater didn’t work, and in the past ten minutes her fingers, nose and toes had started to go numb—but she knew that wasn’t all it was. There was simply something spooky, a sort of bone-deep dread, that came with being alone in the dark, surrounded by an untamed wilderness, with the threat of a storm lurking in the wind.

Add to the cold and the declining weather the fact that she was tired, as much from the stressful events of the day as the three-mile hike through the snow she’d made to complete her errand, and it was no wonder she was ready to get back to the cabin.

Even if that meant having to share space with one John Taggart Steele. Whose complete name she now knew courtesy of the registration in his rig, which she’d confirmed by finally taking a look at the ID in his wallet, which she’d liberated when he’d been unconscious.

Not, she told herself hastily, that she cared what he called himself. Except for a mild curiosity about his aversion to being referred to as J. T, which, as it turned out, really were his initials, it was no skin off her nose if he went by Bozo the Clown.

What did matter was her discovery that he and the firm he worked for carried the same name. It might not be a hundred percent proof-positive, but when factored in with his relentless, self-assured personality, it made her strongly suspect that he was a principal in the enterprise rather than simply an employee.

If that was true, it was good news for her since it meant he had not just power but autonomy, and that made it a lot less likely anyone would be checking up on him anytime soon or expecting him to report in regularly.

It wouldn’t be smart to count on it, however, she reflected as the truck shuddered over the last rise and the cabin came into sight. Grateful that she’d had the foresight to switch on the stove and porch lights before she left, she drove down the shallow hill and parked, muscled open the badly dented driver’s-side door and headed inside, his lightweight pack slung over her shoulder.

No, she was a firm believer in hoping for the best but doing whatever was within her power to make things go her way. Which was why, she thought, as she climbed the cabin steps, retrieved the distributor cap from her pocket and dropped it with a satisfying thunk behind the wood pile, Taggart was going to have to make a trip to the auto parts store in the near future if he wanted his big black SUV to run. Of course, first he’d have to find it in the abandoned barn where she’d hidden it.

Stomping the snow off her boots, she said a sincere thank-you to the book gods for Alan’s Guide to Auto Engine Basics. Then she pushed open the door and stepped inside, mentally straightening her spine as she braced to go another round with her less-than-charming captive.

To her surprise, no sarcastic remark greeted her return. Instead, except for the faint hiss and pop of the fire, the dimly lit room was eerily quiet.

Her heart stuttered. In the space of time it took her to toss away his pack and pivot toward the bed, her imagination conjured the worst possible scenario: Taggart had somehow gotten loose. Any second now he was going to explode out of the shadows, wrap his iron-banded arms around her and yank her against his big, hard-as-steel frame—

But no. No. Relief sucked the starch right out of her as she made out the solid, long-legged shape sprawled on the bed. Locking her shaking knees, she fought to regain her composure, only to abandon the effort as fear for her safety reluctantly gave way to concern for his well-being.

She felt a stir of alarm at his continuing silence. Driven to make sure he was still breathing, she crossed the room and crept as close to the bed as she dared. To her gratification, from her new vantage point she could see his chest in his gray flannel shirt rising and falling as steadily as a metronome.

The breath she hadn’t known she was holding sighed out while her legs once again went as weak as spent flower stems. In need of a moment to regroup, she marshaled her strength and prepared to step away and leave him to sleep.

Before she could do more than think of retreat, up snapped Taggart’s eyelashes—thick, black as the night outside and the only part of his angular face that could possibly be described as soft looking—and then she was trapped in the pale-green tractor beam of his eyes.

“Hey.” For all the intensity of his gaze, his voice was as rough as a weathered board and more than a little groggy. “You’re back.”

“Yes.”

He glanced beyond her toward the darkened windows and frowned. “What time is it?”

“A little past seven.”

“Huh.” He raised his unfettered hand and she prepared to lunge for safety, but he only scrubbed it across his face. “Feels later.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah. I noticed.” His hand fell away and something she couldn’t define flickered in his eyes. “You had me worried.”

She wondered what he expected her to say. I’m sorry? Not a chance. Good, it serves you right? Well, that might be closer to the truth, but it wasn’t in her nature to gloat. Even if he so richly deserved it. She gestured toward the pack she’d deep-sixed near the door. “I brought your things.”

His gaze flicked over, took note, came back again. Speculation flashed across his face, but he didn’t say anything.

She cleared her throat. “How do you feel?”