by Anne Stuart
“That you’re afraid of men. Did Paul do this to you?”
“I did it to myself,” she said. Knowing it was the truth. She could have worked through it, if she’d wanted to. But it was safer this way. Or at least, it had been.
To her horror he brushed his lips against her forehead in an almost absentminded gesture. “Good thing Paul’s dead,” he murmured. “I might have had to kill him.”
He let his lips trail down the side of her face, whisper soft, across her cheekbone and the corner of her mouth. “Then again, maybe there are advantages. This way you don’t know what you’ve been missing.” His lips touched hers, just briefly, then moved on, touching, tasting, caressing.
“Let me up, Dillon,” she said again, not bothering to sound strong. “Please.”
His mouth didn’t slow its lazy voyage down the side of her neck. She didn’t touch him, didn’t try to push him away. She simply lay beneath him, trapped, her arms beside her, hands flat on the table, every muscle rigid, her eyes squeezed shut. It would end, sooner or later, and she’d survive. She could endure anything if she had to.
His lips touched the corner of her mouth again, and she couldn’t keep the tiny whimper from escaping. “Open your eyes, Jamie,” he whispered.
She had no intention of doing any such thing. But her body had other ideas, and she slowly looked up into his face, into the deep, hypnotic blue of his eyes.
“That’s better,” he said. “If you want me to let you up you just have to do one thing.”
“No!”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Jamie. You just have to kiss me.”
“You’re drunk,” she said. “Or stoned, or something.”
“You know I’m not drunk. You just about choked on my iced tea. And frankly, the only thing affecting my judgment right now is you.”
“Not for the better.”
He smiled wryly. “I never said you had a very good effect on me or my judgment. But it’s a strong one. So what are we going to do about it?”
“It’s your problem. I’m not going to do a damned thing.”
“You see—you’re already feeling better. You’ve stopped shivering, and you’re pissed as hell. That’s progress.”
She had stopped shaking, she realized. And her anger had just about wiped out her panic, and the fact that he’d noticed before she did made her even madder.
“Let me the hell up or you’ll wish you had,” she said, shifting slightly. She could bring her knee up, hard, into his groin. Not that she’d ever done such a thing, but it seemed easy enough, given their proximity.
“Don’t even think it, baby girl,” he said, pressing his hips down against her, effectively pinning her to the hard oak surface. There was no way she could move her leg, no way she could fight back, and she was so frustrated that she didn’t even notice what he’d call her.
“I’ll ask you one last time…” she growled.
“And I’ll tell you one last time. All you have to do is kiss me and you can go safely back to bed. I won’t even touch your breasts. But you really should think twice before coming around here without a bra. There’s only so much a man can resist. You’re a sore trial to my self-control.”
“You don’t seem to be trying to control yourself at all.”
His laugh was low, running down her spine. “You have no idea what I’d be doing to you if I gave in to temptation. Be glad I have scruples.”
“You don’t have an ounce of scruples.”
“Well, then, be glad I’m going to let you go. After you kiss me. It’s your fault, you know. You should have run while you could.”
“I didn’t notice there was a time when I could run.”
“The race goes to the swift. I’m happy to spend all night like this. As a matter of fact, even if you refuse to kiss me I could have a whole lot of fun just rubbing against you. It might get a little messy, but I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Just healthy, Jamie.” He rocked against her, slowly, his erection fitting in the cradle of her thighs, and she felt an odd shiver at the feel of it. The disturbing pressure.
Her eyes met his with sudden shock, as the remembered feeling swept over her. The first faint tremors of arousal. And he knew it.
It was the cruelest trick of all. That she should go twelve years, trying to feel something for a man, only to have it be this man. This man, who was immoral, dangerous, heartless and cruel. And just plain wrong. But he rocked against her again, his eyes glittering as he gauged her reaction, and she could feel the heat build, no matter how hard she tried to fight it.
She had to get up, away from him. And there was only one way to do it, the least of many evils. “All right,” she said, and quickly kissed him on the mouth.
He was noticeably unimpressed. “I don’t think so.”
“You told me if I kissed you you’d let me up.”
“Use your tongue.” Another bump of his hips against her, and the heat began to spread. It was getting to the point where all he had to do was touch her and she’d climax, and that was something she could never let happen.
She picked her arm up from the table, put her hand behind his neck beneath his long hair and pulled him down to her, pressing her open mouth against his. Using her tongue.
She felt his hands cup the sides of her face, his mouth slant over hers as he took her inside, tongue against tongue, lips and teeth and heat, and she tried to hold on, tried to stop the reactions that were sweeping over her, and then it was too late, and she surrendered to it, to him, to his mouth, kissing him with her body, her heart and her soul.
She’d probably forgotten to breathe. He was the one to break the kiss, to look down at her in astonishment, his mouth wet from hers, his eyes glazed. “God damn,” he whispered. “That was a very bad idea.”
The dreamy, half-erotic, half-fearful haze vanished, and she shoved at him. This time he moved, off the table, backing away from her into the shadows of the old kitchen, shaking his head.
She couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking, and she didn’t want to know. All that mattered was that he’d changed his mind and was letting her go. That was when she suddenly wondered whether she wanted to escape after all.
She scrambled off the table, trying to disguise the shakiness in her legs. “A very bad idea,” she echoed. “I don’t know why you did that, but you certainly weren’t inspired by unbridled lust. I’m not your type, and you’ve always known that. Now, if you don’t mind I’ll just go on up to bed and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
He laughed, destroying her dignified reaction. “You sound just like the Duchess,” he said. He moved out of the shadows into the light. “Take a good long look at me, Jamie, and tell me unbridled lust doesn’t have something to do with it.”
There was no missing the very visible evidence. “It’s a normal biological response—” she began, but he stopped her.
“If I were you I’d get the hell out of here before I decide to show you what my type is.” His voice was mild, the threat was not.
She ran.
She ran so fast she didn’t even bother to slam the door behind her. He heard her stumble on the stairs, and if he weren’t in such an unexpectedly savage mood he would have laughed. She’d break her neck trying to get away from him. Jump out a window. It was a good thing he wasn’t burdened with an inferiority complex, or he would have found Jamie Kincaid to be thoroughly demoralizing.
Except for the way she kissed him. She tasted the same—innocence and eagerness and sex that was buried so deep inside her it would take a bulldozer to get at it. Or a very determined man.
And he was nothing if not determined.
He had to admit it had shaken him. It was one thing to have the hots for your best friend’s little sister, and not even that unlikely to act on it. But the feel of her beneath him, shivering, the look of panic in her eyes, the taste of her tongue were more powerful than he’d ever expected. And it sc
ared the hell out of him.
Maybe he’d listen to his conscience, to Mouser’s arguments, and let her go. Make a miraculous recovery of her purse, spend half an hour beneath the hood of her Volvo and she’d be good to go. It was sitting under a tarp in the corner of the garage—he’d been in no hurry to let her escape. Once she left he’d never see her again—there’d be no reason. Nate was the only thing that connected the two of them, and it was a pathetic excuse for a tie. Time he broke it, kicked her out and went on with his life.
The only question that remained was whether he was going to screw the living daylights out of her first. Or resist temptation.
He knew the answer. Fucking Nate Kincaid’s little cousin would have driven his old friend crazy. And if for no other reason than that, he was going to have her.
And there were many more reasons than that. It would be a spit in the eye to the overbearing Duchess, not to mention finishing something that had been started more than twelve years ago. He’d always liked a sense of closure in his life.
And besides, if it hadn’t been for her he’d have had another eighteen months of his life. He figured she owed him. She’d be giving it up to someone, sooner or later. It might as well be him.
A million reasons, all of them good ones. And none of them the one that really mattered. The simple fact that he wanted her, so badly it made his bones ache.
And it didn’t matter how scared she was. He was going to take her.
10
Nate wasn’t quite sure when he decided to kill Jamie. Was it when he’d first seen her trudging down the snow-covered road to Dillon’s garage? He told himself she’d come for revenge, but he knew better than that. Jamie was incapable of anything as elemental as revenge, as passionate as murder. Besides, she’d had a crush on Dillon from the time she was an impressionable teenager. She’d thought Nate hadn’t noticed, but he had. And enjoyed throwing the two of them together, just to watch them squirm. It had been one of his favorite pastimes back then.
He’d thought about killing her the night of her prom. She looked like hell once Paul got through with her, sobbing uncontrollably, and he hated to think what Aunt Isobel and Uncle Victor would say. Aunt Isobel would turn a blind eye, of course. She adored him, for all the wrong reasons, and she wouldn’t hear a word against him. It amused him to see how far he could go without Uncle Victor exploding.
That night he’d probably gone too far. Uncle Victor was protective of sweet little Jamie, and he’d have held Nate responsible for not looking out for her.
A tragic car accident would have put a stop to that. It would have been easy enough—he could have broken her neck and then run the car off the road, giving himself a few colorful bumps and bruises. Uncle Victor would have been devastated. Aunt Isobel would only be thinking of Nate.
Even better, Dillon would have hated it.
But he didn’t do it. The police had picked them up for speeding before he could make up his mind, and in the short run it had worked out well.
Still, he’d forgotten how Dillon felt. Stupid of him to have overlooked that little fact, but it had been so long since Dillon had seen Jamie he thought his friend would have gotten over it. Particularly since he’d never admitted it in the first place.
But he’d heard it in Dillon’s voice as he floated overhead, listening. Seen it in the way Jamie moved in her sleep, thrashing around. They were within days, hours, moments of having sex, and he was going to have to kill her.
It wasn’t anything personal. He’d always been fond of his little cousin, and she’d adored him. She’d never been a threat—even Uncle Victor had loved him more, although he was more observant than Aunt Isobel. And when Dillon had to choose between Nate and his innocent little cousin there’d been no question.
Maybe it was Jamie’s very innocence that made him crazy, Nate thought. Her blind, stupid trust, when he knew she was much too smart for her own good. Just not smart in judging character.
He’d listened to them in the kitchen, the crash of glasses, the muffled conversation followed by long silences, and he could just imagine what they were doing. What they were going to do if he didn’t put a stop to it.
He’d been waiting here for a chance to kill Dillon. Killing them both at the same time would simplify matters, but he wasn’t going to give them that much. They’d die separately, alone, in pain, frightened. Dillon Gaynor would be a hard man to frighten, but then, he’d never come face-to-face with a ghost before.
He’d start with Jamie. She’d outlived her usefulness, and finding her dead would bother Gaynor. Bother him a lot.
The only question left was how to do it. How could a ghost kill?
Jamie huddled in the corner of her room, shivering, the comforter pulled tight around her. Sometime during the night the heat stopped working. She was freezing, and she was damned well going to freeze to death before she set foot outside her room.
She’d stolen the skeleton key from the bathroom in her panicked flight, and her door was locked, a chair propped under the doorknob for good measure. It wouldn’t stop Dillon if he was determined, of course. But she really didn’t think he was the slightest bit determined.
He’d stretched her across the big oak table in the kitchen with no other purpose than to intimidate her. She couldn’t figure out why he would care. If he wanted to get rid of her all he had to do was give her the money. She’d pay him back and he knew it. The Kincaids had always had money, and Dillon Gaynor had none, even if he seemed to have mysteriously acquired that huge old garage. Probably bought it on drug money. And if he hadn’t killed Nate then it was probably one of his Colombian drug lord friends who’d made a mistake, killing an innocent man rather than Dillon.
Though even the most forgiving of cousins couldn’t really consider Nate an innocent. He was charming, sweet-natured and generous, but he was far from a good boy. And Jamie had never known for certain who was the leader and who was the follower with Nate and Dillon.
It didn’t matter any longer. Nate was dead, and she was never going to see Dillon again. As soon as the sun was up she was going to put on every piece of clothing she could find and walk straight out into the snow, keep walking until she came to someone who could help. Hell, there was Triple A. She had no cards, no proof, but computers kept all that information. They could trace her records and send someone to fetch and fix her car. Isn’t that what she paid money for?
The police would help. After all, her purse had been stolen, and she was stranded in a strange town. Even a homeless shelter was preferable to sleeping under Dillon’s roof for one more night. Safer.
The wind had picked up, howling around the old building like a banshee. What the hell was a banshee? she wondered. Some Irish ghost? A harbinger of death? Death didn’t need any harbingers—it had already come and taken what it wanted.
She waited, huddled in the corner of the room, until the first tendrils of light began to slide over the peeling windowsill. And then she stood up, looking around for her shoes.
She was already wearing most of her clothing as a paltry defense against the chill in the room. In the shadowy predawn light she couldn’t see her shoes at first, so she switched on the light, still shivering slightly.
There were no shoes. No leather running shoes that could withstand tramping through snow, at least for a bit. And no suede heels that would be ruined after she took one step, shoes that would likely send her sprawling but that would still get her out of this place. There were no shoes at all.
Maybe she’d left them downstairs. But that was unlikely—she wasn’t comfortable enough with Dillon that she’d kick off her shoes in his presence. She always had the unconscious need to run when she was around him, and taking off her shoes would only hinder her escape.
The bathroom? Possible, but not probable. The last time she’d seen her shoes they’d been neatly arranged at the foot of her mattress. And now they were gone, just like her purse.
She would have blamed Dillon if she could, but Dillon didn
’t want her there. She sat back down on the mattress and shivered in the icy room. It was cold enough that she could see her breath, and she suddenly had an even more unnerving thought.
Maybe the heat hadn’t gone off at all. Maybe the room was icy cold because she wasn’t alone in there. She’d seen enough movies—the temperature dropped when a ghost was there. And she’d felt as if someone was watching her ever since she set foot inside the garage.
“Nate?” she whispered in a soft voice. “Are you here?”
No answer, of course, and she wondered if she could feel any more stupid. But she persevered. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but if you’d be anywhere I guess you’d be here, where you died such a violent death. Are you here to warn me about something?”
Silence. Jamie took a deep breath. “I’m not afraid of you, Nate. You’d never hurt me in life, and you certainly wouldn’t in death. Do you want me to be here? Do you want me to find out what really happened to you? Did you take my purse and shoes? Do you know where the hell they are?”
It was a stupid question and she didn’t expect an answer. “I need to get out of here, Nate,” she said, trying one last time. “I need to get away from Dillon. You should understand that. You knew what I was feeling, even when I didn’t. I need to get out of here.”
There was a sudden clanking sound, followed by a thud and the screech of metal against metal, and she jumped. A moment later the heat duct behind her spewed out a wave of blessed heat, and Jamie just stared at the register in shock.
“If that’s a sign I’m not sure what it means. But I’m going downstairs to find a pair of Dillon’s shoes and get the hell out of here. I’m sorry, Nate.”
The heat was filling the room as quickly as the early morning light, and Jamie pushed herself off the mattress and went to the door, removing the chair as quietly as she could. Dillon had to be in bed—she’d sat there huddled in the corner, listening to the sounds of his footsteps hours after she’d run from him. He hadn’t even hesitated as he passed her door.