by Gayle Wilson
Underlying that commercial fragrance was something far more subtle. The salt-tang of clean skin that has been touched by perspiration. Obviously the result of his evasion of the chopper, the scent was the faint, nearly sensual smell of an athlete after a hard workout.
Or of a lover, exhausted and sated.
“Now?” she asked, fighting against the dangerous images it evoked.
The situation they were in didn’t help with that struggle. She knew Michael had undressed before he lay down, pretending to be asleep. She didn’t believe he’d had time to put his clothes back on before he’d opened the door to the shower.
She resisted the impulse to put out her hand and test her hypothesis. Would the tips of her fingers encounter warm, bare skin or the rough texture of the chamois shirt he’d been wearing earlier today?
“He’s headed toward the compound,” he said, breaking into that disturbing train of thought. They listened together as the sound of the truck faded away down the hill. “I guess I’m the only one he was worried about.”
The comment held the edge of amused self-deprecation she had enjoyed hearing in his voice this afternoon. Yesterday afternoon, she amended, realizing that it was almost dawn.
“You’re the unknown,” she said. “You’re bound to be under suspicion when something happens.”
There was no answer for a heartbeat, the words seeming to echo between them in the heated darkness.
“I talked to my boss tonight,” he said.
The change of topic threw her. Boss? Obviously he didn’t mean Quarrels, so… Whoever had sent him here?
“About the Half Spur?”
“Mostly about Nicola Carson.”
There was something about the way he said her name that bothered her. Some undercurrent she didn’t understand. Just like she didn’t understand whatever had been in his face when he’d pushed the door of the shower enclosure open.
“About what I told you? The fax and Gettys? Or about the attack?”
“All of it,” he said. “By the way, your disappearance got quite a bit of attention from the media. Did you know that?”
She had known there would be inquiries from her friends and especially from her mom. That there would be some newspaper coverage. The low-key kind that occurred whenever there was a missing person in a city that size.
She was hardly a celebrity. Her friends might put up posters and demand the D.C. police do something. In the end, she had accepted that the bureaucracy would grind on, and she’d be forgotten.
At first she had thought about notifying a couple of the people she cared about, people who cared about her, but finally she had decided it would be safer—maybe for them as well as for her—if no one knew anything. Coming to terms with the reality that her friends would be frantic with worry had actually been harder than making the decision to change her identity.
Thinking about her mom had been worse even than the long, lonely months she’d spent in hiding. Since her father’s death, they’d been exceptionally close. While she was making her way west she had tried once to let her mother know she was alive. She hadn’t dared risk anything as obvious as a birthday or Mother’s Day card in case someone was watching her mom’s mail, but she had mailed a blank “thinking of you” card, timed to arrive around her mom’s anniversary. She had no idea if her mother had known it was from her.
“They must think I’m dead,” she said softly. It was an old guilt, one she’d lived with a long time.
“Not all of them.”
He was still facing the open doorway, although the red dots that were the taillights of Quarrels’s truck had long since disappeared. The sound of its motor had also died away, leaving the darkness empty and silent. Except for the two of them.
“How do you know?” she asked.
He turned to face her, positioning himself, deliberately she believed, so that the moonlight slanting in through the open door behind him would illuminate her features and keep his shadowed.
“There were a couple of versions about why you left Washington. Only one of them dealt with the possibility of your demise.”
When he didn’t go on, it seemed he was waiting for a response, so she obliged. “And the other version?”
She genuinely wanted to know. The first few days there had been nothing in the papers, because it had taken a while for her absence to be noticed.
And then, as she’d traveled, she hadn’t dared to call attention to herself. Not even by taking so small a risk as that involved in asking for the East Coast papers, which hadn’t been readily available in those hole-in-the-wall bus stops she’d frequented.
Since she’d been here, of course, she’d had no way of keeping track of what was happening in Washington. Who she had been and what she had done there had become completely foreign to the world she now inhabited. A distant memory.
Instead of answering her question, Michael asked another she didn’t understand.
“Did being Gettys’s intern pay well?”
The note she hadn’t liked was back in his voice. Mockery?
“I guess that depends on your perspective.”
“Some of the Washington papers suggested you might have had plans to make a lot of money. Over and above your salary.”
…a lot of money. Over and above your salary.
For a few seconds she had no idea what he meant. Not until she remembered her uneasiness with the senator’s behavior.
“I wasn’t planning on becoming the next Mrs. Gettys, if that’s what they implied.”
“Not the Mrs. at least. The senator’s reputed to have an appreciation for women, especially beautiful ones who work for him. The younger they are, the better.”
In other circumstances that might have been construed as a compliment. His tone kept her from believing he meant it as one.
“I wasn’t planning to become his mistress either,” she said coldly, “if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I didn’t think people called it that these days. A mistress. Of course, you’d be more familiar with the terminology than I would.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, her temper beginning to flare.
“Did you have tapes of the senator himself? Or maybe just a few colleagues he wanted to control?”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
She kept her voice low because her growing anger might make it strident. Neither of them could afford to attract attention to this clandestine meeting. It seemed he should be as conscious of that as she was.
“And you still claim you left Washington because you were attacked?”
“I told you what happened.”
“Attacked because you saw a fax dealing with this property. A sheep farm.”
“I don’t know it was because of that,” she said evenly. “It’s the only thing I can think of that had made someone angry with me. An anger way out of proportion to what happened.”
“I guess that’s what bothers me,” he said.
“Look—”
“Why would Gettys want to kill you for seeing a fax that related to this ranch?”
“Maybe if we can figure out what’s going on here—”
“Or maybe someone was angry about something else you were doing,” he interrupted her again. “Could that be it?”
She felt as if she were talking to a different person from the man who’d promised to help her. A man who had claimed to be on the side of the angels.
Maybe this was some kind of test. An interrogation technique designed to make her defend her story. She was willing to do that. She had nothing to hide.
“I told you that the incident with Gettys was the only thing I could think of,” she said, trying to sound patient and cooperative. “I hadn’t made anyone else angry that I was aware of. I tried never to give anyone a reason to be upset with me.”
She had always done more than was required of her. She had been discreet and loyal. Her only sin, if there had been one, w
as in having too much ambition.
The sin of the angels. One of her English teachers had used that phrase. In relation to Paradise Lost, maybe? She couldn’t remember the exact context, but she did remember the words.
And they were appropriate, she thought bitterly. She had gone to Washington with such grandiose dreams. Instead—
“How about your clients?” Michael asked. “Ever make one of them angry? By threatening them maybe?”
“My…clients?” she repeated, honestly bewildered.
“It might amuse you to know that I believed you this afternoon. They probably did, too. Maybe even Gettys. You really are very good.”
This is insane. He’s insane.
That thought, when it came, caused everything to fall into place. All that secret agent crap. How he was willing to help her without knowing anything about her. Even the part about being on the side of the angels.
Like an idiot, she had bought into all of it. So damn desperate to have someone to trust. Lonely and frightened enough to reveal herself to the first lunatic who didn’t look or act like one.
After months spent at this place, she had thought she had a pretty good idea about the lunatic profile. Obviously she’d been wrong. Maybe dead wrong.
In spite of the danger, the primary emotion she felt as this played out wasn’t fear, but a sickening disappointment. Disappointment in him. With who and what she’d thought he was.
Without responding to the last of that increasingly bizarre list of accusations, she tried to push past Michael Wellesley—or whatever the hell his name was—to get through the door. Even if Quarrels were still roaming around, running into him would be better than this.
Michael didn’t move. Instead, he put his arm across the doorway, blocking her exit. Running up against it, she discovered that she’d been right about the warmth of bare skin.
“Running away again, Nicki?”
His voice was as soft as when he’d whispered those hurried instructions in her ear. His breath feathered against her cheek, as pleasant as the fragrance of his body.
This close to him, whatever had made her trust him this afternoon drew her again, made her want to believe that he was everything he’d said he was.
“I told you the truth. I don’t know what you’re talking about. All that about clients and threats. While I was in Washington I worked for Senator Gettys. That’s all I did.”
“Just the good little intern.”
“Not little. Not by anyone’s standards. But I was very good at what I did. Maybe that’s what Gettys was afraid of.”
“Afraid of how good you were.”
It was not a question, and the mockery was back.
She put both hands on his arm, feeling the rigid muscle beneath her palms. She pushed against it as hard as she could, trying to force her way by him.
She couldn’t budge it. As she’d reminded him, she wasn’t small. After the past few months of hard physical labor, she certainly wasn’t weak. Yet she was getting nowhere.
Frustrated and furious, finally feeling the first stirrings of real fear, she demanded, “Let me go, damn you, or I swear I’ll start screaming.”
As soon as the words were out, she was ashamed of having said them. It was such a damn woman thing to say. It would serve her right if he laughed at her.
“Scream away,” he said, calling that ridiculous bluff. “That should get Quarrels back here in a hurry.”
The amusement she’d expected was in his voice, even if he hadn’t laughed. She opened her mouth, without, of course, having any intention of screaming. She had far more to lose than he did if she were found here.
Before she could draw breath to fuel another idiotic threat, his head lowered, tilting at exactly the right angle to allow his mouth to settle over hers. Her lips had already been parted when his tongue invaded, hard and demanding.
There was nothing of the sweet, tentative exploration of a normal first kiss. This was insistent. Aggressive.
For a second or two, the shock of what he was doing held her motionless, unable to protest. As soon as that paralysis broke, she tried to pull her head back to escape the expert assault of his mouth.
His right hand, the one that wasn’t occupied with blocking the door, locked around the back of her neck, holding her as his tongue continued to ravage. Her left hand lifted to his shoulder as she attempted to push him away.
He turned her instead, pressing her into the wall next to the doorway. The maneuver had been as quick as the one he’d used this afternoon to take her knife away. And just as practiced. The heat and strength of his body shocked her.
The arm that had guarded the opening was behind her now, his fingers, broad and hard, splayed over her lower spine. She continued to struggle. Using her hands, which were caught between their bodies, she pushed against his chest. And had as little success as when she had tried to break his hold across the door.
She felt his left hand slip downward, lifting her lower body. And then he bent his knees, lowering his own to meet it. She fought the surge of feeling that shivered through her at the intimate contact.
She had been wrong about his lack of clothing, she realized. At some time he’d slipped on the jeans he’d worn earlier. He hadn’t bothered to zip them, but at least he was partially clothed.
Despite the jeans, there was no doubt about the strength of his arousal. He might be trying to intimidate her, but he couldn’t hide his body’s response.
He released her neck, the hand that had held it joining the other to cup under her buttocks, bringing her body into an even more intimate contact with his. Anger exploded in her brain.
She couldn’t afford to scream for help, and he knew it. She had told him her secret, and now he was taking advantage of the fact that it would be far more dangerous for her to reveal that she was a woman.
She brought her arms straight up, jerking her head to the side. Since his fingers were no longer wrapped around her neck, she was able to free her mouth from the domination of his.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.
Something, the sheer anger and bewilderment in her voice perhaps, or maybe the unexpected movement, stopped him. They were still eye-to-eye, their noses almost touching, but he made no move to put his lips over hers again.
He simply looked at her. As she watched, his face hardened, his mouth settling into a thin, straight line. After a moment he stepped back, releasing her.
She took a quick, hiccupping breath, waiting for whatever came next. Based on the speed of his reflexes, she knew that if she tried to cut for the door, he would catch her.
Catch her and then what? She couldn’t be sure.
“What are you?”
His voice, whispering from the darkness, had been wiped clean of inflection. Slowly she shook her head, her eyes holding his in the moonlight from the open door.
What are you? Not who, but what.
Insane, she thought again, drawing another short, sobbing breath. She hadn’t realized until then how long it had been since she’d remembered to breathe. She had forgotten everything but the feel of his mouth and his body moving against hers. Even now, even after what he’d done, her responses to that left her confused and unsettled.
“Why did you do that?”
Stupid question, she thought. He had done it because he was a man. Because he could. And yet somehow, that was too simple an answer for what had just happened. Too pat.
“To see what it’s like.”
“To kiss someone?”
“Someone like you. I probably couldn’t have afforded you on my salary.”
Clients. Afforded. Someone like you. The phrases were beginning to make some sort of twisted sense, although not in any relation to who she was. What are you? he had asked. Apparently he had already decided.
“You couldn’t afford me on any salary,” she said.
Coldly furious and humiliated, she waited for him to retaliate. Instead, as the silence stretched, he took another step b
ack.
“Get out.”
While you can. He didn’t say it, but that’s what she heard. Without bothering to try for a dignified exit, she turned and stumbled down the step. By the time she hit the ground, she was running.
Chapter Nine
He’d never manhandled a woman in his life. Until last night.
Sickened by the memory, Michael turned on the narrow, uncomfortable cot to face the windows. Although he had closed the blinds before he’d gone back to bed, sunlight streamed in between their narrow plastic slats, dimly lighting the room.
Thank God it was Sunday. He wasn’t sure he could have managed if he’d had to get back on a horse today. Or stoop a few hundred times to take blood samples. Actually, he wasn’t totally convinced he was up to getting out of bed. He found it reassuring to know he didn’t have to.
Of course, he would have to at some time. Just as he would eventually have to face Nicola Carson. If for no other reason than to reassure her that whatever she’d done, and whatever he’d done, his offer of help was still on the table.
Whatever she’d done…
Why the hell did it bother him so much that a woman he barely knew wasn’t as pure as the driven snow? Neither was he. Some of the things he’d been involved in with the agency would horrify Nicki Carson. And rightfully so. In comparison, all she’d done—
He blocked that thought, closing his mind to the images it created by trying to think of something else. Anything else.
The problem was that no matter what he started thinking about, he always ending up remembering what had happened between them. And he couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t put it out of his head.
Guilt, obviously. But there were other dimensions to what he was feeling. Things that had made him toss and turn restlessly long after Nicki left. Things that had awakened him this morning with a sense of regret and an aching head, the kind reminiscent of a bad hangover.
Maybe that’s exactly what this was, he thought. Some kind of emotional hangover.