by Lisa Jackson
“What now?”
“You should go to a hospital, then press charges against Roy at the police station,” she said flatly, still keeping her distance.
“Oh, sure. Like the cops would believe me.”
“You had witnesses.”
“Who will all say I started the fight, provoked Roy into it.”
“I won’t,” she whispered, biting her lower lip. “I was there, Jackson. I know what happened.”
“Our words against the son of Thomas Fitzpatrick. Do you know who the chief of police in Gold Creek is?” he asked, and Rachelle’s heart did a nosedive. “So you do. Vern Kyllo. Thomas Fitzpatrick helped elect him. Vern’s Thomas’s wife’s cousin or something like that. Anyway, there’s no way Chief Kyllo is going to let anything happen to Roy.”
“But Roy attacked you and me!”
Jackson shot her a look that called her a fool. “You’re going to stand up to the Fitzpatricks?”
“Yes!”
He smiled and shook his head. “Then you’ll lose.”
“Someone’s got to stand up to them.”
“I just wouldn’t want to see you hurt.” His gaze touched hers, and for a crazy second her heart took flight. Her face was suddenly hot. “I’ve got a bone to pick with Roy. You don’t—”
“I do after tonight!”
“I know, but if you start yelling ‘attempted rape,’ you’ll be in for a lot of trouble.”
“You mean no one will believe me.”
His gaze touched hers. “It’ll be tough.”
“But you believe me, don’t you?” Suddenly it was important that Jackson know the truth.
“Yeah, but I’m the only person in this damn town who sees Roy for what he is.” He reached forward and touched her hand. “I’m sorry for that crack earlier—I know you didn’t tease Fitzpatrick into attacking you.” His fingers were warm and gentle. “I was just angry. It bothers me that you were with him.”
“It does?” She bit her lip, her heart pounding as his fingers linked with hers.
“You’re better than Roy, Rachelle. Better than the whole lot of Fitzpatricks. Don’t let any of them get to you.”
“I—I won’t,” she said as he dropped her hand.
Her heart was thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. “I—I’ll go look for something to clean up your leg,” she said, suddenly needing air.
Jackson flopped back on the couch, and for the first time she noticed that the water on his face wasn’t all raindrops. There was sweat beading against his upper lip and forehead and his teeth were clenched tight. Against pain. He’d only been keeping up a good front for her.
Using candlelight as her guide, she explored the downstairs, found a bathroom off the kitchen and discovered not only scissors, iodine and cotton balls, but gauze and tape, as well. She didn’t know the first thing about binding wounds and warding off infection and whether or not a person would need stitches, but decided to be prepared for anything.
However, nothing could have readied her for the sight of Jackson lying on his back, eyes closed, firelight playing upon his bare chest, arms and legs. Black, straight lashes touched his hard-edged cheekbones and his wet hair was drying in a thick tangled thatch that fell over his forehead. The corners of the room were in shadow, and the room smelled of burning cedar and baking leather. Warm. Cozy. The sound of rain pelting the windows and wind rattling old shutters only added to the feeling of home. For the first time that night she felt safe.
Which was ridiculous, considering the circumstances.
She was alone, cut off from the world with the sexiest boy she’d ever met and all her emotions were on edge—tangled and confused. Her pulse was out of control when he opened one eye and slid his gaze her way.
“I’m not much of a nurse,” she said.
“Probably better than I am.”
“There’s no water,” she said, “but I suppose that the iodine will do.”
Nervous couldn’t begin to describe how she felt as she balanced on the edge of the couch, turned slightly and, with visibly shaking fingers, swabbed the cut with the dark liquid that turned yellow against Jackson’s skin. He sucked in a swift breath and caught her wrist between steely fingers.
“Damn it, woman! What’re you trying to do, burn a hole clean through me?”
“Of course it burns. That’s how you know it’s working,” she replied, though she was only repeating her grandmother’s words from long ago.
“Then it’s working like crazy.” He let go of her wrist. “Least you could’ve done is give me a bullet to bite or something.”
She almost laughed. Except she had to touch him again. Carefully she washed the cut again. Jackson flinched and ground his teeth together, his muscles tightening reflexively, but he didn’t try to stop her.
The gash began to ooze more blood. Rachelle’s stomach roiled. “I don’t think this is working.”
“Sure it is,” he assured her through gritted teeth. “Just finish cleaning it and wrap the damned thing up.”
“You need a doctor.”
“Not when I’ve got you, Florence Nightingale.”
She caught his eye and knew that he was trying to lighten the mood. “Give me a break,” she muttered, but started wrapping gauze around a muscular leg covered with tanned skin and surprisingly soft black hair. She tried not to notice that her heart was thundering, that her insides had seemed to melt or that the little bit of heat climbing up her neck had seemed to start in a deep part of her that heretofore had been unexplored. She concentrated on her work, closing the skin and stopping the flow of blood, and refused to let her eyes wander upward past the slash that started on his thigh to his shorts and what lay beneath the thin fabric.
Being here alone with him was madness. She bandaged his shoulder, but the wound wasn’t as deep as that on his leg. “We have to find a way out of here,” she said. “You really do need a doctor.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Will you?” She tried to smile, but couldn’t. “I don’t know if, after tonight, either one of us will ever be okay again,” she said, repeating the sentiments he’d expressed earlier. When he didn’t reply, she moved off the couch and threw another chunk of wood onto the fire.
She started to explore a bit then, feeling his gaze upon her as she poked into a bookcase that covered one wall. Below the rows and rows of volumes were cupboard doors, and within the cupboard was an old quilt, hand-stitched and lovingly worn in places. “Just what you need,” she said, withdrawing the blanket and shaking out its neat folds. “Voilà. Comfort and modesty all in one fell swoop.” With a flourish, she snapped the comforter in the air and let it drift down over the couch to cover Jackson’s long body.
“Does it bother you?”
“What?”
“The fact that I’m undressed.”
“What do you think?” She couldn’t even look at him then; the conversation was far too intimate.
“Haven’t you ever seen your brothers—”
“Don’t have any. Just one sister.”
“Well, the brother of a friend?”
“No.”
He studied her long and hard, as if trying to unravel a mystery that surrounded her. It was foolish of course. She wasn’t mysterious, nor particularly interesting for that matter, and yet he stared at her as if she were the most fascinating creature on earth.
“Tell me about Rachelle Tremont,” he suggested.
“Not much to tell.”
“Well…tell me about yourself, anyway. What else have we got to do?”
The question stopped her cold. It implied that they had time, and lots of it, alone together. It implied that anything else they might consider would only get them in trouble. It
implied that they were somehow bound together, obligated to share of themselves, and yet she couldn’t imagine sharing only part of herself with this boy. This man. This male.
As she stood up, she glanced down at him, at his shoulders rising above the hem of patchwork pieces. “I should leave, Jackson. Try to get to town and find you a doctor.”
“I don’t want a doctor.”
“You need one.”
“No way.”
She sat down on the edge of the couch, looking at him, wondering what it would be like to kiss him, and her gaze locked with his for a heart-stopping instant. The look was electric, and she glanced quickly away, aware of heat climbing up her neck.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice husky.
“No, but considering…” She shrugged. “I’m all right.” She was so aware of Jackson that she tingled. “Thanks…thanks for saving me.”
“No big deal—”
“It was!” She bit her lip then, surprised at her vehemence, and when she slid a glance his way, he was studying her face.
“I—I’m not sure—we should stay here.”
“Neither am I,” he admitted, his hand finding hers. His fingers were warm as they laced through hers. Still watching her, he tugged gently, silently insisting that she get closer to him. She knew she shouldn’t. That she should resist. He was too dangerous. Too sexy. And yet her legs moved willingly to the edge of the couch and she didn’t stop him from pulling her closer, so that she was sitting, half lying with him.
As she lowered herself, his hands moved, surrounding her waist, drawing her closer. He stared up at her with the firelight catching in his golden-brown eyes and the throb of his pulse visible in his throat.
One hand held the back of her neck, dragging her head forward until his lips were only inches from hers, his breath mingling with her own. She felt poised on the brink of an emotional river that promised to change her life forever. Not really understanding what was expected of her, and yet wanting to find out, she felt herself let go and dive into the current as his lips brushed gently over hers.
Her heart stopped and the noises of the night—the steady patter of rain, the tick of the clock, the hiss of the fire—faded into some dreamy corner of her mind. The kiss was slow and sensual, and though only their lips touched, the feeling seemed to reach every point in her body.
She felt his breath mingle with hers as his hands twined in her hair. Low and husky, his voice whispered a soft groan and she responded in kind. He drew her closer still until her breasts were flat against his bare chest and his tongue insistently prodded her teeth apart.
Willingly she accepted him. Never had she wanted to be kissed so thoroughly, never had she felt such passion. Eager to learn, quivering as his fingers brushed the bare skin at her throat, she kissed him with the same hunger she felt shudder through him.
“This is dangerous,” he said, but didn’t release her.
“I know.” She licked her tingling lips nervously, and he groaned again.
“I think we should stop.”
“I do, too,” she replied, but didn’t mean the words. Thoughts of pregnancy skittered through her mind, but were quickly forgotten when his fingers lowered, through the long strands of her hair to her back and he gently eased her forward until he could bury his face between her breasts. Her ripped blouse gave him easy entrance, and his breath was warm and wet against her skin.
She felt on fire and instinctively she arched closer, quivering when his tongue touched her flesh, wanting more of this delicious torture. An ache, deep and hot, burned between her legs as his lips slid downward, opening the flaps that had been her blouse and touching the lace of her bra.
His tongue delved beneath the sculpted edge and her nipple puckered in expectation. “You’re beautiful, so, so beautiful,” he said, shoving her blouse open and lowering the one silky strap.
Rachelle kissed the top of his head, wanting so much more.
She trembled as the strap was pulled over her arm and her breast, unbound, spilled into his waiting mouth. A shiver ripped through her as he began to suck and she moved against him, ecstasy and desire running like lava through her veins.
He cupped her buttocks and she felt a short second of panic before desire, like a living, breathing animal, turned panic into need. While he suckled and nipped at her breast, his hands moved downward, beneath her skirt to inch upward again, his flesh against hers.
“Stop me,” he said, his eyes glazed as he stared up at her. “Stop me if this isn’t what you want.”
She was embarrassed, but couldn’t control her wayward tongue. “I—I—uh, don’t want to stop.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
She reached down and held his face between her hands. “I’ve never felt like this before. Never. I don’t know if I can stop.”
He grabbed her hands, his fingers biting into her wrists. “For God’s sake, Rachelle, you were nearly raped tonight. I have no right to ask you to—”
“What happened with Roy has nothing to do with this,” she replied, surprised that he would compare the ugly scene with Roy to this tender, warm moment.
He stared up at her and clenched his teeth together as she shifted her weight. His eyes were tortured. “Too much has already happened tonight. I can’t do this to you.”
“Just kiss me,” she said, knowing she was inviting trouble, but unable to stop. A walk on the wild side? Wasn’t that what she wanted? But this—?
“Rachelle—no—”
She lowered her face to his and slowly drew his lower lip into her mouth. He clenched his jaw. She moved, and her bare breast rubbed against the hair of his chest.
With a groan, he buried his face in her abdomen and she bucked against him.
Jackson’s control burst and he was kissing her again. His lips, wet and anxious, covered her bare skin with eager kisses. His tongue, a wild thing, licked and played, and she was moaning in his arms, consumed with an ache so painful, she only wanted him to fill it.
Her thoughts were blurred, the flame within her so hot that she knew nothing aside from the feel of his skin against hers. He was hard where she was soft, he was hot and sweating as was she and her clothes seemed to fall away effortlessly as he kissed her and whispered words that hinted of love.
Rachelle closed her eyes and let her hands explore every inch of his maleness. From his rock-hard shoulders to the scale of his ribs, she felt him. He kissed her eyes and throat and sucked from her breasts as if she were offering sweet nectar and when he, suddenly oblivious to pain, rolled over her so that she lay beneath him, she felt no fear. He parted her legs and hovered above her.
Only when he looked down and saw her completely naked did he hesitate. “This is wrong,” he whispered.
“It feels right,” she said, swallowing against a sudden premonition that what was happening could never be undone. That he didn’t love her, nor she love him. That she was a stupid teenager experimenting with something that could burn her forever.
Swearing at himself, he thrust into her and she cried out from the pain that seared between her legs. She flexed but he didn’t stop. He moved within her, gently at first until once again the doubts were chased away and all that she felt was the swell of him in her, the calluses of his hands stroking her breasts, the fire that ravaged them both. His strokes deepened and came faster and Rachelle moved with him, wanting more of him, knowing in her heart that nothing that felt so beautiful could be wrong. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips arching up to meet his until, like an earthquake, a tremor rocked through her and she cried out.
He stiffened and threw back his head in a primal cry. As he fell against her, he tangled his hands in her hair and whispered her name over and over. She seemed to glide, like a feather on the w
ind, sinking slowly back to earth. She was breathing hard, but the soothing waters of afterglow wrapped around her as tightly as the frayed quilt and Jackson nestled beside her, holding her close, resting her head in the crook of his neck, telling her that she was like no other woman on earth. To her horror, a sob thickened her throat and tears formed in the corner of her eyes.
She didn’t regret their lovemaking, oh, no, but she did cry—for something lost and something gained.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER HOURS OF MAKING LOVE in the candlelight, Rachelle fell asleep in Jackson’s arms, certain that their love—for that’s what she told herself the emotions she was feeling had to be—would last forever. Midway through the night, she felt Jackson slip away from her, but only for a while. Soon he was back beside her, his skin cool, his hair smelling of pine trees, his lips pressing softly against her nape. She wrapped her arms around him and they slept, legs and arms entwined, one of his hands cupping her breast.
She didn’t think of the morning or the problems they would face.
But those problems were worse than she imagined. She was still sleeping soundly when a loud banging against the door dragged her into consciousness.
“Moore?” A male voice boomed through the house.
Rachelle’s eyes flew open. She was disoriented for a second and the room unfamiliar.
Jackson levered up on one elbow, his bare muscles tense.
She was confused. “Wha—”
Silently he placed a warning finger against her lips, cautioning her not to cry out. His eyes were dark as he slid off the couch and snatched his jeans from the floor.
The voice thundered again. “We know you’re in there. Sheriff’s department. Open up.”
Rachelle felt instantly cold all over. The sheriff’s department? Here? Searching for them? Panic and guilt tore through her. Had her mother called the police and hysterically claimed that her child had run away or been kidnapped? But how had the police tracked them down here?