by Lisa Jackson
“Distant. Secretive.” She paused at the door and frowned. “Nate and I have always done our own things. We don’t get into each other’s lives too much, probably because we’ve both been overscrutinized by the press and the police, or whatever. And he’s always taken care of the animals first, even during all of this, whatever it is.”
“But…” Travis urged.
“But something’s not right. Definitely not right.” She hazarded a glance at him. “Nothing seems to be these days.”
“I know.” They stood for a second as they reached the darkened porch. Shannon stared up at him, looked into eyes silvery blue with a bit of moon glow.
His gaze shifted to her mouth.
She swept in a breath as he suddenly bent his head and brushed the side of her cheek with his lips.
Her heart nearly cracked at the tenderness of it all.
“You’d better get some sleep,” he said, warm breath brushing across her skin.
“What about you?”
“I thought I’d crash here. On your couch.”
“Again you think I need babysitting?”
A slash of white showed in the darkness as he grinned. “I think I do.”
She almost laughed, despite everything else, and it felt good. “I don’t think you’d ever need a sitter, cowboy,” she said. To her surprise, he drew her into the circle of his arms, pulled her tight against him and rested his chin on the top of her head.
“Oh, darlin’,” he whispered thickly, “if you only knew.”
She heard the beating of his heart, echoed by her own and started to pull away, only to have his arms tighten around her. It was as if he’d been waging a silent emotional battle and had finally, unwillingly, given in.
“Oh, hell,” he growled, then captured her mouth with the pressure of his own. Gone was the tentative touch of his body to hers. His hands twined in her hair and he held her close, so close she could barely breathe. Hungry lips melded to hers.
She kissed him back. Eagerly. Without a thought to anything but the persistent pressure of his mouth against hers and the feel of his body. Hard. Sinewy. All male. She didn’t think where this might lead, just that right now, this very instant, she needed to be wanted, to be touched, to be kissed.
To forget.
Her fingers clutched his shirt and she opened her mouth to the invasion of his tongue. Her mind spun. Pure, wanton fantasy became reality until she heard a sharp, demanding bark from the other side of the door.
Groaning, she pulled her head away from his. “Khan,” she said.
Travis chuckled. “Never have I taken a backseat to a dog,” he said, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“If you hang around me, you’d better get used to it.”
His hands dropped and she turned, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of the situation, then unlocked the door. Khan bounded through the door. He wiggled and wormed through her legs, barking happily.
“Yeah, you’re spectacular,” she said. “We all know it.”
The dog insisted on attention from Travis, too, and only after having been petted and scratched, talked to and praised, did he bound off the porch to find a bush or fencepost on which to relieve himself.
“Isn’t he great?” she teased.
“The best.”
So the cowboy did have a sense of humor. Even in the face of such a ghastly situation. Which was good. Shannon was a firm believer that black humor was better than no humor at all.
From inside the house, the puppy yipped. “Duty calls,” Shannon said and walked into the house, snapping on lights, pushing the horror of the night into a far corner of her mind. She wouldn’t let herself dwell on that last image of Oliver, nor would she let the desperate words of the tape she’d received, the pleas for her to help from the child she’d never met, run through her mind. Not right now. There was time enough for that later.
“Hey, Marilyn, how’re you?” she asked, reaching into the pen and picking up the soft little puppy. Her face was washed over and over again. “Yeah, yeah, I missed you, too. Soooo much.” Shannon spent the next fifteen minutes dealing with the puppy, feeding her, holding her, talking to her and walking her outside.
Travis rummaged in a cupboard that served as Shannon’s liquor cabinet and fixed them each a stiff drink.
The puppy was wide awake, ready to be up for hours. Or so she thought. “I know, now you’re all hyped up, right?” Shannon said, kissing Marilyn’s soft little head. “Wrong.” She played with the two dogs for a few more minutes. Once they were both calmer, she straightened and gratefully accepted the drink, a short glass with some kind of amber liquor poured over ice cubes.
“Scotch,” Travis said and they touched the rims of their glasses together. “To…better days.”
“And nights.”
“And finding our daughter.”
There it was. Right out in the open. The simple fact that they shared parentage of a missing girl.
“Yes. To finding Dani.” Shannon’s throat tightened and she nodded, fighting sudden tears. Staring at Travis over the rim of her glass, she took an experimental sip.
Despite the ice, the liquor burned a warm trail down her throat, heating her blood, easing the tension that had become her constant companion the past few days. She should have felt uncomfortable with him, she supposed, but didn’t. When she finished her drink, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to leave her glass in the sink, stand on her tiptoes and gently scrape her lips over his. “Thanks.”
“For?”
She cocked her head. “Oh, you know.”
“Nope.”
“Being here. I, um, usually don’t worry about being alone. In fact, I prefer it, but tonight, with all that’s gone on…” She flipped a palm into the air. “…it’s just nice that you’re here.”
“You know, I feel the same way,” he admitted, then looked away as if suddenly embarrassed. “I know damned well that the smart thing for me to do is call one of your brothers or friends or someone else to stay here with you. I should pack it in and go back to the motel.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself, then looked back at her. “But I don’t want to.”
“And I don’t want you to.”
She suddenly swallowed hard. Felt incredibly vulnerable. Biting her lip, she heard him mutter something under his breath. “Damn it, woman,” he growled, one strong arm slipping around her waist to pull her tight against him. His mouth slanted over hers and he kissed her hard, with an urgency that made her tremble. Everything about him was tough. Strained. Tense. Her knees threatened to give way and she could scarcely breathe, couldn’t think, didn’t care.
It had been so long since she’d been with a man, so very long, and this man, though he was the worst possible choice, was the one she wanted. Desperately.
She closed her eyes as he kissed her temple and sighed against her ear. “What is it about you?” he whispered before his lips touched her eyelids.
Something inside of her cracked.
Emotions she’d dammed rushed through.
Dear God, she wanted him, wanted to get lost in him, in sex, in the fusing of two live bodies.
His lips found hers again. One of his hands pressed flat against her spine, the other caressed her neck, thumb stroking her throat, fingers wrapped around her nape.
His breathing was rough and shallow, and pressed against him, she felt his erection, pushing against his jeans, insistent against her.
“Oh, lady,” he said, holding her close. For a heartbeat she thought he might tell her that this was a mistake, that they were losing their heads, that they couldn’t be distracted. Crushed, she opened her mouth to speak just as he lifted her off her feet, looked over his shoulder and, holding her close, ordered, “Stay!” to the dog.
Khan didn’t move a muscle.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered, her heart pounding in expectation, one hand caught behind his neck. “He doesn’t pay attention to anyone but me.”
�
��I’ve got a way with animals.” Travis’s smile was a wicked slash of white. With a slap of one hand he cut the lights, then kicked the door to the kitchen closed. Her boots fell off, one at a time, clattering to the floor as he mounted the stairs, carrying her upward to a room where she’d never made love, never felt a man’s presence. Since claiming and renovating the upstairs after Ryan’s death, not once had she allowed a man to step into her private sanctuary.
Until now.
Her throat worked as they tumbled onto her bed and she felt a little jar of pain from her ribs. He began kissing her again and the pain disappeared, chased away by a new hot emotion, a yearning that began deep within. His mouth was warm and sensual, touching and tasting of her, causing her flesh to chill and heat at the same time.
She kissed him eagerly, tasting the salt of his skin and smelling a musky blend of aftershave and smoke that had lingered. Anxiously her fingers dipped beneath his collar, touching hard, sinewy flesh.
His tongue slid between her lips, pressing against her teeth. She moaned, opening her mouth to him, feeling the tip of his tongue touch her own, flicking and teasing, causing desire to flow through her veins.
He reached beneath her shirt, a finger tracing the edge of her jeans where the waistband hugged her hips. Her nerve endings screamed, and when his fingertips slid beneath the fabric, skimming the top of her hips, she squirmed to get closer, yanked his shirt over his head, ran her hands down the sweaty, sinewy strength of his shoulders and arms.
He was so male.
So sleek.
So hard.
So determined.
And she wanted him.
He stared down at her, then kissed her again, his midnight blue gaze locked with hers as he jerked on the waistband of her jeans. The zipper gave way in an eager, expectant hiss.
She was breathing fast and hard, desire building, fires stoked. Both his hands forced their way between her skin and the denim, touching, probing, one set of fingers sliding down her abdomen beneath the thin barrier of her panties, the other hand lightly skimming her buttocks, making her wriggle.
“Ooh.” Heat oozed within her. “Ooh…oh, Travis,” she cried.
Still kissing her, he slid his finger into her cleft, into the moistness. She gasped, bucked up and he applied more pressure, widening her, making her ready. His other hand flattened over her buttocks, holding her in place as he stroked her, touching deep inside, causing her to gasp in the back of her throat. “Oh, God,” she cried, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he kept up his ministrations, his knee now separating her thighs, his hand still working its magic.
It was impossible to take a breath, to think of anything but that one pulsing, needy spot and the way he was touching her, salving her while at the same time she wanted more, so much more. Her heart was beating wildly, her blood pumping white-hot through her veins, her pulse skyrocketing. The more he touched her, the more she wanted, the more she writhed. Sweat soaked her skin and she felt that at any second she might explode. Hotter. Faster. Wilder. In a blinding instant she convulsed, crying out, clinging to him, her mind splintering.
Slowly Shannon exhaled her pent-up breath. She opened her eyes to stare into his before falling back onto the bed, drenched in sweat, her breath raspy, her blood tingling in her veins.
As her breathing slowed, she flung one arm over her forehead. “For the love of God,” she said, “for the love of God.” She glanced at him and smiled. “I think maybe you’ve done this before.”
He laughed then, his own breath uneven. “Maybe a time or two.”
“Yeah…I’ll bet. Wow.” She sighed. “Wow.”
He stretched out beside her, levering up on an elbow, a half-smile visible in the darkness. She wrapped one hand around his neck. “Come here, you,” she whispered. “Two can play at this game.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“Then game on, darlin’,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Game on.”
She couldn’t resist. Bit her lower lip. Touching his cheek, she slowly dragged one finger down his jaw, then lower still along his neck, tracing an imaginary line. “Tell me if I do anything that bothers you,” she said, and he laughed again.
“Try.”
“Hmmm.” She slid her finger lower, down the hard muscles of his chest, along a washboard of abdominal muscles while following a fine, dark arrow of hair that dipped beneath his jeans. She hooked the finger over the waistband, feeling his abdomen retract, offering her further access.
“I think it’s your turn now,” she said, her breath fanning his chest as she stared up at him through the fringe of her lashes. He sucked in his breath as she tugged on his jeans, hearing the soft pop, pop, pop as the buttons gave way and his fly opened.
“Watch it, lady,” he warned, voice low. “You’re playing with fire.”
“You, too…” She pushed her hand into the opening of his fly, fingers scraping the muscles of his thighs. He rolled closer to her, his mouth pressing urgently against hers.
Kissing.
Touching.
Caressing.
Her hands moved naturally. Feeling his hardness, tracing the length of his shaft, her breathing irregular as she wrapped a hand around him and cupped his buttocks.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
She started working his jeans down his legs but he was impatient and with a groan rolled away, quickly kicking off his Levi’s. And then he was lying naked against her. Long, muscular thighs rubbing against her. He was hard, taut, his muscles gleaming with sweat, his manhood hard and ready.
Her breath caught in the back of her throat.
He stared down at her, leaned over and kissed first one breast, then the other. He suckled eagerly, hungrily, his mouth warm and wet, his teeth and tongue skimming over her flesh. Her mind closed to anything but the pure animal want that was driving her, the need to be close to him, the ache that only he could salve.
Love me, she thought, but didn’t say the words.
She felt him shift, straddle her and then, his lips finding hers, he pushed her knees apart and came into her, thrusting deep, pushing hard, creating a swirling, consuming heat. Eyes locked with his, she met each of his hard thrusts with her own. Watched in fascination as he loved her, pushing harder, faster, harder, faster, harder, faster until with a gasp she convulsed again. Every muscle in her body jerked. She closed her eyes as her mind spun crazily. Travis stiffened, his cry ragged and hoarse. “Shannon,” he whispered and fell atop her.
Pain rocketed down her side. Sharp, biting pain. She bit back the urge to cry out, but he understood, rolled quickly to his side. “Sorry,” he said, pulling her close to him. “You okay?”
“Mmm.” The pain in her ribs subsided and even if it hadn’t, she wouldn’t have cared.
“You’re sure?” he asked, concern evident in his voice.
“Yes, cowboy…I’m sure.” Closing her eyes, she felt his breath on her hair. Snuggling nearer to him, wrapped in the smell of sex and musk, this man in her bed, she thought fleetingly that she’d never fall asleep, that she was too jangled, too keyed up.
She was wrong.
Exhaustion took its toll.
With Travis Settler’s arms wrapped firmly around her, she drifted off.
Chapter 27
The kid was gone!
He couldn’t believe it. Reeling through the tiny rooms, he searched, looking in every possible hiding place. Closets, cupboards, any little hidey hole. Nothing! He double-checked.
She was just plain gone.
He swore in frustration. No! This couldn’t happen. Not now!
The damned cabin was empty, the door to her room open wide.
Shit, hadn’t he locked it? Yeah, he remembered double-checking the latch, just as he always did. But somehow she’d wormed her way out of her prison.
“Fuck!” Despite all his best efforts that little bitch had managed to escape! Ungrateful kid. He stormed into her room again, shined his flashlight over the fl
oor and dirty blankets, then kicked a pillow across the room. The thin fabric gave way as the pillow crashed into the wall. Old feathers flew, making a damned blizzard of white down. “Son of a bitch!” He threw down the flashlight as a dull roar started somewhere in the back of his head, like the sound of the surf. Raking his hands through his hair, he felt the fury start deep inside, a white-hot heat boiling up until his vision narrowed into blackness. He couldn’t lose her! Couldn’t! She was the key to his entire plan.
The bait.
Rage burned in his gut.
Because of her, he couldn’t revel in the satisfaction of Oliver’s death. He should have had the luxury to savor the killing, to replay the moment Oliver, kneeling in the church and absorbed in a pathetic prayer, had felt the rough fibers of the rope slide around his neck, had turned his head quickly to meet his killer’s gaze.
There had been a moment of recognition.
Of understanding.
And acceptance.
Almost as if the would-be priest had expected to die.
Almost welcomed it.
The Beast sneered, remembering how he’d yanked on the noose, dragged a flailing, suddenly desperate-to-live man through the church. Choking, gasping, clawing at the thick rope surrounding his neck, Oliver had decided life was better than death.
Things had changed, though. Oliver had passed out before the Beast had hauled him down the stairs to the basement. Now he remembered carrying Oliver’s limp body down the rickety steps. Once in the basement, he’d dropped Oliver onto the floor. It had taken a few minutes to set the stage. He’d tossed the old rope over an exposed beam that had once been used to ring the church bells, then pulled Oliver to his feet, setting him on a folding chair below the beam. When Oliver finally awoke, he would see what was happening, watch in terror as the fire was lit into the form of a star missing a few spokes. Then he’d feel some kind of weird pain and look down to see his own blood drizzling to the floor to pool beneath the chair. Oliver would panic, meet the Beast’s eyes as the chair was kicked out from under him, and realize that his soul was going straight to hell. That was the plan.
But Oliver hadn’t reacted as he’d hoped. Hadn’t squirmed and flailed, hadn’t clawed at his neck again, nor scrabbled for his life. It was as if in the brief time he was unconscious, he’d found acceptance…even absolution.