He wanted to make love to her again. And again. He wanted to forget all the reasons he was there—Simon Tremont, Resurrection, and all the other failures in his life—and simply lose himself in her again. He wanted, for the next few hours, to forget about what he was and just be who he was: John Smith, a man with more sorrows than any woman deserved. A man who would give up a good part of his soul for a little more pleasure in her body. A man who would give up a part of his life for a little of the normalcy of hers.
The hell of it was, she would have let him. That shy little look of hers had been as much of an invitation as his blunt words last night—I want to take you to bed. If he had accepted, she would have taken him to her room, would have taken him to her bed. She would have satisfied his arousal and eased his hunger for intimacy.
But it would have been wrong. With the plans he had for her, making love to her now would be very wrong.
His muscles stiff and aching from tension he couldn’t control, he walked over to the entrance and gazed out at the street beyond. It was crowded this morning as people went about their everyday routines. What was life like for them, for people who worked regular jobs, who lived normal lives with families, responsibilities, and obligations? What was it like to be as ordinary as the parking valet waiting outside the door, as conventional as the cop standing on the street corner?
There had been a time when he had been almost ordinary, almost conventional, when he had worked regular jobs for regular people—eight-hour days, five-day weeks, and a paycheck twice a month. He had almost fit in with everyone else then, although he hadn’t had a family, hadn’t had anyone depending on him for anything. What he remembered most from that time was the unhappiness. Dissatisfaction. Being unable to find the things he’d wanted most out of life: escape. Peace. Redemption.
Now he had a highly successful career. He had more money than he could spend in a half dozen lifetimes. There were few constraints on him—no time clocks, no money worries, no dealing with incompetent bosses or difficult coworkers.
And still no escape, no peace, no redemption. He hadn’t stopped craving them. But he had accepted that he would never have them. He had accepted his life as it was. And then someone—that man—had stolen it from him.
With a sigh, he turned away from the doors and went back to the chair where he’d spent the last few hours waiting. He had seen the man claiming to be him come off the elevator and disappear into the restaurant for breakfast. He had seen him come out again less than an hour later, his entourage—minus Teryl—close on his heels. He had watched the man go upstairs, had waited for him to come down again, and had studied him as he stood only a dozen feet and a bed of thick ferns away. He had listened, catching most, though not all, of his conversation with Teryl.
We barely missed you.
The time has come to accept the recognition that’s rightfully mine. I’ve earned it.
It’s called talent, Teryl.
Oh, I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around. After all, I’m going to be famous.
Arrogant bastard. That was John’s recognition he was talking about, John’s talent, John’s fame. There was nothing about Simon Tremont’s career that that son of a bitch could rightfully lay claim to.
Except Resurrection. The most impressive work Teryl had ever read. He needed to see it. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to read what someone else had made of his life, of Tom’s and Janie’s lives. He didn’t want to find out, God help him, that someone else had done it better, but he had to know. He had to know just how talented this impostor was. He had to know just how much of his life this man had taken.
Getting a copy of the manuscript was one more favor he would have to ask of—would have to coerce from—Teryl. It was one more thing she would do for him, however unwillingly, because he wouldn’t—couldn’t—give her a choice. It was one more thing she would hold against him.
Across the lobby, the elevator came to a stop and she stepped off, and, at that moment, the only thing in the world he wanted her to hold against him was her body.
His choked-back laugh was bitter. Jesus, that was corny. He was in sorry shape when he could even think such a line.
She had pulled her hair back and clipped it off her neck. The dress was gone, folded away in the suitcase the bellman behind her carried; now she wore an outfit similar to last night’s—shorts, shirt, vest, and sandals. It should have looked casual as hell, but the shorts were pleated and cuffed and pin-striped white on khaki, the shirt tailored and crisp, the vest fitted and also pin-striped, khaki on white. She looked very neat, very pretty and feminine in spite—or perhaps because—of the clothes’ obvious masculine influence.
She smiled when she saw him, a sweet, welcoming smile that made him feel every bit the bastard. She was happy to see him, happy to be spending the day with him. She expected him to show her the sights, to share the last day of her fantasy vacation with her, and, before nine o’clock tonight, to deliver her safely to the airport.
By 9:00 P.M., he figured, they would be somewhere in Georgia or maybe even South Carolina. By 9:00 P.M., she would be afraid of him… or would hate him… or both.
It took her a few minutes to check out, took a few minutes more for the valet to retrieve his Blazer from the garage and deliver it to the main entrance. Teryl climbed into the front seat, glancing back as he placed her suitcase on the rear seat beside his own. Why didn’t the suitcase strike her as odd? he wondered as he circled around to the driver’s seat, climbed in, and closed the door, automatically hitting the lock button as he did so. She believed he was a businessman, an employee at the television station where Tremont’s interview had been taped yesterday. She believed he lived right here in New Orleans. So why didn’t she find it curious that he would keep a suitcase in his car?
“I really appreciate this,” she said, reaching for her seat belt after she watched him fasten his. He had learned seventeen years ago about wearing seat belts. “What are we going to do first?”
“How about breakfast?” He turned onto Canal Street and headed away from the hotel. “I know this little place. It’s not too far.”
“How about the Café du Monde?”
He forced himself to smile and hoped it bore some semblance of normalcy as he looked at her. “Everybody goes to the Café du Monde. I bet you had beignets there yesterday.”
She nodded. “If they hadn’t been busy—and I hadn’t been meeting Simon—I could have sat there all day and watched the people.”
“You’ll get to go there again,” he assured her. When this was all over and done with, he would compensate her for the inconvenience, for all the lies and the fear, for all the things he was doing and all the emotions he would be putting her through, and he was a generous man. Not that money made everything all right—he was living proof of that—but it could certainly help. “Just trust me on this.”
Tilting her head to one side, she studied him for a moment, then smiled. “Okay,” she agreed, and that was it. All he had to do was ask, and she would give.
God help her, she was naïve, he thought grimly, wrapping both hands around the steering wheel, focusing his gaze on the road ahead as he turned onto the access ramp that led to Interstate 10. It was no surprise that the married boyfriend she had mentioned last night had been able to fool her so successfully, no surprise that the man posing as Simon Tremont could also fool her.
It was no surprise that he was fooling her right now. She had been kidnapped, and she didn’t even know it.
As they drove, she chatted easily about the shopping she had done yesterday and the places she would like to go today, requiring little in response from him. He had no responses to give, no polite comments to make. All he had was tremendous guilt, tension, and uneasiness over what he’d done, over what he would do in the next few days.
Her voice rose and fell as she gazed out the windows on her side, on his, straight ahead, and occasionally behind them. She was curious about their surroundings, even though there was
nothing of much interest along this particular stretch of interstate. All the glamor of the city had been long since left behind.
His sister had once shared the same sort of unapologetic inquisitiveness… until she had been forced to do a lifetime of growing up in a few short hours. She had been so young—seventeen, just finishing up her freshman year in college and anticipating summer vacation. Then, on a hot June day, she had made the biggest mistake of her life—a mistake that Teryl had also just made: she had gotten into a car with John.
Janie had survived that trip, just barely. He hoped—prayed—Teryl’s chances were better.
By the time they started across Lake Pontchartrain, Teryl had at last fallen quiet. She had stopped looking around and was staring instead at the road in front of them, sneaking occasional looks at him. Her hands were folded tightly together in her lap, and from time to time, she fidgeted in the seat. Finally, she gave in to the doubts that he knew were building inside her. “This place we’re going to… what’s the name of it?”
John glanced at her, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t have any lies prepared, and, considering the only truth he had to offer, he preferred to delay it.
Nervously she moistened her lips. “Is it much farther? Because, you know, breakfast is no big deal. I’d rather do some sight-seeing than eat anyway.”
Looking her way again, he saw the fear she was trying to control. It darkened her eyes and turned her knuckles white. He hated that she was afraid of him, hated that she had reason to be. Offering nothing—neither explanations she wouldn’t accept nor reassurances she wouldn’t believe—he turned back to the road as they passed a sign welcoming them to Slidell. From there it wasn’t far to Mississippi. When would she realize what was happening? When they crossed the state line? Eighty or ninety miles later when they left Mississippi for Alabama? When would she panic? When would he have to tell her the truth?
“Hey, John,” she began, a slight wobble in her voice. “There’s a McDonald’s at the next exit. If you’re really hungry, why don’t we just stop there and grab something, then head back? There are so many things I want to do today, and—” Breaking off, she watched as they passed the exit without slowing down. She edged around slightly in the seat, not so much to face him, he thought, as to put a little bit more distance, no matter how slim, between them. It was then that she saw the suitcases in the back.
Understanding crossed her face, accompanied by stark terror that drained her of color and made her breaths come in swift, audible little puffs. “J-John, I don’t want t-to go any farther. If you don’t want to take me back, just stop. I’ll take a bus or a cab or—or rent a car or something. Just—just let me out.”
“I can’t.” He stared straight ahead, his features stony, tension radiating from his entire body. “I won’t hurt you, Teryl, I swear, but I can’t take you back. I can’t let you go.”
“This is crazy.” Her voice rose in the unsteady treble of panic. “You can’t do this. You can’t just—just—”
“Kidnap you?” He looked at her then, his gaze dark, his mouth set. “I already have.”
Chapter Three
That look was enough to send shivers through Teryl’s veins. It was bleak and shimmered with an anger barely controlled. “From the moment you walked out of the hotel with me, you’ve been my hostage,” he said, his voice hard.
Then, abruptly, his control shattered. “Damn it, Teryl, are you crazy? You let a total stranger pick you up, you take him back to your hotel and have sex with him, you go to sleep while he’s still there, and the next day you get in his car and drive off with him? Don’t you have better sense than that?”
It was ridiculous, so ludicrous that if she weren’t so scared, she would laugh. He was chastising her. The man who had kidnapped her was scolding her because she had made it so easy for him.
But she was scared, too scared to be amused.
“Look, John, it’s not too late,” she pleaded. “You haven’t really done anything yet. If you’ll just let me out, if you’ll just let me go, I won’t tell anyone, I swear I won’t. I just want to go back to New Orleans. Please, John…”
“I told you I can’t. I need you.”
Images of last night in bed flashed through her mind. That kind of need—was that what he was talking about? Surely not. The sex had been great, but not that great. He was a handsome man; he could easily find any number of willing women who could do far more for him than she could.
But what else could he possibly need from her? She had nothing to offer. She wasn’t rich or famous or important. She wasn’t worth a ransom to anyone who could afford to pay one. What could anyone want with a plain average woman who lived a plain average life in Richmond, Virginia?
“I—I don’t—” She drew a breath, but couldn’t fill her constricted lungs. “I don’t understand.”
“You will. We’ve got a long trip ahead of us. By the time it’s over, you’ll know everything.” Turning cynical, he added, “You won’t believe it, but you’ll know.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home.” He looked at her again. “We’re going to Richmond.”
She stared out the window, a dozen hopeful thoughts racing through her mind. Maybe he just had a warped sense of humor. Maybe this was all a joke, albeit a very bad one. Maybe it was a bad dream, one that she would awaken from any moment now with an entire lovely day ahead of her just waiting to be spent in New Orleans. Or maybe…
Just ahead the interstate split. Interstate 12, according to the signs, headed west to Baton Rouge, I-59 began its northeast trek toward Meridian, and I-10 curved east. She grew a little stiffer as John changed lanes, as he chose the highway that would take them to the East Coast, the highway that led to other highways that led to Richmond.
Maybe he really had kidnapped her.
Maybe he was crazy. Granted, he wasn’t wild-eyed and raving, but that didn’t make him stable. There was something too dark in his eyes, something too intense and still about his manner. There was that sudden burst of irrational anger because she’d been so foolishly trusting. There was that bleak insistence that he needed her. Maybe he was insane. Maybe he was going to kill her.
Unless she stopped him. Unless she somehow escaped from him.
She acted impulsively, reaching across the console, grabbing for the keys in the ignition with one hand, for the steering wheel with the other. The truck swerved crazily from the right lane to the left, then back again, as John, startled by her actions, struggled to regain control. It took him only an instant, with his greater strength, to shove her back into her seat and hold her there with one arm, and only an instant more to bring the Blazer to a screeching halt on the shoulder of the road.
Before they were stopped, she clawed free of him, yanked open the seat belt buckle, and tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Hearing him swear viciously, she searched for the button that would unlock the door, her fingers scraping over nothing but the scuffed panel in the place it was located in her own car. At last she found the switch and shoved it back, then pushed the door open. Her arm was tangled in the seat belt, though, and by the time she worked free, he had hold of her again, his fingers wrapped around a fistful of shirt and vest, pulling the fabric taut against her throat as he held her dangling, half in, half out, of the vehicle.
“Damn it, Teryl!” With another curse, he hauled her back inside, leaned across, and slammed the door, then scowled at her. That look alone would have been enough to pin her in the seat, but he didn’t rely solely on intimidation. He also used one big, strong hand wrapped around her forearm, forcing her back against the seat.
Breathing hard, she scowled back for a moment; then her flash of courage gave way to fear. Her heart was racing so fast that her chest hurt, and the way he was pushing against her made it hard to breathe, and his fingers—the same fingers that had stroked her so gently just last night—were gripping her arm so tightly that she imagined she could actually feel bruises forming. He was
hurting her, and the certainty that he would hurt her more if she gave him reason brought tears to her eyes.
“Please don’t,” she whispered.
He stared at her, hard and threater.ing, for a long time; then, with one more black curse, he sank back in his own seat, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. He didn’t release her arm, but at least he stopped pushing so hard.
The silence in the Blazer was heavy, broken only by his breathing and her own occasional sniffle as she fought the urge to cry. She was in real trouble here, she berated herself, and all she wanted to do was curl up in a corner and sob like a frightened child. She had to regain control, had to find some way to hold on to it until another opportunity—a better opportunity—for escape presented itself. It helped to focus her attention on her arm, still locked in his grasp, a mix of aches and throbs and blessed numbness. Tomorrow it would be a dozen shades of black and blue… but she would be so grateful to have survived today that she wouldn’t care.
After a time, she risked a look at John. His eyes were still closed, and his expression was troubled, so very troubled that it sent a shiver through her.
Dropping her gaze lower, she looked for a moment at his shirtsleeve before realizing exactly what it was she was looking at. He wore a dress shirt, long-sleeved, the cuffs rolled up practically to his elbows. The shirt was neatly pressed and pristine white except on the right sleeve, where a line of irregularly shaped stains dotted the fabric. They were like splatters from a child’s paint box, red, bright red.
Blood red.
With a heated flush, she remembered the way, only moments ago, she had struck out at him, digging her nails into his skin in an effort to free herself. She could see welts, puffy and red against his tanned forearm, could see a few pale scrapes where she had scratched but done little damage.
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