A Hard-Hearted Hero (Harlequin Temptation)

by Pamela Burford

  When she could find her voice, she said, “Well, give me some privacy.”

  “No. You gave up the right to privacy when I found this.” He drew her semiautomatic out of his pocket and examined it with maddening casualness, ejecting the magazine, racking the slide and peering into the chamber. “I’d say it’s a better-than-even chance you’ve got more surprises up your sleeve.” He treated her to a slow once-over, concentrating on her chest. “Or somewhere. A little penknife, perhaps?”

  He must know her bra contained nothing but her, after the way he’d groped her. She swallowed hard and licked her bloodless lips. “I...can’t I can’t get undressed with you watching me.”

  “Touching modesty for a girl who spent the last three weeks playing house with Lugh,” he sneered, correctly pronouncing the name Loo.

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Save it. You think I don’t know what goes on at the Avalon Collective? It isn’t all peace, love and compost, sweetheart Well, maybe it is for most of the poor chumps who end up there. But not for your esteemed leader, am I right?”

  He was right, damn it.

  He continued, “As I understand it, Lugh has more...compelling needs. Needs that can only be met by the more nubile members of the commune.”

  “Not me. I didn’t do that.”

  He snorted in disbelief. “Yeah, right A hot piece like you? My guess is you’ve been keeping the guy’s bed warm since the day you joined. So do us both a favor and drop the quivering-virgin routine.” He slipped her gun back in his pocket “Your dubious acting ability is wasted on me. You’re just not believable as a blushing ingenue. Stick to those late-night phone-sex commercials—that’s more your speed. What is it...one-nine-hundred-JIGGLE?”

  She repressed a groan of embarrassment. So he’d caught those sleazy 1-900 commercials. That was sure to elevate her credibility!

  Lord, how she’d despised that role—purring into a foggy camera lens while caressing a phone receiver. She’d resisted auditioning for the part, but eventually extreme financial desperation and her agent’s hectoring had won out. Acting jobs were scarce, and Elizabeth had rent to pay. And it was only commercials, after all—she would never actually work for a phone-sex business.

  Of course, this hateful creep knew that. His point was merely to add insult to enormous injury. But how did he know so much about her? And why did he talk about Lugh—the former Graham Hoyt-Gaines turned commune leader—as if he weren’t the man’s hireling? If he wasn’t working for Lugh, then why had he...

  Her captor closed the distance between them and lifted the nightgown from her stiff fingers. His voice was as smooth as the silk he caressed. “Then again, maybe you want me to undress you. Is that why you’re dawdling, Lizzie? So I’ll get impatient and—”

  She lurched to her knees and snatched the gown out of his hands. “Go to hell!” Her temples throbbed with the force of her sudden fury. “You’re a goddamn bully! Does it get you hot to terrorize a helpless woman? Does it? Maybe that’s the only way you can—” She stopped abruptly, her heart slamming, her heaving breaths like fire in her chest. “And don’t call me Lizzie,” she rasped. “I hate it.”

  Her little tirade left him if not speechless, at least subdued. A strange disquiet lurked behind those icy silver eyes now, as if he’d just completed a jigsaw puzzle, only to find a leftover piece that had no slot. He said, “I thought everyone called you Lizzie.”

  She drew in a quick breath. Not everyone.

  But whoever sicced this maniac on her must have.

  “I prefer to be called Elizabeth.” Not that anyone had ever given a damn about her preferences. She dragged her fingers through her disheveled hair, pushing it off her face. She felt deflated, drained. “Can’t you just turn around while I change?”

  The lines of his face hardened. “No. You could be hiding a—”

  “I’m not! I swear.” She spread her arms wide as if to demonstrate the truth of her words. “That gun was all I had.”

  “I didn’t realize Lugh was arming his people. What is it, a little nineties paranoid survivalism mixed in with the sixties warm-and-fuzzy crap? Lemme ask you, do you even know how to use that thing?”

  She sighed raggedly. “Look. You know I don’t have any other weapons. You’ve searched me thoroughly.” She still felt the imprint of his hands on her body.

  He laughed. “Sweetheart, if you think that was a thorough search, you don’t have much of an imagination. I’d be happy to demonstrate precisely how thorough a search can be.”

  His words hit her like a pail of cold water. She wouldn’t put it past him. Her eyes stung. She swallowed the tears clogging her throat and dropped her gaze to the buttons of her blouse. And watched her frigid fingers rise mechanically to slip a button through a buttonhole. And tried to pretend this was happening to someone else. Another button free. And another.

  A low, raw oath broke her concentration. She looked up to see her abductor’s broad back. “You have thirty seconds,” he growled, and made a show of checking his watch. “Starting now.”

  Twenty-nine seconds later she pulled the gown down over her knees as he turned to face her. She used to love this old-fashioned, sleeveless nightie, made of heavy, slippery satin with delicate lace detail on the fitted, low-cut bodice. This gown used to make her feel pretty. Now it just made her feel more wretchedly vulnerable.

  She forced herself to sit primly on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap. He was looking at her. She stared straight ahead at an antique, marble-topped washstand. Her breasts pushed against the silk, and every breath reminded her how well she filled out this gown.

  He stepped closer and she held her breath, but he merely lifted her tie-dyed blouse and long skirt—regulation garments for female members of Avalon—and the decidedly nonregulation neoprene thigh holster connected to a supporting waist strap.

  “I’m going to burn all this,” he said, rolling the clothes into a bundle. “From now on, you wear only your normal stuff.” He indicated the mound of clothing on the floor.

  From now on...? There was going to be a from now on?

  She held his ruthless stare as she came to her feet. She’d been kidnapped. Pawed. Humiliated. Known terror beyond anything she’d ever experienced. It was time for some answers. In slow, modulated tones she muttered, “Who are you, and what the hell is going on here?”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. Get back on the bed.”

  She looked at the double bed. And at him. His sneer of distaste answered her unvoiced fear.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said. “I figure you’re due for a rest.”

  Rationally she was grateful he considered her too sullied to consort with, but that didn’t keep her from feeling small and cheap under his condemning stare.

  “Come on,” he said, pushing none too gently on her shoulders till she fell back on the bed. “There’s time for a couple hours of shut-eye before reveille.” He tucked her clothes under his arm and lifted the handcuffs from the night table.

  “No!” She tried to rise, but he pushed her down easily and seized her left wrist, shackling it to the decorative, wrought-iron headboard. “You don’t have to use these,” she argued. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “No kidding.” He dragged the bedcovers over her, tucking her in like a child. “I’ll be right next door.” He turned off the lamp and started to leave. He paused in the doorway, his teeth gleaming in the dark. “And I’m a light sleeper, Lizzie.”

  Then she was alone. With nothing but her disordered thoughts for company.

  Lizzie. Only one other person insisted on calling her that even when she asked him not to. But David couldn’t have any connection with this psychopath.

  David was dead.

  She hadn’t even been allowed to go to the funeral. She’d gotten that phone call...

  That horrible phone call. Asking her—no, ordering her—to stay away from the church and the cemetery. You’ve done enough damage. The family doesn
’t want you there. That disembodied voice had haunted her for weeks, till she’d half believed the ugly accusation.

  He’s dead because of you.

  Elizabeth stopped breathing.

  That voice!

  She lurched up, only to be jerked back down by the handcuffs.

  She was right—she had seen those eyes before. In photographs, anyway. Her mouth went dry. Perhaps she’d been better off not knowing. Now only one question remained.

  What was the mighty commando going to do to her?

  2

  HE COULD TELL AT ONCE that she hadn’t slept. Those big brown eyes were puffy and red rimmed, and she had that jumpy, unfocused look of deep exhaustion.

  Good. He hoped she’d spent the last few hours agonizing over her plight, wondering who this monster was who held her at his mercy. Her hoarse greeting dashed those fond hopes.

  “Good morning, Caleb.”

  He paused in the act of unlocking the handcuffs. Well, there was one source of amusement gone. David’s little play toy was just full of surprises.

  “Morning, Lizzie.” He might accede to her wishes and call her Elizabeth. Perhaps while ice-skating in Hades. “Sleep well?”

  “I had more pleasant ways to occupy my time. Like calculating the prison sentence for kidnapping.” She drew her left arm down and cradled it against her chest, wincing slightly.

  He curled his fingers around the handcuffs to keep from reaching to soothe the raw abrasions on her left wrist. If he found it hard to summon the ruthlessness he needed to deal with Lizzie Lancaster, all he had to do was remember what she’d done to his brother.

  She said, “You’re out of uniform, Rambo.” Her eyes were hard and glittering. He saw that at some point during the wee hours, raw loathing had replaced her previous terror. That was fine with him.

  He knew she must be trying to figure out a way to get at her weapon. That’s what he’d be doing. “Don’t even consider it,” he said. “This whole place has been Lizzie-proofed. You won’t find a knife anywhere. Nothing made of glass. Ditto for heavy, blunt objects. Of course, you could try to strangle me with a lamp cord. That would be mildly entertaining.”

  Staring down at her, he laid out the options. “It’s up to you how we play this, sweetheart. Personally, I’m not one for the traditional, heavy-handed approach. Nonstop interrogation. Bondage. Threats. No sleep. No privacy. That way is quick, but brutal, and creates more problems than it solves, if you ask me.”

  He saw comprehension dawn, and almost laughed at her expression of stunned disbelief. She sat bolt upright in the bed. “You’re trying to deprogram me!” With her glossy brown hair in disarray and lively color flooding her face and throat—and those magnificent full breasts straining her gown with each agitated breath—she looked like a vision out of a teenager’s wet dream. At that moment he couldn’t blame his brother for losing his head over this woman.

  He said, “Took you long enough to catch on. Now, I’m sure Lugh has filled your head with horror stories about deprogramming. And you know what?” He grinned. “They’re all true! It’s not something you want to experience. Take my word for it”

  She groaned. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Lucky for you, I’m a civilized fellow. I prefer to hold off on the rough stuff and just sit back and give you a chance to come to your senses. It’ll take time, but hey—” he shrugged “—I’ve got time. It all depends on you, Lizzie. On whether you behave yourself.”

  “Behave myself!”

  “Cooperate and we’ll do this the low-impact, hands-off way. Plenty of satisfying quality time for you and me, discussing the finer points of your incredibly moronic and self-destructive decision to join Lugh’s commune. Who knows? You might even end up thanking me.”

  Her expression said, Don’t hold your breath.

  “Of course, if you choose to fight me—or try to escape—we do this the old-fashioned way.” He dangled the handcuffs over her. “Easy for me. Not too fun for you. Think about it.”

  She threw off the covers and stood up. She was tall for a woman—five eight or nine—but of course, he still towered over her.

  “Who’d hire a deprogrammer to go after me?” she demanded. “I didn’t tell anyone I was joining the Avalon Collective. And even if I did, there’s not a soul alive who’d give a damn.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You’re right about that, Lizzie,” he said coldly. “The soul in question is very much dead.”

  He saw it sink in. Saw her eyes cloud with pain before she averted them. She took a deep breath and said, “David would never have asked you to do something like this to me.”

  “Why?” Caleb sneered. “Because he loved you too much?”

  She met his eyes again, her own glazed with grief or guilt—he didn’t know which, and right then, he didn’t much care. “Yes,” she said quietly.

  He gripped the handcuffs so hard that pain shot through his fingers. “He died loving you, Lizzie. After everything you did to him. How does that make you feel?” He took a step toward her, crowding her, but she stood her ground. “Does it give you some kind of warped thrill to string men along, make them think you care—”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  He held up his palm to silence her. Strove for control. “You don’t want to have this conversation, sweetheart Trust me. This is as good as my mood’s gonna get around you, and it won’t take much to put me over the edge.”

  Her features tightened in frustration. He could tell she was dying to spout her little lies and evasions—all those rationalizations she must have spent the last few months cooking up to justify her heartless treatment of a man who’d loved her to distraction...and ultimately couldn’t live without her.

  To Caleb’s surprise, she simply asked, “How does David fit into all this?”

  “First off, let me assure you that if it was up to me, I’d have gladly let you vegetate in that damn commune, and good riddance. Hell, in your case, a little brainwashing can only be an improvement.”

  She just stared silently.

  He said, “But David called me, right before he died. Swore me to a vow. ‘Lizzie’s got no family,’ he said, ‘no one to keep her safe.’ He made me promise to look after you if something happened to him.”

  Good Lord. “And you went along with this?”

  “I was just trying to calm him down. How was I to know he was planning to hang himself...”

  “And force you to make good on your promise.”

  “He was so rattled, I’d have agreed to anything. I tried to talk some sense into him, get him to come home, but he said there was something he had to do.” His voice turned steely. “And we know what that turned out to be.”

  Caleb clenched his jaw, remembering David’s irrational rambling, his unstable state of mind during that last conversation. His younger brother had always been emotionally immature, but after Lizzie’s brutal rejection, he’d spun out of control, lost his grip on reality. That’s when he’d thrown in his lot with the Avalon Collective—not exactly a hotbed of stable, balanced individuals. David hadn’t a prayer of getting his head straight among those tie-dyed misfits.

  When he’d first learned of David’s death, Caleb had briefly considered the possibility of foul play. Once he’d calmed down and thought it through, however, he was forced to face the truth.

  Obviously David had joined Avalon in a desperate bid to put his blighted relationship with Lizzie behind him, to start over and try to find some purpose in life. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. Depressed was too benign a term for David’s state of mind during that last conversation. Hadn’t he warned Caleb then of his intentions? When he made him promise to look after Lizzie “if something happened” to him?

  Caleb refused to delude himself. All the evidence pointed to suicide. The only foul play involved was the more subtle brand dished out by Lizzie Lancaster. She alone was responsible for David’s misery and his final act of self-destruction.

  �
�Caleb,” she said with surprising gentleness, “why didn’t you do this to him?” She indicated herself, the room, the jumble of her meager possessions in the corner. “Why didn’t you just go in and get him out?”

  His chest expanded on a deep, shuddering breath, culminating in a grim chuckle; if he didn’t laugh, he’d cry. “Because kidnapping’s against the law. It seemed like too extreme a solution at the time. I kept telling myself he’d...snap out of it.”

  But he hadn’t. And then it was too late. The terrible irony was that getting David out of there was precisely the kind of mission Caleb had been trained for as a Special Forces operative. And he was one of the best. But when it came to saving his own brother...

  He’d failed.

  Lizzie hugged herself. She looked him in the eye. “If David asked you to look after me, he couldn’t have meant...” She shook her head, trembling, as if denying the events of the last few hours. “I can take care of myself. I absolve you of any responsibility for me.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. I made a solemn vow to my brother, Lizzie. My little brother, who’s dead now because of you. God knows you’re not worth an iota of my time or trouble—any more than you were worth the pathetic adoration he heaped on you—but that’s beside the point. I promised to keep you out of-danger, and that meant getting you out of that commune. And deprogramming you so you’d stay out. Maybe you wouldn’t end up offing yourself like David did, but there are plenty of other dangers there. Drugs, no doubt. And you ever hear of AIDS?”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Caleb. I’m not a member of Avalon, not really.” At his bark of laughter she said, “Listen to me! The only reason I joined was to look into David’s death. I think he—”

  Caleb grabbed her by the shoulders and roughly turned her around, dragging down the wide strap of her nightgown. There it was, on her right shoulder blade. A tiny tattoo of the sun, the obligatory brand for members of the Avalon Collective. The leader, an Englishman named Graham Hoyt-Gaines, had renamed himself Lugh after the ancient Celtic sun god.