Lizzie clutched the gown to keep it from sliding down. “Let me explain—”
“Shut up! Save your lies for some lovestruck sap like my brother.” Caleb caressed the little tattoo and felt a deep shiver ripple through her. She jerked away from his hands and pulled the strap back up her shoulder. When she faced him, her expression was venomous.
He said, “In the laughably unlikely event that you’re telling the truth, that puts you in even greater danger. Did you think of that? Sneaking around Avalon, snooping into God knows what. All the more reason for me to step in and honor my vow.” He could tell by her expression that, indeed, she hadn’t thought her ridiculous story through to this logical conclusion.
“Face it, Lizzie. We’re stuck with each other. At least until you can convince me you’re ready to turn your back on that mind-melting commune and go back to being the same sweet, loving gal you were before,” he said with blistering sarcasm. “And you’d better make it one of your better performances, sweetheart, ’cause you’re starting out with a few strikes against you in the trust department.”
She stiffened her spine, raised her chin. “If you let me go right now, I’ll forget this happened. But I swear to God, Caleb, if you continue to keep me here against my will, I won’t rest till you’re behind bars.”
Her threats meant nothing. He had no intention of releasing her until he was one hundred percent convinced she’d been successfully deprogrammed. And by then she’d be grateful for his intervention, not looking to turn him in.
He nodded at the boxes and heap of clothing on the floor. “Stow all your gear and get your fanny down to the kitchen by 0700.” He looked at his watch. “That’s twenty minutes from now. You’re going to do your share of cooking and cleaning around here.”
One dark eyebrow rose. “Right. You kidnap me and hold me prisoner, and then expect me to play housewife? In your dreams, Rambo.”
He shrugged. “The choice is yours. No work, no food.” He jangled the handcuffs. “And no freedom”
She held his stare for long moments, as if debating further argument. Then she walked around him to the boxes. She glanced in each one, grimacing at the disordered jumble. She’d left everything neatly packed.
“I confiscated a few items,” he informed her.
“Let me guess. Knives, glassware and heavy blunt objects,” she said dryly. She was scanning the room for something.
“You’re catching on. See? We’re going to get along just fine.”
He’d made it to the doorway when she asked, “Where’s my medication?”
Medication? Caleb frowned. What kind of...
. Then it hit him and he burst out laughing. Clever girl. Invent the right kind of medical problem and he’d have to release her. “You almost had me going there for a second. Maybe I underestimated your acting skills...” His words trailed off as he watched the color leach from her face. Just how good an actress was she?
She plopped heavily onto the edge of the bed and slumped with her head in her hands. “It was in my room. At Avalon. Did you get the stuff from my room?”
“Sweetheart, I didn’t show up there with a moving van. The only piece of baggage I was interested in was in the latrine, scouring toilets.”
At one a.m. Every night, after a full day of chores. If he hadn’t snatched her, they probably would have worked her to death.
Lizzie surprised him. Now that he’d actually met the object of his surveillance face-to-face, he couldn’t help wondering what would drive a woman like this to join Avalon. She had guts; he’d give her that. And she was sharp. Sure as hell didn’t fit his image of a witless commune cutie.
He said, “A piece of advice, Lizzie. You and I will get along a lot better once you give up these little charades and start playing straight with me.”
He started out the doorway, but for some reason his hand caught the frame and wouldn’t let him leave. He stood there cursing himself before finally turning back to her.
“Okay,” he said disgustedly. “I’ll bite. What kind of medication?”
“A beta-blocker. I have to take it every day.”
“A beta-blocker? Isn’t that for heart conditions?”
“In my case, I take it to help prevent migraines.”
He breathed a silent sigh of relief. “So all we’re talking about here is headaches.”
She stared at him, her expression bleak. “What we’re talking about here are blinding, crippling migraines. Calling it a headache is like calling a bleeding ulcer indigestion. I have two other medications besides that—one to stop the migraine when it’s just starting and a heavy-duty painkiller for when the other two fail.” Those enormous eyes widened with hope. “You could get the prescriptions filled. My doctor’s number—”
“Forget it. The last thing I want is for you to get comfortably settled in here for the long haul. Once I’m sure of a genuine attitude adjustment, you’re outta here. If you happen to suffer in the process...well, hey, that’s just an added bonus for me.”
If he’d slapped her, she couldn’t have looked more wounded...more vulnerable. Caleb felt like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe. Laboriously he dredged up memories of David, and what Lizzie had done to him. For some reason, it wasn’t enough this time, and Caleb had to struggle to shore up his resolve.
With visible effort she composed herself. She rose and crossed to the lowboy dresser. Began picking up items of clothing, folding them and placing them in the empty drawers.
“Twenty minutes, Lizzie,” he reminded her, and left her to her task.
ELIZABETH PICKED HER WAY along the leaf-strewn path until the woods thinned and gave way to the lawn surrounding the Trent family home. Her prison.
David had told her that when the boys’ father died twenty-six years ago, their mother had sold their magnificent apartment on Central Park South in Manhattan and taken up permanent residence in what had been their summer home in upstate New York. A paranoid recluse, she’d had razor wire installed atop the high stone fence enclosing this wooded, twenty-acre estate in the Adirondacks, and had never stepped outside the gate.
So where was she now? Elizabeth and Caleb were the only inhabitants of this sprawling, two-story log home, a monument to rustic opulence. The razor wire was still intact, and after walking the perimeter of the grounds, straining her ears in vain for sounds of human activity, Elizabeth understood how truly isolated she was. She could scream herself hoarse for days on end and no one would hear.
She’d endured a strained breakfast and lunch, during which the topic of conversation was limited to Lugh and the Avalon Collective. Nerves kept her stomach knotted, and she barely touched her food. But she did assist, as ordered, in meal preparation and cleanup.
The rest of the day had been her own. Apparently as long as she did as she was told and didn’t get belligerent, her captor was willing to grant her the time and privacy needed to “come to her senses.”
And she did plan to cooperate, having decided to play along for the time being. After all, what choice did she have? She couldn’t hope to overpower him. If she was going to escape, it would have to be through her wits.
Her informal tour had confirmed that he had indeed removed all potentially dangerous objects from the house and grounds. The kitchen was stocked with paper and plastic. Caleb used that big pocketknife of his on whatever needed to be chopped. Not a heavy cast-iron pan in sight. No razors or pharmaceuticals in the medicine chests. She’d found empty phone jacks in several rooms.
The toolshed and garage were kept locked, as well as a room in the finished basement and another off the kitchen. He held the keys to every room in the house. Worse than the knowledge that he could lock her in any room was the fact that she couldn’t lock him out. As a consequence, she’d kept one eye on the bathroom door while she showered that morning.
Caleb had retreated to his first-floor study after breakfast and lunch, busy with some kind of paperwork. With that insulting arrogance of his, he’d invited her to m
ake herself at home, explore the house and grounds...practically begged her to search for a means of escape, so confident was he that she’d come up empty-handed.
Smiling to herself, she blessed his overconfidence. Left to her own devices, she’d quietly opened a trapdoor in the second-floor ceiling and pulled down a ladder leading to the stuffy attic. Among the old furniture, clothing and toys stored there, she’d made an intriguing discovery. And hatched a plan she prayed would work.
The sun was dipping toward the western horizon and a cool breeze was picking up. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her ratty old windbreaker and rounded the house. And stopped short when she saw Caleb squatting near the back porch. He hadn’t noticed her; his attention was fixed on the scrawny cat he was petting. Even from a distance she discerned the cat’s incongruously plump belly, heavy with a litter of kittens.
He was running his big hand over her black fur and crooning to her as she leaned into the caress. A warm half smile softened his features. Elizabeth was struck by the memory of his callused thumb wiping at her tears the night before, as she stood bound and terrified, propped against his Land Rover. It was the only time his touch had been gentle. Somehow the realization that he was capable of tenderness unsettled her more than the brutal treatment she’d endured at his hands.
The cat, obviously homeless, yowled insistently, and Caleb didn’t disappoint it. Elizabeth shook her head and smiled knowingly when he produced a can of tuna. The instant the can opener punched through the lid and the cat got a whiff of the contents, it began rubbing against him in a frenzy of feline gratitude and anticipation, nearly nudging the can out of his hands. It attacked its dinner while he was still scraping it into a small plastic bowl.
For a while he simply watched her eat And Elizabeth watched him. Watched the subtle shift and flex of powerful muscles under the cream-colored cable-knit sweater and blue jeans. Every movement he made, no matter how slight, reminded her of his extraordinary strength. And of her helplessness.
When Caleb tried to pet the cat while it ate, it dismissed him with an irritated flick of its tail. He looked up when Elizabeth approached. His expression lost some of its softness and became flatter somehow.
His silver gaze flicked over her threadbare jacket, with its frayed cuffs and broken zipper, to her faded leggings and battered sneakers. His expression never changed, but still she cringed inwardly. She cursed her foolish embarrassment. Caleb had pawed through her things, after all. He already knew how shabby her clothes were, how cheap and dilapidated her other possessions. Even her beloved, vintage silk nightgowns were thrift-shop finds!
She cleared her throat and tried to smile. “Don’t you know what they say? Once you feed a stray, you’re stuck with it.”
He stared at her pointedly and said, “Let’s hope they were wrong.”
Her fingers tightened into fists inside her pockets. Was this SOB determined to turn everything into an insult? She opened her mouth to ask him just that, then closed it and slid her gaze to the cat. She had nothing to gain by further antagonizing him.
And everything to gain by lulling him into a false sense of complacency.
The cat had scarfed down the tuna and now sat cleaning its face and paws. Caleb stood up. “I just didn’t want the damn thing keeling over on my property,” he said gruffly. “She won’t stick around. Cats are independent. Now that she’s gotten what she was after, she’ll go bother someone else.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. And give up fancy albacore? A pregnant, half-starved cat? If you say so, Rambo.
She said, “I thought your mother lived here.”
“My mother died shortly after David did.”
“Oh, Caleb. I’m so sorry.” The heartfelt words were out before she realized it.
“The shock of losing David was too much for her. The strain on her heart...”
His cold stare was brutally eloquent. With a sick jolt Elizabeth realized he blamed her for his mother’s death as well. But Madeleine Trent’s health had been declining for some time, according to David. Surely Caleb must have known that, even if he only made it home on infrequent leaves.
That thought spawned a glimmer of hope. Elizabeth asked, “Are you on furlough?” Perhaps he’d have to report back to service soon.
“I quit the army.”
His words stunned her. He quit? David’s hotshot commando brother was now a...civilian?
She recalled the two photos she’d seen, the ones that had triggered her recognition of him. One was a framed formal portrait David kept on his mantel, of Caleb in his dress uniform, complete with a beret. sporting some mysterious insignia. She was told he’d attended West Point and distinguished himself in the Green Berets before being recruited for the Delta Force, the army’s elite counterterrorist and assault unit. He’d attained the rank of captain.
David had borne little resemblance to the face in that portrait, with its sensual, unsmiling mouth and pale, penetrating eyes. Caleb was older than David by eight years, his rugged features seasoned by the kind of life his brother, a graphic artist in Manhattan, could only imagine.
The other picture was a snapshot David had carried in his wallet. Caleb outdoors somewhere, grinning into the camera, wearing camouflage utilities and a matching bush hat...and loosely carrying some sort of evil-looking weapon. That man was much more intriguing than the stiffly handsome officer in the formal portrait Here was the flesh-and-blood commando.
“What kinds of missions does he go on?” she’d asked David.
“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” he’d answered.
She asked now, “Why did you quit?” Caleb’s expression told her she had no business asking. “Didn’t mean to be impertinent,” she added dryly. “Is it all right to ask what you do nowadays?” Not that he needed to work to keep the wolf from the door—the Trents were loaded. But somehow she couldn’t imagine this man living a life of idle leisure.
“I’m a freelance security consultant. That’s what I was working on today—a couple of proposals.”
“So in other words, people hire you to tell them how to keep the bad guys from doing what you did last night.”
She could have sworn he was fighting a smile. He reached down to pet the cat, but it sprang away and darted across the lawn. He asked, “Where were you just now?”
“The woods.”
He looked at her sharply. “I don’t want you in there unless I’m with you.”
“You gonna protect me from the lions and tigers and bears? Oh my.”
He eyed her loose windbreaker. “You’d be surprised what kinds of weapons can be fashioned from things you find in the woods.”
“They teach you that stuff in Rambo school?”
Casually he reached for the open front of her jacket, and without warning, something inside her snapped.
“No!” She backed away, as quivering rage surged through every cell of her body. “You are not putting your hands on me again,” she vowed. Her fingernails gouged her palms. Quickly she scanned him from head to toe, choosing a target. By God, if he touched her, she’d smash that nice straight nose, and to hell with cooperation.
After an interminable stare-down he said, “All right. Show me, then.” He crossed his arms and nodded, indicating she should open her jacket, perhaps turn out the pockets.
“Go to hell.”
“I advise you to reconsider, Lizzie. It’s not often I’m willing to compromise.”
She dragged in a deep, calming breath. “What do you imagine I could be hiding?”
He shrugged. “A rock. A sharp stick, maybe.”
“A rock?” She rolled her eyes and flapped the sides of her jacket. That was her compromise. “Satisfied, Rambo?” she sneered. “No rocks. You won’t get beaned in your sleep.”
His jaw worked. “Don’t call me Rambo.”
“Don’t call me Lizzie.”
When he just glared at her she laughed lightly and said, “Trust a man to fret about sticks and stones when the woods are chock-f
ull of such intriguing plant life.”
She paused to watch her words sink in. When his eyes began to widen she said, “Well, I’d better get supper started,” and quickly scooted past him into the house.
3
“PLEASE, GOD, let this work.” Elizabeth wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and loosened the wing nut under the little round launchpad, adjusting the angle of flight.
The three-foot launch rod had been the hardest thing to smuggle out of the attic. Everything else fit in the pockets of her loose jeans and under her jacket Finally, in desperation, she’d slipped the rod up her sleeve and clutched a wool scarf to conceal the bottom few inches. Caleb was busy in the garage, working on his Land-Rover, so he probably hadn’t even noticed her leave the house and enter the woods, but she couldn’t be too careful. Hadn’t he warned her what would happen if she tried to escape?
She’d spent three days playing the cooperative little captive, their interactions strained but civil. Three days trying to display the appropriate attitude adjustment, wary of Rambo’s threat of the “rough stuff” that constituted traditional deprogramming. Three long days waiting for the right moment to implement the plan she’d hatched when she discovered a carton of old model-rocket parts in the attic, under a pile of worn-out sports equipment and a dusty model-railroad layout.
She fitted the launch rod into the launchpad, then pulled the nose cone and clear plastic payload bay off the foot-long rocket—a heavy cardboard tube, actually, painted blue and silver—revealing the little red and-white plastic parachute and a long rubber band connecting the parts.
Now for the critical step. From her pocket she retrieved the note she’d written earlier, a plea for help detailing her identity and location, and inserted it into the clear payload bay, where it would be seen immediately by whoever found the rocket.
She paused to peer through the bare trees and listen intently. Not that she’d hear Caleb approach, even through the piles of dried leaves. The man moved like a phantom. Often she’d turn around and he’d just be there, with no warning. Made her jumpy as hell.
A Hard-Hearted Hero (Harlequin Temptation) Page 3