When her stomach whined and she could no longer ignore her hunger, she realized lunchtime had come and gone. She thought of those fragrant baguettes sitting on the kitchen counter. Her throat was gummy with thirst and she fantasized about dragging the daybed by her shackled wrist to get to that frosty bottle of cola in the fridge.
As midday slid into afternoon, the room became a landscape of soft shadows in the diffuse light. A nagging disquiet accompanied the creeping chill. She dumped the magazines on the floor and tossed the bolsters after them, then crawled under the thin, fitted slipcover and curled up, trembling, cursing the immobility that kept her from warming up. There were no sheets, and she was only marginally warmer than before. The bound hand was ice-cold and painfully cramped. But through her discomfort, one question dominated her thoughts.
Could something have happened to Caleb?
She scolded herself. The guy was invulnerable. A tank. What could happen to the commando?
A car accident.
She chewed her lip. Well, that would be good, wouldn’t it? An accident could solve all her problems. If he’d been taken to a hospital, someone would try to call the estate, and since they wouldn’t get through, they might send someone out....
Okay, maybe not. Well, if he was conscious, wouldn’t Caleb alert them that she was here?
If he was conscious. If he was alive. She swallowed hard. She didn’t like those ifs. Those ifs made her pulse skitter and her palms sweat. And it wasn’t her own predicament she was thinking of.
When it came right down to it, he’d never actually hurt her. Somehow, she doubted he ever would. And she’d never forget how he’d nursed her through her migraine....
A warm hand on her shoulder and a gentle voice in her ear jolted Elizabeth out of a fitful doze. She cried out and jerked her hand against the steel cuff, as pain shot up her arm.
“Lizzie, it’s okay, it’s me....”
She blinked at Caleb squatting next to the daybed, hurriedly unlocking the handcuffs. She licked her dry mouth and rubbed her face. “What time is it?”
He sighed disgustedly, with a little shake of his head. “Three forty-five.” He started to say something—I’m sorry?—then stopped himself and simply explained, “The Land Rover broke down. Popped a fan belt. I had to get it towed, and then wait around....” He held her fingers between his palms. “God, your hands are like ice.” He started absently rubbing her fingers. It felt like heaven.
“Don’t stop,” she mumbled.
He hesitated, as if only then realizing what he’d been doing. Then he started again, more carefully, systematically. His hands were as powerful as the rest of him, but he seemed to know just how much pressure to exert as he massaged and kneaded her hands from the wrist to the fingertips.
“Better?” he asked at last. She nodded. “You must be starving.”
She nodded again. “And thirsty. And I wish I hadn’t had three cups of coffee this morning. But mainly...I was just so scared.”
He squeezed her hand. “I know, Lizzie. I really thought I’d be back by—”
“I thought something happened to you.”
He frowned. “To me?”
She sat up shakily, tossing off the slipcover and rubbing her arms. “Like an accident.” She looked him in the eye, unable to disguise the fear that had consumed her for the last couple of hours. “I thought you were hurt, Caleb. Lying in a...in a hospital somewhere. Or worse.”
He studied her face, his expression intense, probing. He released her hand. “You thought you’d die chained to this damn bed,” he said brusquely.
She averted her eyes so he wouldn’t see the unshed tears that stung them. She shook her head in response, because she couldn’t speak.
His weary exhalation broke the silence. He stood and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder...and then she understood. He knew she’d been worried for him, not herself, but he couldn’t admit it To her or perhaps even to himself. Because feelings like that weren’t part of his well-orchestrated mission.
He patted her shoulder. “I’ll put away the groceries. You rest.”
“Rest?” She laughed while sniffing back tears. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
After a detour to the bathroom, she went to the kitchen, guzzled that cold cola and helped him unload bags of groceries from the Land Rover. She began unpacking them, tearing open packages and filling her empty belly in the process. She reached into a bag and pulled out a small can. Grinning, she brandished it in Caleb’s face.
“Friskies Buffet?” If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that was a hint of pink under Rambo’s three-o’clock shadow. She peered into the sack. “Good Lord, Caleb, how many did you buy?”
“It’s cheaper than tuna,” he snapped. “Natasha .won’t know the difference.”
“Natasha?”
Caught! his expression said. “Give me those!” He grabbed the bag, stalked to a high cabinet and started stowing the cans.
Elizabeth was right behind him. “I’ve gotta know how you came up with ‘Natasha.”’
His broad shoulders slumped in defeat. “Boris and Natasha. You know. Maybe you’re too young to remember.” He slathered on a thick Russian accent. “Get moose and squirrel.”
“Ah. So you named your new pet for a sullen cartoon spy-slash-vamp.”
“Natasha was no vamp. Don’t be misled by that slinky black dress.”
“Black. I get it. A black cat.”
“A skinny black cat with a snotty disposition.”
“Okay, I’ll buy it. What are you going to name the kittens? Rocky and Bullwinkle?”
“That animal is not mine!” He plunked the last can in the cabinet and slammed the door. “The damn thing’s never coming in the house.”
Elizabeth shook her head, with a little smile. Men. The spike-chomping commando didn’t stand a chance.
He said, “There’s a case of soda still in the car,” and disappeared through the doorway.
Alone in the kitchen, Elizabeth noticed Caleb’s black leather jacket hanging on a peg. Her survival instincts kicked in as she recognized this rare opportunity. She didn’t think he’d actually be careless enough to leave a key or weapon where she could get to it, but how would she know unless...
One eye on the door, she clawed through the pockets. Loose change, the receipt for the fan belt, a pack of tissues... She smiled, remembering her astonishment when he’d helped her blow her nose that first night while she stood helplessly bound and gagged. At that point her abductor had been a savage, faceless killer. Over the past week he’d metamorphosed into a complex man whose motivations she could almost sympathize with. Almost.
She dug in the last pocket and came up with a crumpled piece of paper. Too big for a cash-register receipt She smoothed it out, saw what it was and felt an iron ball slam into her chest.
“No...” she groaned, feeling the room tilt sickeningly as she scanned the note she’d tucked into the rocket five days ago. Her one hope for salvation. She blinked as her vision dimmed, and groped blindly to steady herself.
A pair of strong hands seized her forearms, spun her around and pulled her against a warm, firm, woolly expanse that could only be Caleb’s sweater-clad chest She felt his hands on her back and her head, holding her secure.
“Sit down and put your head between your knees,” he ordered.
Gulping air, her heart bucking violently, she wrenched away from him. Unadulterated hatred helped her eyes and her mind snap into sharp focus, and she threw the wadded-up note at him. He caught it and glanced at it briefly, then tossed it across the room into the garbage. His face was impassive.
“You bastard,” she hissed. “You let me think...” Elizabeth swallowed convulsively, her rage threatening to choke her. She knew how wild-eyed and out of control she must appear, but she didn’t give a damn. “You let me hope...and all the time...” She gestured helplessly, dry-eyed, too shattered for tears.
A hint of regret marred his gruff tone. “You shouldn’t have trie
d it, Lizzie.”
“How could you let me keep waiting...praying? Day after day...when you knew it was hopeless? You made a fool out of me.” This was worse than anything else he’d done. “Why? Why, Caleb? In the name of God, why didn’t you tell me you found the damn note?”
His expression was fiercer than she’d ever seen it. “Why the hell do you think I didn’t tell you? We both know what I promised if you tried to escape. Is that what you want?” he shouted. “That kind of brutality?”
He slammed a fist into a cabinet, rattling the contents. “I should’ve played it that way from the start. The hell with this civilized, hands-off approach.” He took a menacing step closer. “How about it, Lizzie? A traditional, brutal deprogramming. Just you and me. Twenty-four hours—two days, tops—and we’re done with it. Done with each other. For good.”
That last part struck her like a slap, when the prospect should have thrilled her. Done with each other.
He said, “And let me assure you, sweetheart, once I deprogram you, you’ll stay deprogrammed. It’s not an experience you’ll want to repeat.”
Elizabeth didn’t think, she reacted. The instant he reached for her, she picked up a kitchen chair and swung it at him. As he dodged it, she let momentum carry the chair in a full arc to sweep several full grocery bags from the table onto the floor. It felt damn good, until Caleb seized her from behind and twisted the chair out of her grasp.
“That’s enough!” he rasped.
She fought him desperately, fury infusing her with a strength she’d never known. Nevertheless, he subdued her easily, wrapping his powerful arms around her like a human straitjacket.
She felt the warm buzz of his taunting voice on her scalp. “You really gave a flawless performance, you know that? Acting so meek and spineless for days on end. There were a couple of times—like today—when even I thought you should scratch my eyes out. If I hadn’t discovered your little foray into rocket science, I might’ve actually bought it”
Panting, sweating, with her hair draping her eyes, she squirmed harder, and he tightened his arms till she could barely breathe. “Show’s over, I guess,” he observed. “Sort of refreshing to find out the real Lizzie has some backbone.”
He spun her around, and she lashed out with a savage kick to his shin as her nails arced toward his eyes. He caught her wrist just in time, grunting, “Didn’t mean to give you ideas,” as he hoisted her over his shoulder. “I know a good place for you to cool down.”
Déjà vu. Only this time her hands were free. He wanted backbone? As he stalked into the pantry, she yanked up his gray sweater and sank her teeth into the solid muscle of his lower back, wishing there were a soft, flabby spot somewhere so she could get a better grip. He bellowed and skidded to a stop, jiggling her roughly in a futile attempt to dislodge her incisors.
“Let go!” he demanded.
Her response was to chomp harder, tenacious as a lamprey. He cursed and jabbed his fingertips into the sensitive flesh under her ribs, forcing her jaws to unlock with a gasp. He threw her off him forcefully and she staggered against a freestanding, wooden shelving unit. Her eyes flicked to the cartons and canisters piled on it.
“Don’t even think about—” he started to say, and leaped away as the entire shelving unit crashed down, spewing cereal, rice, sugar and flour over the floor.
She said, “The new me. What do you think?”
He filled the doorway, breathing hard, surveying the damage. His voice was dangerously low and controlled. “You’re going to clean up every goddamn crumb, Lizzie. And when you’re done, you’re gonna start on the kitchen.”
She hurled the vilest obscenity she could think of.
He snorted. “If you ask me nicely, I’ll teach you how to swear.” He stepped out and slammed the door. She heard the lock snick.
Immediately Elizabeth dragged the step stool under the one high, tiny window and forced it open. She boosted herself up to the sill and, grasping the window frame, hooked a leg up. She started wriggling through, feetfirst, and nearly got stuck halfway. Only the thought of Caleb finding her like this gave her the incentive to finally squeeze through. It was a long drop to the ground. The instant her toes made contact, she was off, sprinting across the lawn.
It was cold and she didn’t have her jacket, but the glowing ball of hatred in her gut warmed her from the inside out. At that moment nothing mattered except putting as much distance as possible between herself and her jailer.
5
WHEN WAS HE GOING to stop underestimating this woman? Wasn’t that the fundamental rule of warfare—never underestimate your enemy?
Caleb stood at the entrance to the pantry, staring at the hellish mess on the floor and the open window high in the back wall. Hell, she hadn’t done anything he wouldn’t have. Not that he’d have had a prayer of fitting through that little window. No, he’d have gone after the door lock.
He left the house and strolled toward the tree line, wondering whether to wait her out or track her down in the woods. She must be freezing. Dusk was approaching and she’d been outside without a jacket for nearly an hour, assuming she’d escaped the instant he’d locked the door—a pretty good bet He smiled grimly. When he caught up to her, she’d probably pull a tree down on his head.
He found himself at the edge of the woods, peering through the bare limbs, alert for any sign of movement. Her voice overhead made him jump.
“Too bad I don’t have one of those rocks you seem so worried about....” She was leaning casually in the window of his old tree house twelve feet up, a moth-eaten blanket draped serape-style over her shoulders. She disappeared from the window and reemerged at the doorway, where she sat with her feet dangling over the rope ladder. “If I did, I could’ve clobbered you with it, snatched your keys and let the cops wake you up.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and treated her to his most devastating smirk. “Yeah, too bad.”
She sighed. “All I have is this big old brick someone left on the roof.” She opened the blanket to display her newfound weapon.
Caleb’s smile gradually faded as he blinked at the heavy, mortar-encrusted brick on her lap, the same brick he’d placed on the roof of the tree house twenty years ago to hold down the ill-fitting trapdoor leading to the rooftop “observation deck.”
Damn. He’d underestimated her again!
With the wisdom of hindsight he analyzed his critical error. Back before he’d kidnapped her, when he’d “Lizzie-proofed” the house and grounds, he’d labored under dangerously inaccurate assumptions. He’d seen her as a one-dimensional femme fatale, a shallow heartbreaker whose talents extended only to snaring and destroying unsuspecting men. The intelligence, pride and determination he’d witnessed the last week had never entered into the equation.
Maybe he should go over the place one more time.
Meanwhile, he just had to know...
“Why didn’t you do it, Lizzie? Why didn’t you knock me out with that brick and escape? It would’ve worked.”
She simply stared down at him with those enormous, solemn brown eyes. Finally she said quietly, “Not my style.”
What would be Lizzie’s “style”? The hairs on his nape sprang to attention. She’d once tweaked him with a veiled reference to poisonous plants. At the time, he’d laughed it off as bluster. Was he underestimating her yet again?
Perhaps, but hadn’t she confessed her fears for his safety when he was so late today? As he’d watched her eyes glaze with tears, there’d been no doubt in his mind her distress was genuine. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Lizzie doing him violence—herbal or otherwise. No matter how far he pushed her.
He said, “Come into the house, Lizzie.”
“I don’t think so.”
He sighed. “Are you going to make me come up there after you?”
“Are you going to make me find out what I can do with this brick?” she asked pleasantly, stroking the thing like a pet.
He hesitated. Come to think of it, perhaps
he had pushed her too far. “You’ve gotta be cold.”
She indicated the blanket.
He said, “That thing’s been up there for years. It’s probably infested.” That should do the trick.
She snuggled deeper into the blanket. “Well then, we’ll all keep each other warm.” Delicately she sniffed the mangy wool. “If they don’t mind the smell, I don’t.”
He should have known. If she wasn’t scared of him, she sure as hell wasn’t going to swoon from a few bugs. He was tempted to leave her out here—all night if need be—but something told him there was a fundamental issue he was neglecting, something that went deeper than simple muleheadedness.
What had he learned about Lizzie during their brief time together? What was keeping her from capitulating, from coming to her senses? What did she need that she wasn’t getting?
The same thing you need, an unwelcome inner voice answered. The same thing everyone needs.
Respect.
It went against classic deprogramming methods, with their emphasis on belittling and humiliating the subject, but hey, hadn’t he always been a maverick?
And face it. Hadn’t she earned his respect? At least a little?
He studied the ground at his feet for a few moments, then looked up and said carefully, “You’ve thrown me for a loop, Lizzie. I’ve gotta admit, you’re not at all what I expected.”
“What David led you to expect.”
“Well...yeah.”
“I knew David for six years. We were very good friends. But that’s all it was, Caleb. Friendship.”
He started to silence her, still determined to keep her from weaving her tapestry of lies. But a glimpse of the intensity in those lovely eyes pulled him up short. He said, “The relationship my brother described went way beyond ‘friendship.’”
She sighed. “I knew he felt...well, more than that for me, at first, but I made it clear that’s all it could be and he seemed to accept it. We used to get together a lot, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with this group of people we’re tight with. I could talk to David about anything. And he could talk to me. We were like...best buddies. I don’t know how else to put it He dated a few women, but was never really serious about anyone.
A Hard-Hearted Hero (Harlequin Temptation) Page 6