“Don’t,” she said softly.
“It was a statement, Shannen, not a come-on.”
The words were blunt, edged with an iciness that betrayed the warmth of the Colorado sun. She flinched. After what she’d done to him in keeping their child a secret, how could she even think he’d come on to her?
She started to frame an apology, but was prevented when he continued, “Now, take off the safety and aim at the first can.”
She did. Aimed. Fired. Missed. “Damn.” She glared at the gun, then at Rhone. “I thought you said this thing didn’t recoil.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Felt like it to me.”
When she missed a second time, he moved behind her. His added stability gave her the confidence and accuracy to knock the next can from the post with a metallic ping. “We did it!” she said. The “we” felt natural...scary. And on the heels of that thought came another—Rhone still splashed on the same cologne after a shower.
She pushed aside all thoughts and forced herself to follow his precise instructions about reloading. With each squeeze on the trigger, her aim grew more accurate and her concentration more intense. Gone were images of everything, except for what was most important: Nicky. If it hadn’t been for him, she knew she would have never even picked up the gun, let alone held it so forcefully in her grip.
When the third clip ran dry, he asked, “Ready for a break, or do you want to keep going?”
She shook her head, concentration broken. Once again, she heard the sounds of nature, became aware of Rhone’s proximity.
Then the sound of an approaching vehicle saved her from answering. Immediately, frigid sweat knifed down her spine. The kidnappers? Terror held her paralyzed.
“You expecting someone?”
“No.”
“It’s probably Brian,” Rhone said. The tight compression of his lips belied the easy tone. “Regardless, I’m sure Doug heard the car coming.”
She clung to the calmness, his reassurance, like a drowning man to a lifeline.
“We’ll go in the back door. Just in case.” He reloaded a clip while she stared in the direction of the driveway. For the first time, she truly regretted the seclusion of the house and the fact that hundred-year-old pines blocked the view of the driveway. After ejecting the empty magazine, he slid a full one into place. “Here.”
She didn’t think of arguing.
“Don’t be afraid to use it if you have to.”
Shannen gulped. Rhone slid a much-larger gun from its holster around his waist. Absently, she wondered if it was the same one he used to lock in a safe every night when he came home—on those nights he’d actually made it home.
“Stay behind me.”
Shannen fought the instinctive urge to rush past him and hurry inside to see if Nicky was back. Adrenaline, huge waves of it, rushed through her, making her palms sweaty and her knees weak.
Rhone turned the knob slowly so it didn’t make a single sound. Before slipping inside, he unclicked the safety, the sharp sound making the whole situation more frightening, more real.
The drone of voices, none raised in anger, met her ears. Still, Rhone held up a hand for silence. What was going on? Suspense squeezed around her, cutting her breaths into shallow slices.
With his foot, Rhone inched open the door to the living room, gun gripped in his hands.
“At ease, Mitchell,” Doug said. “I don’t want to get my head blown off.”
Responding to the cue in Doug’s voice, obviously something both men had experienced before, Rhone set the safety, holstering his gun in a swift motion. Then he took Shannen’s gun from her. Anxiety swooshed from her body even though her pulse continued at a doubled rate.
“Someone you know?” Rhone asked, extending his arm to hold the door open. “I thought you said you weren’t expecting anyone.”
She bit back an instinctive urge to groan. “Jonathen.” On wooden-feeling legs, she walked past Rhone, into the suddenly tense room.
“Shannen, I just heard the news about Nicky—are you okay?”
Shannen was aware of the heat of Rhone’s glare, Doug’s open amusement as he plopped on the couch and laced his fingers behind his neck and Jonathen’s concern. She felt utterly torn, utterly on display.
Jon hurried across to her, wrapping her in his arms. “You look like you haven’t slept,” he said, with more-than-doctorly kindness.
“Maybe a total of two hours last night,” she admitted. Rhone drummed his fingers on the telephone stand, making no attempt to disguise his hostility.
“I can prescribe a sedative for you.”
“She doesn’t need to be doped up,” Rhone interrupted.
“Please,” she implored, worming her way from Jon’s suddenly protective embrace.
“You must be Rhone Mitchell,” Jon said, his tone resigned as he extended his hand.
Rhone pointedly, rudely, ignored it. “I am.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Rhone propped his hip on the stand and folded his arms across his chest. “Then you have the advantage. Who the hell are you?”
“Jonathen Peterson, Nicky—and Shannen’s—doctor...and good friend. Not that it’s any of your business. I don’t recall you being around when Shannen needed you.”
Shannen felt ill.
Doug vaulted from the couch, uttering a soft curse. Jon glared. Rhone stiffened. And Shannen buried her face in her hands. How was it possible for things to keep going from bad to worse?
“I’m sure the good doctor didn’t mean anything by it,” Doug said, centering himself strategically in the room.
“The hell I didn’t.”
Was it possible for the floor to open up and swallow her? Taking her to a place where she no longer felt pain, humiliation and despair?
“Look,” Doug intervened. “I know you both mean well, but neither of you are helping Shannen.”
Jon’s shoulders drooped. “I’m sorry, Shannen. It’s just that I know what you’ve gone through with this absentee husband of yours.”
“I’m not absent anymore,” Rhone snapped.
“Too bad for Shannen.”
“Punch a wall,” Doug warned Rhone.
“Out of my way, partner.”
“Stop!” Her voice, risen on a near-hysterical octave caused all three men to stare at her. “Don’t you dare act like this, Rhone Mitchell. Jon’s been a good friend when I desperately needed one. You have no right to treat him like this.”
“Damn it, Shannen, you’re my wife.”
“Not for much longer.”
The intake of his breath was sharp, nearly painful to listen to. She’d hurt him. Badly. Instead of stopping though, she couldn’t. “You tried to dictate to me before, well, I’m through letting you run my life. When you walked out that morning, you made your decision. I wasn’t a part of it.”
Rhone arched a dark eyebrow. “You left, knowing full well you carried my child, my child, inside you.”
Shannen had never before had a confrontation like this. She didn’t show her feelings in public, didn’t argue in front of friends. But damn it, she’d had enough. Her missing son was the straw that broke her back. “And you went to Colombia on some sort of avenging angel kick, not giving a damn about me or the future we might share. You left me, Rhone, and didn’t give a second thought about my suffering.”
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“Melodramatic?” She almost slapped him. “Melodramatic? My son was kidnapped by a lunatic. Because of you. I don’t know if he’s alive.”
She choked. “Or if he’s dead. My son could be dead, Rhone. And all because of you.” She glared at him. “Don’t you dare accuse me of melodrama.”
She’d watched the changes on his face. Guilt. Remorse. Anger. Then he blanketed them all behind a steely mask, though his eyes sparked with flares of warning.
“I’ll have an apology for my friend,” she insisted, tilting her chin stubbornly.
Silence
reigned.
Refusing to say the words, Rhone held out his hand. Jon seemed no more anxious to return the gesture, but swallowed his pride, as well.
“And now...” Rhone said, turning back to Shannen. With a firm grasp that didn’t invite discussion, he took her arm. “...I’ll have a word with you in private.”
She heard the terse temper in his tone, a barely veiled threat that promised retaliation. Shannen remembered the words he’d spoken the night before and truly comprehended how much he’d come to despise her. She remembered the old saying about a fine line between love and hate.
She’d obviously crossed it.
Yet, still, passion existed, no matter the name. It had always been that way—which was why she should have severed the relationship before it destroyed her emotionally. “Rhone, don’t. Not like this,” she whispered.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Jon try and defend her, only to be stopped by Doug’s intervention.
Rhone exerted enough pressure on her wrist to make her wince. When he spoke, she recognized his tone meant business. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 7
Rhone wanted to strangle her.
Bitter resentment about Nicky merged with images of another man touching Shannen, kissing her. And just how much had she told her so-called friend about Rhone, about their marriage? Judging from his familiarity, Peterson had implanted himself quite nicely into Shannen’s and Nicky’s lives.
Rhone pictured the happy trio. And saw red. Unaware, his grasp on Shannen’s wrist tightened.
“Cut the caveman act, Rhone, and let me go,” Shannen said, attempting to skid them both to a stop.
He eased the pressure a fraction of an inch. Let her go so she could run back to Peterson? “Like hell I will.”
Rhone chose the path he’d taken earlier that morning. Rounding a curve that put the house out of sight, he noticed Shannen quit struggling to free herself, walking docilely behind him.
In a small meadow, he led Shannen toward a grove of aspen trees near the edge of the creek. Midstride, her foot tangled with his. The next instant, he felt the jerk of her heel against his shin above his ankle.
“What the...” His words hung suspended as Rhone fought for balance. And lost. Without letting go, he hauled Shannen down with him, sure that the surprise he saw on her face equalled his own.
The bed of grass and wildflowers did nothing to cushion his impact. Rhone winced and cursed, a sharp pain radiating from his right shoulder down his arm.
Lying on top of him, Shannen squirmed. Rhone’s other arm held her firmly in place, his body, if not his mind, recognizing she was finally where she belonged.
“This isn’t going to accomplish anything,” she said, twisting around to look at him. “Rhone, you’re hurt. You crazy idiot, why didn’t you say something?”
“I did,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s not worth repeating.”
“Let me get up so I can help.”
His anger receded as pain began to subside to an aching throb. He opened his eyes. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“You don’t know that. I’ve become quite a master at giving first aid.”
Nicky’s name hung between them, unspoken.
“There’s a pin in my shoulder,” he explained, breaking the tension. “I jarred it, that’s all. It’ll be fine.” Grunting, he added, “In a minute.”
Proving it, he rolled over, pinioning her beneath him. He rested the majority of his weight on his left elbow.
“So I see.” Her voice was husky, her eyes dilated. In sync, he felt the rapid rise and fall of their breaths against his chest.
“You told me well-aimed punches and fancy footwork couldn’t stop a bullet. Apparently, fancy footwork doesn’t stop you, either,” she chided.
“Oh, I don’t know. It has its advantages.” He brushed golden strands away from her eyes, eyes that revealed a measure of apprehension bordering on distrust. Or was the mixture he saw a reflection of his own?
As though unable to help herself, she took the bait. “Name one,” she dared.
His gaze moved over her face, following his forefinger that traced soft, delicate contours. “It helps me forget why I wanted to throttle you.”
Slowly he lowered his head, placing his hands near her temples and jaw. He watched as his intentions registered, observing there was no need to apply encouragement to hold her still.
Her glance slid down to his mouth. Time and place ceased to matter. While not forgotten, never forgotten, the ugliness and terror that brought them together momentarily loosened its grip.
“Makes me forget that you insinuated Peterson into a place in my son’s life that was rightfully mine.”
“Rhone...”
Shannen’s whisper was all that separated their lips.
Rhone raised his head. Her glance darted away, but not before he glimpsed what she attempted to hide. She wanted intimacy as much as he did, and not unlike him, she was afraid.
Fear had never been something he ran from. He wasn’t about to start now; neither would he give her the opportunity.
With a sound similar to a growl, his lips descended to Shannen’s. Coherent thought scattered.
Dreamed of...hungered for...velvety warmth.
He struggled for dominance over consuming emotion. He wanted to hurt her as much as he ached. Wanted to communicate the pain and suffering. And anxiety.
He fought for mastery of them all.
Sought to find the tenderness she always inspired.
Failed.
But found passion still soared with a strong life of its own.
Needing to punish, he claimed her lips. Demanded her capitulation.
She didn’t struggle.
Instead, he felt the moment her resolve weakened, and she offered the trust of total surrender.
Punishment turned and roared, overwhelmed him, rather than her.
Something more primitive than pain claimed him and he gentled the touch. Instead of needing to inflict hurt, he gently probed, seeking her cooperation.
With what rational thought he was capable of, Rhone recognized the circumstances were crazy, causing them both to act in uncommon ways. But the sudden desire to hold and be held, to give comfort and false promises, was undeniable.
He knew he should stop, push away. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to. In spite of everything, he still wanted her.
With painstaking care, his lips skimmed the surface of hers, urging her to give as much as he, not wanting to go down for the count alone. Finally, with a moan as soft as a sigh, Shannen returned his kiss, knocking him in the solar plexus.
Opening her mouth, she teased his tongue with her own, coaxing an intimate mating. Her hands reached upward. He understood, and gloried in the fierce hunger she conveyed as she explored his face—like a woman rendered sightless whose lover had just returned. Splaying her fingers through his hair, Shannen urged him closer, rising to meet him halfway.
Unbidden, the image of Shannen casting her inhibitions aside for another man, for Peterson, intruded.
Abruptly Rhone tore his mouth from hers, silently cursing the direction of his thoughts. Shannen frowned, confusion chasing away exposed needs. When she opened her mouth to speak, Rhone turned his head, focusing his attention elsewhere. Only the sounds of nature filled the ensuing quiet.
A few seconds later, he glanced back, wishing he hadn’t. Clearly he read her regret. He felt it, too, but in a different way. Two years of celibacy, of needing and wanting his wife, had his body recoiling painfully. He swallowed a groan. She would laugh in his face if she knew, Rhone thought.
“Does Jon kiss you like that?” Loaded with frustration, he ground out the words, wanting to put a dent in her calm demeanor. “Do you respond to him like you do to me?”
“Only you could take something wonderful...”
In spite of himself, Rhone’s heart sang.
“...and turn it into something cheap and meaningless.”
He scowled. �
�Okay, so you don’t want to talk about Jon. Neither do I. Let’s back up to the part about us being wonderful.”
Shannen shifted, pushing against him. “Let’s don’t.”
He ignored her efforts to put distance between them. “What we had was good. You can’t deny it.”
“It was the best,” Shannen agreed. “But great sex isn’t enough.”
Rhone rolled to his side and sat up. Dusting off her fuchsia sweatshirt, Shannen rose next to him.
“We had more than that,” he said.
“In the beginning.”
“What the hell happened? What went wrong?”
“Oh, Rhone, we’ve been through this....”
“At the risk of repeating yourself, enlighten me.”
She delayed, picking a long blade of grass. He could equate himself with the knots she tied into the narrow stem.
“The man I married was kind, caring and thoughtful. You laughed more, you spent more time at home. With me. I’ll admit, I was never thrilled with what you did for a living—fear and worry were my constant companions—but I could handle it.”
Rhone heard the reluctance in her voice, already sorry he’d asked.
“You changed,” Shannen continued. “You distanced yourself, never letting me get too close. When I tried, you accused me of nagging. Then you’d run off on another assignment to heaven knows where. No longer did you bother to call or get a message to me that you were all right. There was no communication at all. Not when you were gone. Not when you were home.”
Rhone didn’t know what to say, faced with truth he couldn’t deny. Or excuse. He stared at the ground, wrists dangled over updrawn knees, his back against the trunk of an aspen tree as he forced himself to listen.
“It got to the point every time you left, I felt relief. Then, when I didn’t hear from you, I was sick with worry. And guilt, because our parting had been in anger. The only way I could survive and maintain sanity was in convincing myself you were fine and you’d be home soon. I’d fill myself with hope that everything would be better, be like it was in the beginning, but every homecoming, every departure, became worse than the one before.”
All I Need Page 8