She ducked away, the action obviously instinctive. “I’m … I’m fine.”
Her sudden move made his body tighten, but this time in shame. Jarrett dropped his hand immediately and, bracing it on the floor, levered himself completely off of her. He rolled into a sitting position, his back against the wall. Using the light spilling out of the bathroom, he bent to check his bandaged thigh. It was only then that he remembered he was naked. His reaction to those few moments of lying on top of Rae was still apparent.
Was that why she’d gasped? Had she felt … him? A hot flush crept up his neck, the sensation so foreign to him, he had no idea what to do about it. Reacting instinctively, he bent his good leg, drawing his knee up to provide a barrier between Rae and the … obvious. Even as he did it, he felt ridiculous. She’d made it clear that the only emotion he inspired in her was loathing.
Rae scrambled onto her knees. “Here, let me check that. You’ll be lucky if you haven’t torn it all open again.”
He grabbed her arm just before she could touch him. “Don’t,” he ordered. Then with a sigh of self-disgust, he added more calmly, “I can handle it.”
She froze, looking nonplussed for a second, then the wariness and control crept in. If he hadn’t been watching so closely, he’d have missed the hurt and vulnerability that had flickered in her eyes.
It was that tiny flicker he should be exploiting, that and the fact that she still felt compelled to help him even after their earlier confrontation. Both cracks in her guard were tools. Ways to get her to bend to his will, to agree to help him, to do what was right.
So why had his first thought been to lower his leg and prove to her that he wasn’t averse to her touch? Following swiftly on the heels of that dangerous idea had been the equally strong need to push her away. Out of his reach. Out of his mind.
More confused than he could ever remember being, Jarrett dropped her arm as if it were a live wire. He immediately shifted his attention back to his leg, acknowledging the action for the escape that it was and not giving a damn.
Rae pushed herself upright, then leaned against the wall for a moment while she worked out the kinks in her limbs.
“Yeah, you can handle it, all right, McCullough,” she said tightly as she stepped over his outstretched legs. “All of it.” Then she walked down the hallway and disappeared into the dusky shadows of the new dawn.
FIVE
Rae told herself she didn’t care if he bled to death in her hallway. She stalked over to the cabinet next to the stove and yanked out the coffee canister, then dumped twice as much coffee as she normally did into her automatic coffeemaker. God knew, she needed it. “I hope he pulls every hair out of his perfectly shaped chest ripping the rest of that tape off.” She poured the water into the machine, visualizing tearing the tape off for him. Really, really slowly.
The smile this notion brought to her face quickly faded, and she fought the edges of fright ruffling her anger. Righteous anger, she told herself as she struggled to hold on to it. She knew the second she stopped focusing on the anger, the rest of it would cave in. She simply wasn’t up to dealing with such upheaval at—she glanced at the coffeemaker clock and sighed—five o’clock in the morning.
Why had she fallen asleep in the hallway? And why oh why when she’d woken up, hadn’t she just crept down the hall and away from McCullough? She snorted under her breath. “Because you looked up and saw him standing in front of you,” she muttered. She remembered thinking that even banged up and bandaged, he’d seemed like some towering pagan god cast in evocative shadows.
She hadn’t been able to breathe for those few silent moments, much less creep away. Not that she’d even thought to, she realized now, humiliated. To complete her crashing descent into mortification, the instant she’d seen him weave with fatigue, she’d snapped out of it, but only to charge in, concern for his sorry hide literally screeching from her mouth.
“I might as well have just up and handed him the key to my soul,” she muttered in disgust. By revealing her continued concern for him, she’d given him the perfect reason to keep gunning for her help. She’d opened a vein yesterday and bled in front of him, spilling everything out. And for what?
Nothing.
She reached up to get a coffee cup out of the cabinet, digging way back for the big mug. She might need a good weapon, she told herself.
When she turned back around, she almost had a heart attack, and only barely managed to place the heavy stoneware mug on the counter instead of letting it crash to the floor.
“I wasn’t aware your soul had a key,” McCullough said, his expression calm, but his eyes glittering with a new awareness that had the hairs on her neck rising right along with her pulse rate.
He was sitting in one of her thickly cushioned rattan breakfast-nook chairs. Actually, sprawled better described it. Arrogantly sprawled, she decided as she willed her heart to slow to something under two hundred beats a minute. His legs were stretched out in front of him, the thick aqua towel slung low on his hips, not quite covering the bandage on his thigh. The discolored bruise on his shoulder hardly distracted her from noticing how his big arms were crossed over his now tapeless chest and abs. She scowled at the swirls of hair still very apparent across his oh-so-perfect pecs.
“I’d make a comment about people who eavesdrop,” she said, turning her back to him and picking up the coffeepot. “But then it’s hard to appeal to the conscience of a man who doesn’t have one.”
“You’re getting very good at launching killer salvos, then walking away before assessing the damage,” he replied.
“Obviously they aren’t as killing as I’d hoped.” Having fixed her coffee, she turned her attention to wiping down the counter and putting the coffee container away.
“Truce,” he said. She spun around, but he lifted his hand to stop her retort. “Just a small one that lasts, say, as long as a decent cup of coffee?”
He shouldn’t be capable of sounding so damn reasonable, she thought. He shouldn’t look so damn good wrapped in nothing but one of her towels either, but that was beside the point. Without a word, she turned and pulled down another mug and filled it.
She crossed to the far side of the table and scooted in across to him, then moved back to the counter for hers.
“Thank you, black will be fine,” he said, his tone dry as he picked up the mug and warmed his hands with it.
“Some truce,” she shot back. She leaned against the counter, cradling her mug in her own hands. His mouth actually began to curve in a smile, and Rae panicked. She was having a hard enough time dealing with him as it was. She definitely didn’t need to allow him to add what was certain to be a killer smile to his repertoire.
“I’m going to work in my shop for a couple of hours then I’m going into town.” She was satisfied and more than a bit relieved by the immediate darkening of his expression. “It’s not up for discussion. I have to go. I assume you didn’t come up here alone and that it wasn’t by choice. I’ll watch my back and I won’t give you away. No phone calls, no unnecessary conversations.” She drained her mug swiftly and turned to the sink. Over the running water as she rinsed it out, she added, “That’s all the concessions you’re going to get from me and it’s more than I should have to give. I’ll leave by eight and be back inside of four hours.” That said, she took a breath and faced him. “Do you need help back to—” She broke off on the word bed, her gaze automatically dropping to the muscled leg stretched out before her “Your room?” she finished evenly, fixing her gaze on his determined to keep it there or die trying.
There was no mistaking the glitter in his eyes now. It was anger, not any new awareness of her that tempered the silvery depths with steel. She said a silent prayer that he was still too weak to move swiftly, because she didn’t doubt he’d tie her to the chair to keep her from leaving if he thought it necessary. And it would be necessary. At the very least.
“Two men,” he said quietly, so quietly he captured her complete atten
tion. “One white-haired, age fifty-five, about five-ten, a good one seventy-five. The other midthirties, dark-complected, black hair, short beard, mustache, eyes blacker than hell and a soul to match. Both with too many aliases to make any of them worth repeating.”
So, he wasn’t going to fight her. Good. She took the information in stride, relieved that he’d stopped with only that. They both knew that physical power was the least of his weapons. The power to give knowledge, or withhold it, was also in his hands. Some things never changed.
Rae’s only response was a nod of understanding. She walked to the door, then turned back to him. McCullough was sipping his coffee, his gaze fixed on the scenery beyond the deep bay window.
“You can’t possibly know how much I hate having to watch my back on my own mountain.”
McCullough never shifted his attention from the window. “I’ve never gone through what you did, but I can appreciate your need for sanctuary, Rae. I’m not using you by choice. And I won’t risk you unnecessarily.”
When there was no response, Jarrett looked over his shoulder. The doorway was empty.
He turned back to the stark vista that filled the unadorned panes of glass. The sun outlined the very edge of the crest, the slope facing him still cast in shadows. It was all grays and browns, covered with barren-branched trees and piles of tumbled rock. The sky was colorless the ground strewn with broken leaves and dead tree limbs. Everywhere was death. Death of a season. Death of a sanctuary.
The sun chose that moment to break free of the high ridge, shooting daggers of golden light up into the sky and down the side of the mountain. They speared the trees, highlighting the tiny buds of spring, the broken rocks where lush ferns were nested, and the spikes of wildflowers breaking through the protective winter blanket of leaves and twigs.
Suddenly, instead of death, all he could see was life.
The sensation that filled him was one of protection of being cradled in something far stronger than anything he’d ever known, something that no army or weapon could ever destroy.
A warm knot uncurled in his belly and something that felt dangerously like languor crept into his veins. He doused it with the last dregs of his cold coffee, then barely restrained the urge to hurl the mug through the window, as if it could shatter the altered reality he’d just discovered beyond it.
Rae negotiated the last tight storm-rutted turn toward her cabin. To say she wasn’t looking forward to the talk she knew she had to have with Jarrett was an understatement. Both men Jarrett had described had been spotted in town, asking questions.
She put the four-wheel-drive Jeep into park and see the brake, then let her hands rest on the steering wheel. She stared up at the front of the house she’d called home for close to two years. It beckoned to her now as it had the day she’d first driven up.
She’d decided the same day she’d stormed out of McCullough’s office that she wanted out of the city, even of the suburbs. She’d stayed at her Arlington apartment for four months, endured therapy—both physical and mental—until the afternoon she’d spotted the ad for this place in the weekend real-estate section of the Washington Post. Two weeks later it was hers. And she’d never gone back.
She looked up at the cedar-beam structure. The wood was old and weather-stained, but the construction was solid and enduring. It soared into a modified A-frame, with almost as much glass as wood on the front and back. While her security training had rebelled at the open visibility the windows provided to anyone looking in, her soul had cried out for the sensation of freedom she got when she was inside looking out. There was nothing remotely cell-like about this house.
She felt as if she were perched on the side of something ancient and strong, held loosely in its arms, yet she only had to turn and there were miles upon miles of rolling hills and trees. And solitude. And peace.
Unbidden, and unwanted, the image of McCullough flashed into her mind. As she had all morning, she thought of that moment when she’d turned back to find him staring out the kitchen window. The words he’d said had never reached her ears. All she’d heard was the sudden pounding of her heart, because for the first time, his expression was completely unshuttered. Had he known?
Though she’d seen only half of his face, the pain and anguish had been clear. But that wasn’t what had sent her flying to the safe haven of her shop and her work like there were demons breathing fire on her heels.
It had been the other emotion she’d seen, so naked, yet so true. Yearning. That was what she’d seen.
And it had been like looking in a mirror. Had he turned to her in that moment, she would have shattered into a million pieces. So she’d run.
And for the rest of the morning she’d told herself that she hadn’t finally discovered the reason for her persistent need to take care of him.
With a sound that was half disgust, half despair, she shoved open her door, hopped down, and went around the back to unload her purchases. She hauled the bags containing his clothes up the front deck stairs and left them on the bare wrought-iron chaise by the door. He was probably sleeping, or at least in the bedroom, but she wasn’t ready to face him, so she took no chances.
She hopped back down the stairs and tugged out the box with the canned dog food, smiling when she remembered how she’d scanned the shelves at the feed store. There had been every type of animal chow in the world. Rabbits, hamsters, cats, dogs, even goats and lambs. But no wolf chow. She made a mental note to talk with Jarrett again about alerting the authorities. There had to be a way to do so without jeopardizing him. The longer the wolf stayed, the more difficult it would be to release him back into the wild. It might be too late already.
She slid out the wood she’d purchased at the hardware store and tossed the bag of hardware supplies on top of the dog-food box. Hefting the box onto one hip, the wood onto the other, she set out around the house. She went into the garage and checked on the pup, cleaned up after him, fed him, and gave him another shop rag to gnaw on along with the big rawhide bone that had somehow found its way into her cart.
“You won’t find this in the wild,” she told the puppy, who was now yipping and leaping around her ankles. She set the box of food down, opened one can, and dumped it into a bowl. “But then, I don’t think you’d find”—she examined the label—“chicken with cheese and liver in the wild either. Bon appétit.” She straightened and turned to go, but ended up watching as the pup circled the bowl warily a few times, then laughed out loud as he turned and pounced on it, alternately growling and mewling as he tore into the soft meat.
He’s a cutie, she thought, noticing that he’d grown already in the few days he’d been with her. Finished with his meal, he warily stalked the knotted rawhide she’d tossed on his bedding. The urge to kneel and call to him, to play tug-of-war with him, was strong. So strong she turned and left without another glance. “Next thing you know, you’ll want to name the damn thing,” she grumbled under her breath.
She scooped up the lumber and hardware supplies and headed on to her shop. It was there, nearly two hours later, that Jarrett found her.
He stopped just inside the shop door. He’d had no idea what to expect, but it wasn’t this. Rae was covered from neck to shins with some sort of thick protective apron. She had on heavy canvaslike gloves that extended past her elbows, and to top off the lovely ensemble, her face was hidden behind a metal mask with a tiny window in the front. Obviously this was all to protect her from the huge blowtorch she was wielding.
She hadn’t noticed him. Of course, he couldn’t figure how she could see much of anything from inside that helmet. And considering the nature of their relationship, he wasn’t about to disturb her while she could turn him into toast with a flick of her wrist.
Fighting the odd urge to smile, he took a seat on a nearby stool and settled in to watch her. Now that he knew she was back and safe, the tension that had been riding him all morning left with a suddenness that made him feel almost weak.
He didn’t stop to a
nalyze his feelings; he was too caught up in the intriguing process of her art. The room was hot to the point of sweltering, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t know how she stood it inside that apron. Then he found himself wondering what she wore under it. He visualized a T-shirt, damp from the heat and her exertion, clinging to every curve and angle of her body.…
Jarrett tore his gaze away and shifted uncomfortably on the stool, thankful for the roominess of the sweats she’d brought him. As he glanced around the room, his attention was captured by the unusual clock on the far wall.
The jumbled strands of various metals should have looked like nothing more than a scrap pile welded together. Yet the way she’d sculpted them gave them a sinuous shape that actually looked stronger for all the twists and turns. His gaze shot back to Rae. Sort of like the lady who’d created it, he thought, again wanting to know more about her. What had really driven her to join his team, and what forces had shaped her life since she’d left him?
He turned back to the clock, seeing now the small bits of uncut gemstones tucked into the strands as hour markers. He strained his eyes until he could single out each spark of color, finding agate, malachite, quartz, and several other stones he didn’t know, feeling with each identification that he was actually discovering another piece of Rae. The real Rae.
She shut off the torch the same instant he turned back to her. After pulling off the steel mask, she set down the torch, then tugged the gloves off and adjusted the fuel gauges. He bit down on a smile when she peeled the apron off to reveal a loose-fitting flannel shirt, its rolled-up sleeves sagging drunkenly at her elbows, its ragged hem hanging down over baggy jeans. So much for his wet-T-shirt fantasies.
Suddenly she stilled, then very slowly she turned and faced him. He knew he hadn’t made a sound. It was as if she’d felt him watching her.
Her wary gaze should have made him feel like the intruder he was. It didn’t. In fact, sitting there in her shop, watching her bring life to inanimate objects, forging some vision only she saw, he’d never felt closer to her.
Surrender the Dark Page 6