Sweetly Contemporary Collection - Part 2 (Sweetly Contemporary Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  “You came prepared, didn’t you?” he commented as he dumped the chest on the cabinet in the kitchen.

  “I told you I meant to be here for a week.”

  “So you did.” He sent her a tight glance, but if he found reason in her obvious preparations for a long stay to accept that she was no more and no less than what she had said, he was not ready to concede it.

  “You wouldn’t trust your own mother,” she exclaimed, angry disappointment flaring in her eyes.

  “We’ll leave her out of this, if you don’t mind.” His tone was cool, but final.

  “You mean you have a mother?” The words were out before she considered how they might sound, jarred from her by surprise at his protective attitude.

  “Most people do,” he answered dryly.

  “I wonder —” she began, then stopped.

  “You were saying?” he prompted, though there was a forbidding look in his face.

  In a rush, she said. “I wonder what this mother of yours would think if she knew what you were doing now.”

  Amusement crossed his features and was gone. “She would shake her head in sorrow over her wayward son, and wonder at the wisdom of his running such a risk.”

  “I told you, I am no danger to you!”

  “The picture of innocence, aren’t you?” he said, then added cryptically, “I think that’s what is bothering me.”

  Was the doubt he had expressed good or bad from her point of view? It was impossible to tell, impossible to decide what to say to help her case. Searching the grim mask of his face, Kelly made no reply.

  He hefted her suitcase. “Come on,” he said, “it’s time I showed you where you are going to sleep.”

  She moved before him down the hall, edging gingerly past the first bedroom that he had made his own. She came to a halt automatically outside the room directly across the hall on the left, the one where she and Mary Kavanaugh had slept. Charles opened the door and looked in, then shook his head. Further along, he took a disparaging inventory of the next bedroom on the back side of the house, then moved purposely back across the hall to the other front bedroom, the one beside his own.

  “This will do. You have a view of the lake and your own bath.” His voice dropping to a quieter note, he went on. “But there is only a wall between us, and I am a very light sleeper. If you walk across the floor or open a window, I will hear you. If you turn in your sleep, you will wake me. This should be sufficient warning for you not to try anything during the night. If you do, I can promise you that your next sleeping arrangement will not be as spacious, or as private.”

  He meant, in short, that he would force her to share his room, if not his bed. As incensed as she was with the threat beneath his words, she still had the presence of mind to be relieved. Caught between those warring emotions, she could think of nothing to say. Her face stony, she watched as he set down her suitcase, then pointedly leaving the door wide open, took himself out of the room.

  Three

  Kelly placed her shoulder bag on the bedside table, put her bag of books beside it, then dropped down on the bed. Closing her eyes, she released her breath in a soundless sigh. She lifted her shoulders, feeling the tenseness of the muscles of her neck from the strain of the past hours. What was she going to do? The situation was intolerable, but try as she might, she could see no way out. She was trapped, a captive at the mercy of the enigmatic man who called himself Charles.

  For a time, she had thought mercy was something the man who held her lacked. There had been nothing in his reception to encourage her to expect it. Thinking back, it seemed that his first suggestive remarks had been made with the idea of speeding her departure. They had been most effective; she had been more than ready to leave when she had caught sight of the elderly man and his gun-carrying guard.

  She had not been meant to see those two; that much was plain. The fact that she had was the reason she was being kept here against her will, the reason Charles had used such drastic measures to extract the information he wanted from her.

  Would he have carried through his threats of physical intimacy? Would he still do so if she defied him? She did not know. It seemed probable, and yet, he had been extremely considerate over the sleeping arrangements. Moreover, there had been a short time when he had dropped his menacing attitude, becoming almost human. It was difficult to know what to make of him. Her thoughts and emotions were in chaos, impossible to sort out. The evidence of her own eyes convinced her that there was something sinister involved here, and that Charles, if he was not behind it, was at least deeply committed to it. She was suspicious of him, she distrusted him, and if she were honest, she would have to acknowledge that she was afraid of him. Still, she could not forget the burgeoning excitement she had felt when he held her, or the tumult of the senses she had endured during his kiss. Her reactions were disturbing. To think that she had no more control than that over her bodily responses filled her with distress. The only thing that gave her comfort was the thought that she had not revealed her humiliating weakness to Charles.

  Raising her head, she looked around the room. It was large and airy with double windows on the front and side, both sets of which opened onto the veranda. They were covered with drapes in a cool green-and-white bamboo pattern. A matching spread was draped over the bed with its headboard of rattan. Dark green rugs were scattered here and there over the polished floors. The accent color in the room was bright yellow, brought out in a lamp base made from a ginger jar, and a set of bird prints framed in yellow bamboo against the stark white walls. Overhead was a ceiling fan slowly revolving to stir the cool air. The turning blades cast shadows on the walls, making a rhythmic, beating sound that was oddly soothing, and might well drown out a little of the sound of her movements.

  She could not depend on it. With a weary shrug, Kelly got to her feet, moving to where her suitcase sat on a wicker bench at the foot of the bed. Snapping the latches, she opened the case out flat and took from it a long gown of soft nylon in a pale green shade. She would not unpack. Surely by tomorrow something would happen, some change would take place so she could leave the lake house.

  There was a lock on the bathroom door. She turned it with a decisive snap and immediately felt better. Running a deep tub of warm water, she dropped in a handful of herbal-scented bath beads, removed her clothes, and stepped in. For a long time she lay soaking, feeling the tension ease from her. It was only as she heard footsteps in the hall, pausing outside her bedroom door, that she roused herself to make splashing noises. The last thing she wanted was to remain so quiet that Charles would come pounding on the door, demanding that she show herself.

  Her nightgown, with its heart-shaped neckline and front lacing like an Elizabethan basque, was more revealing than she had remembered. With her lips pressed tightly together, she sought out the negligee that went with it as a cover-up, but since the neckline of the negligee followed that of the gown, she was little better off. She glanced at the open door, a shadow in her gray eyes. Charles had gone, but she had no way of knowing when he might look in on her again. She was probably being ridiculous to think that the sight of her would inflame the man in the next room with desire. All his threats and insinuations to the contrary, he had most likely felt nothing whatever for her. It had been a game to insure her cooperation. That was all.

  She thumbed through the books she had brought, selecting one of her favorite Regency novels. Settling in bed, propped on pillows against the headboard, she opened the book and started to read. She turned the first page, a second, a third. Then, her mouth set in a grim line, she read the first page again. The words could not entice her; the sentences had no meaning.

  She lowered her book and lay listening. From the direction of the living room, she could hear the sound of a low-turned radio, or was it a stereo phonograph? What was he doing, her jailer? Was he prowling the house, wishing he had never set eyes on her? Was he deciding what he was going to do with her, deciding when he could set her free, if he could
set her free?

  He didn’t seem like a crook. The thought came unbidden, but she allowed it to linger. She had never known a criminal before, it was true, and she supposed the best of them, those who went undetected, must be just like other people, nondescript men and women who went about their lives without drawing attention to themselves. It had to be admitted, however, that such a description did not fit Charles either.

  What was he then? What legitimate reason could he possibly have for holding a person prisoner? Was he a policeman? Some kind of detective? If so, why hadn’t he shown her his credentials? Why would he play along with her accusation that he was a criminal, even to the point of making sarcastic remarks about she herself being from the police?

  Some other branch of the law then, the FBI or the CIA? The same caveat applied. As far as she was aware, the representatives of government agencies were scrupulous about identifying themselves, and he would have had nothing to fear from her in any case. If any agent suspected her of wrongdoing after finding her crawling in the window, if she posed a threat to some undercover operation, he had only to call in the local authorities and tell them to come and take her away. The likelihood of her being held captive and subjected to his type of harassment was nil.

  No, she was going to have to accept the fact that this man Charles was operating outside the law, that he was a hoodlum who specialized in abductions, or worse still, some sort of hired killer. It was all too likely that earlier, when she had thought he was interrogating her to find out who might be concerned if she turned up missing, he had been trying to discover if there was anyone willing to pay ransom for her release!

  Such thoughts were not pleasant company, yet they stayed with her long after she had flung down her book and turned out the light. They would not let her sleep, but kept her tossing and turning as the hours stretched one into the other.

  Charles was right about one thing; it was possible to hear every movement in the echoing openness of the house. She knew when he returned to his room, knew when he showered. She sat up in bed then, and even flung back the cover. But she realized after a moment that by the time she had slipped on her clothing and eased into his room to find her car keys, he would more than likely be out of the bathroom again. The last thing she needed was for him to discover her in his bedroom.

  Of course, it was possible that she could get away from the house on foot. It was at least a mile to the nearest dwelling of any kind, however, and there was no guarantee that it would be occupied. Most of the homes on the lake were summer places, used a few months out of the year, or else over the weekends. She could walk miles and knock on doors for hours without finding anyone in residence this late on a Sunday evening in September. Charles, it seemed, had chosen his hideaway well. Kelly lay back down, staring with wide and burning eyes into the darkness.

  It was sometime later when she came awake from a fitful slumber. She lay still, disoriented, caught at the edge of a nightmare she could not remember. Then she realized it was no dream but reality. She sat up abruptly, coming fully alert. That movement sent a throbbing pain up her leg. Her foot; she had forgotten the thorn. It was no wonder, but who could have thought it would hurt like this?

  Pushing herself higher in the bed, she reached to turn on the lamp. She brushed the covers to one side, then turned her foot so she could look at it. The thorn was a gray line under the skin of the most tender portion of her instep. The area around it was red and swollen, and there was a red streak running up over the top of her foot. It was infected; there could be little doubt of that. She applied gentle pressure with her thumbs, but it did no good. The thorn was embedded. It was going to have to come out, and to do the job she was going to need a needle.

  She rummaged in her shoulder bag, searching for a straight pin, a safety pin, anything that might be pressed into use. There was nothing, nor was there anything in the dresser drawers that she slid quietly open and shut. The medicine chest in the bathroom held basic supplies, but nothing sharp.

  Standing in the middle of the floor, she tried to think. Mrs. Kavanaugh had been a needlewoman, forever stitching at embroidery of some kind, whether it was petit point, cross-stitch, or crewel work. There had been a worn, wooden sewing box that she had used. It was always kept in a cabinet in the living room. If the judge’s wife had not changed her habits and her pastime, Kelly should be able to find what she sought there.

  All was quiet in the next room. The cooling system had come on, masking a little of the sound she had made. Scarcely breathing, moving with care, she left her room and limped along the hall. As she passed the room where Charles was sleeping, she could not resist the impulse to glance in at the door. In the dim glow cast by the lamp in her bedroom, she could just see his shape upon the bed, see the dark splotch of his hair against the pillow, the sheet cutting across his waist, and one long arm flung above his head.

  The pieces of furniture in the living room were bulky shadows in the darkness. She did not dare turn on the overhead light; it might wake the man sleeping down the hall behind her. There was no real need for it, not if the sewing box was where it had always been kept. She could find it by touch if need be, then carry it back to her bedroom to sort out what she wanted.

  The cabinet was actually the lower portion of the built-in bookcase that took up one wall of the living room. The hinged wooden box was where she expected it to be, on the bottom shelf. With a sense of triumph, she knelt and pulled it out. Switching the handle to her right hand, she got to her feet.

  Without warning, a hard hand closed on her shoulder. Charles whirled her around and scooped her into his arms.

  “You!” she exclaimed.

  “Who else did you expect?” came the hard reply. He swung around, striding toward the hall.

  “I didn’t. I — Charles, no!” The last cry came as he shouldered into his bedroom.

  “I did warn you.” Reaching the bed, he dropped her upon its surface. The fall jarred the handle of the sewing box she still clutched in her fingers. It tumbled away from her as Charles put one knee on the mattress and threw himself down beside her. She tried to twist away from him, but he was lying on the skirt of her gown and negligee. He clamped a hand to her waist, pulling her back against him. He hovered above her there in the darkness, the muscles in his arm slowly tensing, and then his mouth came down upon hers.

  With firm and warm sensuality, he tasted her lips, exploring the sweetness of their gentle curves and the nectared moistness of one corner, insidiously increasing the pressure of his kiss until they parted under his. It was at that moment Kelly realized she had not attempted to resist him past that first instinctive protest, realized the treachery of her burning mouth and leaping pulse. The shock of that recognition gave her extra strength as she jerked away from him. He lunged after her, and with that violent movement, the sewing box teetering on the foot of the bed tumbled to the floor with a crash that sent buttons and bobbins, embroidery hoops and spools of thread scattering in every direction, skittering over the polished floor.

  He went still, then with an oath, he sat up and turned on the light. His dark gaze moved from the debris on the floor to Kelly’s flushed face as she lay beside him.

  “What,” he said with an expressive gesture, “are you doing creeping around in the dark with that thing clutched to your bosom?”

  Kelly scrambled away from him, snatching her gown from under his thigh. “I wasn’t creeping anywhere,” she snapped. “I was taking the box back to my room to find a needle.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You were overtaken in the night by a sudden urge to sew a seam?”

  “I have,” she informed him, her gray eyes stormy, “a thorn in my foot!”

  He stared at her, his dark gaze moving slowly from the tumbled glory of her golden-brown hair to the rose-petal color on her cheekbones and the creamy softness of her shoulders, more revealed than concealed by the pale green garment she was wearing. A muscle corded in his jaw as he transferred his regard to the slim fee
t that were tucked under her as she hesitated, ready for flight.

  “Let me see.”

  “I will not!” she returned, sliding from the bed, uncaring that her gown rode up well above her knees. She put her feet on the floor, and immediately winced.

  He came up from the bed, a tall bronzed figure wearing only the bottoms to a pair of blue silk pajamas, outlined in a golden nimbus from the lamplight behind him. “I want to look at this thorn that’s giving you so much trouble you had to rid yourself of it before dawn. If I have to do it the hard way, I will, but I would rather not be forced into it.”

  “It’s no business of yours.”

  “If you think I’m going to let you neglect it to the point where I’ll have to take you to a hospital, then you are mistaken.”

  “I never intended any such thing! It’s just a thorn. I can tend to it myself!”

  “How can I believe you, when you won’t let me see?”

  She had the feeling once more that she was being manipulated, but there seemed nothing she could do about it. There was about him that animal alertness, the assured confidence amounting to arrogance that told her it was useless to attempt to evade him. “Oh, all right!”

  She sat down on the bed with a flounce. Lifting her gown, she crossed her ankle on her knee, turning the sole of her foot to the light. He went to one knee on the floor beside her, his fingers warm and gentle as they probed her instep.

  “Um-hum,” he said. Straightening, he moved into the bathroom, returning in a moment with a bottle of alcohol, a tube of ointment, and a collection of bandaging material. He placed these on the bedside table, then scanned the contents of the sewing box strewn over the floor. Kelly saw the gleam of the needle at the same time he did, but it was Charles who came up with it.

  Without looking at her, he stepped to me bedside table, opened the bottle of alcohol, and plunged the needle into the contents. As he turned toward her once more, Kelly held out her hand.