Clay

by Jennifer Blake

  Janna gripped the coffee mugs she held until her fingers hurt, but she scarcely felt it for the hard knot of tears in her throat and the squeezing sensation in her chest. She had kept little from Lainey about the progress of her disease, had always answered her questions as truthfully and completely as she was able. Still, she hadn’t realized exactly how much her daughter understood of what she’d been told.

  Now she knew.

  She also suspected that the plea hidden behind her daughter’s oh-so-reasonable words was destined to go unanswered, just as her own appeal to the Benedicts years ago had received no reply; it could be no other way. But Lainey’s mother would not fail her, not now, not ever. Standing there with her eyes pressed shut, Janna vowed to do whatever it took to save her daughter. And to hell with what it cost or who got hurt.

  In the spare room, Clay was quiet. Then he cleared his throat with a rasp. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. “My blood might be all wrong, too.”

  “I know,” Lainey agreed, “but I thought it might be right because your eyes are like mine.”

  “I’m not sure that matters. And I’m not at all certain your mother would like this idea of yours.”

  “Yes, she would. I heard her tell Nona that she was desperate to find a kidney for me because she couldn’t stand to lose me.”

  “Nona?”

  “My grandma. She lives in Mississippi with my grandpa. She goes to church a lot and prays all the time. But she made Mama mad when she said that God would let me get well if that was what he wanted.”

  “What did your mama say to that?”

  “That God might expect her to do something to help instead of just sitting around wringing her hands. So Nona said she didn’t want a thing to do with it, and Mama said that was all right, that she’d handle it by herself.”

  “She’s a strong woman, your mama.”

  “I know. But sometimes she cries when she thinks I can’t see her.”

  It was a second before Clay answered, then he said, “Does she, punkin?”

  “She doesn’t have anybody now, and she gets tired. But mostly, she’s afraid.”

  “Me, too, sweet thing. I don’t like sticks much more than you do.”

  “You don’t?” Lainey was quiet a minute. “It would only be a few. When it was over, there wouldn’t be anymore, or at least not too many.”

  “I see.” Clay’s voice sounded husky.

  “But that’s not what scares my mama.”

  “What does, do you think?” Something more than mere curiosity shaded his tone.

  “What’s going to happen. To me, I mean. If you were at the hospital, too, maybe you could hold her hand when they put me under and tell her that I’m going to be all right.”

  “I…see what you mean. But I just don’t know if I can be there.”

  That sounded like a polite refusal to Janna. It was no great surprise, since Clay barely knew them and, so far as she was aware, had no idea of their connection to his family. Even if she took the risk of telling him, it seemed doubtful the knowledge would weigh against his resentment at being held prisoner. At least she was saved the trouble of putting the question to him herself, something she’d considered as she lay awake the night before.

  The little talk in the spare room had gone on long enough, she thought. Blinking swiftly to remove any trace of tears, she pasted a cheerful smile on her face then pushed inside.

  “Here we are,” she said as she handed a mug to Clay, making certain that he could catch the handle with his bound right hand. “I see the cookies are gone. Would you like juice, Lainey?”

  The girl frowned as if interrupted in a matter of extreme importance, which it was to her, of course. As she caught sight of her mother’s face, however, she made no protest but folded her arms across her chest and pressed her lips together. When Janna offered the juice again, she only stared at the floor and kicked her feet back and forth where she dangled them off the edge of the bed.

  It was impossible to say anything to soothe or reassure Lainey without showing that she’d overheard the discussion with Clay. That was the last thing Janna wanted, since it could bring on questions she had no intention of answering. She’d try later to make her daughter understand that she didn’t have to worry about a transplant or her mother, but all she could do for now was gloss over the situation and hope for the best.

  Sighing, she looked away from the child’s small, pinched face. Her gaze met that of the man on the bed almost by accident. She expected to see derision there, or even censure, but found an unnerving sympathy instead.

  It was later that night, after she’d put Lainey to bed with all the usual sterile procedures and medications then made ready for bed herself, that she remembered the camera bag. She’d promised Clay he could have it once she’d checked it. It would help keep him entertained, perhaps, and she might also wind up with some of the shots of Lainey. She had relatively few pictures of her daughter other than a couple of sets done during discount store specials; there had been little money for such things in the early days and no time in the past three years. Flinging a cotton robe around the T-shirt and underpants that she wore for sleeping, she left the bedroom and padded into the kitchen and dining room in her bare feet.

  The camera bag, a duffel-like affair of black nylon, was heavy when she picked it up. Setting it on the table, she unzipped it and pulled it open. Inside were two other cameras, along with dozens more rolls of film, an assortment of lenses and filters, a couple of collapsible tripods, a thermos and an insulated food bag holding stale sandwiches, a lightweight rain poncho and the tool kit she’d noticed earlier. Every item was tucked into its own pocket or strap. In his profession, at least, Clay Benedict appeared to be a neat, methodical man. It didn’t quite go with her impression of him as a devil-may-care charmer more interested in zipping around the swamp taking pictures than in actual work, but she supposed that everyone had different aspects to their personality. Removing the tool kit, she hefted the bag to one shoulder and walked back down the hall to the spare bedroom.

  Clay looked up as she entered, then tossed aside the magazine he was reading, one on watercolor that he must have taken from her worktable. With his gaze on his equipment, he said, “Such service. I could get used to it.”

  “Don’t,” she recommended briefly as she tossed the bag onto the bed. “It’s not going to last.”

  “Does that mean you’re letting me go?”

  The look she sent him was caustic as she stepped back well out of reach then turned toward the door again.

  “Wait,” he said quickly. “Stay a while.”

  “It’s late. I need to get a little sleep.”

  “Before Lainey wakes up again?”

  Her nod was brief.

  “So you’ll just leave me shut up, going out of my mind lying here with nothing to do except talk to myself.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll bet you are. The least you can do is tell me the point of it. What is it you want? Ransom maybe, so you can afford a kidney transplant?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Logic, also something Lainey said. Though I’d think you could get help from some charitable association or government agency.”

  “No such luck,” she said in flippant tones. “So how much do you think you’re worth?”

  “Not as much as you may think. Anyway, who’s going to take care of your daughter if you wind up in prison?”

  “I’ll worry about that later. For now, I’ve got all that I can handle.”

  “Including putting her life in jeopardy for the sake of your career?”

  His gaze was hard, and Janna would swear there was real anger in his voice. She said, “We have to live. But how nice of you to be concerned, especially when you know nothing about it.”

  “I know enough to understand that you’re risking her life by being out here. What in hell are you thinking?”

  Her smile was grim. “Maybe that’s why you’re her
e, to help take care of her.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Why? You have medical stuff in your vet’s kit.”

  “I’m not a medical doctor!”

  “You’ll do in a pinch,” she assured him with all the confidence she could muster.

  “You’re crazy.”

  She thought he was trying to keep his voice down to avoid waking Lainey, which only made the frustration in his tone more apparent. “Well, there you have it, the explanation for everything.”

  He stared at her, his gaze penetrating. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “I think you’ve got something up your sleeve. I’m not sure what it is, but it seems to me that it has you running scared. You’re jumpy and on edge and ready to hit out at anyone and everyone who comes too close. Fine, but don’t be surprised if they hit back.”

  “I take it that’s a warning?”

  “Take it any way you want.”

  With a lift of her chin, she said, “If this is your idea of witty conversation to relieve your boredom, I’ll pass. Good night.”

  She swung toward the door so quickly that her loosely tied housecoat swirled open. Clutching at it, she bent her head while she sought the ends of the tie that held it together. Behind her, there came a soft, slithering noise. A warning tingle zipped along her nerves. Her head came up.

  He was on her before she could move, whipping an arm around her waist, shoving her against the wall beside the open door. Her cheek scraped against the plaster. Her breath was forced from her in a rush. A second later, she was jerked around so her back was to the hard surface. He grabbed her right wrist and pinned it beside the turn of her neck with his left hand while the hard ridge of his right arm, which was bound to it, pressed into the softness of her breasts.

  “Now,” he said softly, his warm breath brushing over her cheek and tickling her ear. “Let’s see if this improves my communication skills.”

  Janna gave a small moan that had nothing to do with pain or fear, but was from pure chagrin that she’d let herself be lulled into complacency by his quiescence, compassion and handsome grin. It had been stupid of her to go near him. It had also been idiotic to forget that he had slack in the cable that held him, and dumb to think that he wouldn’t attempt to escape because he’d shown no sign of it. It had been criminally half-witted, as well, to forget that he could react with violence simply because he’d refrained until now.

  He drew back a fraction, searching her face with his gaze. What he saw must have satisfied him for the tension in his features relaxed a fraction. “All right, end of game,” he said grim purpose. “Where are the keys to the damn padlocks?”

  She swallowed convulsively as she tried to think. That wasn’t an easy task with his hard body flattened against hers. His heat surrounded her. She could feel his heartbeat against her breast. One firm, muscular thigh was jammed between her legs, holding her with insistent pressure that did nothing for her mental processes. With a catch in her voice, she said, “I don’t have it.”

  “Wrong answer. Try again.”

  “I mean it.” The feel of his weight, the hint of heated maleness against her thigh, unsettled her. Alarm ran along her nerves. Grasping a fistful of his shirt with her free left hand, she tried to push him away. He shifted slightly to increase the rigid pressure of his hold. As the air left her lungs, she was still again.

  “I’m not playing games,” he informed her with deadly quiet. “I feel for you and your daughter, but I have better things to do than lie around this camp at your pleasure. Get these damn ropes off me or you’ll regret it.”

  The hard edge in his voice was a strong indication that there was more to Clay Benedict than met the eye. He was capable of being extremely unpleasant if pushed. Regardless, she could not make herself believe that he would hurt her. The man who had let her sit within arm’s reach that afternoon without lifting a finger because he didn’t want to frighten a little girl didn’t fit the profile. That was fortunate since she really didn’t have the keys but had left them in the pocket of the dress she had discarded before taking her shower.

  Voice quiet, she said, “Let me go. I can’t help you.”

  “I think you can,” he insisted. “Shall we see who’s right?”

  He made an abortive movement with his left hand, as if he would lower it, had forgotten that he could not. Cursing impatiently under his breath he gave the wound ropes another irritated jerk that gained a centimeter or two of slack. Then he moved both hands in a lightning swift gesture that skimmed along her side, brushed the fullness of her breast near her armpit on first one side and then the other. Leaning back slightly to allow space between their bodies, he smoothed his palm down to the pocket of her lightweight robe that lay directly over her pubic bone.

  She had been frisked in his search for the keys. Clay Benedict had put his hands on her—still had them there—while she stood in stunned disbelief, without protest or resistance. Voice acid with self-disdain, she asked, “Find what you were looking for?”

  He didn’t remove his hand. The tensile warmth of his fingers so close to the apex of her body created an electric charge inside her that increased as he spread his fingers wider. A slow grin tilted his lips before he answered, “Not yet.”

  “I told you, I don’t have the keys.”

  He shook his head, his eyes bright and faintly mocking as he watched her. “Ah, but there you’re wrong. What you have may be the key to the whole thing.”

  She saw it coming. Lifting her hands in swift defense, she tried to push him away. He blocked the effort, snatching her wrist again and using his left elbow to pin her shoulder. Then holding her wide gaze, he lowered his head until his lips touched hers.

  She was outraged, of course she was. She despised being overpowered, couldn’t believe it was happening, feared where it might be leading. And yet his lips were tender, the brush of them a light, teasing arousal of long dormant senses. A drugged sensation flowed along her veins. Her heart thudded against her ribs and she felt as if the center of her being was melting like warm caramel.

  He flicked the line where their lips joined with his tongue and she tasted his sweetness, his intense, unique flavor. Janna held her breath. She wanted to flow into him and around him, to pull him closer until their bodies merged and he filled the innermost depths of her being, which had been empty for so long, so terribly long.

  It came to her, as she stood motionless in his arms, that she had nothing to lose by cooperating. Hadn’t she considered using sex to help her daughter? Yet the feelings he aroused were so startling that they brought fear in their wake. She couldn’t afford to let anyone get that close to her. She had to step back and think, had to make certain it was the right thing before she got in so deep that she couldn’t get out again.

  In sudden fearful decisiveness, she wrenched her mouth from his and brought her knee up hard between his spread legs. He felt the movement, tried to turn away, but didn’t quite make it. Snatching a strangled breath, he bent at the waist. Janna yanked free of his lax grasp and whirled toward the door. Seconds later, she was safe on the other side.

  She didn’t stop there, but ran the few short steps to her bedroom, well beyond the reach of the cable that held Clay Benedict. Closing that door behind her, she locked it then leaned against it. She clamped her hands to her mouth as if she could stifle her hard breathing with them or hold her dread and dismay inside.

  How badly had she hurt him? Did he need help? Should she risk asking or let it go?

  She wasn’t cut out for this sort of excitement. Her heart threatened to bang its way out of her chest and she was shaking all over. She was really afraid that she couldn’t do any of this, wasn’t coldhearted enough or capable of that much deception.

  And yet she must be. Somehow, someway, she must.

  5

  Clay was awake long before daylight. He spent some time working at the bonds on his hands since it was clear that nothing short of using Lainey as a hostage was going to force Jann
a to release him, and that wasn’t an option. Arty had done a good job, but Clay was able to loosen the ropes a bit. He might have done more if he’d been ready to leave the camp—he’d discovered during the night that Janna had failed to take the folding combination tool from his pocket, one he’d carried so long that it was polished from wear. It had a handy item that he’d used to pick locks before. But he wasn’t ready to go just yet. Close contact with Janna last night had put a new light on his confinement. They had unfinished business between them that would be best settled here.

  Nonetheless, the forced inactivity was beginning to get to him. He paced up and down at the end of his cable for some minutes, then ran through a series of exercises to limber his stiff muscles. A strong need for a cup of hot coffee plagued him, but he could think of no way to get it short of shouting for Janna. He didn’t want to do that since he was well aware that she’d had another hard night with Lainey. It struck him as exquisitely funny, this concern with her rest when she was so indifferent to his comfort or convenience, but he couldn’t help it.

  He was checking out the file folders on her drawing table, which she also used for a desk, when the door eased open. A small blond head appeared around the edge. Lainey’s gamine grin brightened her features as she saw that he was up. Sliding into the room, she came toward him. She was wearing short pajamas and carrying a piece of paper of some kind in her hand.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Wishing I had somebody to talk to or something to do.”

  “You can talk to me.” She came to his side and took his hand. “It might be better than touching Mama’s drawing things. She doesn’t like it, and I’m not allowed. Nobody’s allowed.”

  “She’ll get mad, huh?” That wasn’t a great worry, though Clay frowned to show he recognized the seriousness of it to the little girl.

  “Very mad. It’s how she makes a living for us, you know.”