“Oh,” he echoed with a lazy smile.
Her girl parts stood up and did a cheer, pom-poms waving. That smile really was criminal. Ha! A criminal smile for a criminal. God. She winced at her inside joke. She was losing it. Or was it just that smile, rendering her stupid? Making her forget things like the fact that he was an escaped felon?
“And you,” he continued, “well, you’re the kind of woman that revels in a guy going down on you.”
I am?
Yes. Yes. She was.
Maybe not before, but suddenly that’s who she was. Maybe she had been that all along and just didn’t know it. He had awakened that dormant side to her. Unleashed this uninhibited, sexual creature.
He leaned close enough that his words fanned against her lips. “There’s a hellcat in you. You would like it wild. You’d use your nails. Your teeth.”
Her mouth dried and watered, her breath picking up. She moistened her lips. “Charles is perfect. A true gentleman.”
Something flickered in his eyes. A flash of hot emotion that faded almost as soon as it appeared. “Of course he is. And that’s what every woman wants. A gentleman.” He smirked at her.
She lifted her chin. “It is. Something you most definitely are not.”
“No, I’m not a gentleman. Especially in bed, princess. Actually, though, that used to win me points back in the day.”
Back in the day. Because he hadn’t had sex in years. Easy there, girl parts, down. He had a lot of pent-up sexual energy. Her breasts grew heavier just thinking about how he could put all that sexual energy to use. On her.
Damn him, he was right, though. She had to admit it if only to herself. There was something about a man that could go all Tarzan in the bedroom. Throw her down on the bed. Or the floor. Or against the wall. Up until now that had been a safe fantasy. Something she could long for because it would never happen. She would never cross paths with a man like that. Except now she had. She bit her lip, stifling a moan.
“C-Can I go to my room now please?” she managed to get out.
After a long moment he stepped aside, waving her to move past. She hurried around him and dove into her bedroom. Setting her plate on the dresser, she paced in an attempt to settle her nerves, shaking her hands out in front of her.
She needed to get it together. Remember who he was. Who she was.
When her pulse steadied she picked up her plate and sank down on the edge of the bed. She bit into her sandwich. It tasted like dust in her mouth. Tossing it back down, she left the plate on the bed and rose to her feet again. Moving to the window, she tried to open it. Again. She’d tried several times before. Still, it didn’t budge.
Dropping her forehead against the cool glass, she stared outside at the frost-tinged trees.
And what would she do if she got the window open? Run into the woods? He would give chase. Like before. He’d find her. Like before. That’s what men like him did. Her pulse skittered at her throat.
And why did that give her a treacherous little thrill?
Sixteen
Grace spent the next half hour pacing the room, trying to cool her flushed skin and slow her hammering pulse. At one point she heard an engine revving outside and emerged from the bedroom cautiously. She crossed the living room and peered out the window to see that Reid had managed to start the motorcycle he had been working on since yesterday. He was still wearing that long-sleeved thermal shirt that did nothing to hide his strong physique as he labored. He seemed so solid. Capable. It was hard to imagine him ever being less than this. Less than free, less than strong, less than a man among men.
She’d let him deliberately think she was engaged to Charles . . . that it was a real relationship. It was a prideful thing to do, but she didn’t regret it. She knew Reid’s power over her. Well, over her libido at least. He likely knew, too. She’d been his for the taking. So many times now. Much to her embarrassment. He could be smug in that knowledge.
He started heading for the cabin. She jumped with a squeak and dove into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. It had been an impulse to hide. Or instinct, rather. Following that instinct, she hopped on the bed and pulled the blanket over her. She didn’t know if he would check on her, but it seemed safer to feign sleep. Less risk of interaction.
Settling on her side, she closed her eyes and lay perfectly still, tucking her hand beneath her cheek. She held motionless for several long minutes, listening to him as he moved around the house. His steps came close to the door, hesitating just on the other side. She held her breath, wondering if he would enter, hoping he would, praying he would not.
She waited as the sound of his steps faded away. Her limbs relaxed, growing as heavy as her eyelids, until it was hard to keep them open anymore. In fact, she didn’t need to pretend to be asleep at all.
Nightmares had been a regular part of Grace’s childhood. Her mother accused her of being overly dramatic (and eating cookies before bed—somehow the two were connected). She stopped coming to her room after the first couple of times. Daddy called it tough love and insisted Grace was in dire need of it lest she become weak spirited. Her mother, of course, agreed. Daddy was always right—and neither one wanted a weak daughter afflicted with nightmares or anything else that might mark her as less.
So that left Anna, their housekeeper. She was always there to comfort Grace in the middle of the night when she woke up screaming. She’d pet Grace’s head and cluck sympathetically, asking about her dream and encouraging her to talk about it. The problem was, Grace didn’t know what to say because she didn’t remember any of it.
Grace knew children were supposed to have these great memories, when their minds were fresh and young. But that wasn’t the case with her. Her dreams vanished like wisps of smoke as soon as she woke. Only the terror remained, clawing her throat and coating her mouth with the taste of metal.
Tell me, sweet pea, what is it?
And she never could tell Anna despite the housekeeper’s encouragement. She wanted to. Anna seemed to think it was important. As though Grace could somehow defeat her monsters if she put a name to them. Eventually the nightmares stopped. She grew up, which was a good thing since Anna retired and she didn’t have anyone to comfort her in the middle of the night anymore.
Unfortunately now, when she woke up screaming, gazing blindly ahead in the cabin bedroom, she remembered everything.
There was no haze of smoke to obscure the nightmare that had her bolting upright in bed, her scream ringing in her ears. There was no forgetting it. She could see it all too well—actually felt as though she were still trapped in its grip, the images chasing her into lucidity. Her chest heaved, aching in a way that felt unsafe—like she might actually be having a heart attack. Her hands were bound again—and she was running. Only this time it wasn’t Reid chasing her. It was the other men. Rowdy and Zane and the others. Their faces contorted in a crazy blur like something out of a fun house. She was crying, choking on sobs as they caught her and tossed her between them. Tearing at her clothes. Striking her with their fists. Shoving her down beneath the crush of them.
“Grace!” Hard hands shook her, and for a moment she thought it was still part of the dream. She fought back, striking and scratching, earning a grunt from her attacker.
Her hands were seized and pinned above her head. “Grace! What’s wrong?”
She blinked up at Reid’s shadowed features. The room was draped in the soft purple of dusk. Blinking, she assessed the room and him. Her chest deflated with a breath. “Reid,” she breathed. He wasn’t Anna, but she wasn’t alone. He was here.
“Gracie.” He brushed the hair back from her face, his touch as gentle as his voice. Her stomach flipped at the sound of that nickname on his lips. His hand skimmed down the length of her arm and took her hand. “It’s all right, Gracie. It was just a dream.”
She nodded, choking back a sob, marveling that such a rough, frightening man should possess even a scrap of gentleness. “They were after me. Those men . . .�
�� She shuddered, the image so very real she could feel their hands, smell their sweat, and still taste the fear so clearly. “I couldn’t get away from them. They were animals—” She abruptly stopped, sucking in air. She was talking about his friends, after all. One of them was his brother. He could very well take offense.
“Ah, sweetheart.” He folded her into his arms. She went, collapsing against him, nestling her cheek against the hard wall of his chest. “I’m sorry,” he muttered into her hair.
“What are you sorry for?” He hadn’t been the one hurting her in the dream.
“I think it’s pretty obvious. If you’re having nightmares, it’s because of me.”
“Not you,” she managed to say, her fingers curling around the edge of his short sleeve. “Without you I would be living that nightmare right now. I’ll gladly take the nightmare over the reality.”
And reality was this sweetness. Right now. Being held in his arms and feeling safe.
The thought jarred her.
It wheedled into her consciousness. She felt safe. He made her feel safe. A surprising thought. She felt safe with him, a dangerous man that she knew she shouldn’t trust.
She tried to shove it out, but the feeling persisted, a jagged rusty little nail that found its way loose to burrow under her skin.
She squeezed her eyes tight in a long blink and then opened them again to the dusk-shrouded room. It had happened then. She had devolved into full-on Stockholm syndrome. She was past the point of identifying with her abductor. With him there were . . . feelings. Feelings that were decidedly un-captive-like.
Except he wasn’t really her abductor. At least not initially. A point not to be overlooked. It was the other guys who haunted her nightmare.
God help her, there was that rationalizing again. She was making a distinction . . . defending him.
She sniffed wetly, fighting to regain her composure. He still held her hand, his thumb rubbing the backs of her fingers in a lazy circle. She used her other hand to rub at her eyes, pressing her fingertips against her eyelids to assuage the sting.
She laughed weakly. “You must think me a little kid, crying over a bad dream. Haven’t done that in years.”
“They don’t only happen to children, you know. There’s no shame in them. I’ve had my share of nightmares, too. Every time I close my eyes, they’re there. The things I’ve seen and done . . . they don’t fade from memory easily.” He shifted, stretching out his legs on the bed, their bodies so close, her cheek still pressed to his chest. She kept her face there, inhaling his masculine scent. It was probably safer than looking at his face again. That face did things to her insides.
“How do you deal with that?”
“I make certain that I’m too exhausted to dream when I fall into bed. That’s the goal anyway. In prison, I spent a lot of time working out. Running the yard, playing ball.”
That would explain his amazing body.
He continued, “The good news is that your nightmares will only ever be that. Nightmares. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, Gracie. Wait and see. You’ll be home soon and your nightmares will end.”
Her chest swelled, that feeling of security suffusing her again. “Have yours, then?” she asked. “Now that you’re free of Devil’s Rock? Did your nightmares stop?”
His thumb paused from making that lazy little pattern on the back of her fingers. “Don’t worry about me, princess. I’m a survivor.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I might not be in prison at the moment, but I’m not free. If I feel that way, I’m just kidding myself. It’s an illusion.” And that was maybe the saddest thing she’d ever heard. His hand eased away from hers and he stood up from the bed as if sensing the sentiment and not wanting it from her. “Out here or in there,” he added, his voice harder. “It makes no difference. I’m still not free.”
She stared at his shadowy form, wanting to say something. Give comfort . . . be like Anna for him. Had he had anyone after his grandfather died? Maybe if there had been someone for him his life would have turned out differently?
She gave her head a hard shake. His nightmares were real—something that actually existed when he woke up. She couldn’t vanquish his monsters. There was nothing she could say or do for him and they both knew it. Nor should she feel compelled to.
“I’ll go start dinner.” Turning, he left her sitting on the bed, staring after him.
Seventeen
After he left, she closed the door as if that would be a barrier to him and all the confusing thoughts and feelings crashing through her in wave after wave.
Maybe her father could do something to help him? Maybe he could have a reduced sentence? He’d done nothing short of save her life by removing her from those other men. He deserved no less.
Rubbing a hand against her forehead, her mind tracked over the arguments she could present to her father.
Through the door she could hear the sound of running water as he turned on the kitchen faucet. Then another sound emerged. A steady trilling ring.
Someone was calling him on his burner phone. Her pulse kicked to life. No one had called him since they arrived here. The ringing stopped and she knew he had answered. His deep voice rumbled across the air but too far away for her to catch more than a word or two.
She pressed her ear closer to the door, her breath catching when she thought she heard her name.
It was about her. If someone were calling him, of course it was probably about her. Maybe it was this Sullivan person arranging the details of her release. Her heart jumped.
Unable to resist, she slowly turned the knob, easing the door open. She stepped out, her bare feet treading silently across the wood flooring. He stood in the kitchen in front of the sink, his broad back to her. His words were clearly audible and she froze, not wanting to alert him to her presence. He was quiet at the moment, evidently listening to the voice on the end of the line.
He sighed and ran a hand over the back of his head. She tensed, expecting him to turn around, but he didn’t. Not yet.
“I have,” he said after a while. Then, he added, “Yes. I am. Tell me what you want . . .”
A pause fell.
“What?” he asked. “I thought you wanted to draw this out and really torture the president. Do you think that’s such a good idea?” A longer silence fell. From where she stood, she watched the set to his shoulders grow rigid. Then he replied in a voice that sounded flat and dutiful, like a soldier responding to his superior. “No. That’s not what I think.” A pause, then: “I’ll do it. I’ll kill her. Consider it done.”
Her stomach bottomed out. She pressed a hand to her roiling belly, afraid she was about to be sick. She’d trusted him.
She’d been wrong. About him. About everything. So wrong.
And she would pay for it with her life.
Eighteen
His burner phone started ringing in the kitchen. He raced to get it, relieved, hoping that Zane was finally calling him with some news. Only when he answered the phone, it wasn’t his brother’s voice greeting him.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Reid Allister.”
It had been years, but he hadn’t forgotten Otis Sullivan’s voice. His free hand immediately curled into a fist and he felt like punching something.
“In the flesh,” he replied. “Well, more or less.”
Sullivan chuckled. “You got some balls, I’ll tell you that. Busting out of the hospital like you did. No one wants to even admit that they lost you. The state has enough bad press right now as it is.” Sullivan’s laugh deepened, full of smug satisfaction at his role in said bad press.
“Thanks to you,” Reid returned. “I suppose I owe you for providing me with a distraction.”
“Maybe it was lucky for me that you showed up when you did. Right convenient. I was coming to terms with the fact that Zane and the boys might have bit off more than they could chew taking the girl.”
Reid didn’t know how to respond to that. H
e just held silent, all of him tense, blood pumping hard through his veins. Unfortunately, he couldn’t reach through the phone like he yearned to do.
Sullivan continued, “But then you always were good, weren’t you?”
“Not always. Ended up in prison, didn’t I?” Because he wasn’t smart to know that the tide had turned and he’d fallen out of favor with Sullivan. He didn’t sniff out the trap before he’d stepped into it.
“And ended out of it, I see.”
“Eleven years later.” Eleven years of his life gone because of Sullivan. A man dead and him to blame. Again, Sullivan’s doing.
“Let’s not rehash old news. You’re out. Let’s look ahead. You do care about the future, don’t you? Zane said you’ve been eager to talk to me . . . to see me. I can only surmise that means you want to talk about your future in the business.”
Yeah. His fist clenched tighter at his side. Something like that.
Before he could answer, Sullivan continued, “A man of your talents is an asset, of course. There’s no question of that. No, when it comes to you, I have other concerns.”
“Such as?” He would do anything, say anything, to get back into the fold. To get close. Sullivan was too out of reach otherwise. He didn’t just want to kill the man. That would be too easy. He wanted to reveal to the world exactly who Otis Sullivan really was. In order to do that he had to get close.
“Trust is not easily given by me, Reid. Nor is forgiveness. Maybe you remember that?”
Yeah. He remembered that. He had all those years behind bars as testament to that. He’d stood up to Sullivan back then and tried walking away. He told Sullivan that he and Zane were out—as in finished and done with him. That had been a mistake. Sullivan had made sure Reid suffered for that. He’d set him up. Sent him out on one last job. Only when he got there, the security guard was dead and he didn’t have a chance to get away before the police arrived.
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