Runaway

by Heather Graham

  “No!” the anguished cry escaped her lips. He paid no heed. She had not meant that he should.

  She flew, she soared, she reached and reached, and did not know for what she was reaching. Her head began to toss, and a whimpering sound filled the air, and she realized dimly that she was the one emitting the cries.…

  A blistering heat seemed to pervade her, bursting and spilling from that tender bud of desire he had so assuredly awakened, streaking out like the rays of the sun to fill her torso and limbs with shimmering golden warmth. It was staggering, so achingly sweet, sweeping away thought and reason.

  It was then, only then, that he rose above her. She lay too stunned to protest, to worry—to fear him at all. This time the fullness of his weight wedged firmly between her legs. And despite the wealth of sensation that still surrounded her, she came quickly to full reality when he first thrust into her. She could not scream, would not scream, when the whole of the boat might hear her! But as careful a lover as he had been, the pain was staggering. Tears leapt to her eyes. She buried her head hard against the muscles of his chest, trying not to let them spill from her eyes.

  His hand cupped her cheek. She could not meet his eyes. She was suddenly certain that she could never do so again. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “It’s all right.…”

  It wasn’t all right. She wanted to shake herself from him. It felt as if there were a sword slicing into her!

  “Please, God!”

  “It will pass, I swear it.”

  Like it or not, he rose above her, and forced her eyes to his. She blinked furiously, determined that she wasn’t going to be a coward now. But she could scarce stand it and he hadn’t even begun to move. And she knew that he would. That he would be seeking that shattering splendor he had managed to touch within her.…

  “It will not be so bad,” he whispered softly, watching her eyes. “Remember, I swept you away from some fate worse than death!”

  “Death might be just fine right now!” she murmured, and he laughed, but there was something tender in that laughter, and she knew that whatever might come in the black void of a future that loomed before her, she could never fault him for tonight. Just when she thought that she would truly die with the pain, his whisper came against her lips. “Did I say you were worth one million? Make it at least two … no, there can be no value set upon you. You are priceless.”

  Luckily he clasped her to him, for the tears did fall from her eyes. Not from the pain, from the sweet gift of the words. In all of her life no one had spoken so gently to her.

  Let it come. Let the pain come.…

  And it did. But oddly enough, as he had promised, it was fleeting. And to her absolute amazement the wonder began to build again. Magical sunrays reached throughout her to touch her. The searing hot pulse of his sex, so alien at first, brought thrusts of silver to shimmer throughout her. Slow at first, so very slow, sliding into her until she thought she would be split in two, until she was filled with it, feeling it from her womb to her heart. Yet she was barely aware when he quickened his pace, when the tension riddled his body so hotly that he could no longer make love with control. All she knew was that she was suddenly swept into it. And it was magic again, the sunrays streaking out, the molten honey coursing through her. She wanted him, wanted something, wanted desperately to taste and touch and feel it all again.…

  And she did. Raw splendor exploded all around her. Went to blackness. She wasn’t sure that she lived, that she breathed. But he was with her still, with her when the black curiously faded to light. She felt the massive, terrible tension of his body, then a thrust that once again seemed to tear her apart. Then the honey again, streaming and racing into her, filling her with something sweet and warm.…

  He fell to his side beside her, his breathing as ragged as her own, his muscles slick with sweat and glistening. She closed her eyes, biting into her lower lip, both exalted with this wedding night and still embarrassed by it.

  She hadn’t even known him before this night.

  His arm was around her. She curled against his chest, grateful, for the moment, that she didn’t have to meet that searching ebony stare of his. His thumb moved over her cheek.

  “Tears,” he murmured. “I’m sorry to have hurt you.”

  “I am not hurt,” she said. But she was, of course. Now that the shattering magic was gently fading away, she could feel the soreness begin.

  He was silent for a long time. “Well, at least you aren’t running from a husband—we know that now.”

  She stiffened, wishing she could withdraw from him and walk away, but she was naked and not at all sure that she could just rise naked before him.

  She turned her back on him instead, staring at the candle that was now burning low on the desk between their two dinners.

  “I told you that I was not married,” she said. He didn’t reply. Oddly, tears stung her eyes all over again. He hadn’t taken her at her word. He had helped her, but he didn’t really trust her or believe in her. “I told you!” she insisted.

  “Well,” he said, a very slight edge to his voice, “you’ll have to forgive me.” She felt his hand on her arm then. He brooked no opposition when he rolled her around to meet his eyes. “There is so very much that you haven’t told me.”

  He had changed. The considerate lover was gone. He was different. Ruthless. Yes, he could be so, she was learning, when he chose. She swallowed hard, assessing the man with his ebony dark eyes, hard-planed face, and sleek-muscled build.

  “You chose to marry me with no explanations,” she reminded him.

  “So I did.”

  “Then”—she lifted her chin—“are you reneging now?”

  “We can’t renege on what is done, can we?” he asked her.

  Her cheeks colored. She didn’t know if he meant the wedding, or the moments that had just passed between them.

  “No,” she murmured. Her eyes fell down the length of him. He lay so relaxed at her side, his body at ease, but even so, still powerful in its taut build. Just seeing him so created a living warmth within her once again, and to her horror she discovered herself looking at him. Really looking at him. The length of his hair-matted torso. Lower. Down to the ebony nest where …

  He was at ease. He was still very long and thick. And even as she stared at him, he grew longer.…

  Her eyes flew to his. She needed to talk. To say something. “No!” she whispered. “We can’t undo anything. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed—”

  It was as far as she got. His husky, sensual laughter rang out and his arms were around her, sweeping her back beneath him.

  “Disappointed? My dear little runaway! I have never been so delightfully surprised in all my life!”

  “But I—”

  His mouth covered hers, sweeping away her words. He was rougher this time. Hungrier. More demanding.…

  And more giving.

  Within minutes he had the past swept from her mind.

  And she didn’t care about the future.

  And when the sweet climax seized her this time, it was volatile and shattering, ever more magical. When it was over she lay beside him in silence, her eyes closed, as her breathing slowed and her heart ceased to pound so swiftly.

  If he spoke to her then, she didn’t hear it. She began to drift to sleep, exhausted by all that had come between them.

  Jarrett lay awake a long while, holding her, his own past arising to haunt him, even as he wondered about hers.

  The ache of loss had been with him so very long. He had clung to it, clung to the memories. He had needed a wife, that was very true. And now he had one.

  He had never expected to feel quite this way about her.

  What way? he challenged himself. He barely knew her! She was a runaway, using him to escape.

  Well, maybe he was a runaway too.

  Using her to escape.

  He moved a tendril of deep golden hair from her cheek and stroked the alabaster purity of her skin. He looked d
own the length of her, feeling a sexual quickening from the mere sight of her. There was a sense of possessiveness about him now. She had been telling the truth about her work—she had served the tables at Eastwood’s place and nothing more! The proof was spilled vividly upon the white sheets where she now lay, still entwined with him. She was amazing, he thought. Beautiful, exquisite.

  He had demanded no explanations. He had promised not to demand any.

  He swallowed hard, clenching down on his teeth. For a moment he felt a tremendous guilt. He remembered his first wedding night, the laughter, the words that had flowed, the hunger that encompassed both of them! And now she was gone, and he had actually forgotten her tonight in the arms of his little runaway.

  The past was gone, he told himself. Dead. Buried. His past. Tara’s past. She could keep hers. He would keep his own.

  She shifted beside him, the softness of her skin brushing his.

  He rose carefully and walked across the cabin to the desk. Their dinners remained there, untouched. He should have been starving. He wasn’t. His body still remained in a hot tempest.

  He lifted the wine bottle and drank straight from it, then set it back on the table. He stared for long moments into the nothingness of the night. Then he came and knelt down beside her, studying the fine lines of her face once again.

  Her eyes opened. Dazed, so blue they were near violet. They touched his.

  He smiled and touched her lips with the tip of his fingers. She started to rise. He shook his head and swept her into his arms.

  “To the future, my love,” he murmured softly. “To the future.”

  And he made love to her again. After all, it was their wedding night.

  And he had been right about one thing. She was absolutely priceless.

  Clive Carter still waited as the darkness slowly lifted to day, as lamplighters extinguished the flickering flames that had both illuminated and shadowed the sins of the city through the night. Hours had passed. Carter had not betrayed the extent of his impatience or anger even once.

  He was the son of a reknowned politician, the only child of a rich, respected man. He had watched as the games of sweet coercion had been played many a time in the politics of state and country, and the greatest lesson he had learned throughout was that a calm demeanor always stood a man well, no matter the events that occurred around him.

  Or what events he created himself.

  The wretch Eastwood had become something of a blithering idiot. Clive’s two bodyguards were still among the missing. The men Eastwood had sent out had returned, sputtering out some kind of explanations regarding how they had found the girl and saying that McKenzie had refused to return her until his time was up. Sent out again, they had returned with the information that both McKenzie and the girl had disappeared.

  “McKenzie must be made to return her,” Carter told Eastwood, his voice still a level shield over the twist of emotions seething inside of him.

  Eastwood, red in the face, sweat upon his heavy jowls, and a look that combined fear and anguish in his eyes, threw up his hands. “McKenzie is gone. The girl has escaped into the streets again, so it seems. She must be found!”

  Clive tapped his cane upon the floor with impatience. “Indeed, sir, she must be found. McKenzie is abetting a murderess, I tell you. Have someone bring him down—”

  “It is not a feat so easily done! He is a respected and wealthy man, and more. He—”

  “And more?” Clive Carter inquired curiously. “What more can there be?”

  “It is rumored he can wrestle alligators!” Eastwood said.

  Carter cast back his head and laughed.

  “Send your men out again, Eastwood. Find out what has become of Tara Brent. This man who wrestles alligators can be killed with a bullet through the brain, the same as any other.”

  “Mr. Carter! I fear that you do not understand! The law will no longer be on your side if you tangle with this man!”

  “Ah!” Carter said softly. “Find the information for me that I need. You have failed dreadfully so far, sir.”

  Eastwood sucked in some air and hurried to the door where his men waited, sending them out into the night once again. While he stood there, one of Eastwood’s burly fellows, holding his head between his palms, emerged from the foggy pink mist of dawn.

  Eastwood nearly jumped to realize that Carter had come behind him.

  “Well, what?” he demanded of his own man.

  “She had a fellow with her, sir. Fast as an Injun. I went down. I lost track of ’em.”

  Eastwood snorted and swung on Clive. “Didn’t I tell you so? You can’t just reach out and take her if McKenzie’s got it in his mind to keep her.”

  “What fine advice,” Clive murmured, staring at Eastwood. Eastwood really was a wretched little man. His eyes were beady. He was sweaty, fat. Smelly. A lowlife.

  “For the right amount of money I can find McKenzie! It may take some time and expenses—he is sailing back to Florida,” Eastwood said. “I know about him,” the man boasted. “Where to find him!”

  “I imagine I can find him as well,” Clive said. Eastwood was actually revolting. His teeth were rotten; absolute greed had replaced the hint of fear in his eyes. Clive shuddered, repulsed, hating the obnoxious little man whose money-hungry ways had already cost him the girl tonight.

  Clive smiled and tapped his cane upon the floorboards with a single hard strike. A small, razor-sharp blade suddenly protruded from the tip of it. Without exerting more than a modicum of energy Clive Carter suddenly lifted and swung the cane.

  Eastwood threw his hands to his throat. The blood that suddenly spewed from his jugular vein flowed and bubbled between his fingers. Still staring at Clive in amazement, he keeled over, dead almost instantly.

  Clive looked to his man. “Drop this refuse in the river. See that a rumor is started that the girl returned and did him in before running away again.”

  His man did as bidden, collecting the body in an expert manner that didn’t allow the blood to run upon the floorboards.

  The muddy Mississippi had claimed many another poor soul; it would take Eastwood now, and throw him up elsewhere later.

  No one would take much heed, Clive thought dismissively. Men like Eastwood died almost daily along the river docks, the whorehouses, and the gambling establishments. Sometimes, Clive thought, life could be so cheap.

  Eastwood had deserved to die.

  Oddly enough, so had Julian Carter.

  But then, some things had to be planned so much more meticulously than others.

  He still felt the burning within him. The fury that she had managed to elude him so far. What ate away inside him was to realize that she’d been willing to sell to anyone rather than accept all that he’d had to offer.

  He had to be very careful now. He couldn’t talk about the law; he had to have the law. He had to move slowly and carefully this time.

  He sat down again, drumming his fingers on one of Eastwood’s tables. She’d not have told this man the truth. She’d have seduced him into aiding an escape of some kind. Clive would have to plan carefully to get her back. Very carefully. He would not be coming to persecute her, but to defend her. And he would do so because …

  He smiled slowly.

  Clive knew he would need the proper papers, of course. But then, anything could be bought.

  Almost anything at all.

  He’d play it on her terms.

  But he’d find her. Find her and drag her back. And he didn’t care if he had to go to Florida or hell itself to do it.

  Actually, from all that he had heard, they were probably one and the same.

  Chapter 5

  Jarrett didn’t awake himself the following morning until an annoying tap upon his door finally entered into his sleep-numbed mind. He arose, discovered his naked body, swept up his sheet—then remembered that he was leaving a naked wife behind him. He scowled, threw the covers quickly upon her, and drew on his breeches. The knocking continued.<
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  He threw open the door to the cabin and found Robert waiting. His friend wasn’t at all apologetic but leaned against the door frame, studying his nails. “Sorry to disturb you, Captain, but your crew are awaiting a few orders.” He tried to look over Jarrett’s shoulder into the cabin. “Well?” he whispered.

  “Well?” Jarrett responded blandly.

  Robert grinned. “How’s your bride?”

  “Sleeping. When she awakens, you must ask her yourself. And if she’s unhappy, remember, it will be your fault.”

  “My fault?” Robert demanded indignantly.

  “This marriage was your idea.”

  “Right! So you behave like a brute, and it’s my fault.”

  “I behave like a brute?” Jarrett demanded irritably.

  Robert shrugged. “Well, the poor thing is passed out in your cabin.”

  Jarrett gritted his teeth and Robert laughed, quickly stepping out of the way. “My captain, my captain! You’re needed. And since I’m fond of my features remaining in the order I was born with, I’ll quickly leave you, and say no more! But the men are wondering about your orders for the voyage home, sir!” With a smart salute he turned about to leave. Jarrett closed the door and walked back into his cabin. His wife was out. She slept so very still, barely breathing. He paused, taking a moment to watch her, and realized again that he had not known her just the day before. It seemed amazing. He was married. And whatever truths she was keeping from him, she had held to her part of the bargain last night. Perhaps more than he had even imagined, for he had not thought to feel this morning as if slender golden chains were slipping around him. He had definitely meant to have her—that from the start. Yet he had not expected that he …

  That he what?

  Her lashes were long and thick and luxurious over her cheeks this morning. Her hair still reminded him of skeins of gold. Her flesh was ivory, her shape exquisite. But he had known all that as well. He had just imagined something different.

  His ship was sleek and fine, and he loved to sail it, but he could walk away from it, and not miss it. He was deeply fond of his horse as well, rode hard and frequently, and yet could walk away from it too.