The Heart Has Reasons

by Martine Marchand

  Once he’d untied her legs, she scooted back and sat cross-legged on the bed, her back propped against the headboard. Still not speaking, he sat the pizza on the bed before her. She fought the urge to follow him with her eyes as he got two bottled waters from the cooler.

  He turned the television to CNN and seated himself on the bed beside her. There was now something opaque in the eyes behind the ski mast, and a definite coolness emanated from him, a coolness that didn't bode well. Although relieved that his ardor had cooled, she needed him back in the friendly, playful mood he’d been in earlier.

  When he handed her a slice of pizza, she took a bite and closed her eyes. “Oh, this is good.”

  “The motel clerk recommended the place,” he said blandly, still not looking at her.

  They ate, neither of them speaking, as a complete cycle of CNN headline news played. It was a bitter disappointment that there was no mention of her disappearance, although, why would there have been? Once the police in Charleston knew she was missing, it would make no more than the local news, if that.

  He finally broke the uneasy silence. “So, how long have you been taking martial arts?”

  Continuing to deny it was pointless. “I took a class at the YMCA right after Sparrow broke into my apartment.” At the mention of Sparrow, his eyes narrowed. “But I was afraid I’d eventually forget what little I’d learned, so I started taking twice-weekly classes at a dojo near work. I’ve been going nearly two years.”

  “Why’d you lie about it?”

  She shrugged. “If you’d known I’d had some training, you’d have been more on your guard.”

  “You’re quite the devious little bitch, aren’t you?”

  The insult seemed to come from nowhere and she gaped at him, as shocked and stung as if a beloved dog had unexpectedly snapped at her. “Did something happen while you were out?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you so angry?”

  The question seemed to upset him even more, and he replied much too quickly, “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. Are you pissed because I kicked you in the ribs?” Not bothering to disguise the hope in her voice, she added, “Did I break one?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You got me good, though, so go ahead and gloat. However, that’s the second time you’ve kicked me. The third time, I’m taking my belt to your ass.”

  “You wanted me to attack you — in fact, you pretty much forced me to — and now you’re threatening me for doing so?” She forced herself to meet his angry glare without wavering. “You’re forgetting that I’m the injured party here so, if it’s not about me kicking you, then why the attitude?”

  “I do not have an attitude.”

  “Then why’d you call me a bitch? That was totally uncalled for.”

  He pressed his lips together and turned away. After a moment, he exhaled. “You’re right. It was uncalled for and I apologize.”

  “Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing’s bothering me.”

  “Liar. Suit yourself then, because I really couldn’t care less.”

  “In that case, I’ll consider the subject dropped.”

  Except for the backdrop of newscasters’ voices from the television, a sullen silence descended, hanging heavy in the air between them as they finished off the pizza. As he moved the empty box to the bedside stand, Larissa picked up her water bottle and took a sip. “I know you don’t believe me, but he really is going to kill me.”

  “Don’t fucking start with that again.”

  Born of frustration, a white-hot fury streaked through her and she hurled the water bottle. Although he easily fielded it one-handed, water sloshed across his chest, wetting both his tee and the bed. He quickly brushed it from the spread before it could soak in, then rounded on her. “I ought to take my belt to your ass for that.”

  “Go ahead, do it,” she shouted at him. “Since I’ll be dead in a few days, what possible difference can a beating possibly make now?”

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “Would you?”

  There was a small brass lamp on the bedside stand. Tempted to grab it and brain him with it, she hesitated as common sense and self-preservation battled with a nearly overwhelming rage. Any satisfaction acquired by striking the asshole — assuming he didn’t manage to block it — would be short-lived since he’d most assuredly retaliate. And since antagonizing him further would only serve to defeat her purpose, she contented herself by glaring at him, blinking back tears of frustration.

  “Satisfied now that you’ve gotten that out of your system?”

  “I’ll be satisfied when you’re rotting in a prison cell.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Give me my water back.”

  He handed it to her, then leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms across his substantial chest, making carved biceps bulge. “So, back to our previous conversation. What degree belt are you?”

  “Green,” she snapped.

  “What stopped you from kicking me in the shower last night?”

  “You realized what I was going to do. If you hadn’t, I might have had a chance.”

  He scoffed. “A chance? Against me?”

  “If I’d caught you off guard, then, yeah.”

  “No way.”

  “If I’d told you this morning I could kick a gun out of your hand, you’d have said the same thing.”

  He gave her a prolonged stare. “I’m just starting to realize what a smart-ass you are.”

  Heedless of the consequences, she shot back, “Better a smart-ass than a dumb-ass.”

  The corners of his mouth quirked upwards. “I can’t decide if you’re incredibly brave, or merely incredibly foolish.”

  Relieved that his mood seemed to have improved somewhat, she picked up the remote and started channel surfing. “You men just can’t stand it when the woman’s right. Of course, anything that occurs with such regularity is bound to get tiresome.”

  “Keep running your mouth. I won’t hesitate to turn you over my knee and spank that cute little ass of yours.”

  The thought of him actually doing so sent such a shock of emotion surging through her that for several long moments she couldn’t remember how to breathe.

  He laughed aloud at whatever he saw in her face. “You obviously like to live dangerously.”

  “That comment proves you don’t know squat about me.”

  “I know more about you than you think.”

  “Really? What exactly do you think you know?”

  His face abruptly closed down as he realized he’d said too much. Pretending to return his attention to the television, he swiped a thick forearm over his sweaty brow. “It’s sweltering in here. Mind if I remove my shirt?”

  The window unit was taking its time cooling the room, but his lame attempt to change the subject didn’t fool her. Since trying to press him into revealing more would only put him more on his guard, she shrugged. “Why not? It’s not like you haven’t already put everything on display.”

  When he stood to peel the damp tee shirt over his head, she swallowed and tried to look anywhere but at him. Unsuccessful, she focused on the small, round scar on his shoulder. “Is that from a gunshot?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  When he turned to retake a seat on the bed, she touched a fingertip to the corresponding larger scar on his back. “Is this the exit wound?” At his nod, she added, “Were you shot by the police?”

  His terse “No” brimmed with pained indignation.

  A long, silvery scar slashed diagonally from the top of his shoulder to mid back. She lightly traced it with a fingertip, making his breath catch audibly. “And this one? Were you shanked by another inmate?”

  His scowl deepened. “I’ve never been in prison.”

  “Yet.” Although keeping her tone carefully neutral, she still managed to imbue a wealth of smug significance into that single word.

  T
he scowl turned into a glower, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “You must like wearing that gag.”

  “I assure you I do not.”

  “Yet you’re practically begging for it.”

  Ignoring the comment, she picked up the remote and absently surfed through numerous channels. He’d never admit that he'd acquired the scars in combat because, from his perspective, the less she knew about him, the better. When she paused on one of the Terminator movies, he said, “Larissa?”

  Deep in thought, she absently responded, “Yes, honey?” When he arched his brows at the unexpected endearment, heat flamed into her cheeks. “I did not mean to say that.”

  “Now you’ve hurt my feelings.”

  “I’m from the South. We call everyone ‘honey’.”

  The roguish grin was unwavering.

  “It’s a habit. It doesn’t mean anything.” She nervously licked her dry lips and instantly regretted it when his gaze dropped to her mouth. In an attempt to change the subject, she asked, “What were you going to say?”

  “I just wanted to apologize for kissing you earlier. Under the circumstances, it was inappropriate and unprofessional.”

  She made no attempt to blunt the sharp edge of sarcasm. “Unprofessional? You’re telling me kidnappers have a code of ethics?”

  “This one does and … well, I’m sorry. We have to stop getting physical with each other. You know how it affects me when we wrestle.”

  “You were the one who provoked it!”

  “As I recall, you provoked it by kicking a weapon out of my hand.”

  Which she’d only been able to do because she hadn’t been hobbled at the time. She doubted she could talk him into eliminating them, but she might persuade him to increase the play in the rope. Since there was no time like the present, she swung her legs off the bed and stood.

  His head jerked around so fast it was a wonder he didn’t give himself whiplash. “Where are you going?”

  “Bathroom.” Ah, crap, this was going to hurt.

  She deliberately tried to take a large, quick step forward, as if she’d forgotten the hobble. As the rope caught and dug into her ankles, she did not have to fake her cry of pain. Pitching forward, she fell to the carpet, catching most of her weight on her hands. “Ow-w-w-w!”

  He sprang off the bed and dropped to his knees by her side. “Are you okay?”

  She rolled onto her back and massaged her wrists. “Does it look like I’m okay?”

  Once he’d ascertained that she was uninjured, amusement sparkled in the blue eyes behind the mask.

  “It’s not funny!”

  “I’m not laughing,” he said, visibly struggling not to.

  “How can you expect me to be able to walk when you’ve got the rope too freaking short!”

  “You need to take smaller steps.”

  “I’m already taking smaller steps.”

  He frowned and examined the hobble. “I guess I could add a little more slack.”

  Angling herself up, she supported herself on her elbows while he quickly untied, and then retied, the rope, increasing the amount of play to nearly two feet. While it would still prevent her from running, the few extra inches would allow her to move much quicker.

  He rose to his feet with a fluid, animal grace surprising in a man of his size and musculature. When he reached down for her, she grasped his hands and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Since, when training either dogs or men, it was essential to reward good behavior, she bestowed upon him a warm smile. “Thank you.”

  He reached up to clasp her face between his palms. “I’m sorry I laughed.”

  She could practically feel the heat radiating from him, even though there was a good foot of space separated them. Somewhere in her dazed and fluttered mind, a distant alarm sounded but, when she inhaled, his masculine scent filled her, sending a rush of electric heat fluttering through her lower belly. Her only response to his apology was a moronic “Okay.”

  Behind the mask, his eyes were bottomless blue pools. When they locked onto hers, hidden currents pulled her down into their depths. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even look away. As his hands glided into her hair, her abdomen tightened in anticipation and, when his lips grazed hers, she simply melted into the kiss, her body molding itself to his.

  Blood roared in her ears as strong hands caressed her neck, slid over her shoulders, then traveled down her back, sending shivers dancing down her spine. Her mouth opened beneath his and, when his tongue touched hers, desire shot through her in a fierce, heated rush that threatened to buckle her knees. The kiss grew fiercer, more possessive.

  Then the soft acrylic knit of the ski mask brushed the skin beside her mouth, sending a chill shivering through her core.

  Once again, she was kissing her freaking kidnapper.

  In one smooth, continued action, she slammed both palms against his chest, shoving herself back from him, and launched a right jab at the ski-masked face. Throwing up a lightning-fast forearm block, he effortlessly deflected the punch. His question was more surprised than angry. “What the fuck?”

  “I told you not to kiss me!”

  “But I thought you—”

  “Thought I what? Wanted to swap spit with the asshole who drugged and kidnapped me?”

  Wary that she might throw another punch, he remained on his guard. “No. Of course not. I just thought … ah, hell, I don’t know what the fuck I thought. I was out of line and I’m sorry. Again.”

  She backed toward the bathroom and closed the door behind her. He offered no protest, although the television instantly went silent. Her heart raced as an exquisite heaviness pulsed deep within her pelvis. Leaning against the door, she closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply.

  Although she’d cast the blame on him, it was partially her own fault. After all, both times she’d impetuously returned his kisses, even if only briefly. What the hell was wrong with her? Was he emitting so much testosterone that the continual exposure was stoking some internal fire? Was the mental duress of being kidnapped trumping her normally prudent intellect. Whatever the reason, she needed to stop acting like some adolescent with raging hormones and get a grip on herself!

  When she finally opened the bathroom door, she found him sprawled on the edge of the bed. Studiously avoiding eye contact as she crossed the room, she perched on the opposite side of the mattress and they pretended to watch some inane sitcom. When it ended, he broke the gravid and uncomfortable silence to say, “Tell me about the man in the big black pickup truck.”

  Grateful to avoid the subject of their earlier imprudence, she asked, “What do you want to know.”

  “You were romantically involved?”

  “I dated him.”

  “How long?”

  She shrugged. “A few weeks.”

  “And now he’s stalking you?”

  She gave him a sideways look. “Why do you ask that?”

  “I’ve witnessed two separate confrontations between you, in one of which you threatened to shoot off his … how did you phrase it? Ah, yes, his ‘shortcomings’.”

  Anger blazed through her like a wildfire through dry brush. Not only had the asshole gone through her personal belongings, he’d spent who-knew-how-much time spying on her. “Steve has never hurt me, or even threatened to do so but, yeah, he’s sort of been stalking me. However, if I’d known you were waiting for me inside my house, I’d have welcomed him in. You’re not the only one who knows martial arts. Steve owns the dojo where I used to take classes. He’s a fourth-degree black belt.”

  Behind the mask, amusement sparkled in blue eyes. “And you honestly believe he could have taken me?”

  Her gaze flickered over the hard muscle of his naked torso and arms. “Well, maybe not.”

  “Why’d you dump him?”

  “Too jealous and insecure. If another man even looked at me, he was ready to start a fight. He even accused me of sleeping with my boss, who he knows is gay.”

 
Her kidnapper lounged back against the pillow, arms crooked back with his head resting in the palms of his hands. “You ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “I find it difficult to believe that a woman clearly as high-maintenance as you wouldn’t have found a rich husband to take care of her.”

  “I am not high-maintenance!”

  “Don’t forget that I went through your house. I saw all those fancy dresses in your closet.”

  “And while snooping through my house, did you happen to notice my sewing room? I made all those dresses. I doubt that a single dress cost me more than thirty dollars to make. I also made all the drapes, curtains, and pillows.”

  His eyes dropped to her French manicure. “Maintaining these fancy nails isn’t cheap. Nor are Brazilian waxes.”

  Her mouth dropped open in outrage. “How do you—? You did something to me last night!”

  His outrage at the accusation mirrored hers. “I did not. If you’ll recall, I saw you naked in the shower.”

  “Oh.” She’d forgotten about him jerking open the shower curtain. “Have you ever heard of the barter system? My manicurist does my nails; in exchange, I cut her hair. And as for the Brazilians — not that it’s any of your business — a friend and I wax each other.”

  He became very still, doing a very credible impression of a hunting dog who’d just sighted prey. Feeling the warmth creeping up her cheeks, Larissa instantly regretted having been so forthcoming. He finally broke the fervid silence. “Is she anywhere near as hot as you?”

  “That’s none of your business, pervert.”

  “Pervert? I’m simply a typical man.”

  She rolled her eyes. Yeah, right. There was absolutely nothing typical about him.

  “Isn’t having the hair ripped from such an intimate area excruciatingly painful?”

  “The pain lessens over time and ... and why am I discussing this with you? My intimate grooming habits are none of your freaking business.”