Like Silk

by Mary Lynn Baxter

  She had no confidence in the justice system, especially against an adversary like Rupert Holt. Who would believe a nobody like her, whose brother was a jailbird?

  What about Tommy? Another hard shudder went through her, and Brittany panicked. She was due to visit him in a couple of days, on Sunday, but she couldn’t go with her face all bruised.

  Suddenly she wished she could get her hands on Rupert, first for hurting her and second for dashing her hopes of getting help for Tommy. Every time she visited him in that awful place, her heart broke anew.

  What a difference there was between her circumstances and those of the man who had helped her. From what little she had noticed of her surroundings, it was obvious he was someone of means, the complete opposite from her. She and Tommy had been left to fend for themselves after the death of their mother when they both were young. Her drunken stepfather and Tommy’s father had contributed little to their upbringing; most of the time they hadn’t even known where he was.

  Brittany had struggled all her life to get where she was today, which still wasn’t where she wanted to be. At thirty, she was still trying to get her degree so that she could become financially secure, something she had never known. After that, she would like nothing better than to flee her hometown and live somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  But leaving Chaney wasn’t an option, not until she was able to hire an attorney and start working to get Tommy released from prison.

  Because of her brother’s one terrible error in judgment, she might as well wear a scarlet letter on her chest. Even though the accident had happened three years ago, she was still shunned and talked about. Long before the mishap, her family was considered trailer park trash. Now she had no chance of earning anyone’s respect in the town where she’d grown up.

  The fact that Tommy was in prison would never be laid to rest, especially since he had permanently injured the son of the town’s most prestigious family.

  Yet Brittany loved her brother and felt responsible for him, though she definitely saw his faults. He’d caused her more than her share of heartache during his teenage years, even joining a gang for a short time and getting arrested, though she’d believed him when he told her someone had set him up in order to get even with him. Still, it was the accident that had done the real damage.

  Following the accident, they had hauled him down to the police station, since he hadn’t had a scratch on him. Once there, Tommy had called her almost in hysterics. Clamping down on her own hysteria, she had gone to him immediately. She never would forget the desperate look on her brother’s face when she’d walked into police headquarters.

  “Sis,” he’d told her, “I swear I didn’t know my head wasn’t clear when I left the party.”

  “Come on, Tommy, surely you felt something.”

  “Not until I turned onto the highway, then, wham, it hit me. Suddenly I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing.” He paused, his voice cracking when he spoke again. “Hell, I don’t even remember hitting the guy’s car. My drink was doctored. I know it was. Someone’s out to get me.”

  “Tommy—”

  “Say you believe me,” he pleaded, grabbing her hands and clinging to them. “I know I’ve been in my share of trouble, but you know I’ve never driven drunk. You know that.”

  And she did. Yet there was always a first time. Still, she wanted to believe him—for her own sake as well as his. “Oh, dear Lord, Tommy, what are we going to do?”

  “Make this go away, sis,” he sobbed. “You always make things right. I know you won’t fail me now.”

  But she had failed him, and miserably, too. Because she’d had no means to hire adequate counsel to represent him, Tommy had been assigned a court appointed attorney who failed to substantiate his claim that he’d been drugged. As far as she could tell, the man had hardly bothered to try. That was why, when Rupert had offered to champion her cause with an attorney, she’d dropped her guard.

  Never again.

  Deciding she’d wallowed in self-pity long enough, Brittany forced her sore limbs to move into a sitting position, then upright. Soon she would be dressed and on her way home.

  Four

  Stranded.

  No other word adequately described the situation. During the night, the rain had come down in buckets. Without even having to walk outside and take a look, Collier knew the bridge was impassable. Whether he liked it or not, he wouldn’t be taking his guest anywhere. And whether she liked it or not, she wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  Through the years, Mason had kept saying he was going to do something about the bridge, get a crew up here to rebuild it, so this kind of problem wouldn’t rise every time the water did. But he hadn’t followed through. Collier figured it was because the retreat wasn’t used all that much anymore, which was a shame, since it was a great place for R & R.

  And work.

  He began to pace the floor again, as he had been on and off for hours. Good thing the floors were hardwood; otherwise, he would have worn a trail in the carpet. Lord knew he’d tried to work—all night, in fact. Yet he hadn’t made a dent in the case. Instead he’d been consumed with thoughts of the woman in the next room and his bid for the judgeship.

  Though far apart in reality, they seemed closely related in his disjointed mind. He shouldn’t be holed up in this cabin with a lovely woman with an obviously shaded past. With secrets. The worst kind of woman to get involved with.

  The hell of it was, he wasn’t involved. So why was he getting himself all worked up over something he hadn’t done? Loaded question. Loaded answer. When he’d touched Brittany Banks, it had been like tossing gasoline on an open flame. And that flame was still smoldering in his gut.

  He’d never reacted to a woman as strongly, certainly not Lana. He could go for days, even weeks, and not touch her, and it wouldn’t bother him.

  But he knew the woman in the nearby room was a different story. He would bet that underneath her aloof exterior were seething emotions that, when tapped in the right way, would run as hot as molten lava. Of course he would never find out. He didn’t intend to touch her again.

  If only he could stop thinking about how good she’d smelled, as if she’d just bathed in a tub of roses. How her soft bare flesh had felt under his fingers, how he’d ached to caress her full breasts and suck her dark, pink nipples.

  Collier drew air through his dry lungs, once again feeling that unwelcome tightening of his groin.

  He’d been tempted to check on her during the night. Thank heaven his good sense had overruled that crazy thought.

  He needed to get out of here. He needed to get her out of here. If she knew how he felt, how he had reacted to her body, she would be more petrified than she already was. He froze. Had she guessed? Had she picked up on the raw hunger gnawing inside him? Had she seen it in his eyes? He hoped not, for both their sakes.

  She must never suspect how deeply she affected him. When she awakened, he would be the perfect gentleman and host—cool but polite. And accommodating. Somehow they would get through this day. Hopefully, by tomorrow morning, the rain would have stopped and the bridge would be passable.

  Until then, he had to think with his head and not his libido.

  His thoughts suddenly brightened when he turned them back to the judgeship. He still couldn’t believe his good fortune. However, he wasn’t going to rely on his hopes, because nothing was certain and plenty could still go wrong. Granted, he had a lot going for him. He was a prestigious attorney who rarely lost a case, and he came from a family that was highly visible in the political arena. When it came to working for and contributing to the party, he could hold his own.

  “No one has the record or the credentials you have, boy,” Mason had said when the call came from one of the senators. “You’ll be a shoo-in.”

  “Now, Dad, don’t count the chickens before they hatch.”

  “The hell you say.” His father’s white bushy eyebrows drew together, forming a frown. “As much time, energy an
d money as this family has poured into Washington’s coffers, you should be a sure thing.”

  “Well, I’ll do my part. You know I want this appointment as badly as you want me to have it. But then, so do the other guys who made the cut to the final four.”

  “I’m not worried about them,” Mason said with his typical air of self-confidence. “You’re the best man for the job. No doubt about it.”

  “You wouldn’t be a bit prejudiced, now would you?”

  Mason almost smiled. “Maybe, but it’s the truth. Because I’m so sure of it, I’m going to have a precelebration party.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “What about Jackson? He seems more depressed than ever.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m going to do it,” Mason countered fiercely. “Maybe it’ll get him out of that room of his.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “You let me worry about your brother. You just worry about keeping your nose clean and not stepping on anyone’s toes.”

  As much as he would have liked to do that, Collier feared he’d already pulled the pin out of one grenade when he’d agreed to defend the energy company on the sexual harassment charge. That could become a real sticky situation if some feminist got in on the action. But he’d given his word, and he had no intention of backing off, regardless of whether his dad approved or not.

  As far as Brittany Banks went, no one would ever know that he’d been alone up here with her. She would remain a secret. He hadn’t done anything wrong—not yet, anyway—which meant he had no reason to feel guilty. Still, to the press and anyone else interested in probing into his life, a sure thing with the potential appointment, someone would make something of the matter, especially with Lana and her high-profile family in the picture.

  Hearing a sound, Collier paused in his thoughts and whipped around. She was standing just barely inside the room. Their gazes met, and an unwanted jolt went through him. “Good morning,” he managed to say through a throat that sounded like it had been shredded with razors.

  “Good morning,” she responded, her voice sounding soft and a bit uncertain. The side of her face seemed more swollen this morning, the bruising more pronounced. His blood boiled hot again. Damn that bastard. One of these days…

  He reined in his renegade thoughts and asked, “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Actually I did, which surprised me,” she said, moving deeper into the room. “I guess I was totally wiped out.”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  Suddenly an awkwardness fell between them, followed by a tense silence. Maybe it was because when she moved her robe had loosened far enough that the upper portion of one breast was exposed. He groaned inwardly, his breath spiking.

  As if she sensed where his gaze was targeted, she flushed and pulled the sash tighter. “I looked for my clothes, but…” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed hard.

  No doubt she felt the hot tension, too. He didn’t know why that made him feel better, but it did. “I hung them in the laundry room to dry,” he forced himself to say around his elevated breathing. “But I’m not sure they’re wearable.”

  “I’ll have to wear them anyway.”

  He rubbed the five-o’clock shadow on his chin in frustration. She was right. As far as he knew, there wasn’t one article of women’s clothing on the premises.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Come on and I’ll make us some breakfast.” He had to do something to ease the tension, needed to keep busy. His insides felt ready to explode.

  Once he had freshly dripped coffee on the small kitchen table, along with bowls of oatmeal and plates of toast, he finally sat down across from her. He kept his eyes averted for fear she would pick up on his raw and growing hunger for her, which could only make the situation even more uncomfortable.

  He grimaced, then focused his attention on the oatmeal. It reminded him of a glob of cement. He almost got up and dumped it into the sink. If only he hadn’t given in to the urge to play the Good Samaritan.

  “When can you take me home?”

  The sound of her soft, Southern voice pulled him up short. Oh, boy. His grimace deepened. “I can’t. At least, not today.”

  Her face lost what little color it had, making her eyes appear deeper and darker than before.

  “The bridge is impassable,” he added flatly.

  Her lower lip quivered, which was almost more than he could handle. “What if…” Again her voice faded into nothingness.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s supposed to clear. As soon as it’s safe, trust me, we’ll be out of here.”

  Brittany bit down on that deliciously plump lip, stopping the trembling. Though she didn’t say so, he sensed she was terribly upset by the turn of events. Hell, so was he. But he couldn’t do anything about it, and neither could she.

  “I have to get back to my job.”

  Her dark brown eyes implored him, and he stifled a curse. “I’m sure you do, but that’s not going to happen. Not today.”

  “There’s…nothing you can do?”

  He shoved the bowl away, dropping all pretense of eating. “Nope, except wait.” He paused, angling his head. “Where do you work?”

  “At a travel agency in Haven. I’m also taking classes at the college. Tonight, however, I have to be—” She stopped midsentence. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  He frowned. “If there’s someone you need to call, feel free.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said in a forlorn voice. “I can’t go to the diner looking like this anyway.”

  “Diner?”

  Her chin seemed to lift a notch as she met his gaze. “I work on weekends as a part-time waitress.”

  A waitress.

  He didn’t know why that bothered him. There was nothing wrong with that job. Maybe he was more of a snob than he realized.

  Finally collecting himself, he said, “Like I said, make any calls you want.”

  “Thanks,” she said tightly.

  He wanted to bombard her with questions, asking why the hell someone who looked like her had to sling hash. More to the point, he wanted to know everything there was to know about this lovely creature who had dropped into his life.

  But his throat felt suddenly paralyzed, especially when that lower lip started to quiver again. For a long moment he couldn’t take his eyes off it, imagining his tongue running across its soft inner lining.

  “Don’t.”

  He gave another start. “Don’t what?”

  “Look at me like that,” she said in a slightly cracked voice.

  Distress spilled from her eyes, which made him feel more like a heel than ever. Realizing he was on the verge of falling off a very high cliff, he stood and muttered roughly, “Sorry.”

  When she didn’t respond, he added, “Look, stay and finish your breakfast. I’ve got work to do.”

  Rupert Holt slammed the paper down on the desk in his study so hard that his cup rattled in his saucer. Coffee sloshed on the wood. “Damn!”

  He ignored the mess his burst of temper had made, continuing to seethe. Let one of his maids clean it up. He paid them enough.

  The last thing he wanted was for Collier Smith to get that appointment to the federal bench. No son or stepson—it didn’t matter—of Mason Williams would succeed in any political arena if he had his way. And as long as he had the money to back up his mouth, he usually got what he wanted.

  But then, so did Mason. He had as much clout, prestige and money as Rupert himself had. Yet Rupert was determined to best him. Besting his contemporary had become one of his most sought after goals. He felt justified, too, since the law firm of Williams, Smith and Rutledge had represented him on a lawsuit that had gone sour, costing him a bundle of money.

  While that was bad enough, Mason’s superior attitude rankled ju
st as much. The fact that he hailed from an old Southern family, with roots going back before the Civil War, didn’t make Mason any better or his shit smell any sweeter.

  Rupert would have given his left ball to have the same social clout Mason and his family had, but no matter how much money he made, no matter how many of the rough edges he whittled off his personality, his efforts never seemed to be enough.

  In the social circles of Haven and the surrounding county, he was always going to be one down simply because he didn’t have a family tree of distinction.

  A crock of crap. That was his thought on the subject. He had news for the snobs: he could hold his own when push came to shove. And with this federal appointment wide-open, the shoving had started.

  Hell, he was a staunch Republican, in good standing with the party muckey-mucks, and he had his own man in the race for the judgeship, a man who was much more qualified than Smith.

  Before he could mount an attack against the William and Smith armies, however, he had to fix a more pressing problem—Brittany Banks. Somehow he had to make up for the damage he’d done to her before she returned the favor and damaged him.

  Sweat dampened his shirt as the ramifications of his poor judgment hit home. He couldn’t remember when he’d gotten that drunk or lost control so completely and so quickly.

  But when she’d told him no and looked at him as if he was some reptile that had just crawled out from under a rock, he’d lost it. He remembered slapping her hard at least once. What happened after she cried out remained fuzzy, except for when he shoved her out of his vehicle.

  If she blabbed and his wife found out… Sweat covered Rupert’s entire body as he suddenly lunged up from the table and walked to the window. The grounds of his mansion were a sight for any eyes, especially when the leaves were at their peak. Now the beauty of his estate held little fascination for him. His mind was too cluttered with neutralizing the damage.