HOT ON HIS TRAIL

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "Take care of yourself," Mark said warmly as Shea said goodbye.

  She hung up the receiver and stared down at her notes and the phone number, feeling that she'd accomplished something by touching base with Mark and setting up the next phone call. When she lifted her head and saw Nick standing in the doorway, staring at her with those cold blue eyes, she couldn't help herself. She jumped. And surely that was not a squeal coming out of her mouth!

  "You should be in bed," she chastised him, when her heart beat normally again. She tried her hardest not to stare at his bare chest. A man shouldn't look so good in nothing but a pair of jeans. She shouldn't be fascinated by a naked chest and big bare feet, by the height and leanness of a body. Every man on earth had legs, and arms, and a chest. She sighed, giving in and admitting that not many of them were put together quite this nicely.

  "So should you," he said.

  "I haven't been shot," she countered.

  But she might've been, she remembered. She'd been running from Nick and he'd fired a warning shot and threatened to shoot her in the leg. She remembered, too well, the blast of the gunfire, the sight of him kneeling on the ground with that pistol pointed at her.

  "Back there on the mountain, right after you escaped," she began in a soft voice. "Would you really have shot me if I hadn't stopped?"

  He hesitated. Ah, he hadn't hesitated at all when she'd asked him the first time.

  "Probably," he said. He looked her up and down, and a fire grew in his eyes. Something smoldered there, and she realized belatedly that she was wearing one of Susan's old nightgowns. It was plain, ordinary, long and white and worn. And with the morning light streaming through the kitchen window, Nick could no doubt see right through it. She nonchalantly brought the notebook to her chest, trying to cover her breasts. His eyes remained riveted below her waist.

  "But I'm glad I didn't have to," he added huskily. "It would be a shame to scar those legs of yours." He very slowly lifted his eyes to her face, taking his time, and gave her a crooked smile that set her heart to pounding. "A real shame."

  * * *

  He hadn't felt this kind of raw heat for a woman in a very long time. Maybe never. Nick wrote off his raging lust to the fact that he'd been in jail for the past ten months, and tried to cool his heated response.

  Shea Sinclair was a reporter, and she was doing her job. Nothing more. She had no interest in him beyond what kind of ratings she'd get on her news broadcast when this was all over.

  So why did she look at him this way? Like she felt the same attraction he did. Like she wanted him, here and now.

  "Come on," she said sensibly, coming toward him with that damned notebook held over her breasts, the thin white cotton of her nightgown dancing around her slender legs, her bare feet stepping gingerly across the kitchen floor. "You need to get back to bed. You are a terrible patient." She didn't look at his face as she chastised him for leaving his bed, but kept her gaze firmly on his chest.

  When she reached him, she fluttered her fingers in a silent order for him to turn around, to clear the doorway so she could pass. He didn't move.

  "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Why are you still here?"

  Shea shuddered. She tried to hide her reaction, but he saw her slight response. "I told you, I can't allow an innocent man to go to the electric chair or to prison for the rest of his life."

  "So, you're like a modern-day female Lone Ranger," he said dryly.

  She lifted her head and pinned warm, hazel eyes on his face. Ah, he'd made her angry. Her cheeks were flushed pink; her eyes danced. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to you to simply say thank-you, to be grateful that someone believes in your innocence, to be content with—"

  He grabbed her chin and whispered, "Thank you," as he lowered his head to kiss her. Her lips were soft and sweet, surprised and … yielding. She didn't fight; she didn't pull away from him and protest his audacity. After a moment, she kissed him back.

  This would work. Maybe she was in this for her damned story and justice, but that didn't mean they couldn't enjoy one another, that they couldn't behave as any two healthy adults who were attracted to one another might behave. Sex for the sake of sex, something hot and memorable to break the tension and cure this heat and pain in his body. He wanted her beneath him again, in that soft bed upstairs, but this time he wouldn't fall asleep. This time would be different.

  He took the notebook from Shea and dropped it on the floor, never breaking the gentle kiss. She didn't protest as the notebook slipped from her fingers. But then, she probably didn't realize that her nipples were so hard they were prominent beneath the thin cotton nightgown. She probably didn't realize what an arousing sight she was.

  Then again, maybe she did.

  Shea slipped her arms around his neck and parted her lips slightly, and Nick went hard, blood rushing to his loins and leaving him light-headed. Thank goodness he leaned against the doorjamb … though falling to the floor with Shea in his arms didn't seem like such a bad idea, at the moment.

  There was nothing awkward about the way they came together, as if they knew one another well. Her lips moved, softened, sucked lightly against his. All they'd shared was one simple, sweet good-night kiss, but this heated and arousing caress seemed familiar, like a good memory any man would savor.

  It was Shea who pulled away, a slight frown on her pretty face. "Why did you do that?"

  "Why not? Seemed like a good idea, that's all."

  "Well," she said, trying to sound firm but falling far short, with her well-kissed lips and thin nightgown and breathy voice. "It was not a good idea."

  "It was just a kiss, weathergirl. A simple thank-you."

  She lifted skeptical, narrowed eyes to him. "That's your way of saying thank you?"

  "Yes," he whispered.

  "Well…" She slipped past him and into the dining room. "You're welcome, and don't thank me again."

  "Why not?"

  She grabbed her notebook from the floor and headed for the stairway. "I don't want to feel this appreciated," she mumbled.

  Nick smiled as he watched her climb the stairs. He didn't quite have the strength to leave the support of the doorway, not just yet. At the landing she turned and looked down at him. Surely she didn't know that the window behind her made her nightgown damn near transparent.

  "And if you have the strength to … to thank me like that, you can surely make your way up the stairs on your own." Chin high, eyes clear, she looked downright defiant.

  "Yes, ma'am," he said softly, knowing it would be awhile before he could possibly climb those stairs.

  * * *

  Once Nick started to recover, he healed quickly. In the two days since he'd thanked her, he'd eaten more, and he got around on his own with no problem but for a slight limp.

  She needed to make a trip to the grocery store for more food, but what if someone recognized her? Not everyone in Marion knew her, but she had a number of old friends here, people who knew Aunt Irene and had met Shea during her summer visits. Besides, strangers really stood out in this small town.

  But Nick needed protein to heal, and she'd used up all the tuna in the cupboard and they were out of eggs. He had to eat well to improve, to get his strength back.

  She still felt his kiss. His 'thank-you' had been different from the first kiss, when he'd been delirious and she'd only kissed him to hide his face from the state trooper. And it had been very different from the sweet good-night kiss that had kept her up half the night. The thank-you had been very … involved. Very nice. It would be too easy to fall for Nick Taggert, and she didn't have the time or the inclination for a romantic involvement.

  With the man who had kidnapped her! Wasn't that a syndrome, or something? She did not want to be a cliché!

  Still, she had to admit that Nick could be very sweet. Tough as he was, cynical as he could be, he wanted such ordinary things from life. Justice. A home and family. Swings. She hated to see him give up those simple dreams.

  She h
eard a grunt from the parlor, and afraid that Nick had hurt himself again, she hurried through the kitchen and parlor and found him on the floor … doing push-ups.

  "Stop that!" she demanded sharply.

  Nick ignored her and continued with his exercise. Wearing nothing but his jeans, he concentrated on the matter at hand. Keeping his body rock hard and perfectly aligned as he pushed himself up and slowly lowered himself down so that his nose touched the floor. His muscles bunched, and he'd already worked up a sweat Oh, she did not need this!

  "For goodness sake, stop it!" she commanded. He did as she asked, ending his exercise and sitting on the floor to look up at her. She could see the strain on his face, the pain in his eyes.

  "Are you insane?" she asked.

  "I think … maybe," he said with a half smile.

  "What are you doing?"

  He rose slowly and gingerly to his feet. Oh, she wished he'd remained on the floor. Standing, he was too tall, too menacingly tempting. And his bare chest was practically in her face.

  "I need to start training."

  He needed to heal, to grow stronger. But was she ready for him to be completely well? Strong and healthy and … oh dear, how would she resist him then? "I'm going to the grocery store. Do you want anything?"

  His eyes lit up. "A pack of condoms?"

  Shea swallowed hard and tried to maintain her composure. "Be serious."

  "I am."

  "Fine, I'll pick out food on my own. If I come home with something you don't like, that's just too bad."

  "Anything but spinach," he said, making his way to the couch and sitting slowly, favoring his injured leg.

  Shea fetched the ottoman from in front of the wing chair and placed it where Nick could rest his leg on it. "I don't see how pushing yourself is going to help matters," she said testily, watching as he lifted his leg to the ottoman.

  "I have to get my strength back," he said.

  "What's the hurry?"

  He laughed darkly. "What's the hurry? Every lawman in Alabama, and quite a few from out of the state, is looking for us. Then there are your brothers to contend with, and your uncle the judge."

  "But some things can't be rushed," she said sensibly. "You can't…"

  She squealed when Nick reached up, grabbed her wrist and pulled her down to sit beside him. She landed too close. Hip to hip. Thigh to thigh.

  "I don't have the luxury of time, Shea," he said in a low voice. "Some things need to be rushed, like it or not." The way he looked at her, she had to wonder if he was talking about his leg or something else. She figured … something else. This thing between them was like a monster that grew every day. It was strong; it was powerful. It most definitely had fangs.

  Nick lifted his hand to her face, trailed his fingers down her cheek. Her heart fluttered and her nipples hardened. "We could be good together, Shea."

  She swallowed hard.

  "And I want you so bad. If the situation was different, I'd wine and dine you. I'd bring you flowers and candy and charm you until you just couldn't stand it anymore."

  She had no doubt but that he could do just that, if he put his mind to it

  He didn't take his hand from her face, but continued to touch her with gentle, exploring fingers. "We're two adults, neither of us is involved in a serious relationship, and you can't say the temptation isn't there."

  "No, I can't," she admitted. "But I've only known you for a few days."

  "What difference does that make?"

  "You kidnapped me!"

  "I tried to let you go."

  Shea licked her lips. She couldn't say she wasn't tempted. "You shot at me."

  "But I didn't actually shoot you."

  She wondered, still, if he would have shot her if she'd kept running. Somehow she doubted it, no matter what he said. "It doesn't make sense to even think about starting a relationship during a crisis of these proportions. We're caught up in the heat of the moment, but it's not … this is just…"

  He kissed her neck, buried his face there and whispered against her shoulder, "I'm not talking about a relationship, Shea. I'm talking about sex. We're two relatively healthy adults, the attraction is there, we're going to be together for God knows how long." His hand settled high on her side, his thumb brushing the swell of her breast. "You said you didn't have time for romance. When was the last time you let a man into your bed, Shea?"

  That would be a tough question to answer. "You're talking about casual sex," she whispered. "A quick tumble."

  "I didn't say anything about quick," he whispered back, kissing her neck again. Oh, she loved the feel of his mouth there, beneath her ear. She loved the heat and smell and weight of him, leaning into her. It would be so easy to say yes, to give him what he wanted. What she wanted.

  She more than wanted Nick, she liked him. She liked him a lot. When was the last time she'd met a man she liked so much? The men she worked with were all caught up in their careers, just as she was. They were selfish, controlling, pretty-boy jerks, for the most part.

  Nick was smart, but he didn't play games. He'd been treated badly, by Lauren, by the press, by the police, but he hadn't whined, "Why me?" Not once. He wanted to do something about his problem. He wanted to fix this mess himself. And he wanted her.

  He didn't pretend he wanted anything more from her than sex. He laid it all on the line, and as he kissed her neck and settled his hand more securely on her breast, she was tempted. She was sorely tempted. And maybe it was time. Maybe she'd waited long enough.

  It took all her willpower, but Shea placed her hands on Nick's chest and pushed. He didn't persist, but moved obediently away from her. "I don't have casual sex," she said, hoping she didn't sound like a complete prude.

  "Too bad," he whispered, moving away to lay his head back against the sofa and close his eyes. She was so tempted to reach over and push back that lock of black hair that fell over his sweaty forehead, to lean over him and into him and wrap her legs around him…

  Too bad, indeed. If she was a different woman, she'd jump at the chance to sleep with a man like Nick. She would follow her instincts and surprise him right now, with a caress and a kiss and an offer he wouldn't refuse. He was charming, good-looking, strong, and he had a great body. She should know. She'd seen almost all of it! Yes, Nick Taggert was everything a woman might look for in a lover.

  But she wasn't what any man was looking for, not where sex was concerned. Men like Nick wanted women who were experienced, who could give and take and enjoy, who could make a man feel good and then walk away with a smile and no regrets. Good heavens, she didn't even know where to start.

  Well, she had a pretty good idea where to start, but when it came to practical experience, she had none. And she wasn't about to tell Nick that she was a virgin!

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  A wide-brimmed hat and a polka-dot scarf disguised her hair, and a pair of Aunt Irene's largest sunglasses covered her eyes. She had no choice but to walk to the Jitney Jungle, since the truck was too recognizable and was sure to be spotted by the Marion police as it rumbled through town, and Uncle Henry's Cadillac was well known. Shea didn't need that kind of attention turning her way.

  Nick had asked if she wanted him to come along, but his leg was not strong enough. They both knew it. Besides, he was more recognizable than she was! She could alter her appearance to something more casual than was ever shown on television, with no makeup and the borrowed accessories, but Nick … there was no disguising that face of his. He hadn't argued for long, but finally agreed that it was best if she went alone.

  Thankful that she hadn't run into anyone she knew, Shea entered the kitchen and gratefully set the three plastic bags of groceries on the counter. The house was quiet. Too quiet. She locked the door behind her and took the meat and eggs from one bag, putting them in the refrigerator. The walk wasn't a long one, but on a hot day like this she wasn't anxious to leave the groceries out any longer than was necessary. She took
the other items into the pantry and arranged them neatly on the shelf. What was here would have to last them awhile. She didn't have a lot of cash left, and writing a check or using her charge card was out of the question.

  She removed her disguise and dropped the items on the kitchen table, ruffling her hair and glad to be free of the hat. It had shaded her face from the sun and added to her disguise, but it was too hot to wear a hat!

  As she had while she'd put the groceries away, she listened for Nick. Grunting, mumbling, moving about the house. She heard nothing. Maybe he was taking a nap. He needed to do that, after this morning's foolish exercise, but somehow she doubted he was upstairs in Carol's lavender bedroom, napping the afternoon away.

  And then it hit her. He was gone. She actually felt dizzy for a moment. He'd just been waiting for her to leave the house so he could make his getaway. He'd tried to dump her once. His chance had come again and he'd jumped at it.

  She left the kitchen, somehow sure she wouldn't find him in the dining room or the parlor. And she didn't. She climbed the stairs quickly, listening for sounds of movement on the second floor. All was silent. Just to be sure, she checked each and every room. The silence grew, and she felt something grow inside her. Panic. A sense of loss.

  Nick was gone.

  But he couldn't have gotten far, she thought, hope springing up inside her. She had the keys to the truck in her purse, the purse she'd carried with her to the grocery store, and no matter how desperate he was to get away, Nick was not foolish enough to steal a judge's long white Cadillac. With vanity plates, no less.

  She left through the kitchen door, peeking through the separate garage as she passed on her way to the barn. The Caddy was there, safe and sound. She'd told Nick where the barn was, hadn't she? Out back, beyond the line of trees, hidden from view by thick summer foliage. In the wintertime, when the trees were bare and the kudzu was dormant, you could see the old barn from the kitchen window. Weathered and dilapidated, it looked to be a hundred years old. And might be, for all she knew. The house was almost that old.