by Anne Stuart
“You’re letting me go?”
“That’s not what you want,” he said quietly. “And you and I both know it. Climb down and check out your new ride.”
Merlin hopped out of the driver’s side after Bishop, and slowly, carefully Evangeline slid out the opposite side. Her bruised leg gave way for a moment, but she managed to disguise it behind the open truck door. When she finally got a good look at the monstrosity, words failed her.
It was a Winnebago. Not a brand-new, gorgeous RV, but a very old, very rusty Winnebago with a cracked windshield. It was covered with dust, and she looked at it dubiously. “We’re taking that? An old wreck we found by the side of the road?”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover. And we didn’t just find it—it was waiting for us.” He’d taken a flashlight . . . her flashlight . . . out of the glove compartment and he was shining it over every rusty inch of the damned thing. There was even something that looked like an old analog antenna, which would do them absolutely no good.
“It probably leaks,” she said morosely.
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” he said, sounding more cheerful than he had in a long while. He pointed his ridiculous cell phone at the door and she heard a click as it unlocked. That was certainly a lot more high tech than this old wreck should have been; Bishop moved past her to open the door, then stepped aside and gestured her to go in.
She didn’t want to. For some reason it felt like crossing some border, past the point of no return, and she held back for a moment. It was a waste of time to hesitate—he’d simply overpower her—but something held her back.
“You want me to carry you across the threshold?”
That was enough to move her. She walked carefully to the door, trying to disguise her limp, and reached for the handhold, pulling herself up into the wonders of Annabelle’s cousin.
Chapter Eleven
Inside, the RV wasn’t much bigger than Annabelle had been when you took the front seat into account. The U-shaped dinette was on the right side of the camper, as well as the stove and sink, followed by an angled door that signaled a bathroom at the end. On the left side was a single bed, more kitchen equipment, a chair on the other side of the door, and a bed platform above the front seats. They were fairly standard features, except that everything inside was brand-new, and state of the art, instead of rusty and broken-down as the outside suggested. There was also a built-in flat screen with machines beneath it, and she suspected it wasn’t for watching movies.
He gave her a little shove from behind, and she almost stumbled. Merlin, being much more of a gentleman, waited for her, then paced past her and stood guard behind the driver’s seat. Bishop followed her in and shut the door behind her, closing them into utter darkness.
It happened so fast she couldn’t control it. From out of nowhere panic clamped down over her like a smothering blanket, freezing her in place.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Bishop demanded.
She pushed back against him, suddenly desperate. “I have to get out of here,” she said breathlessly.
“Too fucking bad. This is your home for the next few days and I . . .”
“You don’t understand,” she choked out. “I can’t breathe. I have to . . .”
He opened the door, and she rushed past him, forgetting the pain in her leg. She tripped and landed on her knees on the hard dirt, but it didn’t matter. She could breathe, and she felt the warm night breeze begin to wash the clamminess from her skin.
Merlin was making distressed sounds, but Bishop must have ordered him to stay in the RV. He was looming over her in the darkness, and she knew she should get to her feet, to lessen the height difference and her own horrible sense of powerlessness, but she couldn’t. What the hell was wrong with her? She was strong; she didn’t suddenly fall apart like this.
Bishop was looking down at her, and she could sense his irritation but she didn’t give a damn. “Since when have you been claustrophobic?” he drawled. “I’m not in the mood for games, Angel.”
She was having trouble talking as well as breathing, and it took her a moment to find her voice. “Never,” she gasped. “It just hit me.”
“How convenient.” He reached down and hauled her up, and she managed to get her feet under her. His hands were tight on her arms. “You’re getting in there and you’re going to behave yourself or I’ll tie you up again, and this RV comes equipped with more advanced things than duct tape.”
She’d gotten at least a portion of her self-control back. “I’ll be all right.” At least she hoped so. She had no idea where this sudden panic had come from. Not that she didn’t have a dozen or more reasons, including the man beside her. Apparently the human mind and body could only take so much stress before cracking open.
There was a quarter moon in the clear night sky, giving her enough light to see him, his eyes glittering. He was a total stranger. He was the man she loved. The knowledge hit her like a sledgehammer to the heart.
He said nothing. A moment later he scooped her up, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her back into the darkened camper as if she were a sack of potatoes. He tossed her onto the bed at the back with even less care, but the mattress was thick and cushioned, and Merlin immediately paced over and took his position by her head. “Move again,” Bishop said, “and you’ll regret it.”
He stalked to the front of the camper. She tried to breathe through her tight throat, forcing calm on herself bit by bit as she heard him start the engine. It purred like a Jaguar. Who the hell was he? What kind of person had something like this at his fingertips?
He pulled onto the road and took off at his usual breakneck speed, faster than any Winnebago was supposed to go, and Merlin flopped down on the floor beside her. She knew better than to try to get him up on the bed with her—he’d always refused to. He was standing guard, even if he allowed himself to lie down, but damn, she wanted to comfort herself by burying her face in his fur.
She turned to face the side of the RV. The window just above the bed wasn’t curtained, and air-conditioning was blowing through the unit. At least in this vehicle he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t see her, couldn’t sense her in the darkness as long as he was driving. She turned her face against the wall, dry-eyed and desperate.
If she could cry, it would make things better. This happened occasionally—the tension, the anger, the grief and betrayal would build up until she felt helpless, and the only way to break the emotional roadblock was to put on the saddest movie she could find and weep buckets over some fictional character. Beaches, Steel Magnolias, any Nicholas Sparks movie . . . Any of them could break the dam and she’d be fine.
All she could do now was lie in this bed on top of the thick mattress and shiver, not from the cold, but the blocked, conflicted emotions. Her only respite was common sense.
She shouldn’t have any emotions about her current situation, much less conflicted ones. The magical appearance of the deceptive RV was one more bit of proof that Bishop wasn’t the gigolo and thief she’d presumed him to be. Her diamond earrings were small change when it came to equipment like this.
And a petty thief, or even a grand thief, would hardly be able to dispose of a man as quickly and efficiently as he had with the man who had been sent to kill him. And her.
Who was James Bishop? Who was he working for? The little bits and pieces he’d told her made no sense. Given his ruthlessness when dealing with Clement, why had he bothered coming after her? They weren’t married—she knew that much, no matter what he said. He was just playing mind games with her, and he was very adept.
Who was he? What did he want? For that matter, what had he wanted with her in the first place? She was an adjunct teacher on a bare-bones research trip and she had no delusions about herself. She was no troll, but Bishop, with his almost sublime beauty, was supermodel territory.
She closed her eyes. M
erlin whined softly, sensing her distress, but it was quiet enough that Bishop wouldn’t hear. Would he drive all night? Probably—he was more machine than man. She’d just have to survive—she was holding on by her fingernails, and the pit yawning beneath her was terrifying. There wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.
She didn’t sleep—tension was threading through her body like barbed wire, pulling tighter and tighter. She simply lay there in the bunk, hugging herself. If she turned on her other side she’d be able to see him up there in the driver’s seat, she’d see his reflection in that huge windshield. She stayed where she was.
She’d lost all sense of time when she felt the RV leave the highway once more, as they drove over a pitted road, too fast, of course. There was anger in the way he took the corner, she thought, burying her face in the pillow. She’d pretend to be asleep—that’s all she seemed to do anyway when she was around him. At least there was a bed up over the driver’s area, and he could just climb up there if he’d stopped to sleep.
The RV came to a stop with a lurch, one that would have woken her up if she’d actually been sleeping. She couldn’t tell if the sky was lighter or not—not without lifting her head, and the only way she was going to make it through this overpowering miasma that seemed to have come over her was to keep very still, keep away from him.
He made no effort to be quiet. “Fuck,” he said, and she could hear him getting up from the seat. To her horror, instead of heading outside or climbing up into the bunk, he headed straight back toward her.
She was having a hard time controlling her breathing enough to simulate sleep. She was practically vibrating with tension, but it was still very dark, and the tremors were so slight he wouldn’t see them; if he’d just go away, she’d be all right, she’d manage to get through this . . .
“Fuck,” he said again. “What’s wrong with you? And don’t tell me it’s claustrophobia, or fear of the dark, or any shit like that. And stop pretending to be asleep—you wouldn’t fool anyone. I’ve been listening to you shiver and shake for the last few hours.”
She opened her eyes, but she wouldn’t turn to look at him. Couldn’t turn—every muscle felt frozen in her panic. That’s what it was, she realized to her complete shame. It was a panic attack, and she hadn’t had one since she’d been a hormonal teenager.
Recognizing what it was should have stopped it, given her enormous willpower, but she still felt caught in its grip. “Evangeline,” he said in a quiet, dangerous voice.
Don’t touch me, she thought desperately. Please don’t touch me. She managed to grind out the word in a raw whisper. “Don’t.” He didn’t listen.
The moment she felt his hands on her, pulling her from the bed, something snapped inside her, something dark and dangerous that terrified her. She went wild, hitting him, kicking him, slapping him as she tried to break free from his iron grip.
He simply wrapped his arms around her, tight, so tight it cut off her breath, which made it worse. She wanted to scream, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out, and his body was clamped against hers so that she couldn’t even struggle. She was trapped, caught, there was no escape . . .
He held her a little bit away from his body and he shook her, hard, and it felt as if her bones were rattling inside her; but if he thought it would shake her out of the panic, he was wrong. He loosened his grip slightly, and she tore herself free, throwing herself toward the door.
He caught her, and she clawed out at him, her fingernails raking across his chest as he yanked her back, and she was screaming. She heard her voice in the back of her head, and she couldn’t even guess what the words were. A small, shamed part of her was standing apart, watching this with shock and horror, but she couldn’t stop, she had to get away from him before he devoured her with his darkness.
The battle was short-lived and dirty: she thought she heard Merlin’s bark, Bishop’s curse and a short, sharp order, and then it seemed like she was flying through the air, through the darkness, only to land in a dark, enclosed place with Bishop all around her, trapping her, closing her in, devouring her, his body on top of hers, holding her down as she fought.
It stopped so abruptly that for a moment she thought she was dead. One second she was fighting for her life, the next everything had drained from her body and she went limp beneath him, all her desperate fury vanishing.
But she was still breathing—her chest was rising and falling against his, and their hearts were pounding in a rapid counterpoint. Why was his pounding? He’d subdued her with little effort. It had to be something else—she could swear he didn’t even have a heart. He was a cyborg, an android, a little green man from Mars, and she wanted to laugh, but if she started she wouldn’t stop, and that was even more terrifying.
It took her a moment to realize where they were—in the sleeping compartment above the driver’s seat. The mattress beneath her cushioned her as the other one had, even with Bishop’s weight on top of her, holding her down, holding her prisoner, and she felt her breath begin to speed up once more.
“Open your eyes, Angel,” he said, his voice soft but implacable, and she realized she’d kept them tightly shut during their short, fierce battle, as if by blinding herself she could pretend it wasn’t happening. She should have known better—closing her eyes on a roller coaster only made it worse.
She opened them, and she could see his face, closer than she expected. She could see the glitter in those eyes that were all wrong, she could feel his breath on her skin, the familiar-unfamiliar weight of him pressing her into the mattress, the hard ridge of his erection pressing at the juncture of her thighs, and then realization struck her.
“That,” he said, reading her perfectly, “should be the least of your worries. It seems to have become a permanent condition ever since I found you again. I want to know what the fuck is wrong with you.”
She opened her mouth, but she had no voice and no words. Her throat felt raw, and she realized she’d screamed enough to have hurt it. And how could she explain what she didn’t understand herself?
It finally came out in an almost inaudible rasp. “Don’t . . .” she managed to begin, and she could feel the anger and frustration in the body plastered so tightly against hers.
“Jesus Fucking Christ, Angel, what do you think I’m going to do? Cut your throat and bury you in the woods like Clement? Rape you? I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Don’t . . .” she tried again; he was so close, and she didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to be trapped underneath him, she didn’t want all these clothes between them. She wanted him inside of her, she wanted him hard and fast, pounding into her, driving all thoughts and fears from her tangled brain, and her breathing began to speed up once more, as tremors danced across her skin. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down as much as she could, forcing the rest of the words out. “Don’t . . . know.”
“Is that ‘don’t’ and ‘no’?” he said, his voice harsh. “Or is that ‘don’t know,’ as in you don’t know what’s wrong with you?”
She managed to nod. She was so cold, and so hot, trapped here in the enveloping darkness with Bishop on top of her, all around her. If he’d go away she’d be able to pull herself together . . .
He’d pushed himself up on his elbows, and was looking down at her in the inky darkness; and for a moment they were suspended in time, staring at each other. “Fuck it,” he said finally, sliding one hand behind her neck to pull her mouth up to his.
His kiss was air to a drowning man, oxygen to an asthmatic. His open mouth closed over hers and his breath filled her lungs and her veins, and she was alive again, blood pumping through her body as he kissed her, his tongue sliding against hers with such perfect intimacy that she wanted to weep.
She made a sound, and whether it was protest or surrender didn’t matter, because she kissed him back, hungry for him, desperate for him. She reached
for his shirt and began yanking it free from his jeans, needing to feel his skin against her, needing to lose herself in him.
He’d been a carefully banked fire, but with her hands on his skin he seemed to explode, and his patience vanished. He reached down and tore her cutoffs open, the strength in his hands shocking her as the zipper and denim gave way, yanked them down her legs, complete with her underwear, and threw them into the darkness. Her uneasiness returned—this was Bishop, this was a stranger. This was her husband, this was a thief and a liar. This was the man she loved, this was the man she despised. This man was a lover.
This man was a killer.
He shoved her legs apart, and she wanted to say something, to stop him, but things had gone too far in that short time. She heard the rip of his zipper, the quick shove of clothes, and for one brief moment the head of his cock against her, large and heavy, and it had been so long . . .
He thrust into her, hard, and she cried out. Not in pain, though it hurt, but with a pleasure so powerful it shook her. He was so big, filling her, and it seemed as if she’d been empty forever, needing him, only him, and no one could take his place.
She wrapped her legs around his tight butt, her hands caught up in his shirt, and he thrust again, and it was too much, too hard, too fast, and she couldn’t get enough of him. The shirt ripped open beneath her desperate hands, buttons flying into the darkness, and she didn’t care. She needed his skin, she needed to put her face against his chest and breathe him in again, that rich, clean smell of his skin.
It was the same. That scent that was peculiarly his own, and she pushed the shirt off his shoulder and licked him, licked the sweat off him as he pumped into her, over and over again.
The orgasm hit her like a shock—she’d been so caught up in the devouring pleasure of his hard thrusts that she hadn’t even thought about needing more. This was what she wanted, and the climax that washed through her, sending her into spasms of choking pleasure, had come too quickly.