by Anne Stuart
“You’ll do what I fucking tell you,” he muttered, absorbing the feel of her, the smell of her skin, the sweet softness of her. The damned hardness of him. He dumped her in the third bedroom while she was still sputtering in protest, and nodded toward the door at the back of the room. “There’s the shower. I’ll have dinner for you by the time you’re done.”
She glared at him. Good. Getting mad at him was much better, much healthier than that stricken, shamed look on her face.
And he had to get the hell away from her before he pulled her back into his arms and moved her over to the double bed. He kept his hands at his side, determined not to touch her again.
“I’ll do . . .” she started in a rebellious tone of voice.
“You’ll do exactly what I tell you to do,” he snapped. “I’m trying to save your fucking life, not make it miserable.”
“Lucky for you you’re doing both,” she said sweetly.
He slammed the door as he left.
That dog was too damned smart, the man thought from the safety of his hiding place. Granted, the fucking canine had missed him, as had the invincible James Bishop, but they’d come too close, and he didn’t think either of them were entirely convinced. The farmhouse was basically an island—the river had changed course years ago and ringed the land, and the only place shallow enough to cross was so rough that you’d need four-wheel drive and even then you’d be lucky to make it across. Of course he hadn’t driven.
Bishop knew the Committee had come up with something to cover tracks, strong enough to fool even a bloodhound, but then, he didn’t realize it was the Committee who was after him. That he was being stalked by someone who had access to all the secret weapons and tools most covert organizations didn’t even realize existed. He’d believe the dog, believe his own eyes, but he would still be alert.
The man heard the muffled sound of distant thunder. He’d been listening to it for hours, paying it no mind, though it sounded like it might be getting closer. Probably just heat lightning. If it did rain, it would make the path off the island impossible. He’d be trapped there with the three of them: the dog, Bishop, and the girl. In that case he might have no choice but to kill all three.
He’d start with the girl, maybe get away before the rain hit, before Bishop even realized she was gone. He could tell they weren’t fucking—the anger between them was palpable. Typical—Bishop hadn’t stayed with a woman for more than a few days, if that. In fact, Bishop tended to be less interested in pussy than most of the men he knew. The man shrugged. It didn’t matter to him one way or another. Bishop was a good agent, a brilliant shot, and too valuable to be killed unless it was necessary.
Same with the dog. He’d never killed one before, and he wasn’t sure if he could do it. But if either of them came between him and his quarry, he wouldn’t think twice.
He would wait as long as he could, until the girl had gone to sleep, until Bishop had relaxed his guard. Bishop wouldn’t sleep—the man had worked with him often enough to know that Bishop was relentless. The best he could hope for was a span of less focused attention. Hell, Bishop was only human—he might even fall asleep.
But the man doubted it. He was going to have to be very quiet when he went in to get her. Piece of cake.
Evangeline sat down on the old iron bed, and realized it had a memory foam mattress, her favorite kind. She pulled back the threadbare chenille cover and found heavy cotton sheets, and she sighed in pleasure. She looked up and saw a bathroom through the open door that was so big it had probably been one of the bedrooms. She pushed herself off the bed and went to investigate. It was huge, white tiled, with the biggest shower she’d ever seen, and a soaking tub large enough to hold two. She shut that thought out immediately.
The only problem, as far as she could tell, was the other door, the one that led to the hall. Which meant, presumably, that she was sharing this oasis with James. There were locks on the doors, and she was willing to bet there were other equally luxurious bathrooms around the place. He could damn well use one of those. She turned the lock and pulled the key out, pleased to see it wasn’t a skeleton key but something more specific, something he couldn’t override.
Who was she kidding—James could pick any kind of lock. Not that he’d bother. He didn’t want to have anything more to do with her. Who could blame him?
She did her best to use up every ounce of hot water in the place as she scrubbed herself, over and over again, trying to clean something that had disappeared long ago. The shower in the Winnebago had been sybaritic, but size had its limitations.
Her skin was raw and red by the time she finally gave up and turned off the water, and she wanted to smack herself. She took a look at herself in the mirror, the haunted expression, the circles around her eyes. “You’re being self-indulgent,” she said in a quiet voice, just for her own ears, to break the deafening silence of the high-ceilinged, tiled room. “Get over it. So you spent a year trying to fuck him out of your system. It’s in the past, it’s done, and you’re being a baby. Let go.”
The woman in the mirror wasn’t listening, so Evangeline stuck her tongue out at her. Reliving ancient nightmares wasn’t worth the time, not when her life was at stake. Much as she hated to admit it, James was right. She was going to do exactly what he told her to do; she wasn’t going to fight back and annoy him or ask him any questions. The best way to get through the next twenty-four hours in one piece was to keep quiet and follow orders. It would be easier on her soul as well. She wasn’t going to think about James, about the past, even about the empty future. The only way to get through today was to live through it, and she intended to do just that.
She hadn’t brought much when they’d abandoned Annabelle and her clothing choices weren’t encouraging. There was a cotton sundress, a pair of cutoffs that were too short, a sweatshirt, a cropped top, and two oversized T-shirts, one that said “Nerds need love too” that she’d taken from Pete because it was so damned comfortable, and another with the word “No.” on it. No, period.
She made do with the sundress, not liking the choice, the way it flowed around her legs and hugged her breasts, but it was better than cutoffs, and James wasn’t even going to notice. Besides, the dress was comfortable. She didn’t have to wear a bra with it, and it was soft and easy. As for the “No.” T-shirt, she could just imagine Bishop’s contemptuous reaction. She washed her face with cold water, then paused for a moment as thunder rumbled overhead. It was an ominous sound, creeping into her bones. She usually liked storms, liked the drama and the downpour, but not tonight. Not alone on this deserted island in the middle of Texas, with only James for company.
And Merlin, she reminded herself, glancing at the dog as he lay curled up beside her bed. Merlin would look out for her.
Speaking of which, she’d better check James’s wound. Her own had healed over nicely, faster than she would have expected, but James had insisted on using some weird ointment on her and it had done wonders.
She pushed open her door, half expecting to find James out there, leaning against the wall like a neo-James Dean, but the hallway was empty. She could smell chili, and at the end of the hall she could see the glow of electronics. She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. She could do this. She could be docile and pleasant for twenty-four hours or however long it took him to dump her.
“What are you lurking for?” His cranky voice came to her, and she jumped. He must have ears like a bat or some sixth sense to know she was out at the far end of the hallway.
“I’m waiting for Merlin,” she lied, as Merlin paced ahead of her, looking back impatiently as if to say, What’s keeping you?
She walked down the hallway at a brisk pace, trying to ignore the way the dress danced against her bare legs, and entered what must have been the kitchen in a businesslike manner. Sure enough, there was a row of computers, way too many for her piece of mind, and James was sitting in fron
t of the monitors, staring at them intently. The kitchen was newly renovated, and the results were iffy. Clearly the rehab had been designed by men. Instead of the huge gathering place that it had probably once been, the space had been turned into a stainless steel laboratory, efficient and soulless.
James was still staring at the monitor, his hands flying over the keys, not turning. “There’s chili on the stove. Don’t worry—I didn’t make it. They had stuff waiting for us, and since it’s Texas I chose the chili. If you’re too fainthearted for it, you can find something to suit your palate. I believe there’s fettuccini Alfredo and . . .”
“Chili will be fine.” In fact she liked spicy food, another thing he had yet to discover. He claimed he knew everything about her. Ha! He might know the names of every one of the men she had slept with when she came home, something even she didn’t know, but he didn’t know she liked spicy food. It was a small, lonely triumph, but she’d take what she could get.
She moved into the sterile kitchen. The chili was bubbling away on the gas stove, smelling divine. She opened the giant refrigerator and found avocados at the perfect stage of ripeness, a block of Monterey Jack, bottles of Guinness and . . . oh, praise God, Diet Coke.
She set to work, grating cheese, peeling and slicing the fat avocados. James was probably a purist, eating his straight, but she liked all sorts of things in her chili, including crushed tortilla chips, and he was going to have to take it that way. She filled two bowls, grabbed one and a bottle of Guinness, and plopped them down in front of him.
“Eat,” she said. She had no idea why she was taking care of him . . . oh, yes she did. She needed him in decent shape to get her to New Orleans so she could get away from him. She was only being practical.
He finally glanced up at her, about to say something, but the words stopped in his mouth. His eyes ran the full length of her, the unfortunately low-cut bodice, the long, flowing skirt, her bare feet. He stared at her feet for a long moment, as if he’d never seen them before, and then when he lifted his eyes, he had his usual sardonic expression on his face, the one she wanted to slap.
“I see you decided to dress for dinner. Should I be flattered?”
“You should shut your mouth and eat,” she snapped.
“Now if you could explain how I can manage that I’d be much obliged,” he drawled, leaning back in the chair.
“You shove it up your ass.” She stomped back to the kitchen to grab her own bowl, ready to retreat to her bedroom, but the passageway was too small and he simply blocked it with his long legs.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I think eating around you would spoil my appetite.”
“Stop being a baby, Angel. I don’t need any added drama right now.” He rose, all fluid grace, and took the bowl and the soda from her hand. “Get us silverware and a bottle opener. There are some peppers in the crisper—bring those too.”
She would have felt ashamed of her pettish behavior if he hadn’t started flinging orders at her. She was being childish, and that only gave him more power over her. “All right,” she said evenly, heading back into the kitchen. There were fresh jalapenos, serranos, and habanero chilies, and she took one of each and rinsed them under water before putting them in a bowl and setting them in front of him, along with the utensils.
The small area adjacent to the kitchen had clearly been meant for a breakfast nook, but the table in it had been shoved against the window to make room for the computers, and he’d already set their food down there. She took her seat, then met his eyes.
For a moment she froze. His expression, which he quickly shuttered, was hotter than the habaneros, and it shook her. She’d been telling herself he didn’t want her. No matter how quickly he hid that look, she couldn’t pretend it hadn’t existed. He might have nothing but contempt for her, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want her, at least on an elemental level.
“You want to say grace?” he drawled, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
She bit back her instinctive wisecrack. “No,” she said, opening her soda and taking a good swallow before digging into the chili. She’d give it a pretty mild rating—she’d once made a study of the Scoville scale and chili peppers in her undergraduate years and things tended to stay with her, deep in the recesses of her brain. If James was going to eat any of the freshly washed peppers, he was going to need an iron constitution. Jalapenos were very hot, serranos were blazing, and habaneros were nuclear.
He looked down at his bowl, loaded down with avocado and cheese and crushed chips. “What is all this?” he asked with a faintly derisive tone. “Can’t manage your chili straight on? Tell me you don’t put it on top of spaghetti and sprinkle cinnamon on top.”
“Cincinnati chili doesn’t deserve the name.” This chili was delicious, but relatively mild, and she contemplated the hot peppers in front of them.
He took a bite. “Yeah, well this stuff is too fucking bland.”
“Don’t blame me. I didn’t make it.”
He reached out and took the jalapeno. With deliberation he bit off the end, then followed it with a forkful of chili. He didn’t break a sweat. “That’s better.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?” Before she thought better of it, she took the jalapeno from his hand and bit into it, where his mouth had been, taking a larger piece. The seeds were the hottest part, spicy and delicious against her tongue, and it blended beautifully with her next bite of food.
He raised an eyebrow, taking a swig of beer. “It looks like you’re the one who’s trying to impress,” he said. He rose, headed back to the fridge, and a moment later returned with two more beers. He opened one and shoved it at her, keeping the other one for a refill. “Chili needs to be eaten with beer, not belly wash.”
“We should have Dos Equis, not Guinness, if you want to be a purist.” She took a drink of the beer. It did blend better with the hot spices.
“You can’t have everything.” He reached for the serrano chili, then glanced at her. “Just how tough are you?”
“Obviously tougher than you ever realized. So much for knowing everything about me,” she said sweetly. “That’s not another jalapeno in your hand.”
“I know.” He bit off the end of it, ate a forkful of chili, and then drank almost half the bottle of Guinness. It was a good thing he’d brought himself a second bottle. He then held the pepper out to her in a deliberate challenge.
One she wasn’t going to back down from. “You do realize that biting off the end of it doesn’t give you the full heat. There are more seeds in the second bite.” She took a healthy bite, and felt it sear her mouth. She had to go for the beer before the chili as she felt her face flush and tears fill her eyes, but at least this time she wasn’t crying over him.
Was he going to up the ante? Habaneros were too much for her—she knew from experience—but she was damned if she was going to let James win. They ate in silence for a while, letting the residual heat in their mouths flavor the chili. James finished one bottle of beer, then started in on the second. She was almost at the end of her bowl, feeling comfortably replete. The fire in her mouth had died down to a pleasant buzz, her own beer empty, when she saw James reach for the remaining small yellow pepper.
He picked it up. “There are so many peppers that are hotter than this one,” he said in a voice that was almost musing. “Particularly in Thailand and the Far East. I’ve spent a lot of time out there, you know.”
“I don’t know anything about you,” she said, unable to help herself. “And everything you tell me I don’t believe.”
He smiled, holding the pepper by its stem. “You don’t think I’ve gotten used to food a lot hotter than this pepper?”
Oh, shit, he was going to make her eat it. She’d do it, she wouldn’t let him win, but she wasn’t going to be happy about it. She usually stopped at jalapenos, and she was accustomed to a lot
less than that ridiculously generous bite she’d taken, but there was too much at stake to back down now.
And then she laughed in relief.
“What’s so funny?” he asked in a voice far milder than the chili.
“It’s a fucking chili pepper, not the fate of the world. Go ahead and eat it. I don’t have to prove how tough I am by burning my mouth out.”
“It’s not that hot,” he said, his voice soft with reproof, and popped the entire thing in his mouth.
She was vindicated by the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the fact that he drained almost the entire bottle of beer when he finished chewing. She laughed again.
“It’s not that hot,” he said again, the slight flush around his eyes belying his words. Before she knew what he was doing he’d leaned over, caught her chin in one strong hand, and put his mouth over hers.
He was on fire. His lips were blazing, his tongue was like a firebrand, turning her own mouth into a conflagration, her entire body shooting up in white heat, melting her from the inside out. She wanted to sink into the fiery heat of his bones, lose herself in the fierce demand of his mouth, and she wanted to burn, burn forever in that heat.
He drew back, and her own reaction was stronger than his: her heart pounded, her face flushed, her eyes watered, and sweat beaded on her forehead. Or maybe that was just how she reacted to his kisses, she thought dizzily. Wanting more. Hating herself, but wanting more.
“Here,” he said, handing her half a cut lime. She had no idea where it came from—he must have brought it back when he’d replenished his beer supply. “It cuts the heat.” He took the other half and bit into it.
She did the same, letting the citric acid fill her mouth, calming the flame his kiss had started. She was almost sorry to feel it lessen. She had the melancholy feeling that every time she tasted lime in the future, she would taste him leaving her.