by Alicia Scott
Her voice trailed off with a longing she hadn't realized she'd felt. The summers of her youth, running around with Brandon and C J. in a place where no one yelled or threw things and where she knew Brandon and C.J. would always help her. They had been magic moments. And then they'd grown up and gone their separate ways, and for the first time she was thinking how long it had been since the three of them were together. How long it had been since she'd felt happy and carefree and loved.
Belatedly, she realized both her feet had sunk deep into the mud, miring her into place. With a shake of her head, she planted her hands on the wet, slippery slant of the hatchback and worked on freeing her feet. Enough. Back to the matter at hand.
She made it the last two feet and looked at the small rear of the pathetic automobile with blatant determination. "All right," she said and squatted down, curling her hands beneath the bumper. "I'm ready."
"Lift with your legs, not your back."
She slanted him a narrow look. "I know that. Have you hefted a bale of straw lately? They're not that light. And the alfalfa—we didn't build with alfalfa much. Even C.J. could barely lift it."
"Of course," Cain murmured. "On the count of three."
"Right."
"One-two-three." With a mighty grunt, he heaved forward. She gritted her own teeth and lifted and pushed for all she was worth. The car groaned. The mud emitted a giant sucking sound.
"A little bit more," Cain gritted out.
"Right," she gasped back, and threw her entire 103 pounds behind it.
More sucking. More groaning. Then a slight tearing sound that might have been her muscles ripping or Cain's.
"Damn," he said weakly and abruptly let go. She released her grip as well, looking at him with genuine concern. Sure enough, his face was still contorted and his hand went to his back. "This really isn't my day."
"You've hurt yourself!"
"It's nothing serious."
"Of course it's nothing serious!" she snapped with genuine exasperation. "All men say that, it's instinctive and brutish. A bone could be protruding from the skin and you guys would still chirp, 'It's nothing serious.' The first caveman who got stepped on by a dinosaur probably unpeeled himself from the ground and grunted, 'Nothing … ugh, ugh … serious' right before dropping dead."
She was already walking behind him, her ruined shoes making squishy, sucking sounds in the mud. Without hesitation, she placed her hands on his rain-soaked back. He stiffened immediately.
"Upper or lower back?" she said in a brisk tone she thought her grandmother would be proud of. His back felt lean and strong, muscled and warm. She had a ridiculous urge to press her cheek against it and wrap her arms around his lean waist.
"Lower," he said in a strangely strangled voice.
"Okay." She prodded it gently with her fingers, secretly delighted by the feel of his lower back. The flesh was firm and toned, muscular and well-defined. Nothing squishy or soft here. No extra rolls of flesh or the classic doughnut rings she was used to seeing on men. Cain felt … powerful, raw, like stroking the flanks of a wild stallion. If she moved too fast, he might bolt, but if she stroked him just right, maybe the beast would stay, flesh quivering beneath her touch.
"Ah!" He winced, and she knew she'd found the spot. She remained standing there, her fingers pressed against soaked cotton, her belly lined up with his denim-molded buttocks. She wanted to start over again, stroking her fingers down from his broad shoulders to his tight butt over and over again, as if she were gentling a pawing mustang.
"Maggie?" he inquired. Was it just her, or was his voice breathless, too?
Maybe it was the pain. Her body, her touch, didn't inspire much in men. She was a scrawny thing, she knew, definitely not cover model material. She could pump weights and eat her Wheaties forever and still not achieve the primal perfection of this man. This body … this was the kind of body Rodin had sculpted.
She wanted it.
Very carefully, she dug her fingers into the spot, slowly and surely rubbing tiny, tight circles. He stiffened. She could feel the apprehension and pain roll off him in waves. She held her breath unconsciously, continuing to rub the spot, wanting with every fiber of her being to feel him relax, to feel him respond to her. Maybe she would never inspire grand passion, but she could give comfort. She hoped, she wished, to do at least that much.
Slowly, bit by bit, his body relaxed beneath her ministrations. The muscle went from stiff to pliant, his shoulders abandoned their rigid stance and came down, rolling as the breath left him as a reluctant sigh nearly lost in the rain.
His body eased into her fingers, surrendered to her, and her blue eyes began to glow like magnificent, feral sapphires. It was a heady feeling, intoxicating and exhilarating. That she could affect him so, that her fingers could give him such a gift, make him sigh, make him relax against her. She wanted to touch more. She wanted to strip off his soaked clothes until he stood as naked and pale as marble in the night. Then she would lay him down in the rich red mud and stroke his entire body, learning every inch of him while gazing into his eyes so she could measure the impact of every touch and learn every nuance of his desire.
She'd never had a man. Never really gotten to touch one, never had one belong to her, sigh for her, want her. She'd watched her friends fall in love instead, listening to their stories about the new man, watching their gazes glaze over as they whispered of the first kiss, or the time he whispered in their ear. They never really talked about sex with her, though she didn't think any of her friends was a virgin. They just didn't associate her with sex or passion or desire.
She was a sexless woman, the kind, benevolent friend more akin to a dead saint than a flesh and blood woman. They talked to her of emotions and feelings, and when the time came, invited her to their weddings where they introduced her as "dear, sweet Maggie." So she bought wedding presents and attended the ceremonies solo. These days she was buying baby shower gifts, watching other people's radiance and wondering if it would ever be hers.
Maybe it wasn't inside her. Maybe she was too weak, too timid for a grand passion. Brandon had found it, but he was strong and fierce, even though he pretended not to be. C.J. fell in love every week, going through women like wine with an easy, beguiling charm.
Maggie couldn't seem to manage either method. She didn't have Brandon's strength, or C.J.'s gift at flirtation. Men spoke to her in bars and she simply stared at them with shell-shocked eyes, wondering why they were speaking to her. Or worse, after ten minutes of casual conversation, they abruptly poured out their entire life's story and adopted her as their new little sister.
She now had more "brothers" than any woman deserved, needed or desired. Not that she ever told any of these men that. She would never hurt them that way, and every one needed someone with whom to speak. If they were so comfortable talking to her about all their troubles with other women, maybe she should be satisfied that she could help them and bring them a degree of consolation.
But she was twenty-seven now. Twenty-seven and wondering if there was something wrong with her. She wanted marriage and children, white picket fences and that special, secret code of "us, our, we." She wanted a daughter to tell all the stories Lydia had told her. She wanted children to carry on Hathaway traditions, as she would carry on Lydia's, and invent new ones.
She wanted so much more than Friday nights with two cats, rented movies and low-fat microwave popcorn.
"Maggie. My … my back feels better now. Thank you."
His voice was so low it took her a minute to hear it. Then she stared at his back, where her small, pale fingers were still rubbing tiny little circles. I don't want to stop, she thought blankly. I don't want to.
"Maggie…"
Her fingers fell to her sides. Her eyes burned abruptly, but she figured it was all right if she cried because she was already so soaked by the rain who would notice? She could cry and cry and cry and he'd never even know because the tears would just mix with the raindrops and it would all be t
he same. When she was younger, she'd thought that rain meant God was weeping. If so, God wept for Oregon an awful lot.
"We're not going to be able to get the car out," Cain said. His back was still to her, his arms braced on the hatchback. His voice didn't sound so steady anymore. "I … uh … I think we'll just have to wait for someone to come along."
"Do you think that couple will come back?"
He shook his head, his voice dry. "I don't think they're quite that stupid," he said.
"Not like me," she whispered.
He turned for the first time, his face curiously compassionate. "You're not stupid, Maggie. But you do have a generous heart, and in this day and age that's not easy." She wasn't comforted by that thought, which he seemed to understand. He added softly, "If you saw another stranded couple, would you stop?"
"Of course!" she exclaimed, bewildered by the question. "Those people might actually need help."
His lips curved. His green eyes softened for a moment, and she could only describe his look as gentle. "Exactly."
She looked away, not able to stand that expression on his face and all the turmoil it sparked inside her. Half of her was insanely pleased by the simple glance, the small, needy half of her that was no better than an insecure puppy granted a loving pat by her master. The other half, the half of her that longed to be something more, that didn't even completely understand why she hadn't become something more already, was irreconcilably hurt. She didn't want gentleness, she didn't want another adopted brother—not even an escaped-murderer adopted brother.
She wanted Cain to look at her and see a woman. A flesh and blood, desirable, passionate woman. And she was probably stupid to want such a thing from a man such as him. She did not know much about hostage protocol, but desiring a captor was probably self-defeating and sick.
She wanted him anyway. She wanted him, for her. Man to woman. Sparks, Fourth of July fireworks, the whole nine yards.
Cain turned and walked away from her. "Let's look inside the car and see what we have to work with."
He popped open the door, leaning inside. Maggie stood obediently in the rain, too soaked through to notice the raindrops anymore. Besides, she'd lived in Oregon on and off for twenty years now; this wasn't the first time she'd gotten wet.
"Nothing," Cain declared at last, beginning to look tired now. "Three unpaid parking tickets on the floor, umpteen gum wrappers and one empty can. Guess those guys traveled light."
"Do you think they were escaped felons, too?"
He stood and shrugged. "I don't know. They seemed too nervous to have much experience in this sort of thing. My guess is that they're just starting down the road of crime, but I don't know why. Maybe they're after the thrill, maybe just too lazy to work for things. Maybe they just robbed a liquor store and needed a getaway vehicle after theirs got stuck. I don't know."
Maggie looked down the empty stretch of road for a minute. She couldn't see much of it, the pavement disappearing quickly into an inky night. "I guess we just wait for the mud to dry out."
"Or someone else to come along."
She looked at him abruptly. "You're not going to hurt anyone, are you?"
He was silent for a minute, as if he were unwilling to commit either way. Finally, he said, "I don't want to cause any more trouble than I have to, Maggie. In chess, there is something called a quiet move. It's a move that neither checks nor captures, it doesn't contain any direct threats, just helps improve your positioning for the final, last thrust of direct, decisive action. That's how I would like to pursue this game and locate Ham—quietly. If such a thing is possible with half the state after us."
"If you turned yourself in, my brother would help you. You heard what he said." A feeble, overused line but she had to offer it.
Cain didn't look impressed. "Let's get in the car, Maggie, and crank the heat. We're both soaked to the skin and if we stay out here much longer, we might fulfill your prophecy of catching pneumonia and dying."
His fingers began unbuttoning his shirt. She froze, though her gaze didn't leave his chest.
"You're taking off your clothes?" she whispered at last.
"Some of them."
"Your … your pants?"
His fingers stilled. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
"Oh." His fingers started moving again. His outer shirt opened up and fell limply, like an overused dishrag. He stripped it off casually and she saw the gun. He followed her gaze.
"You promised to cooperate, remember?"
"Yes."
He removed the gun from the waistband of his jeans, and with one quick move yanked the T-shirt up off his head.
She stared. She couldn't help herself. She'd wanted him naked and here he was, pale, sculpted and breathtaking. He didn't have chest hair, so nothing marred the smooth, defined lines of biceps, triceps and pectorals. His flesh was corrugated over his ribs and rippled like a washboard down his stomach. She would be delighted to scrub soap and cloth against that belly. She'd be delighted to press her lips there and taste his rain-streaked skin.
"I'm going to get into the car now," he said quietly. His gaze rested on her thin silk blouse, which was plastered against her arms and chest. "You do what you think is best."
He bent over and climbed awkwardly into the tiny car. She remained frozen with the rain battering against her. She licked her lips.
Strip it all off and straddle his lap with a sexy, husky smile, the way great-great-great-grandmother would've done.
He's an escaped murderer. He might seem very intelligent and even-tempered for a man who allegedly committed a crime of passion, I might even harbor the secret belief that he's innocent, but he's still an escaped murderer and I can't seduce a murderer. How would I explain it to my grandmother?
No, you know there's more to it than that. You've spent nearly twenty hours with this man. If he's a murderer, then your grandmother runs the gestapo. There is more to this than meets the eye, more to him. Besides, look at that chest!
Exactly. He's a Rodin sculpture and I'm a stick figure drawing. He'll take one look at me, pat me on the shoulder and start out with, "I always wanted a little sister…"
Stop it, Maggie. You know that's not true. You know he's attracted to you. His kiss was not a brotherly kiss, his gaze was not a brotherly gaze. He wants you, too. Why can't you accept that? What are you so afraid of?
I'm not strong enough, she thought abruptly, desperately. I want him, but I want all of him and he'll never be mine. I want to hold him and keep him. I want to wake up in his arms every morning. I want to see his face smiling and strong every night. But he won't stay. They never stay. Nobody ever stays and I can't bear the parting yet again. I can't stand the emptiness.
She was clutching her locket. She didn't know why, but she clutched her father's locket, containing the picture of some beautiful woman Maggie had never met. The locket was the last thing he'd given her. Keep it for me, Maggie. But don't tell anyone about it. It's our secret, my secret with my little girl, he'd said.
You have to try this, the voice insisted. You can be strong enough, you know you can be strong enough. Do you really want to be safe, sweet Maggie, forever? Think of your great-great-great-grandmother. Think of the legend of the Hathaway Reds.
But I'm not like them. And abruptly, horribly, she knew it was true. She couldn't just seduce a man. She couldn't just crawl on his lap and say, Take me, I'm yours. Catch me on fire, Big Buddy. She wasn't that … adventurous. The other Hathaway Reds had been bold rebels, living outside the constraints of society. Herself … she could not even stand to cheat at solitaire.
Well, then, Maggie, it's a good thing he's not a deck of cards.
"Maggie," she heard him call softly. She blinked rapidly, then looked up. Cain had rolled down the window. "Sweetheart, you're getting soaked. Come inside the car, Maggie. Please."
"Okay," she whispered. Her feet moved forward. Her hand clutched her locket. Her eyes remained locked on his face.
And
God, was he beautiful to her.
Chapter 9
« ^ »
"I'm … I'm ready." At the last minute, she realized she should have stated those words defiantly. Maybe with a come-hither toss of the hair. Instead, she sounded like a woman on the verge of strangling to death.
Cain nodded. As she watched, he seemed to take a deep breath. Moving very carefully, he opened the door and stepped outside.
He stood very close and felt very warm. She had an eyeful of pectoral and was wishing it could be a handful, but her fingers were fisted tightly at her sides, her knuckles clenched in sheer terror.
She could do this. She could do this. Taking a breath as deep and careful as Cain's had been, she ducked and climbed into the car. The front consisted of two bucket seats, separated by a gearshift. She dripped mud and water ail over the vinyl, then slipped and nearly gutted herself on the stick shift as her hands went flailing one way, and her legs the other.
Instantly, Cain's hand was on her calf, his long, strong fingers curling around her stockinged leg. She quietly stopped breathing, moving, thinking.
Was now the time to passionately exclaim, "Take me, I'm yours!"?
"Let me help you," Cain said quietly, his voice not as steady as it had once been.
She nodded, eyes wide and teeth digging into her lower lip as he slowly pushed her leg up onto the seat. He had such strong hands. Warm and rough. She let her eyelids fall shut, dewed lashes brushing her moist cheek, and concentrated on the sensation of his hand. That ridged callus, that vibrant heat, that slight friction of his palm cradling her calf—all that was being touched by a man.
She was beginning to understand the glazed look in her friends' eyes.
"Okay, now just lift your legs over the gearshift."
She nodded and managed the movement. Slowly, she righted herself, getting her feet on the floor where they belonged, her butt in the seat where it belonged, her hands on her lap where they belonged. Only her head remained out of her control, lost somewhere in the clouds, where she was now the great Margaret Hathaway, ready to perform the lambada in just a black lace shawl.