Montana Rogue

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Montana Rogue Page 8

by Jessica Douglass


  “I’ve got reasons for the way I look. And they’ve got nothing to do with your kidnapping. You can believe that or not. Right now, I don’t much care. I’ve been in this cabin for eight months. If you’d just shut the hell up and listen—”

  “No! I’ve had quite enough of your lies. At least for today.” She slapped her pillow. “I’m going to sleep. I’m exhausted.”

  “Tell me about it,” he muttered, tromping over to the stove. He grabbed the handle of the chili pot, then released it with a savage curse, shaking his fingers.

  “Hot?” she asked with feigned innocence.

  He glowered at her.

  She noted with a flush of guilt that the gash on his arm was still oozing blood, but she did not renew her offer to tend to the injury.

  “You want some chili?” he asked grudgingly.

  “No.”

  “Fine.” He ladled out a bowlful, then set it aside and headed for his workroom. He returned with a can of beer. “Want one?”

  “No.” She pulled the covers up to her neck and tried to shut out the world. That’s when it hit her. “Oh, God!” she cried, flinging the covers back and sitting bolt upright.

  “Now what?”

  She gripped both sides of her buttoned shirtfront. “I was naked. I was stark naked in this bed when I woke up.” Her face burned with a humiliation so fierce, she thought she might die of it. “Spare me my modesty. Isn’t that what you said, Jack?” Her voice trembled, in spite of her best efforts to control it. “Did you cop a good feel, Jack?”

  He went rigidly still. “Think what you like about me, Courtney,” he said. “About a lot of things. But not that. I undressed you to save your life. Period.”

  Some of the tension drained out of her. She believed him. “Thank you for that,” she said simply. “But don’t expect any thanks for anything else. I’m not the same little girl you bedded ten years ago.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “I wasn’t aware my approval mattered,” he drawled.

  “It doesn’t!” she snapped. “Did you change the sheets before the next occupant that night?”

  He took a swig of his beer and shot her a deliberately lascivious look. “I find it very interesting that you keep getting back to that night, Courtney. I must have been good.”

  She slapped the mattress. “You’re a pig!”

  He grinned roguishly. “I must have been damned good.”

  “If your male ego inflates by so much as one more molecule, you’re going to blow out the windows of this cabin.”

  He set the beer down. “You were good, too,” he said softly.

  “Stop it!”

  “You know,” Jack mused, “maybe you were right. Maybe I should have let on sooner who I was. We could have renewed old acquaintances.”

  Courtney cast a glance heavenward. “I finally figured it out. I thought I survived that helicopter crash. But it turns out I was mistaken. I died after all. I died—and went straight to hell!”

  He chuckled. “With that storm keeping us cooped up, this could get real interesting. If the fire goes out, we’ve got whole new ways to keep each other warm.”

  “Don’t even think about it. I’ve got the knife, remember?”

  Now he laughed out loud. “You won’t need it,” he assured her. “If I come to your bed, Courtney, it will be because you want me there.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “No, in yours, Courtney,” he said softly. “In yours.”

  “You asked if I thought you were good that night? The truth? You didn’t even come close. If you were good, I’d remember. I don’t.”

  “Liar.”

  He stood up and walked toward the bed, moving as ever like a jungle cat. “You remember, and so do I.”

  Courtney didn’t move, didn’t say a word. Her throat felt suddenly dry, parched. He drew closer. That’s when she noticed his eyes. They were no longer brown. Sometime in the last few minutes he’d taken out the tinted contacts. Her heart skipped a beat. Heavy shadows danced about the room in the dull orange glow of the hearth. But she didn’t need the flames to see, because Jack’s eyes now seared her with blue fire.

  He was going to kiss her. Worse, she was going to let him.

  He put one knee on the bed and drew her to him, gathered her up in a bone-melting embrace.

  “It’s been too long, Courtney,” he whispered, “too damned long.” His lips came down on hers—hungry, wanton, ruthless.

  Her head pounded, her pulses thrummed, everything in her screaming at her to stop him. Everything but the molten heat now coursing through her veins. She’d tried to convince herself that she’d forgotten, but it was no use. Her body remembered, her body remembered all too well. She began to kiss him back.

  And just that abruptly, he stopped.

  Bewildered, Courtney opened her eyes to see Jack standing beside the bed, those blue eyes for just an instant unguarded—brimming with passion and regret. And then the wall came slamming down. And she saw all too clearly that it had been just another game.

  “Forget that,” he mocked, striding over to the sleeping bag he’d laid out in front of the hearth.

  Forget that. Her heart ached within her breast.

  Forget she’d ever met him. Forget they’d ever made love.

  Forget...

  * * *

  Courtney sat in her Jeep Cherokee in front of Jack Sullivan’s house, the engine still running, her heart pounding. You can still make a clean getaway, she told herself. Sullivan need never know how close you’ve come to making an absolute fool of yourself.

  She switched off the engine.

  She couldn’t leave. She owed him. Not just for what he’d done for her at the house in Elk Park last week. But for an even more compelling reason. A reason she’d only just found out about this morning.

  Courtney sagged back in the driver’s seat, recalling with distressing clarity her early-morning phone call from Roger. “Hi, sweetheart,” Roger had enthused cheerfully when she’d first picked up the receiver. “I miss you.”

  “You must be psychic,” Courtney said, laughing. It had been nearly a week since her birthday and she was genuinely pleased to hear from him. “The phone installer just left. You’re my first call. How are things in Chicago?”

  His voice changed. “Don’t ask. Father was here yesterday pointing out all the mistakes I’ve made.”

  Courtney clucked sympathetically.

  “But I didn’t call to talk about dad. I really have missed you, Courtney. And I’ve been thinking. We need to set a date. What do you say?”

  Courtney couldn’t seem to find her voice. Two weeks ago her heart would have leapt with joy at the thought of marrying Roger. Now? Now the unsettling image that sprang to her mind had tousled dark hair, cerulean blue eyes and the tattoo of a timber wolf on his left forearm.

  And yet the last thing she wanted to do was hurt Roger’s feelings. She did still love him, didn’t she?

  “Courtney?” Roger pressed.

  “I’m sorry, I...” She glanced out the window. “I was just distracted by some of the hammering going on outside.”

  “I hope all of those construction types are keeping their hands to themselves.” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it, as well.

  “They’re just doing their jobs, Roger.”

  “At least I got rid of the worst of those muscle-bound jerks.”

  Courtney felt a sudden chill. “What?”

  “That Sullivan character hasn’t been around, has he?”

  “How did you know that?” Courtney had been surprised and disappointed when Jack Sullivan hadn’t returned to work, but a few discreet inquiries among the crew had given her the impression that he’d gotten a better job offer. Part of her had even been relieved. For a practically engaged woman, she’d found Sullivan much too intriguing for her own good. “Roger, what have you done?”

  “I had him fired.”

  “You what?�


  “He’ll have to move to Alaska to find work.”

  “Roger, how could you—?”

  An intercom buzzer on Roger’s end of the line sounded. “Sorry, sweetheart, I’ve got to run. We’ll talk later about setting that date, okay?”

  “But, Roger—”

  “Love you, Bye!”

  Courtney stared at the receiver, disbelieving. Roger had had a man fired. Fired for what amounted to doing her a kindness. She slumped into a nearby chair. Butte’s current unemployment rate was out of sight. Even with his obvious skills, it was doubtful Jack Sullivan had found another job already. No matter what his former co-workers had been led to believe. Especially considering Roger’s threat that the man would never find work again this side of Alaska.

  Dammit. Roger had no right. She had to talk to him again. Get him to reconsider. She reached for the phone.

  It rang. Quickly Courtney snatched it up.

  “Roger, thank God you called back. Listen, about Mr. Sullivan. You’ve got to—”

  A voice on the other end of the line interrupted. “Whoa! It isn’t Roger, dear....”

  “Daddy! I’m sorry. I thought—”

  “Ah, young lovers. So eager to hear each other’s voices.”

  “I was just talking to Roger,” she said. “He had to get off the phone. But I need to call him back.”

  “This will only take a second. I wanted to let you know I’ll be in Tokyo an extra week.”

  So what else is new? she thought peevishly, but said, “Daddy, I need your help.” She could envision him with one foot already out the nearest door, his quicksilver mind teeming with details of his next multimillion-dollar deal. But one phone call from Quentin Hamilton could straighten out any “misunderstanding” Roger may have caused with Sullivan’s employer.

  “I guess I can spare a minute.”

  To Quentin Hamilton, a minute meant precisely sixty seconds. Courtney rushed her words. “There was a man at the new house last week. He was part of the construction crew. Roger had him—”

  “You don’t have to say another word,” Quentin cut in. “Jack Sullivan. Roger told me all about him.”

  “Told you?” Courtney’s heart sank. Roger couldn’t possibly have told her father the truth, not and made Jack Sullivan come out as any kind of villain.

  “Sullivan’s a hothead,” Quentin went on. “I’ve had dealings with him in the past. His father once worked for me. I hired him on the house as a favor to his mother. And the young bastard repays me by making a vulgar pass at my daughter.”

  “But, Daddy, that’s not—”

  “I’ve got people waiting, dear. Oh, but by the way, congratulations to you and Roger. I’m delighted. I’d have to be. I’m about to welcome the world’s greatest son-in-law to the family.”

  The connection ended. Courtney sat there hurting, heartsick, feeling an uncharacteristic surge of outrage—both on her own behalf and on Sullivan’s. She couldn’t set things right about her engagement. Not right now anyway. But she could certainly do her best to set things right with Sullivan.

  Grabbing up the phone book, she flipped to the S’s and groaned aloud to find over a hundred listings under the surname Sullivan, many with the first name John or Jack. Truth to tell, the man might not even have a listed number. Or he could be sharing a place with someone else.

  A woman? She swallowed. A wife? And five kids?

  Well, if the man did have a family, she reasoned virtuously, it would only serve to intensify her obligation to him. An entire household could be without an income right now because of Roger’s vindictiveness.

  Courtney started dialing Sullivans. Ten calls and a busy signal later, she realized she’d best come up with some kind of story, rather than just presenting herself as some anonymous woman looking for a man named Jack Sullivan. She didn’t dare use her real name. Her father might miss her school plays, her birthdays, her graduation, but he could detect the slightest whiff of scandal to the Hamilton name from half a world away in three seconds flat. The wary tenor of the voices on the other end of the phone suggested they weren’t interested in being party to any tale carrying, either. Thus far she’d been suspected of being either an irate bill collector or a jilted lover.

  The latter made her smile. Not the jilted part. But the thought of having been Jack Sullivan’s lover.

  And then she blushed. From the top of her head to the bottom of her toes every square inch of her turned beet red. So much for her altruistic motives.

  She punched up another number. And another. On the thirty-second call she found the Holy Grail. A cousin.

  Courtney assured Cal Sullivan she was an old friend of Jack’s from his high school days, praying all along that Sullivan had indeed attended Butte schools. “I kind of had a crush on him,” she admitted shyly. “I know it’s not my business, but I was wondering if, well, if he still lived around here, if he’d ever gotten married, that kind of thing.”

  “Jack?” Cal snorted. “That’d be the day some female ties that boy down.”

  Courtney ignored the rush of relief she felt. “Do you know where I can find him? I’d love to just say hi.”

  Cal chortled. “I’d sure like to find out what that boy’s got, then bottle it. You ladies always did flit around him like bees on a honey pot.”

  The blush was back. “Please, Mr. Sullivan, if you could just—”

  “I’m pretty sure Jack’s up to Helena today. Lookin’ for work. My wife talked to his mother earlier in the week. Said Jack had some kind of trouble on his last job.”

  Courtney winced.

  “He should be back tonight, though. He’s stayin’ at his mom’s place in Walkerville. Had to give up his apartment.”

  Dear Lord. The man was already in dire financial straits.

  Courtney thanked Cal, but before she hung up she couldn’t resist asking, “Has he...has Jack...changed much since high school?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice. He’d still give you the shirt off his back in a blizzard. And he’s still got a good-size chip on his shoulder, if you know what I mean.”

  “Chip?”

  “Someday that pride of his is going to swallow him whole. You tell him I said so.”

  “I’ll do that,” Courtney said, knowing she never would. She thanked Cal again and signed off. She needed to go to Jack’s now, if she was going to go at all.

  Before it got dark—was the lie she preferred.

  Before she chickened out—was the truth she acknowledged.

  She took time only to change her clothes, selecting a pair of khaki slacks and a deep purple silk blouse. She’d been told purple accented the green of her eyes. Not that Jack Sullivan was supposed to notice the green of her eyes.

  As she drove down the rutted road toward the entrance to the Hamilton property, she heard thunder rumbling in the west. It would rain soon. The roiling clouds mirrored her mood.

  Three times on the twenty-minute drive to Walkerville, Courtney almost turned around and went home. Her palms sweated on the steering wheel, and her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Was she out of her mind? Going to the home of an all-but-complete stranger? A man now out of a job in large measure because of her. What would his reaction be to finding her on his doorstep? And what in the world was she going to say to him?

  It’s time you found out, she told herself, opening the door of the Jeep. She’d stalled long enough. Walking around the vehicle, Courtney studied the smallish two-story white frame house in front of her. On the mailbox was the stenciled name M. Sullivan. Jack’s mother? The house was of a similar type to many other homes along the street. Built cheek by jowl at the turn of the century during Butte’s biggest boom period, the houses had a strangely impermanent look to them, as though the builder had intended them only as temporary dwellings, to be replaced by more elaborate structures at a later date. A later date that had never arrived.

  Patches of weeds fought for survival in the hard-packed earth that served as a yard. But she coul
d tell that the porch had recently undergone some refurbishing. She smiled. Jack was a thoughtful son.

  Marching up two wooden steps, Courtney crossed the porch and stopped in front of an aluminum screen door. She raised a hand to knock, then curled her fingers into her palm. One last chance, she thought. One last chance to back out, go home.

  You owe him.

  She knocked.

  A minute passed, then another. She knocked again.

  She heard sounds from within the house—someone tromping down a flight of stairs. The inner door opened and a shadowed figure stood on the other side of the screen, wearing a white T-shirt and faded jeans. His jeans were zipped, but unbuttoned. She yanked her gaze upward. His rumpled hair suggested she’d awakened him from a nap.

  Jack pushed the screen door open a crack. Courtney swallowed nervously. Correction—not a nap. A hangover, if the bottle of beer in his hand meant anything. The smile of welcome Courtney had expected, hoped for, did not materialize. He stared at her, his blue eyes chips of ice. “Took your own sweet time, didn’t you?” he growled.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “To come and inspect the carcass.”

  “No, I mean...I only found out... I...I’m not here to inspect anything.” Though the notion of inspecting that body sent a wave of unwelcome pleasure rippling through her. She dragged her thoughts back to the task at hand. “I came to explain, to apologize.”

  “You think an apology makes up for costing me a damned good job? Even one that involved working for Quentin Hamilton?”

  “No. Of course not. That is... Please, may I come in?”

  “That would be entirely against my better judgment.” He pushed open the door. “But then I’ve never been a slave to my better judgment.”

  Courtney stepped across the threshold and followed Jack into a small living room. A quick glance took in a couch, coffee table, TV, an overstuffed recliner and assorted bric-a-brac. Everything was serviceable, though worn.

  “Doesn’t exactly compare to that little Elk Park cottage of yours, does it?”

  “Please, don’t.”

  “Ah, the typical little rich girl,” Jack drawled with more than a trace of derision. “Feeling guilty about all of Daddy’s money.”

 

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