Captive Kisses (Sweetly Contemporary Collection)

by Jennifer Blake

  “If how I feel really bothered you,” Kelly said, aware of the quickening of her pulse, “you would let me go.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “But why? I give you my word I am not a danger to you. I’m just a secretary, as I told you before, a friend of the Judge’s daughter.”

  “I know that, but it makes no difference,” he said, his deep voice holding infinite patience.

  “You know?” Kelly stared at him, thrown momentarily off balance.

  “Not only did your identification check out, but I had a cable from the judge confirming your story.”

  “Then why —”

  “You must know the answer to that.”

  “Because I saw George and the man with him?”

  “And because there is a possibility you have been seen at the lake house by someone with a dangerous curiosity about the connection. The only way I can protect you is to keep you with me.”

  “Protect me! Isn’t that a strange way of putting it?”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “In what way?”

  “Don’t you mean it’s the only way you can protect yourself?”

  “Now where,” he queried softly, “did you get that idea?”

  The urge to accuse him, to pour everything she knew into hard and contemptuous words, brought an ache to her throat. Under the circumstances, however, that would only serve to put him even more on his guard. She lowered her lashes. “It’s fairly obvious that you don’t want the whereabouts of the elderly man with you known, since you kept me from leaving after I had seen him. I suppose you are afraid I can’t keep my mouth shut, that I’ll mention what happened to the wrong person.”

  “That’s essentially correct, though not the full story.”

  She lifted her gray gaze to meet his dark eyes, caught by an odd inflection in his tone. “What is the full story, then?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it will be better if you don’t know.”

  “Better for whom?” she demanded, her tone bitter.

  “For you.”

  “You won’t mind if I don’t believe it? I don’t think you’re sorry at all, not for anything. I think you are enjoying every minute of this!”

  “If it were possible to go back and start over, I would, in a minute, but since it’s not, then yes, I’m enjoying it. I like having you with me, I like looking at you. It would be better if you could relax and accept it, but since you can’t I’ll just have to try to make the best of it.”

  “To find what entertainment you can in my feeble attempts to escape you!” she threw at him.

  “I did apologize for this morning,” he pointed out, his tone rasping.

  She was prevented from replying by the arrival of the waitress with their first course, a steaming bowl of gumbo served with rice, French bread, and pats of butter in the shape of seashells. They ate in silence, though Kelly’s appetite was not as sharp as it had been earlier.

  While they waited for the entrée, they made stiff conversation about the decor of the restaurant, moving from there to a discussion of eating places in general. A chance remark drew a description of famous New Orleans restaurants and their specialties from Charles, which led to French cooking and its emphasis on the preparation of fresh, natural foods in season. Out of sheer contrariness, Kelly pretended to be skeptical that the last had anything to do with the cuisine of France. She had to be impressed, however, with the arguments Charles marshaled to convince her.

  Their main course was a seafood platter featuring catfish, oysters, and butterfly shrimp fried in a batter delicately flavored with herbs, and with side dishes of french fries, hush puppies, and slaw. It wasn’t fancy, but it was delicious, exactly what Kelly had craved. At last she leaned back with a replete sigh.

  “Dessert?” Charles asked.

  She shook her head regretfully. “I don’t think I could.”

  “Shall we have coffee and liqueurs back at the house, then?”

  She nodded, then gave him a veiled look. “I’ll just go to the rest room before we leave.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t let you do that,” he said softly.

  “What?” She looked at him with wide-eyed incredulity.

  “You didn’t really expect me to let you slip out the back, or take the time to write dramatic S.O.S. messages on the mirrors in blood-red lipstick.”

  “I wear lip gloss,” she said, her voice even, “and I’m not even carrying an evening bag.”

  “I noticed. Where do you have the pencil hidden?”

  “In my shoe,” she quipped. The short stub was actually in her bodice, held by her bra in the best tradition of a movie heroine. She had come very near to secreting the sleeping pills there also, but decided the problem of removing them without being noticed was too great to be overcome while he sat across the table from her. With great regret that poison rings were out of fashion, she had left them behind. It was odd how little disappointment she felt at being prevented from using the pencil she had so carefully provided for herself. That may have been because she had not truly expected Charles to let her get away with it, or because her greatest hopes rested with the sedative she planned to administer.

  “That must be uncomfortable,” he commented, though his gaze alighted briefly on the neckline of her sundress. His lips curved into a grin as Kelly could not prevent herself from flicking a downward glance at her bodice to be certain the pencil was hidden from view.

  Realizing what she had done, Kelly looked at him with pure dislike. “Shall we go, then?”

  “By all means,” he answered, and signaled for the check.

  The moon was just rising above the tree tops as they left the restaurant. Bright and golden, one-quarter full, it sent a path of yellow light along the lake channel. Charles turned the speedboat into it, plowing the gilded water. As they gathered speed, the boat seemed to rise up out of it, skimming swiftly over the surface like a low-gliding night bird. In a few short minutes, they were slowing again, settling back into the water, sweeping in a wide circle that would take them into the dark interior of the boathouse. The noise of the inboard motor was suddenly louder, echoing off the metal walls, as they eased inside. Then abruptly everything was quiet as Charles turned the key. Kelly stirred, gathering her shawl around her, preparing to get out.

  “Wait,” Charles said, putting out his hand to touch her arm.

  She opened her mouth to question him, then went still, held by the listening intentness that gripped him. She stopped breathing for a long moment, but could hear nothing.

  “All right,” he said, his voice low. He rose, stepping from the boat to the platform that circled the inside walls of the boathouse. With an outstretched hand, he helped Kelly from the boat, then left her while he moved to the rear, pulling down the wide entry-port door and snapping the padlock that safeguarded it. Returning, he took Kelly’s arm, and they walked quickly to the front entrance that opened onto the short pier connecting the boathouse to the shore. This he locked behind them before he joined her once more.

  He did not start immediately for the house, but stood in the deep shade of the trees, slowly quartering the darkness with his eyes. Whether it was his tense alertness, or something in the soft and waiting silence of the night, Kelly did not know, but she felt her own heartbeat quicken. She turned her head this way and that, straining to see.

  Suddenly a swath of light swept through the trees. At the same moment she heard a quiet hum that it took her a long instant to recognize as the sound of a trolling motor. A low-slung craft, painted a dark color that allowed it to blend with the night blackness of the lake, was ghosting toward them. On its bow was a spotlight that illuminated the shoreline, sending out a bold shaft of brightness that effaced the glow of the moon.

  A quiet French expletive came from the man beside her. Then suddenly he reached out to encircle her waist with his arm. She stiffened, trying to draw away.

  “For God’s sake, not now,” he said in a fierce underton
e. “You can slap my face later.”

  Kelly allowed herself to be led from among the trees at a slow, lover’s stroll. At his soft command, she allowed a musical chuckle to float on the gentle night air, joining his own laughter as if they shared a joke delicious in its intimacy. He kept his head close to hers, bending over her with tender attention as they moved up the path toward the house, apparently oblivious to the stabbing search of the white light. They were both aware of it, however, watching from the corners of their eyes as it traveled over the catwalk and past them along the water’s edge, returning to play over the white walls of the dark and silent cottage. Then it came toward them; fast, noiseless, steady in its menace.

  As they were snared in the brilliant glare, Charles swung her into his arms and kissed her. Kelly endured the searing pressure of his lips with her breath pent up in her chest. Unwilling, unable to resist, she clung to him in fear and impotent anger, and in a passionate despair that came from nowhere to curl around the edges of her mind and spread, achingly, to the region of her heart.

  On a ragged, indrawn breath, Charles lifted his head. He stared down at her a long moment, then schooling his features to an expression of indignant wrath, turned to stare directly into the spotlight. Swinging back, shielding Kelly with the broad width of his shoulders, he moved on along the worn walkway to the sidewalk. He opened the screen door, urging her onto the veranda. For long seconds he stood watching the boat as it slid silently away, its light sweeping over the wire screen before it continued along the shore. Certain the boat did not intend to stop, he followed her into the house.

  Kelly moved to the living-room window, holding the drape to one side while she peered out. She was in time to see the spotlight extinguished as the boat was lost to sight among the trees. Dropping the drape into place once more, she removed her shawl. With her hands clenched on the silken mesh, she turned to face Charles.

  “What,” she said distinctly, “was that all about?”

  He sent her a smile that was a shade too casual. “I expect it was a couple of boys out frog-gigging. The light blinds the big bullfrogs so they aren’t so quick to jump. A homemade gig, made of a bent steel rod with the end bent into a hook, then filed to a point, gets them nearly every time. It’s illegal because it’s a cruel sport, but I used to do the same when I was growing up. There’s quite a bit of white meat on a frog leg, a little like chicken.”

  “I know about frog-gigging: Peter and Mark used to go now and then. But I never saw them use such a powerful spotlight for it.”

  “Boats are equipped with all sorts of fancy extras like that these days.” His tone was evasive and he did not meet her eye.

  “Another thing, if you really thought that was all it was, what was the point of that charade out there?”

  “Which charade was this?”

  “You know very well. All that pretending to be my — that we were lovers!”

  He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yes, I did promise to give you a chance to be avenged. Are you ready to hit me?”

  The palm of her hand itched to do just that, but she controlled the urge. “I am trying to find out what is going on here, not play some kind of game!”

  “But I’ve already told you.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that’s all it was, a frog hunt?”

  His gaze moved over her face, resting on the flush of anger that burned on her cheekbones. “It would help matters if you would.”

  “Well, I don’t!”

  “I told you earlier, Kelly,” his voice with its trace of an accent dropping to a low note that sent a shiver along her nerves, “that it would be better for you not to know.”

  “I am, of course, supposed to accept your word without question?”

  “I accepted yours.”

  “That’s different,” she cried. “You know who and what I am.”

  Pain flashed across his face so quickly she could not be certain she had seen it. An instant later, all expression had vanished. “I also said that I had to take what entertainment I could from the situation.”

  She did slap him then, a hard, open-handed blow that made her fingers ache, and left the side of his face red.

  A muscle corded in his cheek. His voice soft, he asked, “Do you feel better now?”

  She didn’t. She wanted nothing so much as to cry, to scream, anything to relieve the painful pressure inside her chest. She clenched her hands into fists, incapable of making a coherent answer.

  “I believe,” he said slowly, “that we were going to have coffee and liqueurs before the excitement came up.”

  Coffee. Her brain fastened on the thought with calming desperation. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. It was here. Now was the time.

  “Yes,” she said, taking a deep breath, her gray eyes never leaving his dark gaze. “If you will pour the drinks, I will put the coffee on to perk.”

  In the kitchen, Kelly got out the coffee pot and ran water into it. Setting the basket in place, she spooned ground coffee from the can, filling it to the level Charles usually used, then adding two more table-spoons for good measure. It would be strong, but it would need to be. She put on the strainer and glass-topped lid, then plugged the pot into the electric outlet near the sink. That done, she took down a pair of cups and their saucers, placing them on a small tray along with spoons, the sugar bowl, and a small jar of non-dairy creamer. Satisfied that everything was in readiness, she left the kitchen and went along the hall to her bathroom.

  When she returned to the kitchen, the coffee was perking nicely, sending out its familiar aroma. From the living room came the strains of Haydn’s Farewell Symphony, and she allowed herself a tight smile at the appropriateness of the choice. She leaned against the island cabinet, staring at nothing, waiting, aware of the four yellow tablets in the palm of her left hand.

  The perking stopped. Kelly unplugged the pot, and lifting it with a steady hand, poured coffee into both cups on the tray, then set the pot back down. Taking an extra spoon from the drawer, she dropped the tablets she held into the cup on the right and gave it a brisk stir. She leaned over the sink to rinse the spoon under the running tap.

  “What’s taking so long?”

  Kelly dropped the spoon with a clatter, jerking around. Realizing at once that he could not have seen what she was doing because her back was turned to the opening between the kitchen and dining room, she forced a smile. “It’s ready now.”

  “Let me carry the tray for you,” Charles said, coming forward.

  “No! No, I can carry it,” she said.

  “I insist.” He reached around her to put his hands on the handles of the tray.

  To make an issue out of it might arouse his suspicions. Kelly moved aside with as much grace as she could muster, then preceded him into the living room. He placed the tray on an end table. Without too much haste, Kelly took her seat on the couch beside the table, picked up a spoon, and dipped creamer into the cup on the left. That took care of which cup was which well enough, since Charles used none in his coffee.

  As she had expected, he picked up the cup containing the sleeping pills and, adding sugar, carried it to the easy chair across from the couch. There was a dark gold liquid in a thimble-sized glass on the table at his elbow, and another of the same for her on the table beside the coffee tray. Unable, suddenly, to bear watching him drink his coffee, Kelly reached and picked up the liqueur.

  It was strong and fiery, and she grimaced as she swallowed. Setting the glass down, she sipped her coffee. The taste of the liqueur lingering on her tongue gave the coffee an added bite and it was all she could do to force it down her throat.

  “What is this?” she said when she could speak, indicating her glass.

  “Drambuie. Like it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “It’s a little strong until you get used to it,” he said.

  “So is the coffee,” she offered, glad to be able to slip in a word of warning in case he noticed the bitterness.<
br />
  He drank from his cup, then sent her a smile. “Reminds me of the brew they serve up in New Orleans. The bon vivants of the French Quarter used to say that for perfection it needed to be ‘Hot as hell, black as the devil, strong as love, and as pure as an angel.’ “

  Kelly let her gaze touch the cup he held, then move on past him. “I’m not sure my coffee qualifies on all four counts.”

  “It’s delicious,” he said, saluting her with the cup.

  Despite his overbearing ways, Charles was a man with many attractive qualities, not the least of them being his easy companionability at times like these, when she ceased to fight him. With his coat off and his tie loosened as he stretched at ease, he was devastatingly handsome, she had to admit, and yet he lacked the self-consciousness of most good-looking men. On occasion he could show great sensitivity, and an amazing empathy for what she felt and thought. What had he been trying to say earlier at the restaurant? That he would have liked to start over with her under different circumstances? The idea had a certain appeal. What would he be like if there were no senator, no George, no connection with organized crime?

  What was she doing? The next thing she knew, she would be regretting what she had done, volunteering to remain in order to rehabilitate him. It was laughable, women’s susceptibility to the appeal of a rogue. Or was it another aspect of the hostage situation, the reluctance to leave captivity because it had become comforting and familiar?

  Kelly lifted her cup to her lips once more. Charles had half-finished his coffee and was sipping his Drambuie. He should be showing signs of sleepiness soon, after four tablets. Was that too many? Not enough for a man his size? What would he do if he began to suspect something was wrong before he passed out? Would he become violent? Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She would have to be ready to jump up and run at his first movement.

  “What are you thinking of?”

  He was watching her, his eyes dark and considering. She met his gaze briefly. “Nothing.”

  “You must have been. You were frowning as if you had found a bug in your coffee, or else were hatching a new plot to give me gray hair.”