by Anita Meyer
Mac cleared his throat. “I hate to break up this little scene, but, urn…”
Jeff folded his arms across his chest, stubbornness clearly evident in the strong set of his jaw. “You’re staying inside, and that’s final.” He spoke in a voice that offered no hope of argument or persuasion—which made her all the more determined not to listen to him or, worse yet, obey him.
“What are you going to do? Tie me to a chair?”
“If I have to.”
“Guess I’ll be on my way now,” Mac interjected, sidling toward the door. “I’ve got front-door duty, you know. And we wouldn’t want the folks up on the hill to know what’s going on down here, now, would we?”
“Look, McKensie, I won’t be bullied by you or anyone else.”
“Then stop acting like a spoiled princess who’s about to throw a temper tantrum because she can’t have her own way.”
“Don’t worry about my tip,” Mac said. “You can make it up to me later. ‘Bye.” He ducked between Jeff and Caroline and was out the door in a flash.
“You agreed never to call me that,” she said, her voice deathly calm.
“And you agreed.to do this the easy way.” Jeff leaned against the doorjamb and pinned her with a piercing stare. “Looks like we both changed our minds.”
Caroline paused to consider her options. It didn’t take long to figure out that for the moment she didn’t have any. She could coax and plead and wheedle and cajole from now until a certain hot spot froze over, and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference.
“So,” she said finally, “you’re going to play sentinel for the rest of day?”
“Nope.” Jeff pushed himself away from the door. Lifting the chain in one hand, he positioned it over the latch opening, then slowly slid it into place. With a self-satisfied grin he walked past her to the large windows. He surveyed the outside area in all directions, then closed the curtainssheer curtains thin enough to let in the light, yet opaque enough to shield them from view. Without another glance in her direction, he turned his attention to the suitcase on the luggage rack and began systematically putting his clothes in the dresser.
Caroline stood less then a few feet from the door. She balanced lightly on the balls of her feet, poised, ready. She watched Jeff deposit another armload of clothes into a drawer, then glanced back at the door—judging the distance, studying the lock, counting the seconds in her mind.
Jeff picked up a shaving kit and a half-dozen other toiletries and headed into the bathroom. She had her hand on the doorknob when he spoke.
“Did I mention I ran track in high school? I was only a mediocre distance man,” he called out, “but I was a great sprinter. Took State my senior year.”
Caroline’s heart sank and she walked back into the bedroom and dropped into a chair. “Am I supposed to care?”
Jeff came out of the bathroom smiling. “Thought you might be interested.”
“You thought wrong,” she said flatly. She curled up in a comfy wicker chair next to a circular glass-topped table and looked around the room. It was gorgeous—large and bright and breezy, even with the curtains drawn. The ceiling and walls were a pale peach with a white ceiling fan and white tile floor. The king-size bed was a four-poster with a floral-print coverlet in cool peach and mint green that matched the drapes. Local artwork hung on the walls and a huge tropical plant sat in one corner. Overall, the room was a slice of Caribbean luxury.
So why did she feel like a prisoner in a bejeweled cell?
This wasn’t anything like the motel she had been locked up in less than twenty-four hours after Brian’s shooting. Nothing like the lonely place where she had wept silent tears for the brother whose funeral she couldn’t even attend. It wasn’t the same place…wasn’t the same time…. Wasn’t the same protector.
She watched Jeff as he continued unpacking his bag. He didn’t look at all like the hard-boiled cops who had tried to protect her in New York—but his methods were the same. Lock ‘er up and throw away the key. Maybe if he understood the fear, the panic…
That panic escalated to an all-new high with the next item Jeff pulled from his suitcase. A .38 revolver—or more accurately, pieces of it. He sat down on the bed, spread open a small towel, and fitted the sections together carefully with the speed and confidence of a man who had done the task countless times before. Caroline swallowed and forced herself to look away, trying to forget.
“Put it away,” she said, her voice no more than a rasp that scraped along her throat.
“What?” Jeff never looked up from the weapon.
“Put it away.”
It wasn’t the words as much as the aching whisper that caught his attention. His hands stilled as he looked at her. The color had drained from her face, and her hands gripped the arms of the wicker chair so tightly, her fingers were trembling spasmodically.
“Caroline, it’s just a gun—and a necessity in this line of work. You know that.” When she didn’t answer, he flipped the edge of the towel over the gun. “If it bothers you that much, go in the bathroom. But understand this, I won’t risk your safety by avoiding something that needs to be done.”
Caroline tried to speak, but her mouth was too dry, her throat too constricted. The memories hammered at her, chiseling away at her resolve. Brian. The cop. Flashes of light. The screams. The odor of seared flesh. And the blood—so much blood.
A shudder ripped through her body. Surging to her feet, she rushed to the door. She had to get out. Now. Had to see the sky and feel the warmth of the sun on her face. Had to be outside. Free. She grabbed the doorknob with both hands, rattling it awkwardly. Finally the door swung open, just a crack, stopped by the chain that tightened and strained but refused to give.
She felt like a hamster in a wheel—always caged, always running in circles. Brian and Davis and the police, and now this. It was too much. More than she could take. She closed her eyes and slumped against the door, hearing it shut with a deathly finality, feeling the click to the depths of her soul.
“Caroline?” Jeff touched her arm and the chill on her skin shocked him. The ceiling fan was on, but the windows were closed. It had to be eighty degrees in the room.
He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, warming her, silently reassuring her. Gently he stroked her cold white cheek, brushing aside a strand of hair, damp with perspiration.
And then she looked up at him, with eyes that would haunt him for the rest of his days. Eyes filled with fear and desolation and unspeakable sorrow. In that moment, he felt a reaction so strong it was almost painful. He wanted desperately to hold her and protect her and comfort her. He wanted to ease the fear and erase the sadness and make her world whole again.
She shuddered and his arms closed protectively around her, but she pushed him away. When he looked again, her eyes were shadowed, betraying none of the feelings he had seen only moments before.
Caroline dropped into a chair and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her forehead against her knees. She closed her eyes, taking one deep breath after another. That little scene had been too close, had revealed too much, had made her all the more vulnerable. She had always been impulsive. Occasionally even reckless. But never out of control.
It was the memories, the nightmares that were every bit as powerful as the flesh-and-blood mobster. Maybe even more so.
Running helped. Running always helped. She had to get out and run. Just a little. Just enough to exhaust her body and her mind.
“How long?” she asked.
“What?”
“How long do I have to stay in here?”
“For as long as it takes to know you’re safe. A few days. A week, max.”
“No. I can’t do it.”
“Caroline, listen to me. Mac is checking things out as fast as he can. But we’ve got to be sure we weren’t followed. If nothing happens in the next few days, then we’ll get outswimming, golf, tennis, whatever you want. I promise. I’m asking for a few days, not an eternity.”
“It’s the same thing,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t stay in here, locked up. I’ll go crazy. Please, Jeff, try to understand. I’ve got to have something to do.”
He pointed to her suitcase, which was still on the bed. “Why don’t you unpack?”
She opened the dresser drawer, lifted her suitcase off the bed, and turned it upside down over the drawer. Then she tossed the empty suitcase into the closet and slammed the drawer closed. “All done. Now what?”
Jeff sighed. “Didn’t you bring a book to read? A deck of cards? Some needlepoint?”
“I’m on my honeymoon,” she retorted. “I didn’t think I’d need those things.”
Jeff rolled his eyes. “Lucky for you I planned ahead.” He strode to his suitcase and pulled out several books. “How about something to read?” he asked, dumping the books on the bed.
Caroline glanced at the fat paperbacks. War and Peace, Anna Karenina, and The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. “I’ll pass.”
“Okay, how about cards?” Jeff reached back into the suitcase and pulled out two brand-new still-sealed decks. “This goes with it,” he said, tossing her another book.
“Three Hundred Ways to Play Solitaire? No thanks.”
“New York Times crossword puzzles?” he asked hopefully, dragging yet another tome from the bottomless suitcase.
Caroline sighed loudly. “Jeff, I need something to do. You know, as in moving around—not sitting still.”
“Exercise,” Jeff said, grinning broadly. “I’ve got just the thing.” Once again he plunged into the suitcase, this time coming up with two ankle weights, a coiled spring stretcher, and a set of handgrips.
“What? No NordicTrack?”
“It’s a small suitcase.”
Caroline smiled and took one of the handgrips, swinging it around by one handle. “Actually, I like these. My brothers had them. Did you know, the key is visualization? Here, let me show you. First, you position the grip comfortably in one hand—”
“I know how to use—”
“Then you visualize that the spring inside is actually someone’s neck, someone who is particularly frustrating or annoying. Then you slowly begin to squeeze your fingers together, all the time imagining that your hand is really around his throat.”
Jeff watched in amazement as Caroline pulled the handles of the grip closer and closer together.
“Increase your focus as you increase the pressure,” she said. “Slowly…carefully…squeezing the life out of—”
Whatever else she intended to say was lost as the grip sprang out of her hand and flew across the room. Jeff ducked, but the metal exerciser glanced off his shoulder. He swore and grabbed the spot with his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really didn’t mean to…I mean, why don’t I just take that and—”
“Forget it, lady.” Jeff picked the grip up off the floor. “In your hands this thing is a lethal weapon.” He stuffed the exercisers back in his suitcase. “You want something to do? Here,” he said, tossing a remote-control unit in her direction, “watch television.”
Caroline deftly caught the remote, but set it aside, focusing instead on a radio situated on the nightstand. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she clicked on the radio and slowly turned the selector dial. She slid past the New Age, the country and western, and the reggae until she found what she was looking for.
“Beach Boys.” She sighed. She leaned back against the headboard, tapping her foot on the bedspread.
“Not again,” Jeff groaned.
“The sun, the surf, the beach…It’s the next best thing to being there. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I think it’s loud, crude, and tasteless,” Jeff muttered. “But if it makes you happy, be my guest.”
Caroline grinned and cranked the volume up another notch. She found a perverse pleasure in watching Jeff cringe. He picked up a book, then lowered himself into a chair—as far away from the radio as possible. After a while, Caroline closed her eyes and immersed herself in the music, letting it calm her frazzled nerves.
The next thing she knew, a hand was gently shaking her awake.
“Caroline?”
She jumped and blinked, looking around in startled confusion. The four-poster bed, white-tiled floor…it all came back with astonishing clarity. She rubbed the back of her neck, stiff from where she had been half leaning and half reclining against the headboard. “What time is it?” she asked groggily.
“About one o’clock.”
She looked toward the window. The heavier drapes had been drawn tight. “In the a.m. or p.m.?”
Jeff laughed. “The p.m.” He pulled on the cord and the drapes flew back, flooding the room with bright sunlight.
Caroline groaned and shielded her eyes against the sudden glare.
“You were sleeping so soundly, I hated to wake you. But I’m starving and I thought you must be, too. Besides, if you sleep all day, you won’t be able to sleep tonight. I’m going to order room service and wondered what you’d like.”
“What are my choices?” She rotated her head from side to side, wincing at the pain that shot through her neck.
“Anything you want. Arthur’s footing the bill, so the sky’s the limit.”
She stopped massaging her neck and looked him straight in the eye. “Anything at all?”
“Well,” Jeff said hesitantly, “anything the chef can prepare.”
“In that case, I want a picnic. I don’t care what’s in the hamper, as long as there’s a blanket to sit on and lots of sand.” She stood and stretched, a self-satisfied smile on her face.
“Caroline-”
“You promised,” she interrupted. “Now deliver.”
“Fair enough,” Jeff said. He ran his finger down the hotel’s list of services, then picked up the phone and dialed the number for room service. “This is Mr. McKensie in Oceanside No. 8. Do you prepare picnic lunches?…You do? Terrific…. Yes, for two people…. What’s included in the special?…Fried chicken…potato salad…fresh fruit…”
Jeff looked over at Caroline who nodded vigorously. “That sounds great,” he said, “…to drink?”
“Iced tea with lemon,” she whispered.
“Two iced teas with lemon. Oh, we’ll also need a large blanket or something to sit on…and one—no, better make that two—big buckets of sand.”
“You creep!” Caroline shouted.
“Forget the sand,” Jeff said hurriedly. “Just send the food.” He dropped the phone as Caroline grabbed one of the books. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Jeff warned, backing up a step.
“Regret?” she said caustically. “Not likely.” She swung the tome over her head, but the knot in her neck twisted and caught. She yelped, dropped the book, and grabbed the back of her neck.
“Here,” Jeff said, “let me rub that for you.”
“Forget it. I can do it myself.”
“It’s the least I can do, since I can’t let you go to the health salon for a real massage.” Ignoring her protests, he put his hands on her shoulders and forced her down on the bed. Sitting behind her, he gently kneaded the contracted muscles, his large hands stroking rhythmically up and down her neck.
She sat there rigidly, enduring the contact partly because she no longer had the strength to go another round, and partly because he was right—it was his fault that she was in this situation.
“Relax,” he said, his warm breath tickling her ear. “Your muscles are coiled in knots.” His long fingers continued their exploration, massaging her shoulders, her neck, her throat. “Bend your head forward,” he commanded, the rich timbre of his voice sending a thrill down her spine, even as his hands gently forced her head to her chest.
A sigh of genuine pleasure escaped from her lips. She closed her eyes and leaned back, surrendering to the warmth of his hands and the relaxing exhilaration that engulfed her.
Another ache made its presence known, this one in the pit of her stomach. The hot churni
ng made her head spin dizzily, and her veins fizz with fire. Her skin prickled where his fingers touched her. Her breath came faster and her cheeks heated.
She jumped up and walked briskly to the far side of the room. He didn’t follow her or call her back. But she could feel his eyes upon her, those deep blue eyes that seemed incredibly sexy.
“Thanks,” she said, just to break the silence. “The neck’s much better now. See?” She rotated her head in a slow circle as if to prove her point. “If you ever decide to give up law and witness protection, you could always become a masseur.” The image of his hands on other parts of her body—stroking, teasing, kneading—flashed through her mind—and possibly his—and her cheeks flamed again.
And still his gaze never wavered.
She turned away from him, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist, as if controlling her body would likewise bring under control her stampeding feelings. She inhaled slowly. The calm she sought remained just beyond her grasp.
“I’m sorry about the sand business,” Jeff finally said. “I couldn’t resist.”
“No big deal,” she murmured.
Jeff eyed her suspiciously. “No big deal? It seemed like a pretty big deal a few minutes ago when you were ready to take my head off.”
She shrugged. “You’ve got your plans. I understand that. Sort of.”
One of Jeff’s eyebrows climbed in a skeptical arch. “Why is it I’m not convinced?”
“Look,” Caroline said, “it’s pretty tough to eat chicken when you’re wearing boxing gloves. Why don’t we call a temporary truce, just until after lunch. Okay?”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
“And since you’ve given me a massage and let me have a nap, why don’t you do something for yourself?”
“Like-?”
“Like, take a quick shower before lunch. It would be very refreshing, and if room service rings I can sign for it.”
Jeff laughed, loud and long. “You never give up, do you? Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve already had my shower, while you were—how shall I say?—sawing logs. Didn’t you notice?” He pirouetted, watching her with an amused expression.