Through a series of twisted roads and byways, he came to the small lakeside community the gas station attendant had spoken of. Through the darkness and the rain, he could make out the glassy smoothness of a lake on one side, and the endless flow of fields on the other. Up ahead, he saw the first sign for a bed and breakfast, followed by others. He drove by all the inns once, then selected a smaller, whitewashed old house that looked clean and trustworthy. He turned the truck around and drove back to it.
Jess woke as he killed the engine. She blinked several times, her face looking sleepy and disoriented.
“Where are we?” she managed at last.
“A small town,” he replied with a slight shrug. “It’s out of the way, and there’s no logical reason for anyone to ask for us here. I think we’ll be safe for the night.”
She nodded, rolling her shoulders as she finished waking up. Mitch pulled out the duffel bag, their only luggage, and jumped out into the pouring night. He jogged lightly up the porch, hearing Jess’s rapid footsteps behind him. The rain was cold and insistent, but felt somehow cleansing after a long day.
He’d killed a man today. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on.
The older couple at the makeshift front desk were midwestern friendly. They smiled a lot, looking at Mitch and Jess and already cooing romantic assumptions. Mitch didn’t bother to clarify their relationship. He went along with their smiles, saying he and Jess were passing through from Connecticut, driving west. He paid for the room up front, learning a continental breakfast would be supplied in the morning.
He thanked the couple, and led Jess upstairs before too many more questions could be asked.
The room was almost too perfect, Jess thought. The hardwood floor shone with fresh wax and smelled of pine. The huge, four-poster bed wore a large, brightly colored blue-and-pink quilt, while dried flowers adorned the nightstand. The dresser looked antique and country, the drawers large enough for thick sweaters and warm flannel. Peering into the bathroom, Jess spotted an old, claw-foot bathtub that practically begged to be used for a long soak.
“You first, me first, or together?” Mitch asked behind her, easily following her thoughts. She turned with a small jump, only to find him grinning down at her. She hadn’t seen that grin in a couple of days now, and its impact on the fluttering of her heart was unmistakable.
“You should go first,” she said quite seriously, her gaze falling to his arm. “You must be exhausted, and tomorrow you’ll be stiff.”
He grimaced a little, recognizing the truth of her words. But as he went to push himself away from the doorframe, she startled him with a light touch.
“Mitch,” she said softly. He stilled, looking at her hand so slender and white on his huge shoulder. “I’ve never thanked you for everything you’ve done.” She paused for a moment, her eyes falling down to his chest. Her throat seemed to grow tight. It was the exhaustion. She really did need more sleep. “I...I want you to know,” she said shortly, “I’m grateful for what you’ve done. And I’m glad...you’ve been there.”
The words were hard for her to say, and they seemed to take a lot out of her. She wasn’t used to thanking people. She wasn’t used to needing anything from them to thank them for.
Slowly Mitch’s large hand folded over her own.
“I told you in the beginning I’d keep you safe,” he said simply.
She nodded and felt the unexpected burning of tears in her eyes. It was silly, this desire to cry. It was silly to want to bury her head against him, to throw herself in his arms. He was just doing his job, after all. And she was just passing through. It didn’t matter what he’d done for her. In the end, she was putting him in danger by staying with him. In the end, she would leave once again.
It seemed to make her eyes burn even more.
Mitch saw the sudden softening of her face, the suspicious sheen in her gaze. Once again he could sense the pain inside her, and it drew him in. There were so many things about this woman he didn’t know. And he did want to. He wanted to be the one she trusted. He wanted to be the one she turned to. He wanted to be the one to hold her.
His jaw clenched, but he forced himself not to move. She was like a skittish colt, his Ice Angel. If he pushed too hard, she would simply turn away, folding inside herself and shutting him out altogether. He was a patient man, and he knew what he wanted. He would succeed.
“Jess,” he said softly, “why didn’t you tell me about your mother sooner?”
She shook her head, the reference causing more pain when she already felt like an exposed wound.
“Honey,” he persisted, his voice low and strong, “there’s a lot worse sins in life than having a mother in prison.”
She smiled, a wry, tremulous smile. “Even if she shot my father?”
She hadn’t meant to say the words. They whispered out on their own, and she was rewarded by Mitch’s shocked gaze.
“Maybe you’d better start at the beginning,” Mitch said.
The funny thing was, she did want to start at the beginning. She wanted to start at the beginning and do her whole life over again. Maybe this time she’d do it better. Maybe this time fewer men would die.
“My father...” she said, the words flat and emotionless as she stared at her hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “My father liked his fists. And his belt and hot water and cigarette butts and anything else that was handy. And my mother...my mother I guess just didn’t know how to leave and stay away. So we took it, for fourteen years. Until this one night, you see.” She paused. She couldn’t say the words. She’d never spoken them out loud; she never would. Maybe if it was never said, then eventually it would be as if it was never done. It made her smile a wry, bitter smile that brought shivers to Mitch’s spine. “This one night he really drank too much. And he came upstairs, but not to his room. And I woke up and screamed. My mother came, and she shot him.”
And he fell, down down down onto the gold-patterned carpet, while her silent scream echoed down the long, long corridor.
There was silence in the room. Mitch looked at her, with her gaze fixated on his chest but not really seeing him at all. And he thought he’d never felt so inadequate since his little sister’s husband had been shot, and all he could do was hold her while she cried.
“Jess,” he said at last. She didn’t look up, and finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t ask ermission, and he wasn’t even sure who exactly he was comforting. He simply reached down, and with one strong arm, he pulled her tightly into his embrace. She went rigid; he could feel her spine so stiff and straight, he was afraid she might snap. But he didn’t move, didn’t let her go. He simply held her, and after one long tense moment, she seemed to collapse suddenly in his arms.
He felt her sag against him, her face pressing tightly against his chest as if somehow that could press the memories away and the nightmares would be no more.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, his large callused hand stroking her hair. “It’s all right now.”
She didn’t move, didn’t respond other than to press herself more fully against him. As if his arms were suddenly essential, his embrace the only defense against the darkness she knew too well.
Then suddenly she was no longer passive. Her head came up, but not to speak or to cry. Instead, her lips found his, desperate and hungry and filled with an urgency that sparked the embers still glowing in his own blood. Her hands closed around his shirt, pulling him tight against her while her lips assaulted his.
She tasted wild but he tasted strong.
“Make love to me,” she whispered, kissing him so thoroughly, he had no breath left to reply. “Make me feel so alive, Mitch. Make me feel so warm.”
He groaned in the back of his throat, the low deep groan of a man’s surrender. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and though a part of his mind called him a fool, he couldn’t say no. It might be another trap. Maybe once more she thought to seduce him to sleep so she could run off again. He couldn’t be sure, but maybe at this moment he didn’t care.
He scooped her up in his arms, ignoring the pain, and carried her to the four-poster bed.
Chapter 14
S
he was like wildfire in his arms, scorching his skin with searing kisses while her hands fought and tugged at his shirt. He would have calmed her, but her urgency inflamed his own blood, igniting his own passion. She wanted his shirt gone—he pulled it off in one fluid motion. She wanted bare skin against bare skin—he tossed her sweater to the floor. She wanted all of him, naked and hard—the remains of their clothes puddled on the floor in a flash.
She didn’t wait for him to join her on the bed, but pulled him down hungrily. Her lips slanted across his with mad desperation, her legs entwining around his waist until she could feel him, hard and rigid against her own softness. She rotated her hips and his gasp was unmistakable.
“Now,” she breathed against his lips. “I want you now.”
He knew he shouldn’t. It was much too fast and she was too much woman to be rushed. But then her hips moved and she took the matter out of his control.
She tensed at the first penetration. She hadn’t allowed her body sufficient time to adjust, and she was still tight and uncomfortable. She could feel him draw back, trying to pull away. But her legs tightened, not letting him go. She needed him in ways she would never tell him. She needed him hard and hot and driving the emptiness away. She needed his lips on her breast, his hands on her skin. She needed to feel him, thrusting inside, filling the hollowness, taking her places where nightmares didn’t exist and the fear wasn’t real.
She drove him back inside, feeling the pain and welcoming it.
“No, Jess,” Mitch managed to utter. “Slow down. Let me please you.”
But she shook her head, feeling the prickle of tears behind her eyes. “Take me, Mitch,” she whispered, pulling him tighter. “Please just take me.”
He groaned, knowing it was wrong and helpless to slow down. His own body betrayed him, surging deep into her while his mouth found hers. He couldn’t stop the thrust of his hips any more than he could keep her still under him. She wriggled and pushed against him, driving him deeper as his breath caught in his throat with the intensity.
He wanted to take her slowly; he wanted to show her the magic of a man’s touch, the gentleness of control. He wanted to watch her eyes darken with wonder, he wanted to coax her over that cliff, reveling in her passion.
But instead, she drove his blood to boiling, until his body was no longer his but hers. And he let her use it, let her use him to fill an emptiness too deep for quiet comfort. She needed the intensity and she even needed the pain.
She felt him tense, knew he was on the verge of exploding, and her legs wrapped tighter, drawing him in so deeply, she lost even herself. She could feel his muscles bunch, could feel the sweat rolling slick and salty down his back. And it was strong and powerful and pure. Her eyes burned, the tears gathering behind her lashes.
And as his head came back, his teeth gritting with the passion, the tears rolled out, blind and heedless. She cried for the childhood that would never be hers. She cried for the father with whom she would never make peace, cried for the mother she’d lost along the way. And she cried for this man, because he was everything she’d always wanted and never hoped to find. And she would run from him anyway, because even as he filled the emptiness, he couldn’t fight the shadows. He offered her warmth and comfort, but she could only reply with the death and destruction that encircled her life.
He climaxed, a giant muscular explosion she felt deep inside. She absorbed each shudder, clinging to his shoulders, and the tears mixed with the sweat.
He climaxed, and she relished it because she loved him.
He collapsed, and she cried silent tears against his shoulder because she would never stay.
“Damn you,” he swore, the words exhausted and low. She quieted him with a long, slow hand down his back. The tears still flowed, and she didn’t trust herself to speak. His weight was heavy and sure, but her body was still on fire, her hips moving helplessly of their own accord.
Suddenly he rolled off her, his gaze finding hers, dark and bleak. For the first time, he saw the tears on her cheeks and his jaw tightened. He bent down with stark eyes and captured her lips with his own.
She shuddered, low and deep, her body surging against his own in helpless desire. She didn’t have to speak; he already knew her too well. His right hand cupped her breast, rolling her nipple with his thumb while his tongue dueled with hers. She shivered again, pressing needy and shamelessly against him. His hand feathered down, parting her legs and finding her.
She gasped at the first touch, her flesh so sensitized, she didn’t know anymore if it was pleasure or pain. Her hands clutched his shoulders as he slid the first finger in, and he felt her tighten and tense around him. She was moist and hot, and his own exhausted body was already responding again. But this wasn’t about him or his needs anymore.
It was about this beautiful woman and the tears on her cheeks.
He moved his hand slowly, half soothing, half arousing. He eased her back down to sanity, then drove her back up to passion. His hand moved against her flesh, his palm rubbing against her most sensitive areas until her head fell back and beads of sweat broke out on her lip. He kissed her again—her lips, her throat, her earlobes. And as he moved her over the top, he kissed the tears from her lashes and captured her shattered cry with his lips.
He rolled her over on her back, and before she could come down from the ecstasy, he plunged into her again, his hips thrusting strong and demanding into her. She cried out his name, and he took the sound as his right, his eyes black with need.
He claimed her secrets as he claimed her body, captured her need as he captured her tears. He drove into her again and again and again, until she was dizzy from the desire and helpless from the onslaught. And then he took her again, both of them imploding from the passion, dying from the ecstasy.