Kane (17 page)

That should have been comforting, but wasn't. The reason was because he saw entirely too much of what she was trying to conceal, what she had kept hidden for too long.

Kane Benedict was a dangerous man, though not only by virtue of being daring or unpredictable or even extremely watchful. It was, instead, because of his intelligence. Added to that was the fact that he made her regret, for a brief, amazing instant, that she would have no further opportunity to practice her self-control against his caresses. As hard as it was to believe, she could not deny a fleeting inclination to discover whether she could endure being held by him in a less isolated, less dangerous situation.

She must be losing her mind. She'd never been even
slightly ambivalent about physical contact with a man before. Now was a fine time to start, a fine time indeed.

Kane seemed to hesitate a moment, then he turned to the lamp and began to inspect it. It seemed a sensible precaution, making sure it was in working order before night fell. Regina followed his movement for a moment, then she crawled over to sit with her back against the wall near where he worked. Drawing her legs up, she smoothed her long, full knit skirt down to cover her feet, then clasped her arms around her bent knees.

The silence grew strained. After a moment, she glanced at Kane again and cleared her throat. “How long do you think it may be before anyone finds us?”

“A while,” he answered without looking up. “Aunt Vivian's used to me coming and going when I get ready. I'll be surprised if she realizes there's a problem before midnight or later. That's if she and Pops manage to wake up before then. They were both pretty worn-out.”

“You don't think she'll call the police, maybe send out a search party, when she does suspect something?” The ripple and stretch of the muscles in his back and shoulders caught her attention, and she followed them intently.

“She's never been the type to jump at every phone call or police siren. It could be hours before she gives up expecting me to show up and decides to call Luke. She might be more concerned if she knew you were with me, but I suspect she thinks Luke saw you home.”

“You suspect?” she asked, adding as he glanced her way, “Don't you mean you know she does?”

He was silent, his gaze holding the same motionless depths as the lake. It was as close as he was going to come to an admission, she thought. Releasing a hissing sigh of frustration through her teeth, she looked away again.

“Relax,” he said. “If you can't overcome it, you might as well enjoy it.”

“Enjoy being trapped here? You must be joking.”

He looked around at the opalescent light of the gathering sunset through the trees, the pastel glow of the vast arch of sky directly overhead. “No, not at all.”

It was peaceful in its way, she had to agree. So quiet. The only sounds were the gentle lap of water, the sigh of a breeze, and calls of birds and frogs. If she closed her eyes, she could almost sense a strangely peaceful mood indigo that might, if she let it, segue into acceptance.

She couldn't afford that, not with Kane so near.

Or could she? His presence was more reassuring than disturbing now. He was quiet and purposeful in his movements, not given to inane comments just to fill the silence. He was self-sufficient, secure within his own body and persona, without the need for approval or applause from other people and minus the compulsion to prove anything to anyone, even himself. She might have appreciated these things in him given different circumstances.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, directing an inquiring glance her way. “Or would you rather eat later?”

She had eaten a late breakfast, and though she'd had
no lunch, she'd indulged in a filling piece of pound cake with her coffee earlier. “It doesn't matter.”

“I vote for now, while we have daylight to see what we're doing.”

Reaching for a sausage can, he opened it and handed it to her, then passed over the plastic box of crackers. Regina got to her feet and drained the liquid from the meat into the lake before fishing out a sausage, putting it on a cracker, then turning to hand it to him.

He had started to open a can for himself. Seeing it, Regina felt foolish with her offering of food. She didn't quite know why she had done it; the last thing she should be thinking of was feeding the man who had kidnapped her. Still, he had been so polite in serving her first that it had seemed natural to return the favor.

Heat rose in her face. With a small shrug, she began to pull her hand back.

Quickly, he reached for the sausage and cracker with his free hand. His fingers brushed hers, and the tingling contact was so unexpected she almost bungled the transfer of food. She stepped away, regaining her seat. They sat in silence, solemnly consuming their scanty meal. After a short time, Kane opened a bottle of warm soft drink and passed it over. She accepted it, but drank sparingly since she had a feeling bathroom facilities would be as Spartan as everything else.

By the time they had finished and cleared away the trash, the sun had disappeared and dusk was drawing in, becoming night. The water seemed to hold the light longer than on land, reflecting it back into the darkening sky. The last pink glow of evening shone on
Kane's face for a few short minutes, then it faded away.

With the darkness, Regina became intensely aware of the rich, earthy scent of the cypress wood used to build the blind, the cries of night creatures, the freshness of the wind with its taint of dampness and decaying vegetation. A mosquito sang around her, then sailed away. A moment later, Kane slapped at his arm, then rubbed his hand on his shirtsleeve. That was, in her opinion at that particular moment, a far more worthy service than slaying a mere dragon.

She was becoming fanciful, she thought, sitting there with nothing to do. Shifting restlessly on the hard floor, she tried for at least the hundredth time to think of some way out of their dilemma.

Kane turned his head, watching her across the increasing darkness. She couldn't quite see his face, however, certainly couldn't read his expression or his intent. When he spoke, his voice was deep and deliberate as it came out of the dusk that lay between them.

“You want to tell me about it?”

“About what?” She knew, but had to ask anyway, in case she might be wrong.

“What happened to you to turn you off men. Who hurt you so much you can't bear the thought of letting anyone touch you again.”

“What makes you think—”

“Cut the pretense, okay? You don't have to prove to me how tough or independent you are.”

She swallowed the rest of what she meant to say, blurting out instead, “I'm not tough, and you know it better than anybody, especially any other—”

“Any other man? Why?”

“You're the only one who's managed to get close enough in a long, long time.”

The soft sound he made, as if he'd been punched, was perfectly audible. With irony, he said, “You certainly know how to make a guy feel better.”

“It wasn't my intention to make you feel anything.”

“I know, and that makes it worse. But I asked you a question.”

His intense interest was seductive, his manner compelling. It was as if what she said mattered to him on a personal level that had little to do with her connection to his grandfather. She wondered if this was the secret behind the myth of the Southern gentleman, or a trait peculiar to Kane alone. If so, it worked, for it seemed that he knew so much already, it should be no great thing to tell him the rest. In any case, it was better than sitting there in twitching silence, waiting and wondering.

Once started, she held back nothing. Not the silly, precocious teenager that she had been, her bad judgment in developing an infatuation with a Harvard accent and a fast car, the sickening taste of cheap wine laced with some so-called date-rape drug, or the pain and degradation of waking up and discovering that she had been assaulted while unconscious. The only trouble with telling him these things in such detail was that she also could not spare herself.

“This Harvard guy was prosecuted?” he asked when she was done.

“His father was a big shot with a whole stable of lawyers. Besides, no proof existed other than superficial bruises and a trace of the drug in my blood. I
would have tested positive for having had sex and being a recent virgin, but there was nothing to show I was forced. It would have been his word against mine, and amnesia is a side effect of the drug. I couldn't remember what happened, couldn't say where we went, when I had the wine, who else was there, nothing concrete. But I must not have been quite out of it toward the end because I have this sense, almost like a dream, of being held down, in the dark, unable to move, while—”

“Don't,” he said in low command. “I get the picture.”

She stopped, as much because her throat was suddenly too tight to produce sound as at his request. She sat staring into the darkness with burning eyes while somewhere inside there was a dissolving feeling, as if a barrier long and closely held had begun to disintegrate.

“So the man who did it got off scot-free,” he said after a moment. “He got away with his version of scalp collecting. What was your family thinking of?”

“I have no family. At least…” She stopped as she realized she couldn't tell him about Gervis. “My father left when I was a baby. My mother died when I was ten. Nobody wanted to help me fight a battle I couldn't win, one that might cause more scars than it could heal.”

He turned his head to watch her. “There was no one to help you, then? No one to take you to counseling or recommend therapy to help deal with the emotional baggage?”

“I dealt with it,” she said, raising her chin, staring at the stars beginning to show one by one in the night
sky above them. There was wetness under her eyes, but she didn't wipe it away for fear of drawing attention to it.

“Did you? Looks to me as if it's still hanging around.”

“Nothing that's important, not so long as I still have…” She stopped, warned by some lingering remnant of self-preservation.

“What?”

She looked at his dark shape that rested nearby. The words thick with tears, she said, “My son. Stephan.”

Stephan of the bright smile and crooked teeth and warm, loving baby kisses. Stephan, who adored her, depended on her. Stephan, who must never know how he had been conceived or what manner of spineless, reckless, criminally selfish man his father had been. Stephan, who loved her with all his tender young heart because she was his mother and the only real anchor in his small, unstable world.

Stephan, for whom she would do anything. Anything at all.

“Don't, Regina,” Kane said, his voice gruff with concern as he stared at her through the darkness. “Don't cry. I didn't mean to bring it all back.”

“No,” she said on a hiccuping breath. “I know.”

She did, too. She knew that for all his anger and forcefulness, he would never intentionally cause her real pain. It simply wasn't in him.

The knowledge gave her courage, offered hope. It also made it plain that the time had come to finally do the job she had been sent to accomplish.

Decision time. No better opportunity was ever going to present itself.

It had to be done. For Gervis, because she must. For Stephan, because he mattered most. And maybe, just maybe, for herself, for reasons that had nothing to do with either of them.

Now or never.

The words scarcely more than a whisper, she said, “If I asked you…?”

“What?” He turned his head attentively as she paused.

“Would…would you hold me for a minute, Kane? Just hold me, and nothing more?”

“D
o you have any idea what you're asking?”

There was a peculiar note in Kane's voice as it came to Regina across the darkness. She wished she could see his face clearly to judge if he was incredulous or trying to warn her of something. It sounded as if it could easily be both. Not that it made any difference.

Swallowing hard, she said, “I know you said you wouldn't touch me, but I took that to mean you wouldn't, that is, that you didn't want—”

“Exactly.” The edge on the word was honed to fillet-knife sharpness.

“Well, neither do I. But I've sometimes thought that if someone would just hold me, it might be all right. Not forever, but for a little while. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“I think so, but what about me?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You don't know much about men, do you?”

She moistened her lips. “I haven't had a lot of experience. What should I know?”

“Never mind,” he said, exhaling with a tired sound. “I guess I owe you something. Come on, then.”

He was reaching out to her. She had asked for this and couldn't back out now. Setting her teeth so firmly
that her jaw creaked, she shifted closer. He circled her waist with his arm. Instantly, she went stiff. Then, as he made no move to tighten his grasp, she forced herself to relax again by slow degrees.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I think so, yes.” It was true, at least for the moment. Regardless, a shiver rippled over her.

“If you're okay, what was that?”

She couldn't believe he'd noticed since she had barely been aware of it herself. He was much more attuned to her reactions than she might have imagined. Voice husky, she answered, “I can feel how warm you are. I suppose it made me realize how cool it's turning now the sun is gone.”

“You're chilly? Here.” He reached for the blanket that lay near the chest and dropped it into her lap.

“Not really. It's actually pleasant.” Regina unfolded the heavy stadium blanket halfway and spread it over the floor next to them, then eased over to use its thickness as a cushion. As she reached toward Kane to invite him to join her, the tips of her fingers brushed his thigh. She immediately pulled back, but not before she felt the muscle across the top of his leg tighten in an involuntary spasm. He drew a swift breath, becoming as immobile as a stone wall.

Doubt drew her brows together as she settled back again. “If you'd rather not do this after all, I'll understand.”

“Don't worry. I'll survive.”

“I don't want to put you through more than—”

“Believe me, I can stand it.” The words were taut. With stiff movements, he shifted closer to hold her again.

She twisted to look up at him, trying once more to see his face. It didn't help; his features were perfectly blank. She leaned back again.

In her concern, she had settled nearer than before, she discovered, resting more against his chest and shoulder. It didn't seem a good idea to move again and, in any case, it didn't appear to matter. She slowly relaxed once more, giving against him until she could feel his muscle-sheathed rib cage, the sculpting of his pectorals, the firm biceps of his arm. His warmth surrounded her, stealing into her. His scent drifted to her, an elusive mixture of clean cotton, wood-and-moss aftershave, and something more that was his own masculine essence. She breathed deeply, aware at the same time of an odd, comfortable feeling she couldn't quite place.

Then she had it. Security—that was what she felt. She had a deep sense of safety as she sat there in Kane Benedict's arms. It was such a foreign reaction she'd almost failed to recognize it.

Did it come from him or was it something inside herself that caused it? Was it a fluke or some natural phenomenon of the male-female relationship? She didn't know, but it was a staggering discovery when not long ago she had been desperate to break away from him.

His arm, ridged with firm muscle and corded tendons, was behind her back, his hand resting lightly at her waist. She knew exactly where every fingertip touched, could discern the latent power of his grasp. He had long, aristocratic fingers. Before, his hand at her breast had thrown her into a panic. She wondered
if it would be the same if she was expecting it, anticipating it.

He wouldn't make a move now, or so he had sworn. Any approach of that sort would have to come from her. Did she dare? If she found the nerve, could she bear the consequences?

She was going to have to find out. Time was passing. A few brief hours, a few short minutes even, and the chance would be gone. Once vanished, it might never come again.

She reached up and ran her fingers through her hair, then lifted the long swath that was caught between them and let it fall back behind her, draping across his shoulder on which she leaned. As she lowered her arm again, she let her fingers come to rest on his hand at her waist. She paused a long moment, then began to trace his knuckles with an absent touch, to smooth the pad of her thumb idly across the square, well-formed back as if her mind was anywhere else except on what she was doing.

She discovered a scar on the side of his index finger. As she followed its path around to his palm, he obligingly turned his hand over to permit access. Voice light, she asked, “What happened here?”

“Accident with a cane knife. I was cutting a stalk of it for someone and she decided to tickle me.”

“Tickle you?”

“Just playing. Some women are like that, or some girls, I should say, since it was a long time ago.”

A small shaft of something that might almost have been envy, or even jealousy, cut through her. “You must have been furious.”

“Why? She didn't mean it to happen.” He tilted his head to look down at her in the dimness.

“She still hurt you.”

“I hurt myself. It wouldn't have happened if I'd been more careful. We were both clowning around.”

“Who was it?”

“The girl? April Halstead.”

She'd expected him to say Francie and wasn't sure whether she was glad or sorry that he hadn't. She said quietly, “I wish I could have had that kind of relationship.”

“What do you mean?”

“Impulsive. Friendly. Where taking liberties and horseplay are normal and forgiveness comes easy.”

His voice as he answered sounded deeper than before. “One based on trust, you mean.”

“I suppose.”

“You don't know what you missed,” he said simply.

She looked up at him, made bold by the darkness, as she said, “I'm beginning to realize that.”

He stared down at her, his eyes catching faint, dark gleams. His lashes flickered, then his attention drifted lower, to the curves of her lips. She sat entranced as she waited to see what he would do. For the briefest of instants, he dipped his head. Then he drew back.

He was keeping his word. He didn't intend to touch her beyond what she'd asked, wasn't going to help her over this impasse between them. It was inconvenient, yet strangely enough she was glad. It felt good to be able to trust, if only for this moment.

Glancing away, she stared into the thickening darkness inside the blind, thinking, remembering. After a
long moment, she said in almost inaudible tones, “I missed a lot of other things, too. Holding hands, for instance. Or the kind of innocent kisses boys and girls exchange in grammar school. My mother was sick a lot. I had to stay in with her, so I never had time for that. Afterward, the woman who took me in was so strict and suspicious that she never allowed anything of that kind. Of course, I got in trouble not all that long after she died.” As she spoke, she smoothed her fingers along his upturned hand until their palms matched, then twined her fingers with his.

“Regina…” he began, then stopped.

“You don't mind, do you? It's so dark now. I don't know when I've ever seen such darkness, without a light anywhere, no streetlamps, car headlights or building lights.” It wasn't a lie, even if seeing was the least of her concerns.

“I should crank up the lantern.”

His voice sounded strained, she thought. Perhaps he was not as calm as he seemed. She would like to think so, for her own pulse was something less than even.

“I'm not complaining,” she offered. “I think I might even like it, once I get used to it. We should have a good view of the stars.”

He looked up, tilting his head so it rested against the wall behind them. On a pained chuckle, he repeated, “Stars.”

“You can hardly see them at all where I come from.” She turned her head, her gaze on the shadowy outline of his face, his mouth. “Kane?”

“What now?”

“Would it bother you very much if I just…” She paused, undecided about how to put it.

He closed his eyes, for she saw a flicker of movement. “You want to kiss me, is that it?”

“How did you know?”

“A lucky guess.”

“It would only be an experiment. If you wouldn't mind?”

“Why in hell should I mind?” he muttered. “Be my guest.”

She loosened her grasp on his hand. “You do mind.”

“Not being kissed,” he said as he tightened his own fingers to retain her hold. “What I mind is not being able to cooperate. But I'll get over it.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive. I can take any torture you can dish out.”

She drew back a little. “If you feel that way, let it go.”

He gave a slow shake of his head. “Forget I said anything, will you? Just get on with it.”

She was no longer certain this was such a good idea. It seemed possible Kane might understand what she was after better than she thought. What would she do if he turned the tables on her? Where would she be then?

In the same situation very likely, she answered herself with honesty. That being so, what difference did it make?

She sat up straight, turned more toward him, then hesitated. The only way she was going to be able to reach his lips was if she sat in his lap, and she wasn't quite ready for that. She moistened her dry lips before she said, “Could you just…help a little?”

He slid down the wall, stretching out to lie full
length, half on, half off the blanket. Raising his arms above his head, he used his knit fingers for a pillow. “Better?”

It was and it wasn't. She eyed him, wondering if he was amusing himself at her expense. Anything was possible, she was coming to believe, with Kane Benedict.

She eased down a bit and braced herself on one elbow before leaning over him. Her hair fell forward across her cheek, and she reached up to draw it back out of the way. Eyes wide, wary of any sudden movement, she bent her head and brushed her lips across the warm curves of his mouth. She drew back hastily, watching him.

He didn't move, gave no sign he had felt the contact that sizzled on her own lips. The tension inside her ebbed. In a sudden excess of relief, she pressed a kiss to the cleft of his chin, then tasted it with her tongue, feeling the prickly beard stubble with a sense of amazement. He remained immobile, almost as if comatose. Lowering her lashes, she blazed a path of tiny kisses from his chin to his lips once more. She explored their tucked corners, their ridged edges, left a moist path along the edges of their joining.

His chest was rising and falling at a quicker pace and the muscle of his arm was rock hard where she leaned against it, yet he kept his eyes closed, held his hands-off position. Greatly daring, she released the hair she held and used her fingertips to test the heat of his mouth, its smooth yet firm texture. She eased a bit higher to graze his eyelids with her mouth, taste the salt at the base of his lashes. Then with a soft sound in her throat, she swooped back down to his
mouth and settled her lips against his, matching contours and edges with precision before she swept the firm line between with her tongue, gathering the unique, sweet flavor of him, enjoying the texture of the smooth flesh. For long seconds, that satisfied her. Then almost as if compelled, she sought, delicately, to see if he would permit her inside.

He allowed it, encouraged it with slow refinement by opening no farther than she required. She was enthralled by the freedom of being the instigator, the explorer. That he was deliberately placing that power in her hands brought a surge of some emotion that she didn't quite recognize, but thought might be gratitude.

Her heart jarred her ribs. The blood that raced in her veins felt hot. She wanted more of him, needed more in a way she had never felt before. Languor welled inside her so she melted bonelessly against him, allowing the rounded contour of her breast to mold to the hard plane of his chest. She felt like a seductress, more wanton than she'd ever dreamed. There was a purpose to this, she knew, but the compulsion that had driven her in the beginning seemed distant and unimportant compared to the things she was discovering. About Kane, yes, but also about herself.

His tongue was a swirl of warm velvet, a satiny enticement. His taste was fresh and wholesome yet heady, like the rum made from the sugarcane for which he was named. She set the pace, but was pushed to stay ahead of him, to sweep the edges of his teeth without letting her tongue be captured, to flick the quilted lining of his lower lip and not be caught by his forays past her own defenses.

She lifted her head. Breathlessly, she said, “You aren't supposed to join in.”

“I don't remember that being mentioned,” he returned, his voice sleepily sensual, his eyelids half-closed. “I only promised not to touch you. Besides, isn't it better when you have help?”

“How should I know? You've been helping at least a little all along.”

“Try it and see.”

Confidence and challenge were plain in his voice. It was annoying enough to make her disregard her instinctive distrust. Placing her free hand in the middle of his chest to brace herself, she leaned over him once more.