Left To Die (26 page)

Right now she’s sleeping, unaware of what is about to happen, so I have time. And though she doesn’t trust me completely, she’s accepted that I am her only lifeline; she has no one else to save her.

I saw the change tonight.

And now I can move forward.

The snowmobile is loaded.

Ready.

And the heavens are in agreement. Aren’t the stars in perfect position? Oh yes.

Isn’t the storm breaking? At least for a while?

There should be just enough time before the next arctic blast bears down on these mountains. Not only for one, but for two. I smile when I think how that will confound the stupid cops. They won’t know what to do.

Not that they ever do.

Seeing her asleep on the couch, fire reflecting on her face, I feel just the bit of a tug on my heartstrings, but I won’t go there. To feel any kind of emotion would only complicate matters and I could make mistakes.

I could want her.

I could even take the chance of making love to her…she’s already considering it; I saw it in her eyes today. Yes, she’s still frightened, but a little thrilled and beginning to depend upon me.

That’s unacceptable.

I walk to the kitchen, where it’s cold, the fire in the cooking stove long dead.

I pour myself a drink.

Neat.

Walking back to the doorway into the living room, looking at her, I take a sip.

The warmth of the whiskey trails down my throat and slowly eases into my bloodstream.

I swirl my drink and have another long, warming swallow. The whiskey calms me and yet heightens my anticipation. I watch her as she lies so innocently.

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

Oh, I could easily start the seduction. Kiss her on that little bend of her neck, let my fingers trail lower, exploring as I hear her take in a swift little breath of anticipation laced with fear.

Almost eagerly, she would let me strip her. And I will, but she’ll be expecting more. She’ll want my fingers to push her legs apart, to tease her. She’ll even hope that I’ll lower my head and kiss her there, even caress her with my tongue. Her nipples will harden and she’ll moan with desire.

Just like the others.

In the end they all want it.

To feel what it is to have a man dominate them completely. Oh, they, if given the chance, would protest it to their friends, but the truth of the matter is that every one of them wanted me to love them, to fill them, to hold their breasts firmly and press their butts up against my cock. They longed to feel the hardness, the maleness of my erection and wriggle against it. They ached to pant with desire, desire tinged with just enough terror to be erotic. They all hoped I would caress and touch them intimately, strain over their smooth backs, even nip at their necks, to draw just a hint of blood as I stiffened and came inside them, their buttocks and abdomen tightening in reaction, their pussies hot and wet.

Empty, soulless cunts.

As if I would degrade myself.

It would be too easy.

And without meaning.

I study my drink, swirling the amber liquid, before draining the glass and knowing that, at last, the time has come.

It is time for this one to go.

Another is already waiting.

For the dawn.

At the other cabin.

She, too, is about to meet her fate.

She, too, wonders if she can trust me.

If I will have my way with her.

If she will let me.

Smiling to myself, knowing all about them, I take another long swallow.

Silly, stupid girls.

Chapter Sixteen

Where am I?

Jillian’s eyes flew open and for a second she was confused. Wrapped in a sleeping bag on an old couch in some kind of cold cabin….

Her mind cleared and in an instant she snapped back to the bizarre reality of her plight. Her neck ached from sleeping in the wrong position and her ribs pained her a little, but when she moved her ankle, it felt slightly better.

The first light of dawn seeped through the windows, casting the furniture in soft, muted shadows.

But MacGregor wasn’t in his chair.

She twisted to look over the back of the couch and saw him standing near the large window by the front door. He was staring through the glass panes, his silhouette in dark relief, the sharp angles of his face evident. Bladed cheekbones, a hard, square jaw, eyes cut deep into his head, razor-thin lips set in a hard, uncompromising line.

He stood just to the side of the glass panes, as if he were being careful to position himself away from direct viewpoint, so from his vantage point he had a view of the exterior but no one looking in would see him.

“’Mornin’,” he drawled, sliding a glance in her direction. Some of the tension left his face. “You slept hard.”

“Did I?”

“Snored,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” But the corners of his lips relaxed a bit.

“What’re you looking for?”

“Whatever’s out there. The storm let up last night.”

“You hear something? See anything?”

“Nothing I shouldn’t.” But his gaze returned to the window. “It’s clear enough that I figure this is our shot. We might just get out of here.”

“Really?” She hardly dared believe him as she pulled herself into a sitting position, wincing a little from the pain in her ribs.

“We’ll see. How’re you feeling?”

“Compared to what?”

His lips twitched. “To normal.”

“Oh, well.” She shook her head. “Not there yet. But I think I’m good enough to ride a snowmobile, if that’s what you’re talking about. I mean, I’ve got a serious case of cabin fever.” She thought about her mother, who had to be worried sick about her. Even her sister, Dusti, was probably wondering what happened to her. And then there was her cat, left for days with the neighbor. And her work. She pushed herself into an upright position and onto her feet too quickly. Pain ricocheted through her ankle. Sucking her breath through her teeth, she almost yelped. “Damn it all to hell!”

In three swift strides he crossed the room and grabbed her, a strong arm quickly around her shoulders for support, his body rigid and stiff, a brace. “Hey,” he said softly, his breath warm against the back of her head. “You okay?”

From his rug near the fire, Harley lifted his head and gave off a soft, disturbed “woof.”

“No,” she snapped, her patience dissolving in an instant. She was angry at herself and her damned body and the fact that she was noticing how decidedly male he was. A tiny bit of her mind reminded her it had been a long while since she’d been this close to a man, felt a male touch. “No, I’m not okay with being stuck here in the middle of no-damned-where with a sprained ankle, cracked ribs, bruises up the wazoo. Trapped in a cabin without electricity or phones with a stranger I know nothing, and I mean
nothing
, about.” From the corner of her eye she noticed Harley starting to rouse. “Not to mention a dog who hates me.”

“I don’t think Harley hates—”

She turned so that she could look him squarely in his flinty eyes. “Oh, and let’s not forget we think there might be a maniac on the loose, one who shot my car and forced me off the road. So, no, I’m not okay. Not even close to anything resembling okay. In fact, I’m definitely
not
okay at all.”

“All right,” he said, but a flash of amusement registered in his eyes.

“You’re mocking me?”

“What? No.”

“You think it’s funny?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He was dead serious again, all humor erased.

“Good. Then let’s figure out how to get out of here.” She shifted a little, trying to put a bit of space between their bodies.

“I’m working on it.”

“Then work faster, would you?” she said, hearing the sting in her words.

“Doing what I can.”

“Oh hell.” She tried to calm down, but the truth of the matter was that she couldn’t. “Sorry to be such a bitch. I’m sick to my back teeth of lying down and just being cooped up here and playing the poor, injured victim. It is
not
my style and…Oh, for the love of God,” she said, trying to ignore the fact that his breath was ruffling her hair and she could actually smell the maleness of him. How stupid was that? “It’s…it’s just that I’ve got to do
some
thing, no, make that
any
thing, to get out of here!” It was a struggle to ignore how steel-strong his forearm was, or that his scent was surprisingly clean and subtly male. She turned angry eyes up on him, as if it were his fault he was so sexual in a dark, almost frightening, way. “I’m going nuts. Completely loco. I…I have to get out of here! Today!”

One side of his mouth curved in that sexy, disarming smile she didn’t dare trust.

And in that moment she realized just how bad she must look. She hadn’t showered in days, her face was still bruised, though she was lucky that she hadn’t lost any teeth or broken her jaw. Well, lucky was relative, she supposed, but it was really ironic that when she looked her worst she found this stranger so ridiculously attractive. Which was just plain idiotic on her part.

Angry with herself and her female fantasies—fantasies that were certainly running amok—she pushed herself away from him. Once they weren’t touching, all sense of intimacy between them vanished, she balanced on her crutch and tried to pull herself together. She had to stay focused. They both did.

Yawning, Harley climbed to his feet, stretched and trotted over to MacGregor’s side.

“Time to go out?” MacGregor patted the dog’s head, then, with a final look at the ever-lightening landscape through the large window, said, “Come on, then. Out the back.” He snagged his jacket from its hook, then walked to the kitchen, the spaniel trotting eagerly behind him.

Watching as he disappeared through the archway separating the kitchen from the living area, Jillian tamped down her temper. She had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, or, in this case, the couch. It wasn’t his fault that she’d been in the accident.

Not his fault….

Then whose?

She shook her head. No one she knew. If MacGregor were a killer bent on hurting her, he would have done it already. True, there was no reason to restrain her, as she couldn’t walk far on her own, but he hadn’t so much as hurled a harsh word at her or even done anything that suggested he wanted to harm her. He’d left her with a loaded gun, hadn’t he?

She wondered about him, this person who had taken another man’s life. Why had he chosen to live here all alone? Who was the boy in the picture? Did he have a wife? A fiancé? A girlfriend tucked away somewhere? Or was he one of those true loners who didn’t need the companionship of other people, a mountain man?

Sighing, Jillian made her way to the bathroom. A bucket was filled with water, so she was able to use the toilet despite the fact that the pump wasn’t working. Each night, MacGregor filled several buckets with snow and dragged them into the house so that the snow would melt and they would have water to drink and use to cook and wash. Hot water was at a premium, heated in a pot on the woodstove or a kettle nestled in the coals of the fireplace. But with that water he’d cooked everything from instant oatmeal to pre-packaged soup and dehydrated casseroles. He’d even managed to bake cornbread in the oven of the woodstove. It had been burned around the edges, but Jillian had been so hungry, she’d devoured two thick slabs.

Despite their isolation MacGregor had been prepared and they hadn’t gone hungry. But still, the cabin was a long shot from a five-star hotel, or even a one-star hotel, for that matter.

Jillian glanced longingly at the tub shower and imagined how it would feel to have hot water cascading over her sore muscles or streaming through her hair as she shampooed it.

Now that would be pure heaven.

She imagined herself up to her neck in warm, scented water, candles burning, her skin soft with fragrant bath oil. She would close her eyes and…MacGregor would take a cloth and gently bathe her, his fingers grazing her skin, touching her breasts and lower, until her nipples would pucker and her breath would get lost deep in her throat as he worked over her slick skin….

She made a sound of frustration low in her throat.

What was she thinking?

Cabin fever was addling her brain, making her dream of sex with a virtual stranger.

Angry with herself, she hitched back to the kitchen, found a saucepan and dipped a little water from the pot simmering on the stove. Balancing the pan carefully, she returned to the adjoining bathroom, mixed a little cold water from a bucket into the hot water, then, using a cloth, washed her face, hands, then the parts of her body that felt the worst. Her hair would have to wait, though she did run a little water through it, using a bit of soap to work up a small lather, then rinsing it as best she could. A salon shampoo it wasn’t, but she felt better having clean hair. She finger-combed the tangles and found a brush to separate the strands.

“Bitterroot beauty at its finest,” she told her reflection, where bruises still lingered beneath her skin.

Opening the door, she found MacGregor and the dog in the kitchen. He must’ve been there a while, as he was dressed only in his sweater and jeans, his jacket nowhere in sight.

“Someone cleaned up,” he observed.

“About time, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “You look good.”

She nearly laughed. “Compared to what? Quasimoto or Jabba the Hut or Mr. Hyde? Are you kidding?”

“Not kidding, especially compared to what you looked like when I found you in the car, after the accident.”

“Not a high standard, MacGregor.”

“Maybe not, but really, you look…a whole lot better. Now, I thought you could use some coffee,” he said as calmly as if they were an old married couple with nothing to do but read the newspaper together.

“Sounds like heaven.” As she heard herself, she inwardly cringed. Dear God, was she actually flirting with him? What in the world was wrong with her?

“You’d better reserve judgment until you’ve had a taste.” Opening a cupboard near the stove, he found a plastic tub of dark ground coffee. “Pre-roasted, pre-ground and vacuum-sealed,” he explained. “Can’t beat Folgers, no matter what the boutique shops would like you to think.” He looked at the coffeemaker, sitting uselessly on a scarred wooden counter. “Since we’ve got no power, we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.”