Authors: Alicia Scott
And instead of being grateful, instead of being
filled with divine rapture over his Aryan birthright, Cain had turned to his
father and asked, "Why?"
His father hadn't answered his questions; he'd
beaten him instead.
Cain took a deep breath. He glanced at his
watch. Four forty-five. He was tired now. Very tired. He turned, attended to
the last errand, then walked back to the hotel.
She was sleeping soundly, not even stirring as
he shut the door quietly behind him. The remote control had been placed on the
floor. Now she was curled up into a ball, sleeping in the only position the
handcuffs made feasible.
He placed the pizza on the dresser. She still
didn't stir. He sat on the edge of the bed across from her. She remained
sleeping.
Funny how he'd thought she was meek and
invisible when he'd first kidnapped her. He'd glanced over once and seen a
wallflower, a red-haired shadow. Now he found his gaze lingering on her full lips,
on her unblemished cheek as white as virgin snowfall. Her hair framed her
lushly, deep red satin pooling around her face.
He wanted to touch her. He knew he shouldn't.
He fisted his hand to keep it on his knee.
She was beautiful, he could see that now.
Beautiful in a special way few women could achieve. She was strong, she just
didn't know it. If you put her in a burning building, she wouldn't scream, she
wouldn't cower. She'd seek out other people and save them. She cared in a way
he hadn't thought people bothered to care anymore. In this day and age, it
seemed like everyone was a cynic, everyone was tough enough.
Except Maggie. She tried, she bruised, she
tried again anyway. And when she asked him questions, her gaze was open and
curious, as if she truly did want to understand, as if she truly wanted to see
the best in him.
If a tree falls in the wilderness and there's
no one to hear, does it make a sound?
If a man says he's innocent and there's no one
who believes him…?
He found himself reaching out and brushing a
single strand of her hair from her cheek. She stirred in her sleep, murmured a
single, soft syllable of nonsense, then snuggled down deeper into the pillow.
He touched her cheek, then her lips. His thumb traced her chin.
And her lips gently parted. Her breath came out
with a sigh. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing deep, sleep-soaked pools.
He was lost. So lost. Control slipped.
He bent down and kissed her.
The sensation was soft, featherlight, like rose petals tickling her lips. She
opened them wider, seeking the heat of something she couldn't name. And then
his tongue slid between her lips, filling her, consuming her, and she groaned
low in her throat with the pure delight of it.
The pressure increased. Her stomach contracted.
Dimly she was aware of the assault on her senses. Sandpapery beard rasped her
cheek, callused fingers stroked her hair. Soap and pine tingled her nose. He
murmured soft noises and angled her head to deepen the kiss.
Fire exploded in her belly.
Suddenly it wasn't soft anymore. She arched
back her own neck and she demanded him. She feasted on his tongue, grappled
with his shirt with her free hand. He was hot and solid, masculine and
overwhelming and she wanted to consume him, she wanted to draw him so deeply inside
her he would become part of her, fill her, hold her, need her.
She wanted, she wanted, she wanted. The kiss
became huge, two tongues dueling and desperate for more. His fingers bracketed
her head, pinning her into place so he could gnaw her chin and ravage her lips.
It still wasn't enough. She whimpered low in
her throat with the frustration.
And then it was just over.
Cain spun away. From far away, she could hear
his low, vehement curse, then the hard sound of his foot slamming against the
floor. She blinked twice and the world slowly came into focus.
She was still lying on the bed. Her hand was
cuffed to the headboard. Her senses were filled with him.
He'd kissed her. She'd kissed him.
Oh my! She bolted upright, the bind of the
handcuff promptly yanking her off balance. With a little yelp, she fell off the
edge of the bed onto the brown carpet, landing in a little puddle with her arm
suspended over her head.
"Are you all right?" Cain inquired,
coming over immediately. He didn't reach a hand down though. He had them both
pushed safely into his pockets.
Belatedly, she realized her skirt was now
bunched around her waist and that her lips were still bruised from one highly
enthusiastic kiss. Holy smoke, she'd practically rearranged his mouth! Blushing
three shades of red, she popped back up, then swayed as the blood left her head
too fast and made her dizzy. Instantly, Cain's hand was beneath her elbow.
"Easy," he said. "Just take it
one step at a time."
He guided her into a sitting position on the
edge of her bed, then whisked back his hand as if she'd burned him. The silence
stretched out taut and awkward. He shoved his hand back into his pocket. Then
he pivoted away from her and began pacing.
"I didn't mean to do that," he said
abruptly. "I had no right. I'm sorry."
"I…" She didn't know what to say.
He pivoted sharply and met her gaze. "I
want you to know that I would never force you," he said bluntly. "I
want you to know you don't have to fear that from me. I wouldn't do that to
you, Maggie. I know given the circumstances that's hard to believe, but for
what it's worth, I give you my word."
"It's … it's … I believe you," she
said abruptly. Maybe that made her a fool, but she did believe him. He was
strong, he was powerful, but to date he hadn't harmed her and God knew she'd
given him a few excuses. She couldn't imagine him forcing a woman—he didn't
seem that petty or cruel. Of course, she couldn't imagine him killing anyone
either. It just … didn't seem to fit. Not for a man with so much control and so
much … restraint, she supposed. He had a lot of restraint.
"Here," he said. He crossed close
enough to produce the key. She was surprised to see that his hand was trembling
slightly. He swallowed, then went about unlocking the cuff. He pulled it off
gently. Her wrist sported an angry red welt.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
"No," she whispered.
He massaged her wrist tenderly. It was amazing
to her that fingers so strong, so big, could move over her skin like that, soft
and smooth. His thumb rubbed small circles and for one moment, she allowed her
eyes to drift shut.
She wasn't exactly sure when he stopped. Her
eyes took longer to open.
He was standing before her once more and she
could see fresh tension in his stance. His jaw was clenched, his fingers
fisted. He didn't move.
"I … uh … I brought you a pizza."
"A pizza?" Sure enough, she inhaled
deeply and the scent of sizzling cheese pervaded her senses. Pizza, hot pizza.
Her stomach rumbled on cue. "That's perfect!"
"I'll get you a slice." He crossed
the room quickly. "I had them put mushrooms and green peppers on it.
Vegetables don't make you sad, do they?"
"I like vegetables." She looked at
him speculatively, her head cocked to the side. A vegetarian pizza after she'd
told him that hamburger made her cry. "You're very considerate for a
kidnapper," she pointed out softly.
His lips simply twisted, his composure
obviously returning. "Dinner is served." He delivered one generously
cut slice, then tossed a pile of napkins at her. "There are no plates or
silverware, but plenty of extra napkins."
He picked up a small bag and shook out more
napkins. She heard the clink of glass.
"Beer?" she asked, her voice sharper than
she intended, her hand pressed unconsciously against her stomach. What if he
was an alcoholic or something? What then?
He glanced back at her, already shaking his
head. "Iced tea. I don't drink."
"Oh," she said with perfect
stupidity. She gave up and shook her head. She just didn't get him. He was
definitely intelligent and honorable in his own way. He could be perfectly
charming when he chose and he didn't seem slovenly or drunken or even mean. In
fact, he was better behaved than most men she knew. What did that say about the
freed male population when they were put to shame by a convicted murderer?
She gave up on understanding life and attacked
her pizza instead.
Halfway through the second piece, her fingers
smeared with grease, her face beaming with a satisfied smile, she mumbled
through a mouthful of cheese, "Hey! This is your first meal as a free man.
Or at least, a pseudo-free man."
He paused with his mouth poised around the end
of his third piece of pizza. "I guess it is." He ravaged the end.
"Is there good pizza in prison?"
He shrugged. "Ever eat cafeteria
food?"
She nodded, though it had been in a private
school with its own in-house chef.
"Take that, make it three times worse, and
that's prison food."
"Wow," she said, clearly impressed.
"I'm surprised you didn't want to stop for food first thing."
His lips twisted dryly. "I had other
things on my mind." His hands wrapped around the big glass bottle of iced
tea and raised it to his lips. He drank gustily, his Adam's apple bobbing with
each swallow, and Maggie stared, completely mesmerized by the act. He lowered
the bottle, empty at last, and sighed. Belatedly, he became aware of her rapt
attention.
"Did I spill something?" he asked
immediately, gazing down at his shirtfront.
"No," she said and dropped her gaze
hastily, focusing it on the carpet instead. Her stomach was all tight again.
She took several deep breaths and searched for something normal to say.
"Umm, going to have more pizza?" Oh, she was definitely a brilliant
conversationalist.
Cain shook his head, already rising to his
feet. "Eating too much makes you slow."
Maggie gazed at her hand already reaching for a
third piece and promptly snatched it back. "Of course."
"We can take the rest with us."
"With us?"
He turned and from halfway across the room, his
hands tucked in the back pockets of his jeans, he said steadily, "We'll
sleep for four hours. That's it. Then I want to be on the road again."
"Four hours?
But … but you look so tired."
He smiled wryly. "Worried about me,
Maggie?"
She flushed instantly, flustered and not
knowing what to say. She was, but she shouldn't be. He did look tired, but she
shouldn't care … oh, darn! She just wasn't cut out for this hostage business.
"Why don't you go wash your hands, Maggie,
and get ready for bed?"
She blanched immediately. He shook his head at
her response, and for a minute looked genuinely haggard.
"Don't worry. Sex makes a man sluggish,
too, and as we've already established, I can't afford to be slow. I did give
you my word."
"I … well I … I'm going to go wash my
hands," she announced at last.
"What a good idea."
She came out five minutes later, twisting her hands in front of her and looking
more nervous than a sixteen-year-old on her first date. Cain had already closed
the curtains and the room was swathed in darkness.
Dimly, her eyes made out his form. He was
already in the other bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. She passed by the
end of the bed with legs that trembled. He didn't say anything. He didn't try
anything.
She felt as if her stomach had turned inside
out and left her with nothing but a gaping hole. With her hands, she felt her
way to her bed.
She pulled back the covers, she crawled in. She
pulled the covers up to her shoulders, then lay perfectly still in the
darkness. She could hear his breathing now In and out. but not relaxed.
He was aware of her, she thought. As aware of
her as she was aware of him. He still didn't move.
Finally, she whispered in the dark, "Did
you love her a great deal?"
"Who?"
"Your girlfriend. Did you love her that
much, and that's why her betrayal drove you to murder?"
A ponderous moment passed. Finally, his voice
cut through the darkness. "How much can I blame her, Maggie? I introduced
her to Ham. I helped bring them together."
"But—"
"Good night, Maggie."
And minutes later, she
could tell from his breathing that he'd fallen asleep.
Chapter 7
"
M
aggie. Maggie, wake up."
From deep within the dark, comforting cocoon of
sleep, she heard the voice calling to her. Wake up? The voice was nuts. She'd
just fallen asleep.
"Maggie," it persisted.
She batted at it with her hand. "Go away.
Tired."