Authors: Alicia Scott
Finally, she bent over and made a great show of
unfastening her muddy sandals, wriggling around just enough for her skirt to
hike up and show a little flesh. It didn't seem to make a difference and she
broke a nail. With a small look of consternation, she sat back again and
resumed worrying her lip.
Nylons, she thought abruptly. That was the
ticket.
"My nylons are wet," she announced
abruptly.
Cain blinked several times. "Yes. I imagine
they are."
"I think I will take them off," she
said loudly, the words only slightly stilted.
This time, he stiffened a little.
"Off?"
"Yes. Off."
"Are these knee-highs?"
"No, they start all the way at the
top."
"Oh." Blinking again. "Would you
like me to turn away?" he offered in a strained voice.
No, you ninny! I want you to help!
She scowled at him. She took a deep breath. "It's …
it's okay. I mean … we're both adults." She thought her voice came out
sounding quite reasonable, which was a miracle given the thundering of her
heart against her rib cage.
"Ah … that's true."
"Yes, that's true." She took another
deep breath, then worried her lower lip some more. Her mind began searching her
mental files and finally settled on classic striptease music. Think of the
daring, dashing Hathaway Reds. Think provocative. Sexy. Lust-ridden sex kitten.
I have legs that belong to a chicken.
Hastily, she banished that thought to a dusty
corner of rotten memories. Everyone had to grow up sometime and this was her
moment. She was seizing the day, or an escaped felon as the case might be.
Slowly, her fingertips found the hem of her
knee-length plaid skirt. The wool was raspy and smelled as good as wet wool can
smell. Don't rush, she reminded herself. No haste, no clumsiness. Smooth and
languid.
She inched the scratchy material up her pale,
mud-splattered thighs. She couldn't bring herself to look at Cain, because if
he appeared the slightest bit bored her composure would leave and she would
break down into tears. Instead she kept her gaze on her skirt, her teeth
embedded in her lower lip, and her ears attuned to the sound of rain and slow,
barely drawn breaths.
She reached the barrier of the seat. There was
only one thing to do. She arched her hips up, a blatantly suggestive act and
with a small rush, abandoned slow and yanked the damn wet skirt to her hips.
Was it her imagination, or did Cain's breath
sound suddenly sharp and ragged beside her? She still couldn't bear to look.
Another deep breath and she hooked her thumbs in
the waistband of her nylons. She didn't buy expensive nylons; she ran them too
easily. These were thick, coarsely woven and, frankly, not something she would
have chosen to flaunt in front of a man. Silk hosiery, now that was something
to sinuously slide down her legs and toss aside. The grocery-store special, on
the other hand…
Well, too late for that. She slid the dark
brown tummy panel down, revealing sensible white cotton briefs. She'd forgotten
about that, too. Why hadn't she worn the panties that matched the bra? Hadn't
she realized she might get taken hostage and, after twenty-seven years, decide
to finally seduce a man?
She was a horrible vamp. She would definitely
have to listen to her mother's fashion advice more. Stephanie could probably
seduce a granite statue.
Her legs had more goose bumps, her arms, too.
If she didn't get this show on the road, she'd probably die of exposure. She
began to peel down the dark, muddy nylons, revealing inch after inch of pale
white skin.
Alabaster,
she corrected herself.
Think of your thighs as
supple alabaster.
She almost giggled hysterically. She reached
her knees without incident. So far so good. Maybe for the finishing touch, she
should raise her leg and support it on the dash as she rolled the panty hose down
her calf. But the panty hose linked her legs, of course. She'd have to raise
both of them. Surely a woman could not look sexy or dignified with her legs
straight up in the air.
She leaned over instead, her small, sheer-clad
breasts brushing her thighs as she rolled the nylon down her ankle, over her
heel and off her toes. With one leg free, she could raise the other slightly,
pointing her toes to create a lovely arch in her foot as she slid the hideous
panty hose off once and for all.
Her legs were bare now, bare and tingling from
the cold and the moisture. She grazed her fingers up her calf briefly and was
grateful to notice that at least she'd shaved. Not bad at all. She'd done it.
She raised her head to finally meet his gaze
for a bold finish … and whopped her head against the dash.
"Ow!"
"Are you all right?"
His fingers slid into her hair immediately. Her
eyes stung anyway. All right? Of course she wasn't all right. His voice was
concerned and gentle, just like a damn brother's, and she didn't want another
brother! The big, stupid oaf!
She rolled back, straightening at last and
staring at him with big blue eyes that were slightly accusing.
"How is your head?" he asked gently.
"Hard as a rock," she snapped back.
His eyes widened some at her vehemence. "Okay."
But his fingers were still in her hair, not pulling away. And they were making
slow, rhythmic circles that sent a fresh rash of goose bumps down her spine.
"Umm … that helps," she murmured
weakly. Her eyes were closing, she couldn't help herself. His fingers were very
nice.
"Better?"
"A little bit more."
"Greedy, aren't you?" She heard the
lazy smile in his voice.
"I'm trying," she muttered to
herself.
But just as a fresh wave of goose bumps
fluttered through her and tightened her belly, his hand drew back. She cracked
open her eyes to find his fingers laced together safely on his lap. She looked
at those fingers, she looked at the soaked denim sculpting his hard, muscled
thighs.
And God, she was hungry. Just plain
hungry.
For the first time, she understood her mother a
little. She didn't forgive, but she began to understand.
She was shivering, shivering and shaking, and
it had nothing to do with the cold. She wanted those hands back in her hair.
She wanted to wrap her bare alabaster legs around his waist and press her high
tiny breasts against his chest. She wanted to feel his skin, she wanted to
taste it. She wanted to run her hands through his ridiculous haircut and feel
the pale stubble on his cheek rasp across her neck.
She wanted to pounce on him and attack him like
a fierce, ravenous feline. Her eyes darkened. Her flesh rippled with the goose
bumps and she felt the interior of the car heat another five degrees.
"Maggie," Cain said, his voice faint,
hoarse. "Maggie, you're covered in goose bumps."
"Yes."
"Are you cold?"
"Okay."
"Why … come sit on my lap," he said
abruptly, his jaw tight, his gaze steady. "It will conserve body heat.
It's the sensible thing to do."
"All right." She clambered up on the
seat and fell obligingly onto his rain-soaked jeans.
Immediately his arms were around her, his skin
still cold and damp, but unbelievably thrilling around her shoulders. Her
fingers dug into his forearm, steadying herself as she leaned against the hard,
unyielding wall of his chest. His thighs spread, cradling her on his lap, and
though he didn't say a word, his hands began to briskly rub her arms.
She released her breath slowly, her eyes wide
so she wouldn't miss a minute of what was happening. She was on his lap, in his
arms, and she could smell soap and rain and a faint, masculine odor that was
his alone. She wanted to sink her teeth in his neck and inhale him.
Instead, she carefully leaned her cheek against
his chest, focusing on the feel of his bare skin. Smooth. Cool and yet warm,
wet and yet vibrant. She could hear his heartbeat, thump thump, thump thump,
fast and sure as a stallion's heart.
"I can hear it," she said without
thinking. She raised her hand and splayed her fingers across his chest,
marveling at the touch, the sound, the scent. "You sound like you're
racing."
His hands began to rub her arms faster. "I
suppose." He didn't sound composed anymore. She shifted on his lap.
"My hair must be wet against your
chest," she said at last.
"It is."
"I'm sorry." She sat up instantly. He
pushed her cheek back against him just as fast.
"You're fine."
She smiled at that, definitely beginning to
make progress. If only she could get comfortable. She squirmed a bit more.
"Maggie." His voice sounded very
strange. "What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to get comfortable." She
sat up again, planting her hands on his chest and looking at him quizzically.
"I think you have something in your pocket."
His face looked very strange, as if his lips
were trying to do several motions at once. Finally, he said steadily, "I
don't have anything in my pocket, Maggie."
"Yes, you do. Something hard and
uncomfort— Oh." Her eyes got very wide.
"Oh!"
"Yes. Oh."
"Did I do that?"
His lips finally curved and he granted her a
wry smile. "You might have had something to do with it, yes."
Her face broke out into a brilliant smile.
"It was the striptease act, wasn't it? At least until I hit my head."
"You didn't have to do any act,
Maggie." His fingers cupped her head, his thumbs brushing her cheek.
"Trust me, you didn't have to do an act."
"What … what do we do now?" she
whispered earnestly, hopefully.
"I would suggest that you stop moving and
hopefully the situation will resolve itself."
She complied immediately, sitting perfectly
still with her hands frozen on his chest as she waited to see what would happen
next. After another moment, he said, "You can still breathe, Maggie, just
don't move."
"Oh." She expelled her held breath
and drew in another ragged gulp. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. It's a basic biological function,
it happens. We're two adults, sitting half-naked in a tiny car, no one around,
soft music, pitch-dark night, I haven't had sex in six years." His voice
got definitely ragged and strangled. "Maggie, I'm sorry," he said
abruptly and his hands wrapped around her waist. "You're going to have to
sit on your side of the car. I can't do this."
She looked up at him, genuinely puzzled. She
thought they were beyond all this and moving to the next step, the actual sex
part. The part she'd never done before but read a lot about. "Why
not?"
"Why not?" He drew in a deep, fierce
breath.
"Why not?
Do I look like I'm made from stone to you? Do you
think I'm so cold and remote that a half-naked woman can sit on my lap and I
feel nothing, that I remain in total control?" The words held old anger.
She recognized the sound immediately and leaned even closer to him, her breath
whispering over his throat.
"I hope not," she whispered. "I
really hope not." And then her arms curled around his neck, knocking off
his baseball cap, and everything clicked for her. She was no longer thinking of
her ancestors or her peer group or what kind of woman she wanted to be or what
kind of woman she should be. She simply responded to him, woman to man, and
recognized in herself that she'd been capable of this all along. With this man,
at this moment.
Her lips settled on his and she thought he
tasted sweet.
With a groan, his lips opened and succumbed. He
suckled her lower lip hungrily and she opened her mouth for him, pressing against
him and knowing what she wanted.
At the last minute, his hands gripped her face
fiercely. He dragged back her head until he could find her eyes. She was dazed
and hungry, already reaching for him. But his eyes were bright, deep and
compelling.
"Do you understand what you are
doing?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand I have nothing to give
you?"
"Yes."
"I don't need like other people need,
Maggie. You can't reform me, you can't save me, you can't own me. I will keep
you hostage even after this moment, but I will also definitely let you go once
we reach Idaho. You can go on your way. I will go on mine. But I am not one of
your lost causes, Maggie, understand that. I've made my choices, taken my
chances, and I'm willing to pay for them. Just don't ask me to pay for your
choices—I don't do that.
"That's the way things are," he
warned.
"All right."
"None of that is going to change because
of one moment of passion," he continued.
"I know," she said, but she thought
that he was lying. Because this
wasn't
just one moment and it would
change everything.