Revenge (58 page)

She suspected it had something to do with his wife's death. What kind of a woman was Jane Redhawk? What had happened to her? She wanted to ask, but knew her questions would be met with the same stony silence that surrounded him whenever the conversation turned too personal.

Were there other women in Sloan's life? He'd never mentioned any, but she had to remind herself she'd been with him little more than a day. It seemed like longer—like she'd known him for years—but the truth of the matter was that she knew of him but not about him. Jenner had never elaborated about his friend and she'd never asked.

Now, she had trouble picturing him living in Southern California, in the sprawling city that was L.A. He looked as if he'd be more at home riding alone on the barren range than driving along the webbing of clogged freeways, or perhaps going under cover on city streets. No, he seemed more suited to playing the part of the cowboy, with his unruly black hair, piercing eyes, rugged features and faded jeans.

“Can I get you folks anything else?” the waitress asked, startling Casey out of her reverie. She hadn't been aware that she'd been staring. At Sloan.

“This...this'll be fine,” Casey said as she eyed the platter of fresh trout, rice and broccoli that was placed in front of her.

“We'll let you know if we need anything,” Sloan added. “Thanks.” When the waitress drifted to another table, Sloan turned his attention to his steak. “What is it you want to know?”

“What?”

“About me.”

“You think I'm interested in you?” She pronged a piece of broccoli and feigned nonchalance.

“I think you're curious.”

She wanted to lie, but didn't. Why bother? It seemed as if he could nearly read her mind as it was. “I just wondered what it is that makes you tick,” she said.

He sawed off a piece of steak. “Meaning?”

“Why you do what you do.”

Chewing thoughtfully, he glanced over her shoulder as the front door opened and a rush of cold air swept through the lobby to ruffle the back of Casey's hair. “You want my life story, is that it?”

She grinned. “Well, at least a couple of chapters.”

He considered, swallowed some beer and kept eating. Whoever had entered the lobby didn't keep his interest. “What do you want to know?”

She smiled. “Where did you come from?”

“Grew up around the Warm Springs Reservation.”

“On the reservation?”

He shook his head. “Nah. My mom and dad had a house in town, not far from the sawmill where my father worked. We went to the reservation, sure, but I spent my growing years in town.”

“So how did you get this affinity for horses?”

“My grandfather had a ranch. Not much of one, really, but I didn't know it at the time. About twenty acres of dusty land with a creek slicing through it. I remember going over there on weekends. I wanted to spend all my time over there because my grandfather used to teach me how to track, hunt, fish and ride. At night, he'd smoke on the back porch and tell me stories about my heritage, something my father never talked about.”

“Why not?”

Sloan set down his fork and looked past her shoulder to the middle distance where memories of his youth seemed to pass before his eyes. “My mother's family didn't approve of her marrying a Native American, or Indian as we were called back then, so my father did his best to deny his background. He worked in the mill, bought a house in town, avoided the reservation and didn't spend any time with my grandfather.”

Casey felt sick inside. “His own father?”

“They didn't get along, which I don't suppose is all that uncommon. Look at your family.”

At the mention of Jonah, she felt a great sadness settle over her shoulders. It was true; her family would probably be what psychologists now called dysfunctional, though she hadn't heard the term except in recent years and likely wouldn't have cared while growing up. Her brother, Max, had always tried to please their demanding father, Jenner had outwardly rebelled and Casey had been frustrated in the role of Jonah McKee's special daughter. Her mother, Virginia, had held her head high despite the rumors of her husband's numerous affairs, and her grandmother, Mavis, still considered her son nearly perfect. They'd lied to each other, wounded each other and ended up not trusting each other.

“We weren't talking about my family,” she reminded him as she sliced a bite of fish and plopped it into her mouth.

“Well, there's not much more to tell about mine.” He frowned as if discussion of his parents brought back an onslaught of unwanted thoughts. “My dad worked in the sawmill in town during the day and drank too much at quitting time.” He shoved his plate aside. “It wasn't that unusual. Everyone in town stopped off for a beer after work, just like they do in Rimrock at the Black Anvil.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

He snorted a laugh. “A kid sister in Seattle. Works for a news station.”

“But you don't see her often,” Casey guessed.

“Nope.”

“Are your parents still in Warm Springs?”

He shook his head. “Dad died early. Cancer. Mom moved in with her widowed sister. She lives in Hood River. Never remarried.”

“And your grandfather?”

His smile was cold. “Dead, too. Had to sell his ranch to pay for the nursing-home bills.” He reached into his wallet and tossed a few bills onto the table. “I think that's about it for twenty questions,” he said. “Come on.”

A swarm of butterflies erupted in her stomach at the thought of spending another night alone with Sloan. Tonight they would have separate beds, though Sloan had insisted they stay in the same room as he wasn't convinced that even being a connecting door away was close enough to keep her safe.

They headed upstairs with their meager luggage, and Casey's mouth felt dry as he unlocked the hotel-room door. They entered without saying a word. Were circumstances different, Casey would have been thrilled with the antique beds and mirrors filling the old room. Completeing the picture, braided rugs were tossed over the polished wood planks of the floor.

Reflected in the windowpanes, the colored Christmas lights of the general store shone red, green and blue. Casey could easily imagine this room as an ideal spot for a romantic tryst. Except that she was here alone with Sloan and he was certain someone was following them.

She tossed her bag into the little closet, then nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard him turn the lock, cutting them off from the rest of the world.

Just the two of them. Alone. In the middle of the mountains with a blizzard raging around them and a killer stalking them.

L
ying across his bed, Sloan fingered the barrel of the shotgun and tried not to stare at Casey. She was restless, tossing and turning, messing up the covers, and he was dead tired. He hadn't slept for the better part of three days and he couldn't help fantasizing how it would feel to curl up next to her, her small body pressed tightly to his. He imagined falling asleep, breathing in the scent of her hair while listening to the steady drum of her heart.

He hadn't wanted to sleep with a woman since Jane. There had been times when he'd wanted sex, but never had he wanted that emotional commitment of spending the night with another person, waking up to see a new day begin together. With Casey, he felt differently. The urge for sex was there and he imagined that it would be hot and wild, a fevered and emotional joining unlike anything he'd ever felt before. But there would be more to the fusing of their bodies than the physical; there would be a bonding at a deeper level, a level he wasn't certain he could accept—a level that he wanted to avoid.

She made a whimpering sound and he looked up sharply, staring at her and wondering if her nightmares were of Barry White. If only he'd found her sooner, if only he hadn't followed so many false leads before he'd discovered the cabin owned by Steve Jansen, Barry's half brother. Did Steve know that White was using the cabin as his hideout? Was Steve part of the plot, White's accomplice? Or was the connection to Jansen just one of convenience?

No doubt the FBI, Rex Stone, Virginia McKee's private investigator, and Sheriff Hammond Polk were looking into Steve Jansen's relationship with his half brother.

He closed his eyes. Tomorrow. Weather permitting, he'd be rid of this mess. Not that he could just walk away. He'd already promised Jenner that he'd bring Casey back and stay on the case until all the culprits were safely behind bars. But at least she wouldn't be his sole responsibility any longer.

He glanced at her and felt an unnatural twist to his heart, almost as if he
wanted
her to be his charge. But that was crazy. Rolling off the bed, he decided to stretch his legs, and just as he'd done every hour, he walked to the door, checked the peephole, then opened the latch and surveyed the corridor. It was short; only eight doors opened off the hallway. The stairs curled up one story to the third floor and down one to the main floor. The elevator, a new addition since the old hotel was originally built, was silent. Everything was silent. Except for the wind moaning outside and the blower for the heating system wheezing, there was no noise.

He ducked back into the room and locked the door, then checked the windows, pushing aside the shade and peering through the icy glass to the street below. The snow was still falling, but seemed to have slowed a little. He checked the highway but there was no sign of a road crew. Nor did he see any would-be assassin huddled against the wind, lurking in the shadows, his malevolent gaze glued to the hotel.

Maybe Casey was right. Maybe he was paranoid. No one could have followed them through this blizzard.

She made another cry and this time it was louder. Sloan dropped the shade and turned as she flung her body from one side of the bed to the other. “No!” she yelled in a broken sob. “No! No! No!”

“Casey,” he said sharply, but she cried out again. He walked to the bed, grabbed her by the shoulders and felt her cringe beneath his touch.

“Noooo!”

“Wake up, you're dreaming.” Giving her a little shake, he saw tears flow from her eyes.

“Let me go! I want to go home!”

“Casey!” Her eyes flew open, and even in the half-light from the reflection of the snow, he saw her fear. “It's me. Sloan. You're all right. Just having a bad dream.”

Trying to pull away, she looked frantically around the room, the terror of her dream still not fading.

“You're okay,” he assured her and felt the rigid muscles in her arms relax slightly.

“Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands. “I'm sorry...it was so real...”

“Shh. It's all right,” he said, feeling her shudder as he wrapped his arms around her and she buried her face in his neck.

“It was so awful.”

“But just your imagination,” he whispered against her hair. The fragrance of lilacs tickled his nostrils. She felt so small and vulnerable, her body, usually strung as tight as a bowstring, slumped against his. She was only wearing a T-shirt and panties, and through the thin wall of his clothes he felt the tips of her breasts brush against him. Again she shuddered and he couldn't help himself; to calm her, he kissed her crown. “You're all right,” he said. “I won't let anything happen to you.”

She was warm in his arms, that snugly warmth from being under the covers, and she let out a trembling sigh. She lifted her head to look at him.

His diaphragm slammed up against his lungs, and staring into those frightened hazel eyes, he could barely breathe. Swallowing, she shoved a handful of hair away from her face and licked her lips.

It was his undoing. Without thinking of his actions or what the recriminations might be, he drew her close to him again and kissed her. Her lips were warm and soft and pliant and she let out a little moan as their mouths met.

A thousand warnings flashed through his mind.

Still, he couldn't stop himself. His arms pulled her tight against him and he kissed her with a passion he'd thought was long dead. Her body fitted perfectly against his, her bare legs brushing his jeans, her abdomen flat against his, her breasts crushed against his chest.

“No,” he said, but she still clung to him. The pounding beat of his heart was thundering through his brain; fire raced through his blood.

He pressed his tongue against her teeth and felt her open to him. Easily. Willingly. Trustingly. Her tongue mated anxiously with his, touching, exploring, causing sparks of liquid fire to spray through his blood.

His heart was pumping fast, and the rest of the world— the storm, the danger, the reward—seemed to fade. All he could do was smell her, taste her, touch her.

Her fingers were light against his back, and through his sweater he felt their soft exploration. She didn't flinch when he found the hem of her T-shirt, went under and touched her skin. Instead she moaned softly and pressed more urgently to him. His fingers inched up her ribs to cup the underside of her breast.

Still she kissed him, rubbing against him as he found her nipple and gently rolled it between his thumb and finger.

But he didn't take heed. His body was aflame with long-banked desire, his pants suddenly too tight, her body soft and willing. He yanked the T-shirt over her head and gazed down at the soft mounds of her breasts. They were small, with red-brown areolas and nipples that pointed eagerly upward. He kissed one of those rosy peaks and she bucked, yearning to be closer to him. He held her close, his fingers splaying over her spine, his fingertips feeling the ridge of bones beneath her skin and he kissed her. Leisurely, as if he were drinking his fill, he teased and suckled at her nipples, tasting of their sweetness, ignoring the fire in his loins as he laved all of her. She was anxious and hot, more than willing, and wearing only a pair of bikini briefs.

He wanted her. Desire thundered through his brain, racing in electric currents through his blood. She arched against him and he slid lower, letting his tongue trace a path from her breasts to her navel, feeling her hard, flat abdomen against his face.

“Sloan,” she cried as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of her panties and surrounded a firm buttock. “Please...oh...” He stripped the panties from her and kissed her so intimately that her hips rose from the bed, inviting more of his touch, of his kisses, of him.

He didn't know what he was doing, didn't think about the consequences. Still tasting her, he unsnapped his fly, kicked off his jeans and fumbled hastily for the foil packet he kept in his wallet buried deep in his pocket. His brain was burning and he didn't want to delay a second's pleasure.

His fingers delved into her moistness and she groaned, her hips thrusting upward, anticipating. She clung to him, wanting more, nearly begging him to take her. Closing his mind against any more recriminations, he climbed over her, pried her knees farther open with his own. Then, staring down into the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, he pushed forward and entered her swiftly, feeling only the slightest resistance, watching as her face twisted in pain and she cried out, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. He withdrew, pushed again, and she gasped.

“Casey—”

“Don't stop!” she cried, and he thrust forward, letting his animal urges take over, feeling her warm and wet and willing as she met each of his strokes with her own.

It had been so long.

He tried to wait, but couldn't, and within a few more short strokes, he poured himself into her, collapsing against her, holding her close. “Casey, Casey, Casey,” he whispered into the sweat-dampened strands of her hair. “What have you done to me?”

Casey heard the words and blinked back tears.
What have you done to me?
she asked silently, for her world had changed this night. Forever. And he didn't even know. Hadn't even bothered to take off his sweater. Rolling to one side, he held her close, one arm draped over her breasts, the other around her abdomen, pulling her spoon fashion against him.

She felt cheap and told herself it didn't matter. This wasn't the nineteenth century and she was in her late twenties—which must be some kind of record these days. She'd decided over a week ago to change her life, to become a woman and shake off the shackles of being Jonah McKee's little girl, so she wasn't going to cry, not when everything was going her way.

Exhausted, she closed her eyes. Like Scarlett, she'd worry about everything tomorrow.

She awoke later in the night and felt him kissing her back, his fingers teasing her nipples. Her entire body tingled and she didn't resist as he licked her spine, but rolled over to face him. His eyes were at half-mast as he kissed her, his moans low and primal.

His sweater was gone and his naked skin surrounded her. Flesh upon flesh. She kissed his shoulders and neck and eyes, then slid lower to press her tongue wetly against the nipples buried in the swirling hairs of his chest. Sweat dampened his skin as it dampened hers. His abdomen retracted as she traced an imaginary line with her tongue to his belly button.

“Casey, wait,” he groaned, hands twining in her hair. Pulling her upward, he kissed her and the hands caressing her explored her back, her breasts, her rump. He rolled her onto her back, and slowly, while staring at her with eyes as dark as obsidian, he parted her with his fingers, delving deep, causing a deep rumble in the back of her throat.

She arched upward, moist and hot and wanting, and he didn't deny her. This time he spread her legs, kissed her, and then he eased into her and moved slowly, back and forth, deeper and deeper. She felt the world begin to tilt and spin and she called out his name, her voice rough as she moved against him in a timeless dance. His rhythm increased and the stars behind her eyes collided in a fiery shower of sparks. Her body convulsed, and he cried out and fell atop her, spent and loving, kissing her temple and holding her close. “Casey...” He murmured her name as if it were a caress. “Oh, Casey.” Snuggling against him, she wished the night would last forever.

 

“You were a virgin?” Sloan stared at her in disbelief and she saw the condemnation in his eyes as he looked from her to the sheet.

“Does it matter?”

He ran an impatient hand through his hair. “Of course it matters.”

“Not to me.”

“Damn it, Casey, why didn't you say something?”

“Like what?” she countered, picking up her clothes and feeling a stain of embarrassment wash up her cheeks. “Excuse me, Sloan, could you stop so I can give you my complete sexual history?”

“No, but—”

“It's not that big of a deal.” She'd decided that much during the night when she'd slept nestled soundly in the warm protection of his arms, and now he was acting as if she was some kind of criminal.

“Not a big deal. Then why—”

“I never met the right man, okay?” she said quickly, then when his black eyes flashed with regret, she bit her tongue. “I—”

“Damn it all to hell!”

“Look, just forget it, okay? Pretend it didn't happen.”

“Can you?” His eyes bored into hers.

“If I have to.”

“I don't do casual sex.”

She smiled cynically. “Neither do I, and I guess I can prove it.”

“That's not what I—”

“Let's not argue about it. It's too late to change anything, anyway. I'm going to clean up.”

She tried to walk away, but he grabbed her arm, spinning her so quickly that she dropped her sweater and stood naked in front of him. He, on the other hand, had the advantage of having stepped into his jeans.