by Pamela Clare
An image of him striding naked around the cabin invaded her mind, making it impossible for her not to think about the well-developed body beneath the clothes—smooth skin marred by scars, the shifting muscles of his butt, the hard planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair that bisected his abdomen, the heavy weight of his penis and testicles.
She swallowed, pulled her robe closer around her. “H-how did you find me? How did you get in here?”
He sat back on the coffee table. “I got your address from your driver’s license when we were at the cabin. As for how I got in—let’s just say that wooden dowel will only protect you from burglars if you use it to hit them.”
The sliding glass door.
She jumped to her feet, hurried around him to the balcony door, and found it unlocked, the dowel leaning up against the glass. Her face burned, the pent-up anger, grief, and worry of the past ten days breaking loose inside her. She turned on him, found him standing right behind her. “You son of a bitch! First you hold a gun to my head and take me hostage, and now you break into my home!”
“Would you have let me in if I’d knocked?”
“Of course not! You shouldn’t be here!”
“You seemed happy enough to see me a minute ago.”
Her palm stung as it struck his cheek, the sound of the blow sharp and startling. “I thought I was still dreaming!”
His eyes glittered, hard as jade, a muscle clenching in his jaw, a red palm print visible on his cheek. When he spoke, his voice held a low note of warning. “Sophie.”
But Sophie was nowhere close to finished. Propelled by anger, she launched into him, pummeling the hard wall of his chest with her fists. “You want to hit me back? I wish you would, because then I could hate you! Besides, you can’t do anything worse to me than you’ve already done! You ruined my most precious memory by growing up to become a loser!”
He caught her wrists, jerked her against him, a dark scowl on his face. “That’s enough!”
For a moment, she glared up at him, breathless and trembling, shaken by the force of her own outburst. Had she just hit him?
His eyes narrowed, his lips curving in a slow smile. “So I’m your best memory? And you were dreaming about me?”
She realized what she’d admitted, felt her face flame. “I-I…”
And then he kissed her—or she kissed him. She couldn’t tell. One moment they were standing there, looking at each other, the next she was crushed against him, her fingers clenched in his hair, one of his hands fisted at her nape, the two of them locked in a heated kiss. But this was nothing like the sweet kiss in her dream.
It was raw, feral, almost violent.
He nipped her lower lip, licked it, thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. She bit down, then sucked. He groaned, pulled her harder against him, melding her body to his, reclaiming control, his tongue doing things to the inside of her mouth that she felt all the way to her womb. She stood on tiptoe, arched into him, answering his intensity with the force of her own need.
Lost in him, Sophie forgot that he was a wanted man, that he’d held her hostage, that he’d just broken into her home, her awareness overcome by sensation—the heat and spice of his skin, the steel-hard feel of his body, the pounding of her own heart. There were probably a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t be doing this, but right now she couldn’t think of a single one. Then his hand slipped inside her robe to cup her breast, his fingers catching her nipple—and she couldn’t think at all.
“Oh, yes!” Her knees turned to jelly, the floor tilting beneath her feet.
They stumbled backward, still kissing, and sank to the floor.
Somehow Hunt caught their fall, lowering her to the carpet, his mouth leaving hers only to find her throat. He trailed kisses down the sensitive skin beneath her ear, biting, nipping, licking. Then he shoved the silk of her robe aside, lowered his mouth to one aching nipple, and, with a hungry groan, drew it into the blazing heat of his mouth.
Sophie gasped, each tug of his lips making her belly draw tight, flooding her with arousal. She clenched her fingers in his hair, pressed his head closer, arching her back to feed him more of her. “Please, Hunt!”
Hungrily, he took what she offered, lavishing attention first on one receptive peak, then the other, flicking her with the roughness of his tongue, pulling on her with his lips, grazing her with his sharp teeth. “Jesus, Sophie, you taste good!”
He blew a cool gust of breath across her wet, distended nipples, making the nubs draw so tight they hurt.
“Oh, God!” she whimpered, impatient and aching for him, her hands feeling for his zipper, one of her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to draw him—
Her calf pressed against something hard and cold.
A gun.
He was a convict. A fugitive. A killer.
Marc felt the pressure of the Glock against his back, felt Sophie stiffen beneath him. Some part of his brain that could still think realized this wasn’t good. “Sophie, I—”
“No!” She twisted, tried to push him away. “Get off me!”
“Christ!” Marc raised himself off her and stood, testosterone pounding through his veins, his cock so hard he was surprised it didn’t split his pants. He sucked air into his lungs. “Look, Sophie. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You just broke in to say hello?” She ignored the hand he offered, stumbled to her feet and backed away from him, her arms crossed protectively across her chest. Even from six feet away he could see she was trembling.
“I came to ask for your help.”
She glared at him, a look of outraged disbelief on her face. “My help?”
How did you expect her to react, dickhead?
“Sophie, I—”
“You held a gun to my head and let me believe you were going to kill me! Now you break into my home, take advantage of me, and ask me to help you?”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or shout. “Take advantage of you? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you said ‘yes.’ Actually, I think you said, ‘Oh, yes,’ and, ‘Please, Hunt,’ and then it was just, ‘Oh, God,’ and a few ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs.’”
She glared at him, bright spots of pink in her cheeks, her coppery hair a tangled mass. She looked furious. Embarrassed. Sexy as hell. “I…I was confused.”
But Marc didn’t have the patience for this game. “Confused my ass! Was it confusion that had you grabbing for my fly? You might not want to admit it, but you still have feelings for me. You’re sexually attracted to me.”
Her expression went cold, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Whatever I feel it’s for the boy you were in high school, not the man you are now.”
Damn! Well, he’d had that coming, hadn’t he? Still, her words hit him like a second smack in the face. Something splintered in his chest, a sensation very much like emptiness settling behind his breastbone. It took him a moment to find his voice. “I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for Megan and Emily.”
“That’s not fair!”
“I don’t give a damn what’s fair! I’m trying to save my sister’s life.”
For a moment she watched him, the look in her eyes telling him to go to hell. But when she spoke, her tone was softer. “So you haven’t found them?”
He shook his head. “Not a trace.”
She glanced away, a worried look on her face, and he knew she was thinking it through, weighing the reality of the situation against her concern for Megan and Emily. A part of him wanted to use persuasion, to apply pressure by reminding her how helpless little Emily was, how vulnerable Megan was, to do all he could to influence her. But he knew the price she’d pay if she were caught, and so he kept his mouth shut.
This had to be her decision.
She met his gaze, and he could see she was still pissed off. “Helping you could constitute a felony, and I know enough about prison to know I never want to end up there.”
“Smart woman.” He bit back the other things he wanted to say, a tensio
n rising in his body that had nothing to do with his pent-up lust or her outright rejection. She was his best, surest, fastest way of getting into DOC records and finding the son of a bitch who was after Megan. If she turned him down…
“I’ll listen to what you have to say, but you’re going to have to answer my questions, too. And no promises that I’ll do anything. Got it?”
He released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Got it.”
“Just let me get dressed.” She started toward her bedroom, then turned to look back at him, her anger still palpable. “And just to be clear—what happened a few minutes ago will never happen again. I understand you must be eager to get your hands on anything female after six years of having only men to play with, but—”
Before she could say another word, he had hold of her jaw, his face a hair’s breadth from hers, rage pounding inside his skull. “Is that what you think? You think I spent the past six years fucking men?”
“I-I…” Her eyes flew wide.
“The truth is I spent the past six years protecting my own ass, and when I wasn’t looking over my shoulder, I was thinking about you!”
Her face was frozen in an expression of shock.
Stunned by his own reaction, he released her and stepped back. “Get dressed.”
She all but ran.
MARC PACED SOPHIE’S living room, furious with himself. He’d gone too far, given away too much. Worse, he’d acted like an asshole. She’d made a smart-ass comment because she was pissed off—understandable, given all that he’d done. Instead of letting it pass, he’d come unglued, grabbing her, dumping his guts, shouting in her face.
Whatever I feel it’s for the boy you were in high school, not the man you are now.
Well, there was a good reason for that, wasn’t there?
She’ll help you now for sure. Good thinking, dumbshit.
Once again, he hadn’t been thinking at all.
Christ!
He drew a deep breath, tried to slow his heartbeat, his body almost vibrating with the aftershock of his own anger. Her words had hit him where it hurt, unleashing something inside him that had taken him completely by surprise. But it wasn’t her fault. She had no way of knowing what those six years had been like—six years spent watching his back, wondering when the next attack would come, knowing that the guards would watch and laugh and do nothing.
How many times had they tried? Twenty-some-odd? He hadn’t counted. He’d fought them off every time, sent more than a few of them to the infirmary, ended up in the infirmary himself. Over the years, they’d gotten bolder, more aggressive, more violent, and he’d known it was only a matter of time before they got the best of him and turned him inside out.
Far from using another man as his piece of ass, he’d fought hard not to become one.
Why you fightin’, Hunter? Afraid it’ll hurt? Afraid you’ll like it?
Fists and feet. The flash of a shank. Searing pain. The guards’ laughter. Blood and water mingling, disappearing down the drain.
Something twisted in Marc’s gut, left him feeling short of breath, shaky, nauseated. He walked to the window, cracked it open, sucked in cold air, fighting to clear his mind.
He was out of that place. He was out. He was free.
But when the cops caught him…Christ, if they caught him…
Jesus!
He’d have to face that again.
But this time he’d be ass out, his life worth less than a pack of smokes. The guards would want him to pay for escaping and making them look like fools. They’d want revenge for what he’d done to Kramer. Hell, Kramer would be all over him. Not right away, of course. They’d throw him in solitary for a few months of meditation. Then, after he was out, they’d set him up, put a hit on him, and give him a one-way pass to the morgue.
SHAKEN, SOPHIE SAT on her bed, still in her robe, her gaze fixed on her locked bedroom door. All she had to do was grab her cell phone from its charger and dial 911. The police would arrive in a few minutes, guns drawn, and take Marc away. As a law-abiding citizen, it was her duty to turn him in. So why couldn’t she bring herself to do it?
Megan and Emily.
If she turned Marc over to the police, there was no chance that he’d ever find his sister, and Megan would be on her own, left to face anyone who might be after her without her brother’s help. And with a baby to care for, no money, and no place to live…
But even as her mind clutched at that excuse, Sophie knew it was bull. The last thing Megan needed was to be on the run with another escaped convict, especially if she was in danger. She’d be better off back in prison, where she wouldn’t have to worry about food or shelter or safety, where she could get help with her addiction, where she could try once again to rebuild her life. As for Emily—there was no doubt she’d be safer in the arms of her Mennonite foster parents than on the streets, cold and hungry.
And still Sophie couldn’t bring herself to reach for her phone.
Truth was she didn’t want to call the cops. She didn’t want to stop Hunt from finding his sister. She didn’t want to cause a confrontation that might end in his killing someone or being killed himself, especially if there was any chance that Julian would be involved. She didn’t want to be the one responsible for sending Hunt back to prison.
You think I spent the past six years fucking men? The truth is I spent the past six years protecting my own ass!
She’d never seen anyone get that angry that fast. Except that it hadn’t been anger she’d seen in his eyes. It had been…desolation, anguish, torment.
Sophie wasn’t naïve. She’d been covering prisons for four years. She knew what happened inside those walls. Most of the time it was consensual—two inmates turning to one another for sexual release and perhaps even comfort. But there were men—and women—who thrived on hurting other people. They ganged up on other inmates to beat, maim, rape.
She had known when she’d seen his scars that he’d been in at least a few prison fights. Officer Green had told her as much the day she’d gone to interview him. As a former DEA agent, Marc would certainly have been a target for violence, especially at the hand of inmates he’d helped put behind bars. But she hadn’t imagined that anyone would try to rape him.
Had they succeeded? Marc was big and physically powerful, but he wasn’t invulnerable. If he’d been outnumbered, injured, or taken by surprise…
She couldn’t stand to think about it.
She got to her feet, let her bathrobe slide to the floor, caught her reflection in the mirror that hung on her closet door. Her lips were still swollen from his kisses, the skin of her chest flushed pink, her hair a tangled mess. She looked like a woman who’d just had great sex—except for the worry in her eyes.
She raised her fingers to her lips, felt the lingering heat of his kiss. What kind of power did he hold over her body and emotions to make her respond the way she had? She’d almost had sex with him, for God’s sake!
When I wasn’t looking over my shoulder, I was thinking about you!
She hadn’t spent every day of the past twelve years thinking of him—just a lot of them. But she had measured every man she’d dated against him and found them lacking. And every so often, she’d dreamed about him.
The two of them were caught up in memories. That had to explain it. That night twelve years ago had been special for both of them, and their reaction to each other was nothing more than a messy collision of past and present. It was that simple.
It wasn’t simple at all.
That’s why you’re hiding in your bedroom, Alton. You’re afraid of him.
Yes, she was afraid of him—but not because she thought he might hurt her. Even his outburst a few minutes ago hadn’t truly frightened her. It had taken her by surprise, but she hadn’t thought for a moment that he would actually harm her.
No, she was afraid of him because of how he made her feel.
Angry with herself, she jerked open her closet door and yanked out a pair
of jeans and an old navy blue sweatshirt. She dressed quickly, then brushed her hair and braided it.
She was done hiding. She was done acting like some kind of passive victim. She was done letting him call the shots. As of this moment, she was in control of her life again, not Marc Hunter. She would ask her questions, listen to whatever he had to say, and then…
And then she would have to make a decision.
CHAPTER 11
SOPHIE SAT ACROSS from Marc at her kitchen table, doing her best to act like drinking coffee in the middle of the night with an armed murderer, who also happened to be killer-sexy and a former lover, was nothing new. Telling herself this was just another interview—deep background, off the record—she took notes while Marc told her what he’d done so far in his quest to find Megan and Emily.
He seemed to dominate the small room, his shoulders broader than the back of the chair, his long legs filling the space beneath the table, his height obvious even when he was sitting. His face was emotionless, the look in his eyes inscrutable, both contradicted by the tension that rolled off him in thick, dark waves. Although he was sitting a good four feet away from her, she could still smell him—that mix of man and spice that seemed to emanate from his skin. Or maybe his scent had rubbed off on her.
“I questioned her old friends, checked the women’s shelters and soup kitchens, cased the shooting galleries off East Colfax, even tracked down the pusher who got her pregnant, but no one—”
“You know who Emily’s father is? There’s no name on the birth certificate. I thought even Megan wasn’t sure.”
“Of course Megan knows. She wasn’t that strung out. She probably just didn’t feel like sharing that information with your readers. The guy is a dealer, an addict.” He pinned her with his gaze. “A loser.”