by Pamela Clare
Easy, Sophie. I’m not going to hurt you.
Could an act of compassion make up for cruelty?
She didn’t know.
She raised a hand to her mouth, pressed her fingers against her tingling lips. Why had she let him kiss her like that? Why had she kissed him back? And how could his kiss have affected her so much after all he’d done?
It was shock, Alton.
Or nostalgia. Or exhaustion. Or adrenaline.
She came up with a quick list of excuses, none of which appeased her conscience. All she knew for certain was that she’d never felt anything like the surge of emotion that had taken her the moment she’d realized who he really was—relief and joy and grief and anger twined so tightly that she hadn’t been able to tell them apart.
At least she knew he wouldn’t rape or kill her.
He stood, watching the fire burn, his hair hanging between his shoulder blades, the muscles of his back narrowing to his waist, his butt tight and round. How he’d stayed in that kind of shape during six years in a nine-by-nine cell was beyond her. But there was no doubt in her mind how he’d managed to pull so many strings from behind bars. He positively exuded dominance. He gave off a vibe that said, quite distinctly, “Don’t fuck with me.”
But, clearly, someone had tried. A thick scar at least six inches long curved down the left side of his back. She didn’t have to be a doctor to know it had been made with a crude and vicious weapon and that he’d come close to being killed.
He bent down and reached for the stolen backpack, giving her a brief glimpse of the body part she’d supposedly abused, scattering her thoughts.
She looked quickly away, found herself gazing around a one-room cabin. Log walls. A pine table and chairs that matched the bed. A chest of drawers. Antlers above the fireplace. One shuttered window. One door, its lock broken, a chair tucked beneath the knob to keep it from swinging open. He must have kicked it in when he’d brought her indoors. Had he carried her inside? He must have. She had no memory of arriving here.
“If you’re thinking of running, you’d best think again.” His voice startled the silence. He turned toward her, still naked, and tore into what looked like a package of long underwear. “We’re miles from anywhere, and the snowpack is almost six feet deep. You’ll exhaust yourself post-holing and will probably be dead before you reach the main road.”
She forced herself to look at his face, not the heavy planes of his chest or the silver scar near the dark circle of his right nipple or the shifting tattoos on his biceps or his six-pack or the trail of dark hair that led to…
Her mouth went dry.
And he wasn’t even hard.
Something clenched deep in her belly to think that that had once been inside her.
She jerked her gaze back to his face, hoped he hadn’t noticed, and was relieved to see he was looking down at the long johns in his hands. She swallowed—hard. “I want my clothes.”
“Forget it. They’re soaked.” He stepped into the bottoms, pulled them up, tucking himself inside, the stretchy material seeming to accentuate, rather than hide, his penis. Then he ducked down and grabbed something else from the backpack. “But if you’re done staring at my crotch, you can put these on.”
Sophie felt her cheeks burn—and got a face full of long underwear.
Pink long underwear.
“Hope you like the color.” He turned his back to her, picked up a piece of firewood, and dropped it onto the blaze. “Got it on sale.”
She pulled the stolen garments inside the sleeping bag and put them on, her mind filling with questions as it always did if given a few seconds. “Does this place belong to you?”
He gave a snort. “Are you kidding? The feds confiscated everything I owned, even before I was convicted—my house, my old Chevy, my computer. This is a vacation rental. I used to come up here with my buddies during elk season.”
“So you kill animals, too.”
“Elk make good eating. Lots of lean protein. Besides, bringing down a seven-hundred-pound animal with a hunting bow takes skill.”
“That’s very manly man of you.” She tried to mask her surprise with sarcasm. “How much skill does it take to shoot another man at point-blank range?”
He ignored her, tugged at the duct tape on his right shoulder, sucked in a sharp breath as it pulled free of the bullet wound, fresh blood trickling down his arm from a deep gash.
Irritated with herself that she should feel any sympathy for him, she said the first angry thing that came to her mind. “That wasn’t very smart, was it? You should have put a real bandage on it.”
“There wasn’t time.” He wadded the bloody tape, threw it into the corner, then met her gaze, his green eyes hard. “I had to cover it quickly so I could save your life.”
AWARE SOPHIE WAS watching him, Marc turned his attention to his bleeding shoulder. It was worse than he’d imagined. He’d only gotten a glimpse of it before he’d slapped duct tape over it, and his mind had been on something else at the time. But now, with Sophie no longer critical, he examined it and found not a graze, but a furrow. The round had carved a half-inch-deep groove through skin and muscle.
Shit.
He grabbed a bottle of water and the first-aid kit he’d stolen, sat down at the table, and washed the still-bleeding wound as best he could in the half-light of the fire. He needed stitches, but he couldn’t just stroll into the emergency room even if there’d been one nearby. No doctor could mistake this for anything other than a bullet wound, and his mug shot was probably all over the evening news. Besides, he didn’t have time to play sick. He needed to get his ass in gear. He’d already lost three precious hours stabilizing Sophie’s core temp.
Not that holding her naked body had been a chore.
You’re scum, Hunter.
Yes, he was.
He’d known the moment she’d realized who he was. She’d quit struggling, her body suddenly pliant, her blue eyes wide, a look of stunned disbelief on her sweet face. His heart had nearly broken through his chest, his pulse thundering in his ears, his brain buzzing. He’d forgotten that he was a convicted murderer and that she was his hostage. He’d forgotten the police that were on his trail. He’d forgotten what a fucked-up mess his life had become.
For a moment, it had been just the two of them—him and Sophie.
And he’d kissed her.
One taste of her, and he’d lost it. After six years of isolation, of surviving on memories, of living without human contact, feeling her beneath him, soft and female, had been more than he could take. And when she’d reacted by kissing him back…
It had been twelve years of sexual fantasies coming true in an instant.
How he’d managed to stop he didn’t know. He’d felt her stiffen, her rejection taking a moment to register through his raging hormones. It had cost him every ounce of willpower he possessed to rein himself in, to take his hands off her and crawl out of that sleeping bag. If she hadn’t demanded he stop, he would have fucked her hard and fast without sparing a single thought for cops or condoms or consequences.
His heart was still beating too fast, his groin heavy and aching, his body’s need for her overwhelming. He could still taste her, feel her breasts against his ribs, smell her—the scent of her skin, of her perfume, of her hair. And her little whimper…
At least you’ll have something new to think about once you’re back in your cell, Hunter.
Or maybe his balls would explode first.
He gave up trying to wash the blood off his arm, swabbed the wound with Betadine—and spent the better part of a minute trying not to cuss.
He had just pressed down on it with clean gauze when he heard the squeak of bedsprings and looked up to find Sophie walking unsteadily toward him, her long hair a tangled mass, a look of weary resignation on her bruised face.
“I’ll do it.”
He shook his head. “You need to stay where it’s warmest. Your body temp is still low. Get back in the sleeping bag.”
“I’m done being your obedient little captive—”
“Obedient?” He almost laughed.
“—so quit telling me what to do.”
She reached into the first-aid kit, pulled out a pair of latex gloves, and tugged them onto her hands. Then she pushed his hand out of her way and lifted the gauze square he’d been using for direct pressure, her touch striking sparks against his skin. How long had it been since another human being had touched him out of concern or by choice? The nurses in the infirmary had been paid for what little compassion they’d shown him.
Sophie didn’t flinch or say “eww,” but examined his shoulder as if caring for bullet wounds was something she did every so often between deadlines.
He’d always known she was strong.
“Well, at least the bullet didn’t lodge in your arm. I guess you can be grateful for that.”
He was. “I’m even more grateful it didn’t hit you.”
She frowned, her delicate eyebrows knitting together, and he could feel her anger. “You need stitches.”
“Probably. Too bad I left my sewing kit in my cell.”
It was hard to think with her standing close like this. The Polypro long johns fit her like they’d been painted on, every sexy curve of her body highlighted in detail—her delicate breasts, the flare of her hips, her round ass, the soft curve of her belly. He could see her belly button, a little indentation he’d love to explore with his tongue. Her nipples, with their puckered areolas and hard tips, stood out against the cloth, making him want to kiss them, taste them, tease them. He could even see the cleft that divided her labia.
“I guess I’ll have to butterfly it somehow. But we need to stop the bleeding first.” She took a clean square of gauze and pressed down hard.
He sucked in a breath, the pain helping to clear his mind.
“So are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
CHAPTER 6
MARC CONSIDERED HOW he should answer. Sophie deserved an explanation. She deserved to know why he’d done it, why she’d ended up being his hostage, why she’d just suffered one of the most traumatic days of her life. But she was a reporter. Anything he told her would go straight to the cops—and to the press. The less they knew, the better for Megan and Emily.
“I’m guessing this has to do with Megan—at least I hope it does.” She lifted the gauze to check for bleeding, then pressed it down again. “I’d be pretty upset if all of this drama and mayhem were just a case of lockdown ennui—some kind of lifer’s joyride.”
He looked up at her, saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, the bruises, the exhaustion and emotional strain. He’d done that to her. “You think I’d do this for kicks?”
“Then why did you do it? Wait—let me guess. You could tell me, but then you’d have to kill me, right?”
He hesitated. “Megan’s running from someone, Sophie.”
“Yeah. Social Services and the police.”
“No, I mean she’s really running—for her life. She needs my help.”
“Hold this.” Sophie took his hand, guided it to the patch of gauze, then took a small pair of scissors from the first-aid kit and started cutting a piece of duct tape into little strips. “Who would want to hurt Megan?”
“If I knew that, he’d be dead.”
It was the truth, and not even the shocked look on Sophie’s face could change it.
“You’re pretty casual about this murder stuff, aren’t you?” She stuck the tape strips on the edge of the table one by one as she cut them. “You shot John Cross three times point-blank in the chest—a bit excessive, don’t you think?”
Marc ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “He raped Megan.”
She stared at him, scissors motionless in her hand. “What?”
“Promise you won’t print this in your paper.”
She hesitated. “Okay. Off the record.”
“He raped Megan repeatedly when she was locked up at Denver Juvenile. He was a guard. She was fifteen. If I’m right, she’s running from the man who helped him—his accomplice.”
For a moment, Sophie watched him in silence, those eyes of hers seeming to measure him, then she set the scissors aside. “Lift the gauze out of the way.”
Marc did as she’d asked and saw that the bleeding had slowed to an ooze.
“This will probably hurt.” She pinched the edges of the wound together, then stretched strips of duct tape over them to hold them in place.
It did hurt, but being close to her was like a drug. “It’s not bad.”
“This isn’t sterile, but I don’t know what else to do. If you keep it clean, disinfect it every day—” There was genuine worry on her face. How could she care about him after what he’d done today?
“It’ll be fine.”
She finished quickly, covering the improvised butterfly bandage with thick squares of gauze and taping the gauze in place. “That ought to last for a while.”
Marc flexed his arm, shrugged his shoulder. The bandage held. “Thanks.”
“If you thought Megan’s life was in danger, why didn’t you tell the DOC and have them go to the police?” She pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the corner.
He gave a snort. “Come on, Sophie. You know better than that. Even if the good folks at DOC had believed me, do you think they’d have gone to the cops to report one of their own, especially since I have no idea who he is? Besides, if the bastard was once a CO, he’s probably still working in law enforcement somewhere. The last thing I wanted to do was give away what I know or lead him to my sister.”
“You know where Megan is?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She took a step, swayed on her feet.
Marc caught her around her waist as her knees gave. “You should’ve stayed in the sleeping bag. You’re shivering again.”
She tried to shrug him off. “Let go of me.”
“And let you fall on the floor? Not a chance.” He guided her to the bed and helped her get back into the sleeping bag, irritated with himself for accepting her help. Was he so desperate for human contact that he’d let her endanger herself?
He didn’t want to know the answer.
“Don’t fall asleep. I’ll make more coffee.”
Sophie watched Marc while he poured coffee grounds and bottled water into a small aluminum coffeepot and set it on the edge of the fire, her mind reeling, struggling to make sense of everything he’d told her.
You’re a journalist, Alton. Think!
She took a steadying breath, tried to break down what he’d said the way she would in a complicated interview. Marc admitted to killing John Cross and alleged that Cross, with the help of an accomplice, had repeatedly raped Megan when she’d been in juvenile detention. He claimed it was some kind of threat from this unknown accomplice that had driven Megan to take Emily and run. He said that he’d broken out of prison to help his sister.
Was there any chance that a single word of it was true?
Well, he’d murdered Cross. That much was certain. And Megan had spent time in Denver Juvenile, though she’d never said anything about being raped when Sophie had interviewed her. Then again, rape wasn’t a topic most women felt comfortable discussing with the press, and Megan was more emotionally fragile than most women. And although Sophie couldn’t imagine a CO getting away with repeated acts of rape, she knew abuses did happen.
Hunt’s story wasn’t probable, but it was possible.
And then it hit her. “You never really wanted to be interviewed, did you?”
“No.” He turned away from the fire, pulled a pair of blue jeans out of the backpack, and bit off the tag. Then he stepped into them and pulled them over his long johns. “You’d been interviewing Megan and seemed to care about her. I knew you’d come.”
“So the interview was just a pretext for luring me down there, for getting yourself out of the maximum security wing and into a less guarded part of the facility. It was just a way of getting your hand
s on a hostage and nothing personal.”
He met her gaze, zipped his fly. “Nothing personal.”
She wasn’t sure whether she should feel relieved, angry, or hurt. “Well, I sure fell for it, didn’t I? Stupid me.”
“You’re not stupid.” He pulled a black turtleneck over his head and tucked it inside his jeans.
“I’ve never gotten approval for an interview from DOC that fast. I should have known something was screwy. You must be pretty connected on the inside. Maybe you can make this up to me by using your influence to get me an interview with someone who does want to talk—after they catch you and let you out of solitary, that is.”
“If they catch me, they’ll probably bring me back in a body bag.”
Hearing him speak so nonchalantly about being killed jarred her, made her temper spike. “How can you joke about that?”
“I’m not joking. I’d be dead right now if someone had been a better shot.”
Sophie remembered the crack of the rifle and the explosion of gunfire that had followed. At the time she’d been sorry they’d missed. And now?
She shivered. “Can you tell me one thing?”
“Maybe.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze straight on. “Would you have pulled the trigger if things hadn’t gone the way you’d planned? Would you have killed me?”
He shook his head. “No. Never.”
She let out a shaky breath. “So what happens now?”
“I get my shit together and get out of here. Once I’m away, I’ll contact the cops and give them your location. You’ll be back in Denver before sunrise.”
She pulled the sleeping bag up to her chin and watched as he finished dressing for the outdoors and organized his gear. Wearing normal clothes instead of prison orange, he no longer looked like a dangerous convict, but a dangerously sexy man—an outdoorsy type, the kind who climbed mountains, skied black diamonds, and thought Class IV rapids were fun.
He walked back to the fireplace, filled a little metal cup with coffee, and carried it over to her. “Drink, but be careful. The cup is aluminum, so it’s hot.”