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Killian's Passion
Barbara McCauley
THE MILLIONAIRE'S MISSION Killian Shawnessy was arrogant, imposing… and worth a bundle. And it was up to feisty Cara Sinclair to deliver the brooding heir to his long-lost family. Yet after locating the mysterious millionaire, Cara discovered the sexy loner's true passion did not lie in his secret fortune. What he really desired was… her!In Killian's strong embrace, Cara's long-repressed desires were met… and mastered. Yet too soon she realized her dream lover's mind wasn't on marriage - but on a hush-hush mission he'd sworn to fulfill. Could Cara prove to Killian the power of love… before their hourglass ran out?A hidden passion, a hidden child, a hidden fortune. Revel in the unveiling of these powerful, passionate… SECRETS!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u74e83be3-94bb-52b7-baed-2b123f4a984b)
Excerpt (#u6e2dfe7a-9cfd-5fe0-a472-3978e86ae7e7)
Dear Reader (#ud543c2aa-17f8-5169-ab69-a35671c9734b)
Title Page (#ub6e10604-671f-5aa0-8feb-dd7f3f274614)
About The Author (#u69366621-cf4f-529f-b253-22e954c40ad0)
Dedication (#ub3f024e7-d56a-58e4-840d-c513138c22ce)
Chapter One (#u9d4f9f35-de12-5235-965d-2095da320fc4)
Chapter Two (#u71955385-1147-5ab9-88c7-4e85482c6415)
Chapter Three (#u01a212e7-f567-55ae-9521-edbf40ee710b)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Mr. Shawnessy, Would You Please
Remove Yourself From This
Room?” Cara Asked Tightly.
Killian leaned close, and she felt his warm breath fan over her cheek. “Call me sweetheart, and I’ll leave.”
He was playing a game with her, Cara knew that. And as much as she wanted to kill him for it, she also found it exciting, like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She stood naked, with only a towel separating her from this stranger, a man she’d never laid eyes on until a few hours ago. Her heart pounded furiously; she could barely catch her breath.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, still refusing to break contact with his eyes.
Immediately she wanted to snatch the single word back. The amusement she’d seen in his eyes only moments ago darkened to something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something primitive.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Silhouette Desire—where you’re guaranteed powerful, passionate and provocative love stories that feature rugged heroes and spirited heroines who experience the full emotional intensity of falling in love!
Wonderful and ever-popular Annette Broadrick brings us September’s MAN OF THE MONTH with Lean, Mean & Lonesome. Watch as a tough loner returns home to face the woman he walked away from but never forgot.
Our exciting continuity series TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB continues with Cinderella’s Tycoon by Caroline Cross. Charismatic CEO Sterling Churchill marries a shy librarian pregnant with his sperm-bank baby—and finds love.
Proposition: Marriage is what rising star Eileen Wilks offers when the girl-next-door comes alive in the arms of an alpha hero. Beloved romance author Fayrene Preston makes her Desire debut with The Barons of Texas: Tess, featuring a beautiful heiress who falls in love with a sexy stranger. The popular theme BACHELORS & BABIES returns to Desire with Metsy Hingle’s Dad in Demand. And Barbara McCauley’s miniseries SECRETS! continues with the dramatic story of a mysterious millionaire in Killian’s Passion.
So make a commitment to sensual love—treat yourself to all six September love stories from Silhouette Desire!
Enjoy!
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Killian’s Passion
Barbara McCauley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
BARBARA McCAULEY
was born and raised in California and has spent a good portion of her life exploring the mountains, beaches and deserts so abundant there. The youngest of five children, she grew up in a small house, and her only chance for a moment alone was to sneak into the backyard with a book and quietly hide away.
With two children of her own now and a busy household, she still finds herself slipping away to enjoy a good novel. A daydreamer and incurable romantic, she says writing has fulfilled her most incredible dream of all—breathing life into the people in her mind and making them real. She has one loud and demanding Amazon parrot named Fred and a German shepherd named Max. When she can manage the time, she loves to sink her hands into fresh-turned soil and make things grow.
To my daughter, Teri, who always reminds me to keep
my priorities straight. I love you, sweetheart.
One (#ulink_632577fd-8b52-55f7-9f2e-0ea06f5dde7c)
Damn woman.
Killian Shawnessy’s patience ran out at exactly 5:52 p.m. He’d already given up the idea of fishing today. The lake had turned choppy, and storm clouds were swelling on the horizon. It was also so blasted hot and humid he thought he was in a steam bath instead of a Texas mountain cabin.
Leaning against the cabin porch rail, he tossed back the last of a cold beer, wiped at the sweat on his brow, then frowned darkly at a clump of tall cattails on the other side of the lake where the fool woman was hiding.
He had no idea who the Peeping Thomasina was, or why she’d been watching him with binoculars for the past three hours. It was possible that Jordan had sent someone; Ian wouldn’t put it past the woman, even though she’d sworn not to bother him for two weeks if he took the Cairo assignment.
But a promise didn’t mean a rat’s behind to his boss, Ian knew. In the first two days alone, she’d already called four times. Yesterday Ian had simply unplugged the phone.
Which might explain the woman watching him, he thought with a scowl.
He’d only caught a glimpse of her when he’d checked her out with his own binoculars from inside the house. Slender, blond, on the tall side, maybe around five foot eight or nine. Dressed in boots and khakis and definitely inexperienced in the art of surveillance.
She wouldn’t last long out there. Between the heat and the humidity and the approaching storm, she’d be gone within the hour. If she wasn’t, the mosquitoes would be coming out for supper and they’d simply carry her off.
He didn’t much give a damn. He still had eleven blissful days that he didn’t have to report or answer to anyone. He’d come back to his hometown of Wolf River to see Nick Santos get married, and that was what he intended to do.
That was all he intended to do, other than fish, consume beer and watch spiders build webs.
A slight movement in the cattails caught his attention. Maybe Jordan needed a message sent back to her, Ian thought with a frown. And maybe this woman was the one to carry it.
At the first low rumble of thunder, Cara Sinclair knew she was in trouble. It wasn’t bad enough that it was so hot and humid her eyeballs were melting. Now it had to go and rain, too. And based on the size of the black clouds crowding the once-blue sky, and the smell of the storm in the air, it was going to be a whopper.
Great, just great. She lowered her binoculars and wiped at the sheet of moisture on her forehead, then blinked to clear her eyes. So much for the glamorous job of a private investigator.
Not that she was into glamour; she would hardly be lying in a thicket of cattails wearing camouflage overalls if elegance and high fashion were her style. Big diamonds and fancy clothes were for the uptown debutantes of Philadelphia society, not for a girl from a small town like Bloomfield County. She’d take a baseball game over the ballet anyday, Cara thought, lifting the binoculars once again.
Now where had Mr. Killian Shawnessy disappeared to?
Focusing the binoculars, she scanned the porch he’d been sitting on for most of the afternoon. He must have gone back into the cabin, probably for another beer, Cara decided. It was certainly hot enough, and though she’d never acquired the taste herself, on a day like today, anything cold and bubbly would be welcome. She stared at the lake, fantasized about jumping into the cool water, then sighed and concentrated on the job at hand.
At least if she had to lie in these rough, itchy weeds in this miserable gray heat and watch someone, she had a good subject. Killian Shawnessy definitely fit into the category of superhunk. Tall, thick black hair, strong square jaw. A face that was a combination of construction-workerrugged and magazine-cover handsome. Those long legs of his filled out a pair of jeans like nobody’s business; that broad chest and muscular arms under the chambray shirt he wore were enough to make a girl’s heart skip a beat or two in appreciation. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but she’d bet her brand-new-not-even-paid-for-yet 500 mm zoom lens that they were brown. Dark brown.
Not that she intended to get close enough to find out. Not yet, anyway. For now she simply needed to take a few pictures and watch him for a couple of days, then report back to Margaret.
And based on how friendly and talkative the people of Wolf River were, she’d have plenty to report.
Tracy Simpson, a fence-post-thin brunette working the cash register at the Stop N Shop in town, had turned into a regular Chatty Cathy this morning when Cara casually mentioned the name Killian Shawnessy.
“You know Ian?” Surprise lifted Tracy’s heavily lined eyebrows.
Cara shrugged and started to browse through a display of paperbacks beside the counter. “A friend of a friend. Said if I was passing through here to say hi.”
“Must be your lucky day,” Tracy said with amazement. “Ian’s been gone nearly fourteen years, but showed up three days ago. Is that a coincidence or what?”
“Incredible.” Cara could hardly tell the woman she’d followed Ian here from Washington, D.C. “Back to visit his folks?”
“Ian’s got no folks, unless you count Esther Matthews. She was his foster ma for a spell, but she passed on a couple years back. Ian’s here for Nick Santos and Maggie Smith’s wedding next week.”
“Nick Santos?” Cara glanced up from the mystery novel she’d been eyeing. “That wouldn’t be the Nick Santos, would it, as in Three-Time National Champion Motorcycle Racer?”
“One and the same,” Tracy chirped brightly. “Don’t that beat all, a celebrity like Nick Santos living right here in Wolf River?”
It sure did, Cara thought, and added the mystery novel to the bottled water and chocolate bar she’d already set on the counter. She’d been a Nick Santos fan ever since her brother Gabe had taken her to her first race when she was seventeen. More than one woman’s heart had been broken when Santos retired from racing.
Miniature silver cowboy boots dangled at Tracy’s ears as she rang up the order. “Nick and Lucas Blackhawk were the closest thing to a family that Ian ever got, him being abandoned as a baby and all. Those three boys were tight as Old Lady Appleby’s hair bun. Hey, you want some dried apricots? We got them on special today. Two packages for a dollar.”
“Sure, I’ll take four.” Anything to keep the woman talking. Especially about Ian. “You say Ian was abandoned?”
“Right on the church steps, was the story I heard growing up. But then, there were lots of stories about Ian Shawnessy, especially when he got old enough to buckle his own belt.” Tracy gave a wicked wink. “If you know what I mean.”
Cara had a pretty good idea, but she’d rather not go there. “So he’s staying with Nick until the wedding?” she asked nonchalantly, sliding a box of cheese crackers across the counter.
“Shoot, no. He’s got himself holed up in one of Harper Whitman’s rental cabins up at Silver Tree Lake. He came in here three days ago and bought enough food to feed a small country, so I reckon he’s staying a spell.”
Using one long red nail, the brunette punched in the cracker price on the cash register. “Thought I might be neighborly and check up on him in a day or two, see if he has everything he needs up there. That’ll be twelve-ohfive.”
Cara’s next trip to the real estate and recreational rental office across the street proved to be another warehouse of information, as well. Beverly Patterson, the apple-cheeked, gray-haired office manager, pleasantly informed Cara that there were indeed rentals still available by Silver Tree Lake.
“Are there other cabins rented?” Cara gave Beverly what she hoped was a timid look. “I don’t mean to be nosy, it’s just that being a woman up there alone and all, well, I thought I might feel safer knowing who else was around.”
“A woman can’t be too careful.” Beverly nodded in understanding. “But don’t you worry, dear. There’s a couple on their honeymoon just checked into cabin six at the farthest end of the lake, and Ian Shawnessy’s in cabin three. I’ll put you in cabin four right next to him.”
“Ian?” Cara’s insides did a tap dance, but she kept her voice tiny and her expression worried. “Is he someone you know?”
“Land sakes,” Beverly said with a flip of her hand, “everyone in Wolf River knows Ian. But don’t you go listening to any stories about him. Just kicked up a little dust before he went off to join the Army, that’s all, and that trouble twenty years ago with Hank Thompson was never deserved. Some folks just don’t have the good sense to let go of an old bone. Ian Shawnessy is a fine boy. You have any problems up there, you just give him a holler.”
Cara was about to ask what the trouble with Hank Thompson had been when the bell over the office door jangled. Two men dressed in fishing gear—one stocky, with silver hair, and one slender, younger, with a blond crew cut—came through the door.
“I’ll be right with you gentlemen.” Beverly smiled at the men, then turned back to Cara and slid a key across the counter. “All the cabins have phones, dear. If you need anything, just give a call.”
She made a quick trip to the market, then found the road off the main highway that led to Silver Tree Lake. The twolane road was narrow and wound upward through thick dogwood and pines. Twenty minutes later she’d unloaded her groceries and gear from her Jeep into her cabin, zipped on her overalls and grabbed her backpack.
Piece of cake, she’d thought when she’d settled herself into the tall weeds across the lake and found her man lazing on the front porch of his cabin. She snapped a roll of pictures, munched on dried apricots and crackers and replayed Casablanca in her mind to pass the time.
But as the heat settled in and the humidity rose steadily over the next three hours, that piece of cake began to quickly crumble.
When the first big drop of rain hit her on the cheek, the cake all but dissolved. The next drop splashed on her nose at the same time thunder rumbled the ground and lightning zigzagged across the dark sky. Cara might be the first one to admit she’d done a lot of foolish things, but never stupid. She at least knew enough to get out of a lightning storm. Tomorrow was always another day, as the saying went.
Tossing her binoculars into her backpack, she rose on her hands and knees and started to crawl backward out of the thick cattails.
And froze when she hit something very solid.
And very human.
Slowly she glanced over her shoulder, then swallowed hard at the sight of one Killian Shawnessy towering over her.
“Hi, there.” He stared down at her; the tight smile on his mouth did not reach his narrowed eyes.
She opened her mouth to respond, but the only sound that came out was a whoosh of air when he lunged, then neatly flipped her onto her back and pinned her down. Even in this suddenly embarrassing and demeaning situation, Cara had to admit that he was good.
Damn good.
Nonetheless, he was also a man. And with him lying on top of her like he was, he was almost in perfect alignment for her best and most effective move, a move that would have him singing soprano for days.
Adrenaline pumped wildly through her blood, but despite her finely honed instinct to slam her knee upward, she clenched her teeth together and resisted. She didn’t come here to hurt him, after all.
“You wanna tell me why you’ve been spying on me all afternoon?” he asked smoothly.
She forced her heartbeat to slow down and struggled to concentrate on his face rather than the press of his hard body against hers. His expression was calm, but his jaw was set tight, his eyes as sharp and focused as a cat with a mouse under its paw. What a strange time to notice that his eyes were brown, as she’d guessed. Deep, dark brown, with a black ring around the iris.
Eyes like Margaret Muldoon’s.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” She feigned indignation and made a pitiful attempt to pull away from his grip. She’d always found it to her advantage to pretend weakness until her opponent was off guard and the time was right. “Get off me.”
To her annoyance, his large hands tightened their hold on her wrists. He leaned closer, his broad chest pressing her down into the cattails. Sweat dripped down his throat and disappeared into the open collar of his shirt. The scent of hot skin and pure masculinity clung to him.
“I asked you a question, Blondie. I want an answer. Now.”
Blast it, if the man wasn’t solid muscle and outweighed her by at least seventy pounds. But what she lacked in strength she always made up for in endurance and timing, both of which were on her side at the moment. She didn’t want to hurt him, but if he didn’t let go of her soon, her pride would insist on taking over. Especially after the Blondie crack. Lord, how she hated those obnoxious little names men gave women.
What had been a heavy sprinkle of rain gradually increased, and Cara blinked the drops out of her eyes. “Look, buster—” she chose her own annoying little name for him “—this isn’t private property and I’m not trespassing. I’m renting the next cabin down, and I was just taking in a little scenery while I’m on vacation, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Is that so?” He scanned the length of her. “You always take in the landscape on your stomach with binoculars?”
“I’m a bird watcher. Last I heard there’s no law against that.”
One shock of dark hair fell over his damp forehead as he considered her answer. “What bird?”
“What bird?” What bird…what bird… Damn. She knew nothing about birds.
Impatience deepened his frown. “What bird have you been watching for the past three hours?”
“Oh. A three-toed, yellow-rumped sapsucker. It’s nesting in that Douglas fir twenty yards off your cabin. Very rare.” She prayed there was a bird up there. Any bird, or something that even remotely resembled a nest.
“Is that right?” He lifted his gaze to the thick grove of trees and stared. “Three-toed sapsucker, huh?”
“Yellow-rumped,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Now get off me.”
The weight of his body matched the heavy gaze he dropped back down to her. The lines on his face were hard, angular, like his body, and the intensity of his narrowed gaze made her breath catch.
He shook his head slowly. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, sweetheart. It’s your choice.”
She didn’t know what he meant by this, but she had no intention of doing anything with this jerk. She let her body go slack and turned her head away, as if she were acquiescing to him.
“All right.” She dragged in a shuddering, pathetic breath. “I guess we’ll do it—” her knee came up hard and fast and right on target “—the hard way.”
Ian sucked in his breath as the first blast of pain ripped through the lower half of his body. Stars exploded in front of his eyes as a wave of nausea washed over him. Her voice had sounded so weak and frightened that he’d let his guard down for one, sympathetic moment. A moment he was now paying for dearly.
“Now get off me!,” he heard the woman yell through the sea of agony he was drowning in.
He’d collapsed on top of her, and she shoved furiously at his chest. Even if he’d wanted to, he hadn’t the strength to move. He’d been annoyed before, but now he was downright mad. She was definitely going to pay for this, and so was Jordan. Big-time.
He gulped in a deep lungful of air, swore heatedly on the exhale. Her clawed fingers were plowing toward his face when he caught her wrists just in time. Using one hand, he pinned her hands over her head again. With his other hand he reached behind him and pulled out the rope he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans before he’d left the cabin.
Her big green eyes widened at the sight of the rope, and for the first time he saw fear there. He’d been careful not to hurt her before, but that was before she set the rules between them, or rather, eliminated the rules. He wasn’t taking any more chances with this one, and if she got roughed up, that was her choice.
She bucked under him like a crazed bronco.
“Did I ever tell you I spent six months working a cattle ranch?” He had her hands wrapped and tied in two seconds, then moved to her kicking feet. Two more seconds and they were bound, as well. “They called me Flash.”
Her eyes spit green fire while she called him a few names of her own. Lightning punctuated one especially rude exclamation she shot at him; thunder drowned out the next. If nothing else, Ian noted, she certainly was creative with her expletives.
With another loud crack of thunder, the sky opened up on them.
The cattails bowed under the driving force of the hot rain; the lake turned gray and frothy. Lifting his head, Ian cursed at the sky; the rain blasted him with the force of liquid bullets.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
He swiped at his face and stared back at the hog-tied woman. He’d planned on leaving her out here to stew for a while, but in this weather, she’d end up shish-kebab if a lightning bolt zapped her. When the heel of her boot caught his knee he grunted sharply, considered dumping her into the lake, then swore again as he bent and flung her over his shoulder. She gave a loud ommph, and he was momentarily blessed with her silence while she gasped for breath.
Her wiggling body was slender but firm under her overalls, her legs long and powerful. Any other time, any other place, he would have appreciated those attributes in a woman. Her knee caught his chin and slammed his teeth together, reminding him this was definitely not any other time or place. He stilled her thrashing with a none-toogentle grip around her knees.
“I believe a little gratitude is in order here, Blondie.” He quickly scooped up her backpack before she could knee him again. “If I left you out here, you’d either be a crispy critter or drowned, probably both.”
She expressed her gratitude with a fresh and imaginative onslaught of opinions of him and what she intended to do to him at the first opportunity. He winced at one especially descriptive suggestion and decided he had better make certain she never had the chance.
Lightning speared a tree fifty feet away, exploding a huge branch. The woman miraculously ceased struggling. The air crackled with electricity and the scent of burned pine.
“Would you quit lollygagging and get us inside?” she yelled over the storm and kicked him, only this time he knew it was to hurry him up. Annoyed, but just as eager as she was to get out of the storm, he ran back around the lake, bouncing her the entire way. It wasn’t an easy ride, but it was a fast one.
They were both soaking wet by the time he kicked the cabin door shut behind him. He dumped the woman unceremoniously on the hardwood floor in front of the unlit rock fireplace and stood over her. With her ponytail plastered to her head and her drenched overalls, the term drowned rat came to mind. She sat in a spreading pool of water, fury darkening her moss-green eyes.
He glared at her. She glared right back.
“Untie me,” she demanded.
“�Fraid not.” He dragged his hands through his dripping wet hair, then scraped the rain off his face. “Not until I get some answers.”
“Mrs. Patterson is going to hear about this,” she sputtered at him through the water dripping down her face.
“Mrs. Patterson?” He lifted one brow. “As in Beverly Patterson at the real estate office?”
“That’s right. When she rented me the cabin next to yours she said I’d be safe up here, and that you were a fine boy I could trust. She obviously doesn’t know you like to tie women up for sport and kidnap them.”
“For a woman who’s been tied up and kidnapped,” he said dryly, “you’ve got quite a mouth on you. Maybe you like that sort of thing.”
She swung her heavy boot out at him, and he yelped when she made contact with his shin. He jumped away as she drew back for a second blow. Narrowing his eyes to fierce slits, he rubbed at his leg and growled at her. “I had no intention of hurting you. At least, I didn’t, but you certainly know how to change a man’s mind.”
When she lifted her chin and pointed it indignantly at him, Ian couldn’t help but notice the delicate shape of her face; her cheekbones were high, her skin smooth, her lips wide and lush. Too bad that gorgeous mouth of hers didn’t know when to quit.
“You don’t scare me.” She tossed back her head. “I have four brothers, every one of them mean as a rattlesnake and big as a Mack truck. They’ll hunt you down, and when they’re done with you, folks will be calling you Jigsaw instead of Flash.”
In spite of himself, he almost laughed. He had to admire her spunk, especially considering which side of those ropes she was on. He wasn’t sure if she was lying about the brothers, but he was damn certain she was fibbing about why she was up here in the mountains.
He picked up her backpack that he’d dropped on the floor beside her. “Well now, what have we here.” He smiled at her. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
“That’s my personal property, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of it,” she threatened, but he caught the edge of distress in her voice.
“Blondie, if I knew what was good for me, I’d have left you tied up in the cattails.”
As if to punctuate his statement, thunder rattled the cabin’s windows and rain pounded the roof. They’d brought the scent of the storm in with them, and the air inside the small cabin was as thick as it was hot.
Her jaw clamped tight as he snapped open the backpack. “Nice camera.” He pulled out an expensive 35mm Nikon and gave a soft whistle of appreciation. “You could take pictures of moon craters with this baby.”
“I’m a photographer for a nature magazine. I need a powerful lens.”
“Then I’m sure all this film—” he ignored her gasp when he rewound the film, then popped open the camera case “—has pictures of yellow-rumped sapsuckers and furry little critters, right? There’s a one-hour in town. How �bout I take them in for you and develop them?”
“How �bout you eat dirt and die?” she said sweetly.
Despite the foul mood she’d put him in, he grinned at her, then turned his attention back to her bag. He pulled out a small, brown leather wallet and flipped it open. “Let’s see if you have a name other than Blondie. Ah, here it is. Sinclair.” He held up her driver’s license. “Cara Sinclair.” He glanced up sharply. “Philadelphia?”
She said nothing, just shot poison arrows at him while water dripped off her pert little nose. Jordan didn’t have any agents in Philadelphia that Ian knew of. And there would be no reason for his boss to pull an agent out of their own jurisdiction for a simple, surveillance. He stared at the woman, wondered for one brief, horrible second if he might have made a mistake.
No. She was lying, all right. He might be wrong about her being an agent, but he wasn’t wrong about the fact that she was lying through her perfectly straight, beautifully white teeth.
So why the hell had she been watching him, then?
Her driver’s license appeared authentic; he could spot a fake from ten meters. It certainly described her accurately. Five foot eight, blond. Green eyes, 125 pounds, though it was hard to tell under the heavy overalls she had on. She was twenty-six and lived in an apartment on Brooks Avenue in Philadelphia. Nothing ominous, nothing suspicious.
Ian ignored her continued protests while he flipped through the rest of her gear. Binoculars, bottled water, a package of dried apricots, three rolls of film. Nothing to link her to Jordan or any government agency, but nothing that confirmed her story about working for a nature magazine, either.
“If you’re through,” she said with enough ice in her voice to slice ten degrees off the heat in the room, “you can untie these ropes now.”
If the southern section of his anatomy weren’t still aching from contact with her knee, and his shin wasn’t throbbing from that kiss from her boot, Ian would have appreciated the woman’s nerve. Even tied up, soaking wet, she made demands with the air of an aristocrat.
Tossing the backpack onto the worn leather couch facing the fireplace, he hunkered down beside the woman, draping one arm casually over his knee while he studied his prey. Chin lifted, she stared right back, her eyes shooting green lightning bolts that matched the ferocity of the storm outside.
He leaned in close, brought his face within an inch of hers and caught the scent of raspberry drifting from her wet hair. “I’ll make you a deal, Miss Sinclair. You tell me the truth, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you go.”
“I’ll make you a deal, Shawnessy,” she purred back. “You let me go, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you live.”
He chuckled, actually enjoying himself for the first time since this pain-in-the-butt had shown up. His laughter was cut short by the sudden pounding on his front door. The woman’s eyes opened wide, then her mouth as she sucked in air to call out. He did the easiest and fastest thing he could do to shut her up.
He kissed her.
Two (#ulink_56731bde-609e-5e88-9677-14f3b9f61787)
Nothing could have possibly defused Cara more than the slam of Ian’s mouth against hers. She’d drawn in a breath the same second his lips smothered hers, and her lungs held the air in stunned suspension. Her heart smashed against her ribs, once, twice, and still he didn’t stop, only deepened the pressure with his strong, hard lips while he scooped her up in his arms.
She should bite him—pride and instinct both told her to—but she didn’t. She couldn’t. All she could do was…nothing. She had the most frustrating and infuriating urge to draw him closer still, but with her hands tied that was hardly possible.
There was no passion in his kiss, no sense of need or desire, but there was heat. A consuming, toe-curling, bonemelting fire that spread through her blood even as her mind screamed that she was an idiot. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before, and she had no defenses prepared for it, no protection.
He carried her somewhere, but she didn’t even care where. His chest was solid and warm against her, his arms strong and muscular. They were both soaking wet, and it felt as if steam were rising from their skin and clothes. Clothes that suddenly felt tight and uncomfortable. His mouth stayed steady on hers, never letting up, and she felt as if she were drowning in the taste of him, something dark and heady and overwhelmingly masculine.
He made a sound deep in his throat, and she couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or pleasure. He swung her sideways through a doorway, and for the briefest moment, so fleeting she wasn’t certain if she imagined it, she felt his tongue sweep over her lips.
Her senses were still spinning when he dumped her unceremoniously into a bathtub. She heard a man’s voice call Ian’s name, and the sound snapped her out of her trance. She blinked twice and swung an elbow at his face, catching him in his bottom lip. His head snapped back and he swore, then grabbed a sock from a sports bag sitting beside the tub and shoved it into her mouth. A hand towel came next, and he secured it over her mouth with a knot at the base of her head.
Furious, she shook her head and screamed into the gag, praying the sock was clean while she plotted his demise. It was going to be slow and painful. Her only satisfaction at the moment was the blood oozing from his lip where she’d whacked him with her elbow. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, scowled when he saw the blood, then rose and pointed a warning finger at her.
“I’m going to get rid of whoever that is. So help me, if you make one sound, I promise you that you’ll be sorry.”
She was already sorry, but she recognized that tone in his voice. She’d heard it often enough in her brothers’, when they’d been pushed to the edge of their tolerance. And since—for the moment—he obviously had the upper hand, she could be patient.
She still had a trick or two up her sleeve for Mr. Killian Shawnessy.
“You deaf or something?” Nick Santos, wearing a torn, sleeveless white T-shirt and faded jeans, strolled past Ian when he threw open the door. “I’ve been knocking out here for five minutes. How come your door’s locked, anyway?”
“To keep bums like you out.” Ian held his breath while he kept one eye on the bathroom door, half expecting a female fireball to explode through at any moment.
Nick shook his wet, dark hair and headed for the refrigerator. “Damn, it’s hot. Got a cold one?”
Terrific, Ian thought on a curse. He could have easily gotten rid of anybody but Nick or Lucas. His day had swiftly moved from bad to worse, and the prospects of it improving were looking less than slim. Of course, he could always explain that he couldn’t entertain company at the moment because he had a woman tied up in his bathtub. That ought to go over well.
Ian’s hand tightened on the still-open front door. The rain had nearly stopped, but the heat hadn’t let up. Humidity choked the air like a tight fist. “Look, Santos, this is kind of a bad time.”
Nick gave a snort of laughter while he rummaged through the refrigerator, clanking bottles against cans. “You’re in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do, your best buddy drives twenty minutes in a downpour to come see you, and you tell him it’s a bad time. You’re a riot.”
“I’m serious.” Ian raked a hand through his still-wet hair. The woman had been quiet for all of sixty seconds. A record. Strangely enough, the silence worried him. “I’m a little busy right now.”
His quest successful, Nick pulled a cold bottle out of the refrigerator, then kicked the door shut while he twisted off the cap. “What, is it time for a poetry reading from the woodland nymphs?”
Amused with himself, Nick took a long swig from his bottle, then gave a loud sigh of appreciation. “Damn, that tastes good. Don’t mind me, buddy. I’ll just sit fight here and drink my beer and you can go right ahead and do whatever it is you need to do. Oh, yeah, and I’m supposed to remind you about the tux fitting on Thursday morning and dinner Friday night at Lucas’s house after the wedding rehearsal.”
Muttering an oath under his breath, Ian shoved the door closed as Nick plopped down on the sofa. “Speaking of your wedding, don’t you have to help Maggie pick out flowers or tablecloths or something?”
“I am helping. I’m staying out of the way.” Nick tossed back another swallow of beer while he put his feet up on the weathered pine coffee table. “I’ve got three hours to kill before I pick my son up from his grandma’s house.”
Ian couldn’t help but notice the pride in Nick’s eyes at the mention of his son. A son he hadn’t even known existed until a few weeks ago. Ian still couldn’t believe it. Nick had a five-year-old son and was getting married in a few days to little redheaded Maggie Smith, who wasn’t so little anymore. She was all grown-up and gorgeous.
And Lucas. Married to a blond beauty like Julianna Hadley, with twins. A boy and a girl. Damn if life didn’t work in strange, mysterious ways.
Thank God at least he had kept his sanity, Ian thought with relief.
“Hey—” Nick gestured with the bottle in his hand “—did you know you’re all wet?”
A noise from the bathroom, sort of a thump, had Nick turning his head.
The knot of tension in Ian’s shoulders worked its way up his neck to his jaw. He had to get rid of Nick. Immediately.
“Squirrels,” Ian said evenly. “They built a nest in the attic over the bathroom. I was on the roof trying to see where they got in when the storm hit. Listen, I’ve got to go into town and buy some screen to cover the vent up there. Meet me at Tanner’s in forty-five minutes. I’ll spring for the beer and pool.”
Never mind that Nick could have bought the pool hall fifty times over, it was unthinkable to turn down a free game of pool and beer. “Make that ten bucks a game and you’re on.”
“Five. Take it or leave it.” Ian knew if he gave in too easily, Nick might be suspicious.
“You’re on.” Not one to be wasteful, Nick took a deep swig from his bottle and started to rise. “I’ll call Lucas, see if he can get away from Julianna and the kids for a couple of hours.”
Another sound from the bathroom. A clank this time. Nick turned toward the bathroom. “Squirrels, you say?”
“They might be inside. I’ll check it out.” Ian started for the bathroom, but stopped at the distinct sound of water running from the sink faucet.
Nick swiveled a look at Ian. “They know how to turn on the water?”
The bathroom door opened, and she flounced out.
She’d stripped out of her wet khakis and was wearing a snug white tank top and tight jeans that exposed curves he hadn’t seen before. She’d done something with her hair—pulled it back and let a few wet strands curl around her freshly washed, heart-shaped face.
How the hell had she gotten out of that rope?
“Oh, Ian, honey, there you are.” She smiled brightly at him, but it wasn’t a smile that reached her smoky-green eyes—it was smug satisfaction. “I was wondering what took you so long. I’m afraid we’ll have to do this some other time. I completely forgot I have an appointment in town. I’ll call you later and—oh, you have company.”
Nick’s jaw had gone slack as he stared at the woman. If Ian wasn’t so furious, he’d be laughing his butt off at the expression on his friend’s face.
Hell, it had to be the same as the expression on his own face.
“I’ll just get my bag and be on my way.” She bent down to pick up her backpack and had started for the door when she stopped suddenly and turned to stare hard at Nick. Nick stared right back.
“Nick Santos?” Eyes wide, she whispered the name with reverence.
Nick managed an uncertain nod and continued to gawk openly at the woman.
“I’ve been a fan for years.” She moved toward him, her smile genuine now as she offered her hand. “Cara Sinclair.”
Nick stared at Cara’s hand, blinked twice, then slowly closed his palm over her long, slender fingers. “Uh, a pleasure, Miss Sinclair.”
“Cara, please,” she said, her voice soft and breathy.
This isn’t happening, Ian thought dimly. Five minutes ago he’d left this long-legged she-cat spitting and snarling in his bathtub. Tied up and gagged. Now she stood here as calmly as if she’d dropped in for tea, cooing that she was a fan of Nick’s, for God’s sake.
“I was at the Bloomfield County Speedway when you won Nationals three years ago.” She pulled her hand away and shifted the backpack on her shoulder. “You were amazing.”
Her eyes were soft now, almost dreamy, Ian noted, and he clenched his jaw so tightly he thought it might snap. If she asked Santos for his autograph, Ian knew he’d have to hurt someone.
“Just lucky, but thanks, anyway.” Nick seemed to have his composure back now. He flashed Cara the smile that had graced numerous sports magazines and several advertising campaigns for everything from motorcycles to jeans to milk. Charm had always been Nick’s middle name, and he laid it on heavy. Ian was certain it was just to annoy him.
Damn if it wasn’t working.
“I’m off the circuit now,” Nick said smoothly. “I’ve got my own place customizing bikes here in Wolf River. Maybe you’d like to see it sometime.” Nick grinned at Ian, who scowled back. “Ian can bring you by.”
Cara looked at Ian, and a slow smile spread over her lips, lips still slightly swollen and rosy from the kiss he’d planted on her. Or maybe it was from the sock he’d shoved in her mouth. Either way, the look she shot him said he’d better watch his back.
“Thanks. I’ll get back to you on that. Oh, and congratulations on your upcoming wedding. Ian couldn’t stop talking about it.”
“Is that right?” Nick raised his brows and glanced at Ian. Ian knew what Nick thought, that he’d interrupted an afternoon interlude, not conversation about the Santos wedding. What else was he to think when a beautiful woman came bouncing out of the bathroom, her hair wet and her cheeks flushed?
And Ian decided he’d let Nick keep right on thinking just that.
Moving behind the Sinclair woman, Ian caught the scent of the storm that still lingered on her damp hair and smooth skin. When he placed his hands on her shoulders in what appeared to be an affectionate display, she stiffened, then covered his boot discreetly with her own and came down hard on his instep. Pain shot up his leg when she shifted her weight. She leaned intimately against him while she dug her heel in deeper. He forced a smile and plowed his fingers into the soft flesh of her shoulders.
“I’ll catch you in town, Santos,” Ian ground out, fighting to ignore the bone-crushing pressure of her boot on top of his foot. “I’d just like to say goodbye to Cara.”
“I’ve really got to run, darling. I don’t want to be late for my appointment.” She twisted in his arms to press a kiss to his cheek and threw her entire weight into increasing his torture. He sucked in a breath and clenched his teeth.
She held his gaze, waited for him to make the next move. He considered his options: create a scene in front of Nick or let her go. He didn’t like either option.
Neither he or the woman, for reasons of their own, wanted a confrontation in front of Nick. No, Ian thought as he slowly let go of her shoulders, he wanted to finish this privately, someplace where they would be completely alone.
There was a momentary, tense silence as she stepped away from him. The rain had stopped completely now and the only sound was the heavy drip-drip of water from the roof.
She turned away from him and smiled at Nick as she backed toward the door. “Nice to meet you.”
Nick nodded. “You, too. We’ll see you around.”
Her hand on the open door, Cara paused and cast a glance at Ian. “Maybe,” she said, arching one delicate brow.
Ian stared at the door when she closed it behind her.
No maybe about it, Blondie.
She wouldn’t go far, he was certain of that. She’d come here for something. Whatever it was she was after, she wasn’t finished yet.
And neither was he.
He turned to Nick, who was staring hard at him. “Don’t ask. Don’t even ask.”
Fortunately for Nick, he didn’t. He simply scratched at his neck and shrugged. “Does this mean that free offer of pool and beer is on or off?”
“On.” Ian unbuttoned his shirt and headed for the bedroom to change his clothes. He needed a game of pool to clear his head and a beer to wash the taste of apricots out of his mouth.
Cara kept a vigil on the thick trees separating her cabin from Ian’s. Evening shadows darkened the woods, and though Cara had never been afraid of the night, she couldn’t stop the prickle of anxiety working its way up her spine.
He hadn’t followed her when she’d left his cabin over an hour ago, but she hadn’t really expected that he would. At least, not yet. Through the bathroom door, she’d overheard Ian’s offer to meet Nick in town for a game of pool, and she assumed that he’d stayed with those plans. No doubt Ian would play it cool, to downplay what Nick had walked into this afternoon.
Or what he thought he’d walked into.
She smiled at that, decided that Ian would stay in town, casually play a few games of pool, drink some beer. He’d act like he had all the time in the world. But Cara knew he was thinking about her, wondering who the devil she was and what she’d been doing watching him.
He’d be coming soon. She was certain of that.
A shiver crept up her arms, a mixture of tension and anticipation. Her skin felt sticky and itchy from crawling around in the cattails, and her hair had dried into a mass of stiff curls. She needed a shower badly, but she’d phoned in an urgent message to Margaret and couldn’t risk missing a return call. She would want to know what had happened this afternoon, though Cara had already decided that certain minor details were unimportant and could be left out. One, that Ian had tied her up, and two, that he’d kissed her.
Touching her fingers to her lips, she remembered the press of his mouth against hers, the hot, though brief, brush of his tongue over her own. Killian Shawnessy was much more than she’d bargained for.
A hell of a lot more.
Of course, she knew that the only reason he’d kissed her was to stifle her scream, but somehow that didn’t seem to ease the persistent tingling in her lips. Nor did it erase the memory of his hard, muscled body pressed against hers, his hands on her skin. She remembered those hands now. Large and rough, as skillful as they were experienced. There’d been no movement wasted, no hesitation or uncertainty. Though it nearly killed her to admit it, she admired and respected that.
It also made her mad as hell.
She’d learned how to handle herself from the time she was a little girl. With four big brothers, she’d had two choices: submit or assert. And since submission had never been her style, throughout her childhood she’d endured daily altercations with at least one of her siblings. Except Gabe. At thirty-five, he was the oldest, and had always been the one who’d saved her from serious injury when things got out of hand, dried her tears when frustration took over and she’d been reduced to that despicable female trait of crying.
The year following her parents’ death when she was sixteen had been the hardest, but he’d been there for her then, too. Especially then, even though at twenty-four he suddenly had a family to hold together, as well as support. With three younger, headstrong brothers and a rebellious teenage sister, it hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed, and somehow they’d all survived to become closer to each other than ever before.
She had the urge to call Gabe now, just to hear his voice. His soft, deep tone had always calmed her, and she could certainly use a little calming right now. Ian had shaken her self-confidence, not to mention her pride, and though she never would have admitted that—or what had happened—to anyone, not even Gabe, she could vent her annoyance on the phone in some meaningless nonrelated complaint and never once mention the name Killian Shawnessy.
In spite of her irritation with the man, she smiled slowly, remembering the look of astonishment on his face when she’d walked casually out of the bathroom and into the living room. That look had been her only compensation for the humiliation he’d caused her. She imagined that her heel digging into his foot had left a bruise, as well, but it served him right. How dare he tie her up and toss her in the bathtub!
But why had he done that? she wondered. The information she’d collected on him showed him to be an ordinary enough kind of guy: he owned a small business in Washington, D.C., manufacturing cellular phones; four years in the military, though that stint had ended ten years ago; no wife, no kids; and he lived in a one bedroom apartment in Maryland and drove a four-year-old Ford Explorer.
What reason would he have to be so suspicious of her? Why had he assumed she’d been lying when she’d told him she’d been bird watching? And why would he think anyone was watching him?
He had an edge to him, Cara thought. She recognized it. It was the same kind of edge her brother Lucian had. It was wild, reckless at times, but always contained, always just below the surface. Until something, or someone, brought it out.
Something told her there was more to Killian Shawnessy than met the eye. And whatever that something was, she intended to find out.
For now she’d wait. And while she was waiting, there was no reason not to enjoy the scenery.
She breathed in the scent of pine and damp leaves that drifted on the evening breeze. It had finally cooled down, and the air was comfortable, fresh and soft from the storm. Crickets came to life with their rhythmic night music, and bullfrogs joined in as background chorus.
This was as far from the city as a person could get, Cara thought, letting herself relax against the porch rail. No bumper-to-bumper traffic, no police sirens, no screaming arguments from the married couple in the apartment next to hers.
The quiet was wonderful, she told herself. Exactly what she needed.
It was going to drive her crazy.
She needed sound. Horns honking, the pounding beat of rock and roll, the blare of a television set. She’d been raised with noise, lots of it, and loud. She needed it to unwind, especially after a day like the one she’d had. But there was no TV, not even a radio in the cabin, and she’d have to settle for crickets and frogs.
A shower would help, and she decided to risk a quick one. She figured she had at least another hour before Shawnessy showed up, and it would be easier to face him if she were clean and dressed in something other than military fatigues. A suit of armor, maybe.
She jumped at the sound of the phone ringing from inside the cabin, then hurried to answer it, locking the door securely behind her. She doubted a simple lock would keep Shawnessy out, but it might give her an extra couple of seconds to compose herself when he finally showed up. She almost laughed out loud at that thought. She’d had more than an hour and she wasn’t ready to face the man. A couple of seconds would hardly matter.
She grabbed the phone on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Cara?” Margaret’s voice was heavy with concern. “Are you all right, dear? Peter and I were worried when you didn’t call earlier.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, though that wasn’t completely truthful. “But I’m afraid there’s been a little change in our plans.”
Tanner’s Tavern was dark and smoky. The gravelly wail of a country-western singer poured from a corner jukebox, while a pinball competition brought whoops and hollers from three men crowded around the clanging, lightsflashing machines at the back of the bar.
Lucas Blackhawk was bent over the cue ball, eyes narrowed while he set up his shot.
“Hey, Lucas.” Nick casually chalked his cue on the opposite side of the table. “Did I mention that Ian was entertaining a beautiful woman in his cabin when I stopped by this afternoon?”
Lucas pitched forward, miscued and sank the cue ball. He glanced up sharply from the pool table. “What did you say?”
Ian tightened his hand around the cue stick he held and did his best to ignore the two sets of dark eyes focused on him. He’d known it was coming, of course. He’d been waiting for Nick to razz him about this afternoon ever since Lucas walked in thirty minutes ago. Ian was only surprised Nick had waited so long, but realized that he’d been waiting until Lucas was about to sink the game ball. Five bucks was five bucks, after all.
And now he’d never hear the end of it.
“A woman,” Nick repeated. “As in female. As in dropdead gorgeous. As in hot.”
Ian moved to rack the balls, thought about slipping the wooden triangle over Nick’s head and twisting. “Shut up, Santos.”
Lucas straightened slowly and lifted one brow. “No kidding. So who is she?”
Ian knew they wouldn’t go away if he ignored them, and besides, from past experience, he knew that the more evasive he was, the more curious they would be.
“No one you know.” Ian scooped up the balls and dropped them into the rack. “She’s on vacation, renting the cabin next to mine, and we ran into each other by the lake.”
Nick leaned closer to Lucas. “He tried to get rid of me before she came out of the bathroom dripping wet.”
Both brows raised now, Lucas stared at Ian. “Dripping wet?”
“We got caught in the storm,” Ian said through clenched teeth. “She was drying off in the bathroom, that’s all. She was fully clothed, for God’s sake.”
She had been fully clothed, Ian recalled, but her tank top had been tight over her full breasts, and she would have won a wet-T-shirt contest hands down. He forced the image from his mind, replaced it with the memory of her crushing her boot into his foot. It still throbbed.
Nick grinned. “She called him honey and darling.”
Lucas’s jaw went slack. “Ian’s only been in town three days and he’s already got himself a woman in his little mountain hideaway? You’re putting me on.”
Nick raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor. Her name’s Cara Sinclair. Blond hair, green eyes and a body that would make you—”
“Shut up, Santos,” Ian warned. “And for a man who’s getting married, you sure noticed a hell of a lot.”
“A beautiful woman walks out of your bathroom and I’m not supposed to notice?” Nick leaned on his cue stick and gave a snort of disbelief. “Besides, I had to pay attention. Lucas wasn’t there to share in the moment, and I figured he’d want details.”
“Lucas has better things to do than listen to you yammer on about something that was nothing.” Ian moved around the table to break. They weren’t going to let this drop, he thought irritably. One more reason to dislike Miss Cara Sinclair.
“I haven’t got anything better to do,” Lucas said. “Julianna went with Maggie for their final fittings on their dresses, and they took the twins.” Lucas grinned at Ian. “So she really called you honey?”
Ian broke hard and the balls exploded against the table’s cushions. “Both of you can either put a sock in it and play pool, or I can leave and you two sweethearts can bat your eyes at each other and fantasize some more about my love life.”
“He’s jealous because she recognized me,” Nick whispered loudly to Lucas. “She told me she’s a fan of mine, and that she thinks I’m amazing.”
“That does it.” Ian threw his cue on the table, as annoyed with his friends as he was with himself for letting them get to him. “I’ve got better things to do than stand around here playing games with you girls.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Nick said cheerfully. “And don’t worry, I’ll call before I stop by next time, lover boy.”
Ian’s response was simple and earthy, and Nick merely laughed. Ian decided he’d let them get it out of their system without him around. He stomped out of the bar into the parking lot toward the truck Nick had loaned him to drive for the two weeks he was visiting. The pickup was old, the paint worn, but the engine had been rebuilt. From a stop light he could leave a Porsche behind, reading his license plate.
He tightened his fingers around the steering wheel, revved the engine, then spun dirt and gravel coming out of the parking lot. He enjoyed the power of the machine under his hands. She took the curves like a dream, and by the time he reached the main dirt road that led to the lake, he felt in control again. Something he hadn’t felt since that Sinclair woman walked out of his bathroom this afternoon.
He pulled off the dirt road onto a long driveway, shut off the headlights and cut the engine as he neared the cabin.
He needed one thing, and one thing only, from Miss Cara Sinclair—the truth. He wasn’t leaving until he got it.
Three (#ulink_ba0f7f8b-583d-5e3f-b645-652854625669)
Cara washed her hair twice, then dumped half a bottle of conditioner on the tangled mess, letting it soak in while she scoured her body with a liquid raspberry gel squeezed into a puffy ball of nylon. Even a practical girl deserved a few luxuries, she thought, sighing with pleasure as the hot water rinsed away the grime and sweat of her afternoon encounter with Ian. She knew better than to let herself relax under the invigorating spray; as it was, she’d taken too much time already, and regretfully, couldn’t risk a long, leisurely shower. But even a few minutes was better than none, and at least she’d be clean.
And she’d also be able to think straight again, something she’d had trouble with since her first tangle with Ian in the cattails. It still irked her that he’d surprised her as he had, that he’d sneaked up so quietly, so smoothly, and overpowered her. Her pride was wounded, true, but more than that, he’d piqued her curiosity. She couldn’t let go of the feeling that there was something amiss with the man, something that went well beneath the surface. And the more she thought about it, about him—which was constantly—the more curious she became.
Still, she wasn’t here to be curious about Ian, she told herself, washing the last of the soapy suds from her skin. She’d come here to find him. The fact that he’d found her, as well, was inconvenient, but still didn’t change anything.
Quickly she rinsed her hair, then turned off the water and grabbed one of the two white towels she’d tossed over the shower curtain bar. Bending at the waist, she wrapped her hair in the soft towel, then reached for the second one.
It wasn’t there.
She was reaching around the shower curtain to retrieve the fallen towel when it appeared in front of her face.
“Looking for this?”
Ian!
With a small squeak, Cara snatched the towel from his hand while she darted back behind the shower curtain and covered herself. Damn, damn, damn! He’d gone through two locked doors. “Get out of here!”
No reply. “Ian?” Still no response. After another long, silent moment, she peeked around the shower curtain. Arms folded, he stood with his back against the closed bathroom door. Steam swirled around his long, muscular body. He’d changed into a black T-shirt that stretched tight over his broad chest. His eyes were dark and narrowed as he met her gaze, and she swallowed hard. He looked like the devil himself.
“Mr. Shawnessy, would you please remove yourself from this bathroom?” she asked tightly.
He slowly raised one dark brow. “What happened to �honey’ and �darling’?”
Since he obviously had the upper hand here, she’d humor him. For the moment, at least. “All right.” She sucked in a breath. “Darling, would you please get out of here?”
He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “No.”
He was laughing at her! She could see the amusement in his eyes. The shower curtain twisted in her clenched fist. She’d murder him. As soon as she had some clothes on.
“Ian,” she mewed sweetly through clenched teeth. “Honey, would you please leave this bathroom and wait for me in the living room while I get dressed?”
Dropping his arms, he pushed away from the door and moved toward her. She swallowed the gasp in her throat, refusing to let him see her fear, but preparing herself to fight him off if necessary. She clutched the shower curtain tightly to her, but held his gaze as he moved in front of her. Her breath caught when he reached out and captured one long strand of hair that had escaped from under the towel on her head. His knuckles skimmed her shoulders while he gently rubbed the wet hair between his thumb and forefinger.
He leaned close, and she felt his warm breath fan over her cheek. “Call me �sweetheart’, and I’ll leave.”
He was playing a game with her, Cara knew that. And as much as she wanted to kill him for it, she also found it exciting, like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She stood naked in the shower, with only a thin, plastic shower curtain and towel separating her from this stranger, a man she’d never laid eyes on until a few hours ago. Her heart pounded furiously; she could barely catch her breath. Her wet skin felt hot and tight.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, still refusing to break contact with his eyes.
Immediately she wanted to snatch the single word back. The amusement she’d seen in his eyes only moments ago darkened to something else entirely. Something dangerous and primitive. It felt as if the tiny room were closing in on them. Steam swirled around their bodies like a wispy veil of desire. He still held her hair between his fingers, and she felt connected to him through the wet strands. When he brushed his knuckles over her collarbone, she shivered.
“Tell me how you got out of those ropes,” he said softly.
She kept her eyes steady, in spite of the fear slithering up her spine. “Are you going to tie me up again?”
He smiled slowly. “Not unless you ask me to.”
Frowning, she lifted her chin at him. “Don’t flatter yourself…I was the Houdini act in my neighborhood amateur talent show when I was growing up. My record for escape was two minutes, twenty-seven seconds. I won three years running. Now will you please get out of my bathroom?”
He hesitated, then released her hair and stepped away. “You’ve got five minutes. If you haven’t come out, I’ll be back.”
The breath she’d been holding slowly escaped when he closed the door behind him. She stared for several long seconds.
Five minutes.
His ultimatum seeped into her numb brain, and she sprang into action, not even bothering to dry her still-damp skin before she dragged on a pair of blue jeans and a white button-up shirt. She yanked the towel from her hair and tugged a comb through the tangled mess, thankful that she’d used’ conditioner. She could escape rope knots any day, but the knots in her hair were something else all together.
Blast the man for catching her off guard like that!
Hands on his hips, Ian paced the small living room. He had no idea exactly what had just taken place in the bathroom, but he knew he didn’t like it one little bit. He’d intended to rattle the woman, but all he’d ended up doing was rattling himself. He’d been messing with her when he told her to call him sweetheart, but when she had, and her voice had sounded so breathless, all he’d wanted to do was kiss her. And when her eyes got all soft and dewy when he’d touched her hair, Lord help him, he nearly had.
Damn if he still didn’t want to kiss her.
But he also wanted to throttle her. Not only because she’d been lying to him and spying on him, but because she was so casual about it. She could at least have the decency to appear just a little afraid. A strange man standing in her bathroom while she’s taking a shower and she didn’t even scream or cry.
Not that he’d actually seen anything. He’d only been there a moment before he handed her the towel, and she’d been behind the shower curtain the entire time. For all he knew, she had a gun back there, and if he’d tried anything, she would have blown his head off.
No, he didn’t think she had a gun, nor did he think she intended to kill him. She’d been watching him, that was all he knew. And he intended to find out why.
Right about—he glanced at his watch, followed the second hand as it swept up to the twelve—now.
He was turning toward the bathroom when she came out, dressed in jeans and a white, untucked, buttoned shirt rolled to her elbows. She’d combed her hair away from her face and the wet ends lay heavy on her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was flushed from her shower, her cheeks rosy and green eyes bright.
She brought the fresh, clean smell of wet raspberries with her from the shower. It filled the room, made him want to breathe deeper and drag the scent fully into his senses. Still not completely recovered from touching her in the bathroom, he decided it would be best to keep his distance.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Mr. Shawnessy.” She tossed him a smile. “People are going to talk.”
“Thanks to you, they already are.” He ignored the drops of water sliding down her neck into the vee of her shirt and kept his gaze carefully locked with hers. “Nick’s a regular Gertrude Gossip.”
“I didn’t think it would benefit either one of us for me to drag him into our—” she hesitated “—situation.”
“Tell me, Miss Sinclair, what exactly is our situation?”
“That’s what we’re going to talk about.” She padded toward the kitchen in her bare feet. “But I’m starving and we have to eat first. Are you hungry?”
Incredulous, Ian watched her walk away. Cara Sinclair was one cool woman. In spite of himself, she fascinated him. And anyway, he thought, turning on his heels to follow her, he was hungry. He’d left Tanner’s before ordering food, and he hadn’t eaten anything since the ham sandwich he’d made around noon, exactly eight hours ago.
But even if he had eaten, the smells emanating from the kitchen were so incredibly mouthwatering, he would have been tempted, anyway. His stomach grumbled as he drew in a lungful of the delicious aroma.
Cara stood at the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand, stirring a large pot. The back of her shirt was wet from her hair, nearly making the fabric see-through, and he realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. The woman was as mouthwatering as the smell of food and equally tempting, he thought reluctantly, which triggered another response from his body, lower than his stomach.
Annoyed at his unwanted reaction to her, he looked away and noticed she’d set the small kitchen table for two. He glanced back sharply at her. “Expecting company?”
“I knew you’d be here sooner or later,” she said with a shrug. “I hate to eat alone.”
He didn’t. In fact, he preferred it. He’d had a couple of steady relationships over the years, but his job kept him away for long periods of time, and even the most patient woman had her limits. He’d gotten used to living alone. It was easier—fewer complications.
But this woman was intent on playing out this little scenario her way, so he sat. For now he’d let her have her way. Short of violence—which he still hadn’t ruled out—it seemed to be the quickest way to find out what he wanted to know. And if what she was cooking tasted half as good as it smelled, the wait just might be worth it.
She set two bowls of steaming chili on the table. “Dig in.”
He hesitated. “How do I know it’s not laced with arsenic?”
She smiled. “You don’t.”
He decided she didn’t look like a murderer and scooped up a big bite. It was all he could do not to moan with pleasure as the spicy concoction rolled over his tongue.
He suddenly felt ravenous.
He was on his second bite when she moved back to the stove and, using a kitchen towel as a hot pad, pulled a tray of corn muffins from the oven. Plucking them carefully into a small wicker basket, she then scooped another bowl of chili and set everything on the table.
“Good?” She sat beside him.
He shrugged. “It’s all right.”
Scooting her chair in closer, she grinned at him. “It’s better than all right, Flash. I didn’t win the Bloomfield AllCounty Chili Bake-off two years running for nothing. Consider yourself lucky.”
He reached for a muffin. “I’ve been spied on, had my vacation interrupted, bruised and nearly lost the ability to ever have children. Of all the things I consider myself, Miss Sinclair—” he broke open the muffin and slathered it with butter “—lucky is not one of them.”
“I apologize for all that. You shouldn’t have sneaked up on me like you did.” She took a muffin herself and nibbled on it. “But you shouldn’t have tied me up, either. That was incredibly rude.”
“Sweetheart, if you think that was rude, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” He was getting tired of bantering with her. And now that his stomach was nearly satisfied, there were questions he wanted answered. “Cut to the chase, darlin’. I want to know who you are, who you really are, and I want to know who sent you here.”
With a sigh Cara got up and retrieved two cans of soda from the refrigerator. She handed him one, then popped the top of her own and sat back down. “My name really is Cara Sinclair, just like my driver’s license stated. Give or take a pound, I won’t say which way, my weight is also accurate. So is my height and address.”
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