Into the Fire (11 page)

Dangerous territory, and she wasn't going to go there. “Why would Nate—” she persisted, but Dillon interrupted her.

“Screw Nate. He'd lie any chance he had if he thought it would be to his advantage.”

“Why would me having rough sex be to his advantage?”

“It wasn't just rough sex, Jamie. It was rape.”

She didn't want to hear that word, the one she'd avoided for twelve years. “No, it wasn't. I got in this car with him on my own accord. It was my fault.”

“Bullshit. You were drunk, and Paul thought he was God's gift to womanhood. He wouldn't have listened if you said no. And you did say no, didn't you?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. He'd moved closer, and she hadn't heard him advance. Too close, blocking the only doorway. She quickly looked back at the car. “I don't see why you'd remember it all so clearly. You had to have been drunk as well.”

“I was. I could hold my liquor better than that little pissant.”

Oddly enough she almost smiled at that. She'd always thought of Paul in such huge, frightening terms.
Pissant
was a good way to cut him down to size.

“Well, drunk or not, you were too busy trying to beat someone to death and getting arrested for it to remember what went on that night. Weren't you?”

“Yes.”

Something in his voice stopped her. His single-word answer had been matter of fact—there was no reason why she should have thought twice about it. But she did.

She turned around, all the way around, and leaned her back up against the cold metal of the Cadillac. “Who did you beat up? So badly that you went to jail for it?”

“I'm sure Nate told you something,” he said lazily. “Don't you believe your cousin's every word?”

“He said it was over a drug deal gone sour.”

“You think the police and the courts would care that much over two drug dealers fighting?”

“Two?”

“I dealt drugs, Jamie, and you know it. Just weed and the occasional percs, but I did it. And I almost killed a man with my bare hands. No wonder they put me away for a year and a half.”

“What man?”

“Boy, really.”

“What boy?”

His smile was faintly mocking. “You know what boy. It's just taken you twelve years to figure it out.”

“Paul.”

“I broke his jaw, his cheekbone, cracked three ribs, broke several bones in his right hand and bruised his spleen. As I remember he had a concussion and he was pissing blood for a month. I probably would have killed him if people hadn't pulled me off him. Fortunately a car accident took care of that little detail a few years later.”

“You didn't have anything to do with that?” she asked in sudden panic.

He shook his head. “I haven't killed anyone. Not directly. Not yet.”

She swallowed. “That's doesn't sound very encouraging.”

“It wasn't meant to.”

“There had to have been something else going on,” she said. “You couldn't have been sent to jail for just being in a fight.”

“It wasn't just a fight, princess. I was trying my best to kill the little bastard. Unfortunately his parents doted on their son, and they had the political
clout to make sure I got punished. I would have been locked away for the rest of my life if they'd had their way, but it only ended up a little over a year.”

“That isn't that long,” she said, still reeling.

“Try spending it in a state prison and you'll see how long it is. The days crawl along at a snail's pace. And I spent all that time figuring you were blown away by my heroic defense of your honor. My mistake.”

“I didn't ask you to.”

“No, you didn't.”

“I didn't know.”

“That's also true. In the end it doesn't make any difference. The bottom line is I gave up a year and a half of my life for you, Jamie Kincaid. I think it's about time I got something back for my sacrifice, don't you? I've waited long enough.”

“Long enough for what?”

“For you, Jamie. You can start by taking off your clothes.”

F
or a moment she wasn't sure she'd heard him right. The garage was still shrouded in darkness, and he hadn't bothered to turn on a light when he'd approached her, but she could see him quite clearly. Blocking the way to the door.

It didn't mean she wouldn't run. There was always the element of surprise, and since she was smaller there was a good chance that she was faster. Running barefoot through ankle-deep snow was beginning to sound far more appealing than to have him put his hands on her. She could still feel the weight of him on top of her, the taste of his mouth from the night before. She couldn't let that happen again. She couldn't.

“No,” she said in a flat voice.

If she'd hoped to get the advantage of surprise she lost it when he took another step, so close that his bare feet almost touched hers, so close that she could feel his body heat. He was shirtless, radiating
warmth, she was wrapped in layers of clothing and shivering uncontrollably.

“Yeah, right,” he drawled. “I knew about the crush, Jamie. Nate used to tell me all the details. I'm just planning to fulfill your fantasies after twelve years of foreplay.”

“I don't want you touching me. You're as bad as Paul.” Her voice shook, but there was nothing she could do about it.

His smile was faint. “Now, that's where you're wrong. I'm a hell of a lot better than Paul ever was, and I'm prepared to demonstrate. Just start unbuttoning that sweater. You're wearing enough clothes that it's going to take a good, long time, so you may as well begin.”

“We're not doing anything. You're going to step away from me and I'm going to leave this place. I'm going to get my shoes or your shoes or any damned pair of shoes I can find and walk straight out the door and not ever come back.”

“No, you aren't. You'd have to get around me to leave, and I'm not ready to move.”

“So you're going to force me?” Her voice shook, just slightly. He'd think it was from the cold. Maybe it was.

He shook his head. “Don't have to,” he murmured. “Do I?”

He reached out for the top button of her sweater. The layers of clothing kept his hands far away from her flesh, and she simply stood there, frozen, hands at her sides, and let him unbutton the long cardigan. Let him pull it off her shoulders, down her arms and onto the floor. Then he reached for the hem of her sweatshirt, pulling it, and she had no choice but to raise her arms and let him pull it over her head. It fell on top of the cardigan, at her bare feet.

She was half blind with fear, but she wasn't going to cry. Not for some damned man, not ever again. “This time I'd press charges,” she said in an even voice. “You think I wouldn't? I'm older and smarter now, and I'm saying no. I'm saying get your goddamn hands off me.”

“I'm not touching you,” he said absently, taking the hem of her outer T-shirt and pulling it over her head. One more T-shirt to go, then a camisole and bra. And then skin. “I can't even figure out why I want to bother. It's not like I can't have all the ass I want, when I want it. It's always been that way. Women like me.”

“Terrific. Go find one that does.” He was pulling the last T-shirt off, and she considered locking her elbows to keep him from pulling it over her head. But then he might touch her, and she couldn't bear it if he did.

“Most of the women I know would be asleep at this hour. You'll have to do.” He stepped back a fraction of an inch, just to look at her. The lavender silk camisole had been a secret indulgence, not meant for anyone's eyes but her own. The skimpy bra beneath it was even worse. She'd thought that if she ever were tempted, ever found a man attractive enough to risk everything, then she'd wear the lavender silk from Victoria's Secret. So why the hell did she bring it along with her on this trip to see Dillon Gaynor?

“Nice,” he murmured. He leaned forward, his voice at her ear. “You smell like cinnamon.”

“You smell like axle grease,” she shot back.

“It has all sorts of uses, if you want to try it that way.”

There was no way she could disguise her utter horror. It didn't help when he laughed. “You should see your expression, princess. I was kidding.” He waited long enough for her to relax, marginally, before he added, “Besides, I've got much better stuff upstairs.”

She'd thought she was as far back from him as she could go, but at that moment she slammed up against the side of the Cadillac.

He reached down for the waistband of her skirt, unfastened the zipper and let it drop around her feet.
She was still wearing a pair of jeans, but it wasn't enough. She could have worn a HazMat suit and it wouldn't be enough.

He leaned down and blew, ever so gently, on her stomach, his breath warm and moist. In another place, at another time, it might have been erotic. It almost was, even in these horrible circumstances.

He straightened up and put his hands on either side of her waist, holding her. “Now I'm touching you,” he said. “You knew I would sooner or later. Tell me no again.”

“No. Again.”

He slid his fingers inside the top of the waistband, then slid them around to the front button. “I don't know why I bother,” he said, half to himself. The button flicked open almost by itself, and she stared down at his hands, fascinated. Waiting for him to reach for the zipper. “Virgins were never my thing. Probably why I kept my hands off you, years ago, when you were so fucking tempting.”

“I'm not a virgin anymore,” she said bitterly. Then could have bit her lip.

“Was that supposed to be encouraging? I thought you were saying no?” He began to pull the zipper down, slowly, almost lazily.

“I am saying no. I'm just saying I'm not a virgin anymore. Thanks to you.”

“If only.” His rueful smile should have been infuriating. “And it doesn't matter how many men you've fucked since Paul got you in the back of the Cadillac, you're still a virgin at heart. Untouched, inviolate. You probably lie back and close your eyes and think you're supposed to like it. When you don't, really.”

His deep, insinuating voice was driving her mad, just as the feel of his long fingers against her skin burned her cold flesh. “Shut up.”

She was wearing very skimpy bikini panties beneath the jeans, ones that matched the lavender bra and camisole. She hadn't gone for the thong, though she'd been tempted. The bikini was indecent enough, but no one was supposed to see it. And if she didn't do something to stop him, Dillon—the last person in the world she wanted—would be the one to see it.

The jeans were unzipped, but he didn't seem in any hurry to pull them down. She'd fight him when he tried, she knew she would. She had to.

“You must make men jump through hoops,” he said, brushing his mouth against the side of her neck, so softly it was like the brush of a feather. “What do they have to do—submit a blood test and a family pedigree? I expect the Duchess would be
more interested in the class issue than any health concerns.”

“Is this your subtle way of asking me if I'm HIV positive? Because I am. You should get as far away from me as you can.”

“Don't waste your time, baby girl. You never were a very good liar, and I could always see through you. Just as I can right now. Tell me you don't want me.”

“Are you insane? I've been trying to tell you that for the last half hour! Leave me alone.”

“Then walk away.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” His patience was paper thin. “If you don't want me putting my hands on you, then push me away and walk. You think I'd chase after you, drag you down on the cement floor and ravish you? Not my style.”

“I'm not your style,” she said, putting her hand in the center of his chest. His hot, sleek chest. She hesitated for a bare moment, then pushed, and he fell back with seemingly no effort at all. She could run now, except that she was wearing nothing but her bra and camisole on top, and her jeans were unzipped and falling down around her hips.

He seemed untroubled. “If I didn't know better I'd say you were even more of an innocent now
than you were before Paul got his hands on you. What's wrong with the men in Rhode Island? Don't they know anything about sex?”

“I wouldn't know,” she said bitterly, reaching for the zipper of her jeans.

Wrong answer. He'd stepped back, seemingly willing to let her go, but her words stopped him.

“You wouldn't know?” he echoed. “Just how many lovers have you had since that night with Paul?”

“None.”

“Okay, let me rephrase that. How many men have you gone to bed with since that night?”

It was too late to change her mind. Besides, she was too angry, too panicked to be able to keep her mouth shut at this point. Besides, the truth was more likely to keep him away from her. “None.”

“Boys?”

“None.”

“Women?”

He was trying to shock her, but she was past the point of worrying about it. “None.”

“Well, at least that simplifies matters,” he murmured. “So clearly you've been saving yourself for me.”

It was such an outrageous statement that she
couldn't come up with a response. She could only stare at him in amazement.

“I've been keeping myself safe,” she snapped.

“Safety is an overrated commodity. I think it's time we finished what we started that night.”

“I don't.”

“Let me convince you.”

It was her last chance. She'd already told him more than she wanted to, she'd stood there and let him undress her, and he'd given her plenty of chance to run. She hadn't moved.

“I could count to ten. Give you a head start,” he mocked her. “But I'm not sure you really want to get away.”

She still didn't move. She wanted to. Needed to. But for some reason her body wasn't responding to her demands. It seemed to know her better than her mind.

“Last chance, princess. I'm going to put my hands on you again, and this time I'm not going to let go.”

At the last minute she pushed away from the Cadillac, almost weak with relief. He hadn't moved that far out of the way, and as she leaned down to pick up her discarded clothes her jeans began to sag. Her hands were full of clothing, so she couldn't refasten them, but if she ran really fast then maybe she could
keep them up. Why the hell did she wear such baggy jeans? If she wore form-fitting ones like most people they wouldn't be sagging. But she already knew the answer to that. She wore baggy clothes to hide her body. Not that there was that much to hide.

Dillon was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his face. As if her eventual decision was no more important than what to have for breakfast.

“I'll go now,” she said, her clothes clasped to her chest. Not moving.

“Sure you will. I think we've talked long enough. Come here.”

He had to be crazy. She was halfway to the door, hugging her clothes against her, and he expected her to come to him.

“Come here, Jamie,” he said again, soft, beguiling. “You've been running long enough. Let's just get it over with.”

If she ran she'd panic, and she was already frightened enough. Frightened by the inevitability of it. He was inexorable, determined, and he wouldn't stop. Because in the end she really didn't want him to stop.

She stood there, frozen, as he came toward her, lean and smooth and very dangerous. He took the clothes out of her arms and dumped them on the cement floor. They'd get oil stains, she thought, try
ing to concentrate on trivialities. Her mother would be horrified. She should pick them up.

He pushed her jeans down her hips and she let him. They pooled at her ankles, and when he took her hand she stepped out of them.

He didn't let go of her hand, and she didn't try to pull away. She couldn't fight him with her body, but she could fight him with her words. “Don't do this,” she whispered.

He didn't say anything, simply pulled her into the shadows of the huge garage. There was an old sagging sofa back there, a hideous shade of green with the stuffing coming out of the cushions. She didn't want to go there. And he wasn't giving her a choice.

“I think we better do this fast,” he said, pushing her down on the sofa with deceptive gentleness. Deceptive, when she knew how violent he could be. He'd never turned that violence on her, but that didn't mean he wouldn't if she pushed him far enough. As she'd been trying to, ever since she got there. “I don't want you to panic and change your mind.”

“I never said…” Her voice caught in a gasp as he pulled the skimpy panties down her legs with the ease of long experience.

“You didn't need to,” he said, kneeling down on the sofa beside her, pushing her back against the
lumpy cushions. “You can't spend your life running away. I never thought you'd be a coward, Jamie Kincaid.”

“I am,” she said. “A sniveling, desperate coward.” He'd pushed the camisole up and flicked open the front clasp of her bra, but he didn't bother pulling it off her. It lay beneath her on the sofa, and the lacy straps and the camisole were halfway down her arms, limiting her movement.