Roan (19 page)

Hard on the words, he reached for her. With instinctive care for her injured shoulder, he brought their bodies together in exact alignment. His senses filled with the heat of her skin, her sweet distinctive fragrance, her quick breaths and the way her breasts molded against his chest with delicious, resilient pressure. The sudden onslaught made his mind reel. She fit the hollows and hard planes of
his body as if made for him alone. Nothing had ever been so right, so perfect.

He wanted to take her away somewhere and kiss her for a million years, to taste the deep recesses of her mouth and trace the tender curves of her lips with slow, honeyed care. He wanted to know every inch of her, to fill his hands with her, surround her, hold her, until this deep hunger inside him for possession was appeased. He wanted never to let her go.

God, he was going crazy.

Her face was upturned, the silver glint of moonlight touching her cheeks but leaving her expression unreadable. A waiting stillness seemed to hold her, or perhaps it was reluctance to move for fear of pain. He lowered his head and took her smooth, cool lips with his hot, hot mouth.

For long moments, she remained quiescent in his arms. Then the fingers of her good hand slowly closed on the taut muscle of his upper arm. She made a low murmur in her throat and moved closer against him, into him, as if in need of the contact. She allowed the briefest of access, the most tingling of brushes from his tongue against hers, permitted an elusive taste of her sweet essence.

Then she clenched her fingers on a fistful of his shirtsleeve and shoved at him. He was forced to either let her go or hurt her. As he stepped back, she demanded, “What do you think you're doing?”

It was a good question. Before he had time to answer, he heard the panting and thudding footfalls of the dog pack Jake had released. Suddenly they were encircled by dogs that pushed and jostled them in their pleasure at being free of their pen.

“Down!” Roan ordered as he caught Donna's arm. The dogs tucked tail and subsided, backing away to give them room. Roan turned with his prisoner toward the oblong of
light that was the kitchen door. At the same time, Jake strolled out of the darkness with his weapon over his shoulder.

“Good grief,” Donna said in shaken tones that might have been from distress over the onslaught of hounds, but could have been from something else entirely. “Dogs, guns, weird food, and late night visitors—is it always this way?”

“Nah,” Jake answered with a crooked grin, when Roan failed to comment. “Sometimes it gets really strange.”

“I hope I'm not around to see it!”

She didn't wait for more, but pulled away from him and walked into the house. Roan watched her go with narrowed eyes.

She would be around, because he was going to make sure of it. She'd be around whether she wanted to be or not; she was a prisoner, not a guest, and it was time she realized it. He had an idea, one it might take a few day to put into action. When it was in place, their relative positions should be crystal clear.

It was time, and then some. They were going to have to start playing this strictly by the rules. Before it was too late.

T
ory spent most late afternoons over the next few days on the screened porch on the upper floor of Dog Trot. It faced southeast, so was protected from the westward slanting sun and caught stray breezes off the lake. From its second-floor elevation, she could watch the rippling water through the trees, catch sight of an occasional blue heron or silver-white crane. The screen that kept out flying insects and wind-borne trash also gave the illusion of a private retreat from which to view the world.

She'd brought a book she'd found on forensics with her to read this afternoon while stretched out on the chaise longue that, with a collection of wrought iron chairs and tables, made the porch like an outdoor room. It lay beside her, however, as she stared out over the water. She couldn't concentrate on its pages for thinking of that night nearly a week ago. It wasn't the puzzle of why Zits and Big Ears were so determined to get to her that they'd risk prowling around the sheriff's house that troubled her, but something else entirely.

The sheriff had kissed her. It was the last thing she'd expected.

Oh, she'd felt the awareness between them that told her
he was attracted to her in a purely physical fashion. Still, he had said plainly that she had nothing to fear from him while at Dog Trot. She'd believed him, had truly thought the restraints of his office and his dedication to duty would prevent him from touching her.

Did she mind? She wasn't sure.

Roan Benedict had kissed her. He had touched his mouth to hers, and she'd felt the world shift on its axis. This backcountry sheriff with his unbending rectitude and old-fashioned manners packed more punch into a single kiss than any man she'd ever met, certainly more than poor Harrell had managed in all the weeks they been together.

A part of the reason she'd ended her engagement was because she'd decided she couldn't take a lifetime of Harrell's paint-by-numbers attempts at foreplay, had never been quite stirred enough by it to go to bed with him. Not that she had much to compare it against, really. Indiscriminate sex was seriously stupid these days from a health standpoint, but it was also true that not many men moved her. She felt that if she didn't care for the way they kissed, she wouldn't care much for the rest of it. She'd tried to be satisfied with Harrell because she wondered, finally, if she hadn't been too particular.

What did it mean, the sheriff's kiss? Or did it have any meaning beyond the impulse of the moment? He had suggested once that he had a hidden motive for bringing her here. Was this it?

And if it was, did she want to do anything about it? Or should she encourage him in hope that he'd be more likely to accept that she was kidnapped and release her? To use the physical attraction between them went against the grain, but it was the only possible advantage she had at the moment.

The endless questions circled in her head as she watched
the sun drop down behind the trees and sunset colors streak the sky. Added to everything else, they made her tired beyond words. She closed her eyes, trying to shut them out.

The brush of something warm against her ankle roused her from a light sleep. Beauregard, she thought. The big dog was fast becoming a nuisance, though secretly she had to admit that she was fond of his company, especially the ambling walks they often took around the grounds near the house in the evening. How he had managed to find his way out onto the porch, she didn't know. She was sure she'd closed the door behind her.

The warm breeze off the lake was pleasant as the sun's heat faded. She didn't want to be disturbed. Not yet, anyway. Draping her forearm across her eyes, she said, “Go away. That's a good boy.”

The pressure on her ankle firmed. It was hard and encircling, nothing at all like Beau nudging her for attention or the friendly lick of his tongue. She jerked away. At the same time, she snapped open her eyes and pushed herself upright.

Roan knelt at her feet. The evening light beyond the screen burnished his sandy hair to gold, and caught bronze gleams from the hair on his arms. His gray gaze was steady, and his mouth firm with purpose. His arm was braced on one flexed knee, and from his fingers dangled a thick ring of black plastic.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky.

“Installing a monitor.”

She eyed the device in his hand that appeared to have a small LED display with a blinking light set into the plastic. “To monitor what?”

“You. Your comings and goings.”

She pulled her feet up and wrapped her good arm protectively around her knees. “I don't think so.”

“It's just an electronic device. It won't hurt you,” he said, the planes and angles of his face stern as he dangled it in front of her. “A guy who used to be one of my deputies sells the things now. This is his latest model.”

It was a little like a scuba diver's watch, only bigger, Tory thought, with holes evenly spaced in the plastic cuff-like band to allow for air circulation. With a tight smile, she said, “And I suppose you want to test it on me?”

“Something like that.” He waited, his gaze watchful.

“It's like a gadget out of a James Bond movie. Does it shoot laser beams or use radio waves like a walkie-talkie?”

“Neither.” He hefted the device, his gaze shuttered. “It's more like…an electronic handcuff.”

“Like kind of space-age bondage sex toy?” she asked, the words dry.

A slow red tide rose in his face. It was fascinating to watch, though she couldn't tell whether it was from embarrassment or anger. Even his eyes appeared hot as he said, “You should know.”

“Only because I've seen pictures,” she corrected with asperity. “I told you what happened to my wrists and ankles, but you're too stubborn to recognize the truth when you hear it.”

He pointed the monitor at her. “If you think you can get out of wearing this by that kind of accusation, you're dead wrong. I need to know where you are at all times. I especially need to know when you go wandering off at night.”

She stared at him a long moment. Then abruptly something clicked in her mind. She'd read a magazine article a while back that had described devices like this being used for paroled convicts to confine them to a limited area in and around a halfway house. With this thing on her ankle,
she'd have no chance to run, no way to get away from Dog Trot without its owner, the good sheriff, knowing it before she was out of sight.

She swung her legs off the chaise and surged to her feet. Fighting to keep the panic from her voice, she said. “You can keep your monitor.”

“It's for your own good.”

“Sure it is. You're taking this way too far. Just because you're the law doesn't mean you can do whatever you want.”

Roan rose slowly to his full, commanding height. “What I want has nothing to do with it.”

“Doesn't it? You control where I sleep, what I eat, what I can and can't do. Now you want to control every move I make. I think you like having me helpless and under your thumb.” He'd shown that he could be affected by what she said. Since words were her only weapon, she had to use them regardless of how much she hated it.

His high color receded, leaving a white line around his mouth. “You're about as helpless as a stinging scorpion. But it's my job to keep you safe. I can't do that if I don't know where you are.”

“Isn't having me under surveillance around the clock enough? I can hardly go to the bathroom by myself. You've even set your son to watch me!”

“You're a prisoner,” he said with deliberation as he moved around the end of the chaise. “What do you expect? Or is something else going on here? Maybe you had plans to slip out on me, maybe that's why you're so set on avoiding this substitute ankle bracelet.”

She backed away a hasty step. “Don't be ridiculous. Where would I go? I just don't like the invasion of privacy. Would you want someone following your every move?”

“No, but I don't make a practice of holding up convenience stores.”

“Neither do I!” He was closing in on her. The door to the hall was somewhere behind her. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder to locate it.

“Don't,” he warned, his voice hardening. “Don't make me hurt you. This is a fight you can't win, I promise.”

“You promise?” Her rejection of the word was scathing. “You also swore you wouldn't touch me while I was here. So much for promises.”

“You haven't been harmed so far. But I can't vouch for what might happen if you force me to pin you down for this little ceremony.”

That he would admit to such a thing was so startling that she made the mistake of meeting his eyes. The pupils were wide and dark, almost obscuring the gray of his irises, and layered with bitter self-knowledge that was more disturbing than all his implied threats.

Her poise deserted her, as did her arguments. She spun around and dived for the door.

He was upon her in two long strides. Fastening his fingers on her good arm, he jerked her to a halt, and swept her around so she stumbled toward the chaise once more. He tripped her then with a quick hook of a booted foot behind her knee. As she tumbled to the cushioned surface, he fell with her, supporting her so his elbow took the jar as they landed, instead of her shoulder. Still, the fast movement took her breath. As she lay winded, he covered her with his body, holding her immobile with a long leg across her knees and her good arm pinned uselessly under his armpit.

“Now,” he said softly. “Where were we?”

No triumph was reflected in his face. Still, outrage feathered along her nerves and settled in some deep, untouched
corner of her brain. No one had ever dared treat her like this in her life. That this hayseed sheriff had the temerity made her long to do desperate things to him.

“Let me up,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

He eased away from her a fraction. “Are you all right?”

“Other than being crushed and having all Doc Watkins's good work undone, you mean?”

“I did warn you,” he said, his voice even. At the same time, he glanced down to where her bandaging lay under her T-shirt, as if checking for damage.

There was none, and Tory knew it. The fall hadn't exactly made her shoulder feel good, however, which added to her resentment. “Do you treat all your women suspects this way, or is it just me?”

“A few have hinted that they'd like to be handcuffed to my bed. I've never been tempted before, but I might make an exception.” His voice dropped a note and his drawl lengthened. “Who knows? It could grow on me.”

“You're not scaring me.” She lifted her chin in bravado as she spoke, but it was a lie. Hard purpose made the planes of his face look set in stone. She straightened her pinned arm behind him and pushed against the lounger, trying to shift from under him. He tightened his muscles to remain in place, and settled his weight more firmly against her lower body.

“Funny, but I think maybe I am scaring you a little. And that's interesting.”

“I'm so happy you think so,” she said in strained derision.

“I'd halfway expected a different reaction.”

She was still for an instant while she accessed the expectant look on his face. There was nothing salacious about it, she realized. He was waiting for the light to dawn. “You expected…you really thought I might enjoy this?”

“It was a possibility.”

“So the whole thing was a test. To see how I would react to being forced, to see if I'd like it.” She'd been angry before, but that was nothing to the rage that burned through her veins now.

“I wouldn't say that, exactly. It was more a question of seizing the moment.”

“Because I said your stupid monitor looked like a sex toy?”

“Something like that.”

She closed her eyes. The word she called him under her breath was not a compliment.

“Agreed,” he said shortly. “But I'd say you passed. So tell me one more time how you got the marks on your wrists.”

“Duct tape and the kind of prickly plastic rope used to tie up boats. And there was nothing the least enjoyable about it.” Did he believe her? She lifted her lashes, meeting his gaze once more in the hope of some sign, some tiny indication that he might. All she saw was her own reflection in the dark mirrors of his pupils. Then that was gone as he looked away from her.

“For the record, I despise the kind of lawmen who take advantage of female prisoners,” he said. “I'd never do that. Never. The other night was…” He stopped, took a breath so deep that she suddenly felt, where his chest pressed against her, the points of his star and the hard thud of his heartbeat. When he spoke again, his voice was brisk and authoritative. “Let's call it a mistake. Now, if we've cleared that up, we can go on the next problem. Are you going to cooperate, or do we continue as we started here?”

What had he been about to say? She'd give a lot to know. “Your methods of persuasion need a little work. So does your technique with women,” she said in her best, bored
socialite voice. “A few lessons in manners might not hurt, either.”

“Manners,” he repeated. “You mean as in,
‘A gentleman always rests his weight on his elbows'
? I'm not sure what you're complaining about, since I'm doing that.”

“I mean like having the courtesy to get off me now that you've won,” she answered with indignation caused, in part at least, by the fact that it was her turn to flush. His manners as a lover were not something she'd given much thought to, but his quip opened new vistas.

“Yes, well, I expect my mother would have agreed with you about that one.”

“Your mother.” The words were blank.

“I learned my manners at her knee, of course, as most Southern good-old-boys do. Well, most of my manners. Not the—”

“I get the picture,” Tory said in some haste, since she really did not want or need to hear more about his habits in bed. “So?”