The blanket offered little comfort beneath Grace. She felt every bump as she bounced against the van’s steel floor. By the time they reached the smooth ride of paved road, she was sore and knew she would bear the bruises for it. Still, she felt only relief to be leaving that house with all its scary, dead-eyed men behind. She had only one man to contend with now.
And he was an escaped convict.
She’d heard that as clear as day back in the house. Her life was in the hands of a man who had escaped from prison. She clung to the memory of Shawshank Redemption. Plenty of those convicts had hearts of gold . . . and honor. Great. She was holding him up to Hollywood fiction and Morgan Freeman. That was realistic.
She scooted forward and peered at him between the two front bucket seats, wondering how long until he stopped. How far could the nearest police station be? There had to be some type of law out here. A sheriff’s department or something. Obviously, he might not feel comfortable walking her inside himself, but he could drop her off a block away. Even a mile. He didn’t have to turn himself in because of her. She could assure him of that. Hell, she didn’t even have to say anything about him at all.
She waited as long as she could stand it and then asked, “How long will it take to get there?”
He shot her a quick glance and then looked back at the road, one hand draped idly over the steering wheel as though this were just a Sunday afternoon drive. She stared at that hand for a moment, briefly recalling the feel of it on her skin before she gave herself a hard mental shake and banished the image.
“Few hours.”
“Hours?” She frowned. “There has to be some sort of law enforcement closer than that.”
Again he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. It was a moment before he answered, “We’re not going to the authorities.”
She processed that as the van rumbled beneath and around her, vibrating up her bones to her very teeth. “I don’t understand.” Her voice was getting shrill, and she swallowed, fighting for a normal tone. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll be safe,” he said. Again.
He’d said it to her when they were in that bed together, and she’d believed him. She believed him then because he could have hurt her a thousand different ways and he hadn’t. Nor had he let the others hurt her. That had been enough then, but now she wasn’t so sure. An uneasy feeling started in the pit of her belly. For all she knew, he was taking her to a grave out in the desert.
She wet her lips. “Where?” she repeated.
He stared straight ahead, not looking at her. “It’s best you don’t know where we’re going.”
Silence so tense it crackled filled the interior of the van. Understanding sank in, followed by dread. “You’re not letting me go,” she whispered, her skin flushing cold.
His hands flexed over the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. “I can’t do that. Not yet.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“Same difference, in this case.”
Her chest grew tight, the air sliding thickly past her lips. “You’re a liar. And a criminal.”
His deep voice crawled toward her in the tight space of the van, slithering like a serpent. “I didn’t lie to you. You heard what you wanted to hear. But you’re right. I am a criminal. You shouldn’t forget that.”
For a moment the sight of those strong, broad hands clasping the steering wheel filled her vision. They were all she could see. She’d let those hands touch her. She shuddered with the knowledge, feeling sick. She had made a mistake trusting him.
There was no fear. Only rage growing by the second inside her. Only a desperate need for self-preservation. She surged forward, pushing up off the heels of her shoes. She clawed at his face with her manicured nails. A jarring cry bounced off the inside of the van and she dimly realized it was coming from her.
He cursed, his body banging against the driver-side door. The van swerved wildly, running off the road. He slammed on the brakes. Dirt and gravel roared outside their fishtailing vehicle. She pitched forward, landing on her knees between the bucket seats. Pain radiated up her thighs. The van bumped and bounced before finally coming to a hard stop.
She didn’t wait. She pushed up to her feet and turned, lunging for the side door. Lifting the lock, she slid it open and was out and running over the uneven terrain as though she had a plan. As though she knew where she was going.
She ran like she never had before, strange gasps and funny sounds escaping her that didn’t even sound human. She twisted her neck, searching for a road, hoping to see another car.
But there was nothing. Just the bleak landscape of desert terrain. A horizon that went on forever, and she was lost in it. All alone. With him.
The hard, swift beat of his feet sounded behind her, and she knew he was coming. Hunting her. Her pulse hammered violently, and her panting turned into ragged sobs as she felt him closing in.
Her foot hit a rut and she staggered. She caught herself, stopping just shy of eating dirt, but it cost her. His hand snared her hair, tangling in the long strands.
He gave a yank and she tumbled backward into him with a cry. He turned her over in his arms as they simultaneously hit the ground. Hard. It would have been worse if he had not twisted around in the last second and took the brunt of their fall, leaving her sprawled atop him.
“Let go of me!” She pounded on his chest.
He was indifferent to her blows. The steel bands of his arms wrapped around her waist and squeezed, pushing the air out of her lungs.
“What are you doing?” he growled. “Trying to get us killed?”
“I’m already dead. Aren’t I?” She thrust her face close to his. “Just say it! Tell me the truth for once. For the first time.”
He glared up at her, his green and amber marbled eyes sharp as glass. Their breaths crashed between them, mingling hotly. He shook his head once, slowly from side to side. “The truth is, you’re my prisoner for as long as you need to be.”
She held his gaze, trying to read him. For once, she suspected he was telling the truth. He wasn’t going to let her go until he was good and ready. Keeping her safe, in his mind, did not equate to letting her go. She understood that now.
She should be better at reading between the lines, having lived among people who said one thing and meant another. Or they outright lied. She had been watching her father do it for years.
Grace inhaled thinly, trying to dislodge herself from the top of him, but he held her fast, locked tight against him.
“You good?” he asked.
The question alone infuriated her, which was unusual in itself. She rarely lost her temper. She’d have to feel strongly in order to do that, and for so long she had been living in a state of numbness. As though someone had pressed the mute button on all her emotions, dulling everything.
“No. I’m not good.” His mouth kicked up at the corner as though she amused him, and the urge to scratch that smile off his face seized her. She curled her fingers into her palms, nails cutting into her flesh as she held the impulse in check. Barely. “I’ve been abducted. Hit. Manhandled. And the one guy I thought was going to get me out of this just proved himself as bad as the rest of them.”
His smile slipped. Her heart skipped a beat. Instantly, she knew. He resented being lumped into the same category as the others.
“If I was as bad as the rest of them . . .” His deep voice scratched the air between them. “ . . . I would not have left you alone last night.” He took her hand and dragged it between them, forcing it over the sizable bulge of his erection. Her breath caught at the hard shape of him under her fingers. “You would be well-acquainted with this.”
Their gazes clashed, his hazel eyes turning more green than gold in that moment. He released her hand and she pulled it back as though burned. “Make no mistake. I’m nothing like them. Be glad for that.”
Be glad. She ground her teeth, hot indignation pumping through her veins. She would not thank him for not abusing her. As though common decency was something one shouldn’t expect.
He clambered to his feet, taking her with him. She glanced to the idling van and shook her head fiercely. She couldn’t get back in that van. Not with him. Not with this criminal. He wrapped one hand around her arm and started pulling her in the direction of the vehicle. She dug in her heels.
With an impatient grunt, he bent down and flung her over his shoulder. The force knocked the wind out of her. The earth pitched and swayed as he carried her. She recovered her breath and started struggling, feeling herself tilt sideways on his shoulder.
“Stop wiggling.” She squeaked as he smacked one big hand on her bottom, pinning her in place.
The side door to the van still yawned open. He dropped her inside. She scrambled to her knees, shoving her hair out of her face to glare at him. “They’re going to catch you! You’re going to jail.”
His face was its usual stony mask. He gripped the edge of the door and scanned her slowly with those changeable eyes, acutely reminding her of the hot mess she must appear. He shrugged one big shoulder indifferently. “Before this is all over that’s exactly where I expect I’ll be.”
His gaze turned from her then, landing on the discarded cord. His mouth formed a grim line and she knew his intention. Her pulse jackknifed against her throat as he snatched the cord. She tried to crawl away but he grabbed her ankle and dragged her back. “Sorry. Gotta do this. Can’t have you causing me to run off the road again.” He bound her wrists and ankles, not too tight but snug. She wouldn’t be mobile. He looked back at her. “Sorry,” he repeated, his voice flat and void of emotion.
“I’m the one tied up,” she spat. “Don’t act like this is hard for you.”
Tied up and scared, she silently added. Her parents must be out of their mind with worry. Even as she thought that, an uncomfortable knot formed in her throat. Would they really? Would her father be worried about her? Or more worried about how this impacted his campaign?
Reid held her gaze as if he was going to deny the accusation, but then he nodded. “You’re right.” That said, flatly and without remorse, he slammed the sliding door shut, the force of which reverberated on the air for several moments.
She sat on the hard floor, the knuckles of her bound hands curled against the steel bottom of the van, her heart racing, her breaths escaping in angry pants. Her gaze darted, wildly searching for something. Some way out of this nightmare. She was at his mercy. She hadn’t let herself think that way before, but she was no better off than when she was first grabbed outside her hotel.
He opened the driver-side door and reclaimed his seat. She stared bleakly at the back of his seat as he turned the ignition.
Had she thought him her savior? Her head was throbbing. She curled herself into a small ball, laying on her side, nestling her cheek against the blanket and marveling that she could be so stupid. There was no savior. No help coming. Everything was up to her.
Tears stung the backs of her eyes. She refused to let them fall. She refused to cry in proximity to him. She wouldn’t dare show that weakness. When she was home and free and this was all a bad memory, then she would allow herself tears.
The van rolled a steady rhythm underneath her, lulling her. Soon she was asleep.
She slept for hours. Long after he turned off the highway and onto rural roads that formed a labyrinth in the desert mountains. Thankfully, she didn’t even stir when he stopped for gas.
He glanced at her several times through the rearview mirror. She must be exhausted. He grimaced. Or the stress of her ordeal put her into a coma. She bumped along with the movements of the van, her face relaxed and at ease.
It was a relief. No more attacks that ran them off the road. No sound of her voice talking to him, begging, pleading. No tears. God, that would have undone him. Only her gentle snores. She was emotionally and physically beat. Her body had shut down and claimed the rest it needed.
It was dark by the time he pulled up in front of his grandfather’s old hunting retreat. The kind of dark you only found in the country. The night sky stretched overhead, deep and studded with infinite stars.
He hadn’t been to the cottage in a long time. Even before he went to prison. Not since his grandfather’s death. But he remembered the place well. Sometimes, falling asleep in his cell, he would think about it. It was one of the few places where he felt safe . . . where any happy memories could be found. Hunting. Fishing in the creek. Roasting marshmallows over the outside pit.
His grandfather had built the place after he returned from the war. As though living in a remote West Texas town wasn’t remote enough for him. The old man installed a well so there was running water. A generator provided the needed electricity. The ice chest full of food that Zane packed would last them until he hunted some game or caught fish from the creek. Assuming they were even here that long. He grimaced. He hoped not.
Reid pulled up in front of the hunting cabin and killed the lights and engine. He sat behind the steering wheel for a moment, staring at the dark shape of the house. He and Zane were normal boys here. Until Grandpa died, and then everything changed.
When Grandpa lived he would keep them for days, sometimes weeks at a time. After the old man died, there was no break, no saving them from their home life. Their mother only cared about her next fix, and their father, when he decided to make an appearance, liked to use them for punching bags. It made him feel better. Like a big man.
The old, weathered wood swing on the front porch moved in the breeze, the chains clinking softly. For a moment he could imagine Grandpa sitting there, whittling a piece of wood into something Reid and his brother would later marvel over. Happy times happened here, and it felt wrong bringing her here, as though doing so would taint all those memories.
No one knew about the place. It wasn’t on any map. With Zane and the others running drugs and guns so close to the border, a place this far west was convenient. When things got too hot, they could duck in here and wait things out.
Sighing, he stepped out into the humming night and rounded the car to the blaring song of cicadas. He opened the sliding door, quieter than he had before, not eager to wake her. He stared down at her for a long moment and dragged a hand through his hair. Christ. Nothing was going the way he planned.
Surveying the encroaching darkness, he moved to the house and unlocked the front door, pushing it open. He hovered there for a moment, staring into the shadowy interior.
Shooting a quick glance back at the van to assure himself that she hadn’t emerged, he strode to an outside shed and turned on the generator. Its loud purr soon filled the air. Reid moved back into the cabin and flipped on a lamp sitting on a side table beside the couch. Gold light suffused the cabin.
He returned to the van for her. Leaning forward, he slipped his hands under her body and lifted her up, tucking her close to his chest. She still didn’t wake, turning her face into his chest as though he were her pillow.
She was heavier than she looked, but he still carried her with ease. One thing you had in prison was time. A lot of which he had spent working out, either playing basketball or using the rudimentary gym equipment in the yard, building his body into a weapon. The only weapon you had in prison.
She stirred a little as his shoes thudded over the wood porch. He entered the living area, kicking the door shut behind him and muting the sound of the generator. He’d go back for the supplies in a little while.
Even musty-smelling, the cabin was better than the place they had just left. For one thing, it wasn’t filthy, which told him his brother couldn’t have used it that often. It was sparsely furnished. Just a couch and recliner, kitchen table and four mismatched chairs.
Reid carried her to one of the two bedrooms. He knew it was probably a good idea if they slept in separate rooms. Last time they’d shared a bed had not gone well. He still harbored all kinds of dirty thoughts . . . the things he could have done to her . . .
Except leaving her in a room to herself probably wasn’t a good idea either. The memory of chasing her through a field was still fresh. He wasn’t keen on keeping her tied up, though.
Reid lowered her down on the colorful quilt in his grandfather’s old bedroom. The brass bed was big and cozy. He and Zane had bounced on it so much that it was a miracle the mattress didn’t sag.
Faint gold light crept into the room from the living area, allowing him visibility. Grace rolled to her side and snuggled into the well-worn quilt, her dark hair a wild tangle around her. He untied the cord from her wrists and ankles. Risky or not, he wasn’t going to keep her tied up all night. He was a light sleeper. He’d hear her if she roused from the room.
She sighed in her sleep, bringing her hands up and tucking them under her cheek. She looked peaceful, as innocent as a child. Not fit for his world, but she was here, dragged into it kicking and screaming. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, backing up several steps, as though needing distance, needing space from her.
Leaving her room, he went outside and carried in the ice chest and duffel bag. It only took a few minutes to unpack the ice chest and toss his duffel on the bottom bunk bed in the second bedroom.
Checking on her one more time, he satisfied himself that she hadn’t budged from where he’d left her on the bed. She was as still as death, and he had to resist the urge to check her for a pulse. Touching her was to be avoided.
Hiding the keys inside a bowl in a cabinet just in case she woke, he stepped into the small bathroom and stripped off his clothes. He turned on the shower and adjusted the dial to the desired temperature, remembering from years ago to set it just at two o’clock.
Waiting for the water to warm up, he propped his hands on the edge of the sink and stared at his reflection, studying the man he had become. There were mirrors in prison, but he never bothered to take much time to look at himself. He was too busy watching everyone else . . . watching his back and the backs of his crew. Except North.
Reid hadn’t looked out for North. Not well enough. Not as he had promised Knox. He had staged a fight in order to get sent to the local hospital. It was supposed to be simple. It wasn’t supposed to involve others. Just him and some skinhead from another crew who got sent to prison for rape and murder. Reid hadn’t meant to start a riot. He hadn’t meant for North to get hurt. His shoulders bore the brunt of that, the weight threatening to cripple him.
He had failed, and now here he stood, free. At least until he was back in there—which was an eventuality. Hopefully North and the rest of the boys would be fine without him until he returned.
The mirror started to fog up, obscuring the reflection of the hard-eyed stranger looking back at him. He didn’t bother wiping it clear. He didn’t particularly care to look at himself. He’d gotten his friend hurt. And there was Grace Reeves to consider. He winced. Hopefully, she wouldn’t bear any lasting injuries. No more than she already had. Hopefully, within the week he could let her go. He’d already saved her, he reasoned. Keeping her for a few more days wouldn’t harm anyone . . . and if it brought down Sullivan, it would serve the greater good. Right?
As bad as the rest of them . . .
Her words had hit their mark. Maybe she was right. He thought himself so different than Zane and the others, but what had he done with his life? Maybe he hadn’t killed the man that he was sent to prison for killing, but his hands weren’t clean. You couldn’t spend a decade at the Rock and come out clean. He’d seen things . . . done things. And he would continue to do things. Things like killing Otis Sullivan. Just because he felt justified didn’t mean it wouldn’t be murder. The way he looked at it, he was already in jail for that particular crime. He might as well make it a reality. And killing Sullivan would be worth it.
Reid stepped into the minuscule shower. Warm water was fleeting so he made quick work of washing himself. Bowing his head, he let the last of the warm spray rush over him. Now he only had to stop thinking about what Grace Reeves felt like, all those curves and sweet skin and how long it had been since he had sunk deep between a woman’s thighs. With a groan, he slid his hand down to grip his dick, giving himself several hard strokes.
This wasn’t exactly how he had imagined spending his precious days of freedom. He had imagined he would eat a good burger. Find a quick, anonymous fuck. Then he would top everything off by killing Sullivan. The icing on the cake of his brief bout of freedom.
He rested his forehead against the wall of the shower and pumped his dick, working it almost savagely, desperate for release, something to take the edge off. Thinking about her wasn’t hurting anything. Remembering how hot her sex had felt, how wet her panties, how easy it would have been to slip the fabric aside and find her slick heat with his fingers. He closed his eyes, his breathing growing ragged as his balls drew up tight. His fantasies took a turn and it wasn’t just his hand anymore. In his mind he was spreading her thighs wide and driving his swollen length into her. She’d arch, her body swallowing him, fitting him like a glove, milking his hungry cock.
He came, blowing his load with a head-tossing groan. He stood beneath the spray of water, rattled in the aftermath. He was certifiable. Just the thought of her had him jacking off to the best orgasm he’d had in years. And that was still saying something, since all his orgasms in recent—and not so recent—years had been self-service. This one shouldn’t have shattered him so much.
Water crashed over him, kneading the lingering tension from his muscles. No question about it, she had a hot little body under the sexless clothes she wore, and those big brown eyes did things to his head. He cursed and reminded himself that he’d always liked blondes, the occasional redhead, and mile-long legs. That was his type. He should be able to keep it together around her. He was all about control. In prison. Out of prison. It made no difference. He hadn’t fallen so low that he would take a woman against her will. Prison hadn’t ruined him that much.
But what if it wasn’t against her will?
The question slid insidiously through him, a tempting little whisper. She had responded to him on that bed last night. Even if she was attempting to manipulate him then, she had not been unaffected by his touch. He could make her want it . . . want him. He was good at reading people, and he knew one thing for certain about Grace Reeves. The woman had never been well fucked.
He shook his head, shoving the idea out of his head. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t seduce a woman his brother had abducted for Sullivan. Even if she wasn’t the president’s daughter, it was wrong on every level.
It would only be a little longer and then he’d be rid of her. Zane had promised that he would know something in a few days. Then he would get what he wanted.
The sudden image of Grace Reeves asleep in the bedroom next door appeared in his mind. Funny how she popped into his head when he thought about what it was he wanted.