Unlawful Contact (7 page)

Not that holding her naked body had been a chore.

You’re scum, Hunter.

Yes, he was.

He’d known the moment she’d realized who he was. She’d quit struggling, her body suddenly pliant, her blue eyes wide, a look of stunned disbelief on her sweet face. His heart had nearly broken through his chest, his pulse thundering in his ears, his brain buzzing. He’d forgotten that he was a convicted murderer and that she was his hostage. He’d forgotten the police that were on his trail. He’d forgotten what a fucked-up mess his life had become.

For a moment, it had been just the two of them—him and Sophie.

And he’d kissed her.

One taste of her, and he’d lost it. After six years of isolation, of surviving on memories, of living without human contact, feeling her beneath him, soft and female, had been more than he could take. And when she’d reacted by kissing him back…

It had been twelve years of sexual fantasies coming true in an instant.

How he’d managed to stop he didn’t know. He’d felt her stiffen, her rejection taking a moment to register through his raging hormones. It had cost him every ounce of willpower he possessed to rein himself in, to take his hands off her and crawl out of that sleeping bag. If she hadn’t demanded he stop, he would have fucked her hard and fast without sparing a single thought for cops or condoms or consequences.

His heart was still beating too fast, his groin heavy and aching, his body’s need for her overwhelming. He could still taste her, feel her breasts against his ribs, smell her—the scent of her skin, of her perfume, of her hair. And her little whimper…

At least you’ll have something new to think about once you’re back in your cell, Hunter.

Or maybe his balls would explode first.

He gave up trying to wash the blood off his arm, swabbed the wound with Betadine—and spent the better part of a minute trying not to cuss.

He had just pressed down on it with clean gauze when he heard the squeak of bedsprings and looked up to find Sophie walking unsteadily toward him, her long hair a tangled mass, a look of weary resignation on her bruised face.

“I’ll do it.”

He shook his head. “You need to stay where it’s warmest. Your body temp is still low. Get back in the sleeping bag.”

“I’m done being your obedient little captive—”

“Obedient?” He almost laughed.

“—so quit telling me what to do.”

She reached into the first-aid kit, pulled out a pair of latex gloves, and tugged them onto her hands. Then she pushed his hand out of her way and lifted the gauze square he’d been using for direct pressure, her touch striking sparks against his skin. How long had it been since another human being had touched him out of concern or by choice? The nurses in the infirmary had been paid for what little compassion they’d shown him.

Sophie didn’t flinch or say “eww,” but examined his shoulder as if caring for bullet wounds was something she did every so often between deadlines.

He’d always known she was strong.

“Well, at least the bullet didn’t lodge in your arm. I guess you can be grateful for that.”

He was. “I’m even more grateful it didn’t hit you.”

She frowned, her delicate eyebrows knitting together, and he could feel her anger. “You need stitches.”

“Probably. Too bad I left my sewing kit in my cell.”

It was hard to think with her standing close like this. The Polypro long johns fit her like they’d been painted on, every sexy curve of her body highlighted in detail—her delicate breasts, the flare of her hips, her round ass, the soft curve of her belly. He could see her belly button, a little indentation he’d love to explore with his tongue. Her nipples, with their puckered areolas and hard tips, stood out against the cloth, making him want to kiss them, taste them, tease them. He could even see the cleft that divided her labia.

“I guess I’ll have to butterfly it somehow. But we need to stop the bleeding first.” She took a clean square of gauze and pressed down hard.

He sucked in a breath, the pain helping to clear his mind.

“So are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

M
ARC CONSIDERED HOW
he should answer. Sophie deserved an explanation. She deserved to know why he’d done it, why
she’d
ended up being his hostage, why she’d just suffered one of the most traumatic days of her life. But she was a reporter. Anything he told her would go straight to the cops—and to the press. The less they knew, the better for Megan and Emily.

“I’m guessing this has to do with Megan—at least I hope it does.” She lifted the gauze to check for bleeding, then pressed it down again. “I’d be pretty upset if all of this drama and mayhem were just a case of lockdown ennui—some kind of lifer’s joyride.”

He looked up at her, saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, the bruises, the exhaustion and emotional strain.
He’d
done that to her. “You think I’d do this for kicks?”

“Then why
did
you do it? Wait—let me guess. You could tell me, but then you’d have to kill me, right?”

He hesitated. “Megan’s running from someone, Sophie.”

“Yeah. Social Services and the police.”

“No, I mean she’s really running—for her life. She needs my help.”

“Hold this.” Sophie took his hand, guided it to the patch of gauze, then took a small pair of scissors from the first-aid kit and started cutting a piece of duct tape into little strips. “Who would want to hurt Megan?”

“If I knew that, he’d be dead.”

It was the truth, and not even the shocked look on Sophie’s face could change it.

“You’re pretty casual about this murder stuff, aren’t you?” She stuck the tape strips on the edge of the table one by one as she cut them. “You shot John Cross three times point-blank in the chest—a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

Marc ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “He raped Megan.”

She stared at him, scissors motionless in her hand.
“What?”

“Promise you won’t print this in your paper.”

She hesitated. “Okay. Off the record.”

“He raped Megan repeatedly when she was locked up at Denver Juvenile. He was a guard. She was fifteen. If I’m right, she’s running from the man who helped him—his accomplice.”

For a moment, Sophie watched him in silence, those eyes of hers seeming to measure him, then she set the scissors aside. “Lift the gauze out of the way.”

Marc did as she’d asked and saw that the bleeding had slowed to an ooze.

“This will probably hurt.” She pinched the edges of the wound together, then stretched strips of duct tape over them to hold them in place.

It did hurt, but being close to her was like a drug. “It’s not bad.”

“This isn’t sterile, but I don’t know what else to do. If you keep it clean, disinfect it every day—” There was genuine worry on her face. How could she care about him after what he’d done today?

“It’ll be fine.”

She finished quickly, covering the improvised butterfly bandage with thick squares of gauze and taping the gauze in place. “That ought to last for a while.”

Marc flexed his arm, shrugged his shoulder. The bandage held. “Thanks.”

“If you thought Megan’s life was in danger, why didn’t you tell the DOC and have them go to the police?” She pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the corner.

He gave a snort. “Come on, Sophie. You know better than that. Even if the good folks at DOC had believed me, do you think they’d have gone to the cops to report one of their own, especially since I have no idea who he is? Besides, if the bastard was once a CO, he’s probably still working in law enforcement somewhere. The last thing I wanted to do was give away what I know or lead him to my sister.”

“You know where Megan is?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She took a step, swayed on her feet.

Marc caught her around her waist as her knees gave. “You should’ve stayed in the sleeping bag. You’re shivering again.”

She tried to shrug him off. “Let go of me.”

“And let you fall on the floor? Not a chance.” He guided her to the bed and helped her get back into the sleeping bag, irritated with himself for accepting her help. Was he so desperate for human contact that he’d let her endanger herself?

He didn’t want to know the answer.

“Don’t fall asleep. I’ll make more coffee.”

Sophie watched Marc while he poured coffee grounds and bottled water into a small aluminum coffeepot and set it on the edge of the fire, her mind reeling, struggling to make sense of everything he’d told her.

You’re a journalist, Alton. Think!

She took a steadying breath, tried to break down what he’d said the way she would in a complicated interview. Marc admitted to killing John Cross and alleged that Cross, with the help of an accomplice, had repeatedly raped Megan when she’d been in juvenile detention. He claimed it was some kind of threat from this unknown accomplice that had driven Megan to take Emily and run. He said that he’d broken out of prison to help his sister.

Was there any chance that a single word of it was true?

Well, he’d murdered Cross. That much was certain. And Megan
had
spent time in Denver Juvenile, though she’d never said anything about being raped when Sophie had interviewed her. Then again, rape wasn’t a topic most women felt comfortable discussing with the press, and Megan was more emotionally fragile than most women. And although Sophie couldn’t imagine a CO getting away with repeated acts of rape, she knew abuses did happen.

Hunt’s story wasn’t
probable
, but it was
possible
.

And then it hit her. “You never really wanted to be interviewed, did you?”

“No.” He turned away from the fire, pulled a pair of blue jeans out of the backpack, and bit off the tag. Then he stepped into them and pulled them over his long johns. “You’d been interviewing Megan and seemed to care about her. I knew you’d come.”

“So the interview was just a pretext for luring me down there, for getting yourself out of the maximum security wing and into a less guarded part of the facility. It was just a way of getting your hands on a hostage and nothing personal.”

He met her gaze, zipped his fly. “Nothing personal.”

She wasn’t sure whether she should feel relieved, angry, or hurt. “Well, I sure fell for it, didn’t I? Stupid me.”

“You’re not stupid.” He pulled a black turtleneck over his head and tucked it inside his jeans.

“I’ve never gotten approval for an interview from DOC that fast. I should have known something was screwy. You must be pretty connected on the inside. Maybe you can make this up to me by using your influence to get me an interview with someone who
does
want to talk—
after
they catch you and let you out of solitary, that is.”

“
If
they catch me, they’ll probably bring me back in a body bag.”

Hearing him speak so nonchalantly about being killed jarred her, made her temper spike. “How can you joke about that?”

“I’m not joking. I’d be dead right now if someone had been a better shot.”

Sophie remembered the crack of the rifle and the explosion of gunfire that had followed. At the time she’d been sorry they’d missed. And now?

She shivered. “Can you tell me one thing?”

“Maybe.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze straight on. “Would you have pulled the trigger if things hadn’t gone the way you’d planned? Would you have killed me?”

He shook his head. “No. Never.”

She let out a shaky breath. “So what happens now?”

“I get my shit together and get out of here. Once I’m away, I’ll contact the cops and give them your location. You’ll be back in Denver before sunrise.”

She pulled the sleeping bag up to her chin and watched as he finished dressing for the outdoors and organized his gear. Wearing normal clothes instead of prison orange, he no longer looked like a dangerous convict, but a dangerously sexy man—an outdoorsy type, the kind who climbed mountains, skied black diamonds, and thought Class IV rapids were fun.

He walked back to the fireplace, filled a little metal cup with coffee, and carried it over to her. “Drink, but be careful. The cup is aluminum, so it’s hot.”

She sipped, then felt like she’d slipped into some kind of surreal dream when he pulled out the guns and began to check them. They looked at home in his big hands—hands that had killed. “If you commit another murder, they’ll go for the death penalty.”

He didn’t even glance up. “I don’t plan on killing anyone unless I have to.”

When he was finished, he tucked the guns in the waistband of his jeans, then reached toward the table for something that looked like a GPS receiver. He was getting her position, she realized. When he’d taken the reading, he tossed the receiver aside, then dug out a few energy bars and set them on the bed beside her, together with bottled water.

“I’ll get help to you as fast as I can.” He pulled out the handcuffs.

“Please don’t!” She was too exhausted to do more than protest.

She might as well have saved her breath.

He took the coffee from her right hand, put it in her left, then gently cuffed her right wrist to the bedpost, leaving it loose. “I don’t want the cops to get the wrong idea and accuse you of aiding me in any way.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that.

He ducked down, brushed his lips over hers, his green eyes filled with some emotion that might have been regret. “Take care of yourself, sprite.”

Her throat suddenly tight, she looked away. There was so much she needed to say to him, so much she needed to ask, so much she wanted to know. She fought to keep her voice steady. “If you find Megan, tell her how sad I am that she didn’t make it.”

He put on his parka, shouldered the backpack, and walked to the door. There, he stopped, seemed to hesitate, then looked back at her. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Then he walked out of the cabin and into the Rocky Mountain winter.

T
HE CABIN DOOR
flew back on its hinges, hit the wall with a
crack
, the suddenness of it making Sophie scream.

“Freeze! Police!”

They’d gotten here faster than she’d imagined they would, streaming through the door with a burst of frigid air, guns drawn, a familiar face in the lead.

Relief surged through her, strong and warm. “Julian!”

Dressed head to toe in SWAT team black, his Kevlar jacket emblazoned with yellow letters that spelled POLICE, Julian Darcangelo swept the room with his gaze, making eye contact with her for the briefest moment as he and the rest of the team secured the cabin.

“I promise I’ll come quietly.” Sophie managed a smile, wiped the tears from her face with her free hand.

“Get medical in here!” Julian holstered his pistol and reached her in two strides, sitting beside her on the bed and pulling something from his pocket—a silver key. He uncuffed her, took her wrist in his hand, and rubbed it, his expression turning dark when he saw her bruises. “It’s going to be all right, Sophie. The paramedics are right behind us.”

Sophie sank into the hug he offered—and burst into tears.

She couldn’t say why she was crying, exactly. Her emotions were so jumbled she couldn’t sort through them. Shock. Adrenaline overwhelm. Sheer exhaustion.

Heartbreak. Rage. Grief.

She buried her face in Julian’s shoulder, unable to hold back her sobs, the weight of all that had happened crashing in on her.

“It’s going to be all right.” He held her tight, his Kevlar vest hard as steel, his voice soothing. “I’m going to stay with you till we get you to the ER. You’re not alone anymore.”

She soaked in the warmth of his friendship, felt him pull the sleeping bag more tightly around her, heard him issue a handful of orders, his voice quiet as if he were afraid of disturbing or upsetting her.

“Taylor, get out there and break trail so the Band-Aid boys can get through. And shut the door behind you. We need to keep her warm. Wu, you’re stepping on evidence. King, you’re in charge. I’m taking myself off duty as of this moment—oh-three-twenty hours.”

And suddenly she felt silly.

She drew back, sniffed back her tears. “I-I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Sophie. None of this is your fault.” He brushed his thumb over the bruise on her cheek, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “No matter what happened, no matter what he did to you, we’re going to help you through it.”

And then she saw the situation through his eyes—her crying, the handcuffs, her bruises, her clothes lying wet and torn on the floor.

“He didn’t hurt me, Julian. I’m okay, really.”

He frowned. “Like hell you are.”

“The bruises are my fault. I tried to get away and—”

The look on his face told her he wasn’t buying it. “How long ago did he leave you here?”

“About two hours ago, I think.”

Julian passed the info on to his men, then pulled out his cell phone and typed in a quick text message. “I promised Tess I’d let her know when you were safe. She’s waiting this out with the rest of the gang at Reece and Kara’s place.”

The thought of her friends gathered together, worrying about her, made fresh tears sting her eyes. She realized that Julian was here not so much because it was his job—he was vice, not SWAT—but because she was Tessa’s best friend and he cared about her. He’d been willing to risk his life to save hers.

She swallowed her tears. “Thanks, Julian.”

He brushed her thanks aside. “I didn’t do anything. I’m ashamed to say it, but if he hadn’t called to tell us where you were, you’d still be sitting—”

The door opened, and two men stepped inside, one carrying a folded stretcher, the other what looked like a large blue toolbox.

“Finally.” Julian stood and made space for the paramedics, his hand strong and reassuring on her shoulder.

The one carrying the toolbox knelt beside her. “Looks like you’ve had a rough day, but we’re going to take good care of you.”

“I’m fine now, honest.”