Avenging Angel (15 page)

“Thanks,” Dylan said. “What time does your restaurant open in the morning?”

“Well, we’ve got a fisherman’s special starting at four A.M., which is a pot of coffee and a couple boxes of doughnuts I’ll put out yet tonight. We serve a full breakfast buffet at six-thirty when the cook gets here.”

“Great. See you then.” Dylan placed his hand on Johanna’s elbow and guided her back out the door.

“I’m not getting up at six-thirty for breakfast,” she told him on the front porch.

“Okay,” he agreed—or so she thought. “We can wait until seven.”

“Noon.”

“Seven-thirty.”

“Let me sleep until nine and I’ll split the cost of the cabin.”

“Better be careful, counselor,” he said, sending her a wry grin. “You’re going to have a hard time laying claim to my Mustang if word gets out you’ve reimbursed your abductor for kidnapping expenses.”

“I’ll take my chances with the courts,” she said around another yawn.

At the sedan, he opened the door for her, but she balked.

“I can’t get back in that car,” she said. “I may never be able to get back in that car.”

Dylan knew she was only half teasing, because he felt the same way. He was damn tired, and damn tired of being crammed into the gray sedan.

“Okay. Let’s walk.” He slid partway in and reached under the steering column to disconnect the ignition wires. Then he grabbed the duffel bag out of the back. If anyone was going to spot a stolen car at the Rustic Resort, the two hundred feet between the office and cabin number nine wasn’t going to make any difference.

And if Austin found them in the backwoods of Montana, Dylan would rather Johanna stayed put with a super deluxe cabin around her than making a run for a tin can of a car. He’d have to check out the surrounding area, see what kind of protection and cover was available for himself and the bad guys. He’d slept with the shotgun last night. He would check all of his weapons tonight.

“You’re thinking awfully hard,” she said, walking beside him. “About Austin?”

He nodded. “He’s got an advantage over us. While we’re sleeping he’s still got enough men to keep the search moving.” A pain lanced through his knife wound, making him wince. “Damn.”

“Are you okay?” She touched his shoulder, a gesture of caring he hadn’t expected.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d meant it to be. He tried to rest the duffel bag against his leg as he walked, to relieve some of the weight pulling across the front of his chest. Looking up ahead, he saw they were about halfway to the cabin.

In the next moment she’d moved closer and wrapped her hand around the carry strap of the duffel bag. “Let me help.”

They finished the distance in silence, her shoulder brushing against his biceps on every other step. The night wrapped around them in pine-scented darkness, the quiet broken only by the sound of their breathing. Dylan tensed, trying not to think about her nearness. He was an easy mark for her softness tonight, and for all his aches and pains he wasn’t worn-out nearly enough not to want it.

His gaze slipped to the woman beside him. He’d put her through hell, and there was no denying his actions had made their mark on her. Her hair was a mess, finger-combed and tousled. She didn’t have a speck of makeup on, and her clothes looked like they’d been slept in more than once. What he wanted from her, though, what he had always seen in her, went beyond makeup, expensive clothes, and the stylish cut of her hair.

He shouldn’t have been surprised last night when she’d stood up to him. She’d stood up to Austin under many trying circumstances, always keeping one foot firmly planted in the law. He’d watched Austin bluster and blow and demand the impossible from her, and he’d watched her give it to him time and again. When Austin had come to the realization that she was a woman above and beyond her legal skills, he’d also watched her come to the decision that because of her employer’s sexual interest, it was time to resign.

She had strength, integrity . . . and great legs. God, he was a fool.

Unlike the other cabins, number nine opened onto the river to take advantage of the scenic view out the single window. Dylan smiled for a second in wry satisfaction as they walked around the cabin.

“What?” she asked, her awareness of the subtle shift in his expression surprising him.

“This place,” he said.

She looked at the small building. “What about this place?”

“It’s built like a fortress. Gus and the boys just slapped up new logs around the old cabin. The walls must be two feet thick.” He pointed to the riverbank sloping away from them to the water. “We have the high ground, what there is of it, and they don’t have any room to maneuver. If they want us, they’ll have to come in the front, and I don’t think Gus is going to take kindly to anybody who shoots out his scenic window. He had a rifle behind the counter in the office. An old boy like that isn’t afraid to use it.”

“I didn’t see a rifle,” she said, helping him carry the duffel bag up the porch steps. They set the bag down while Dylan inserted the key into the lock.

“You weren’t looking for one,” he said. “I hope you can come out of this still not looking for guns.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice soft.

He glanced down at her, but she looked away.

“It must be hard,” she said, “living the way you do, always on your guard, always expecting somebody to hurt you.”

“The idea is to hurt them first,” he said, opening the door and stepping aside.

“Yes.” Her voice was even softer, as if she understood all too well how he operated and, worse, felt sorry for him.

It galled the living hell out of him.

She turned the light on in the cabin. He followed her with the bag and closed the door none too gently behind them. She turned, startled, at the noise. Her gaze immediately went to his shirt, and a gasp escaped her.

“You’re bleeding again.” She stepped toward him.

“Leave it,” he growled, grabbing her hand when she reached for him. Her surprised gaze collided with his, but he didn’t relent. “Just leave it.”

He didn’t want her pity, and he sure as hell didn’t want her ministering to him like he was some damn invalid. What he wanted, what he wanted so very badly . . . was her kiss.

“But you’re injured,” Johanna said, standing very still in front of him.

“It’s not going to kill me.”

The bones in her wrist were small and delicate. Dylan could feel her pulse beating in the palm of his hand, racing.

“And that’s where you draw your line, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s where I draw my line.”

God, she was beautiful. With his free hand, he traced the cool, sweet curve of her jaw.

“It’s getting you hurt,” Johanna said, trembling from his touch, from compassion, and from anger that for whatever reason, he didn’t take better care with his life. She tried to pull her captured wrist free, but he held tight.

“The only hurt I’m worried about,” he said, his voice growing husky, his fingers curving around to cup her chin, “is if it’s going to hurt me more to kiss you . . . or to let you go.”

Endless seconds slipped away. His eyes grew darker as he tilted her head back, telling her full well what he had decided, what they’d both already known. She had time to resist him, and when she didn’t, he slowly settled his mouth over hers.

Dylan did nothing else for a long time, nothing except inhale her fragrance and lose himself in the chaste kiss, nothing except hold her chin to keep her from moving away. The action took no effort at all; he did it with his fingertips.

Her lips were soft and lush, her skin smelled uniquely feminine, everywhere like a woman. Each breath he took of her followed an endless spiral of desire deep down to his inner core.

Gently, so gently, he shifted the angle of his mouth over hers, parting his lips as he did. With the slightest movement, she leaned into him. It wasn’t much, but it was more encouragement than he had expected, and much more than he needed.

A groan he’d had no intention of releasing echoed between them as he opened his mouth and claimed her as his. He had killed a man to save her life, to know the warmth and beauty of her would live on after he was gone. She was his one good deed.

So he took the kiss as far as he could, pulling her body close to his, where her touch could ease away his pain. He stroked the silky insides of her mouth with his tongue and dreamed of her other secret places. He threaded his fingers through her long honey-blond hair and plundered her mouth, taking his forbidden taste—a taste she more than allowed with every moment she stayed within his embrace.

Every sigh, every caress of her tongue on his lips was like adding tinder to a bonfire. The pleasure of her response burned through him like a fiery white light. He wanted her, he could have her, now.

Johanna was sinking fast, unsure of her course, yet so sure of wanting him to hold her forever. The kiss was madness, and she was trapped in the middle of the maelstrom by the intensity of the man urging her to relinquish even more of herself to him. In spite of his weakened state, his body was all lean strength and corded muscle, powerfully male, and it brought out her most feminine needs, needs she was used to ignoring. But Dylan Jones, lately of Bridgeman, Inc. and improbably of the FBI, a kidnapper of proven expertise and frightening success, made ignoring her needs impossible.

“Johanna.” He whispered her name, his mouth sliding across her cheek to her ear, his hands slipping under her T-shirt to cup her breasts. Kneading her, he gently bit her jaw, and her neck, and the top of her shoulder through her silk shirt.

No one had ever moved her more deeply, or so quickly. He triggered emotions so far down inside her, she’d never felt them in all their richness, neither all the pleasure nor all the pain. He brought her both: the searing physical pleasure of his body moving with hers, the heat of his mouth, of his life’s breath warming her skin; and the emotional pain of knowing she desperately wanted something she couldn’t have.

“Don’t,” she whispered, drawing him to her rather than pushing him away. She buried her face against his shoulder and felt the fierce pounding of his heart. Her eyes closed on a ragged breath. “You were wrong. It hurts more when you kiss me.”

Dylan wasn’t buying it. He drew in an uneven breath, tightening his arm around her. She was holding him as if she might die if she let him go, and she’d kissed him with the same kind of passion. Women were different from men, and the differences were their allure—the softness, the mystery, the way they gave, and what they took. Sometimes they understood things differently than men, and sometimes they didn’t understand things at all. He didn’t think Johanna understood where they were in their situation. Forces stronger than his willpower and her objections compelled him to explain in every way possible.

“It’ll be worse if I stop,” he promised her, sliding his hand down over her hip and pressing his groin against her. “Much worse, I swear.”

Before she could react or deny him, he lifted his head and captured her mouth once more, his fingers and thumb wrapped around her jaw to hold her for his kiss. Every dream he’d ever had of her, he took the opportunity to realize. He laved the tender inner skin of her lips with his tongue and mimed the act of love in her mouth, and he fell deeper and deeper under her spell, wanting and needing more of her—until she started to give.

Surrender came in sweet, rolling waves: the feel of her hand in his hair, the fullness of her breasts pressing against his chest, the slight lift of her hips beckoning him closer, welcoming him.

It was simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. He caught his breath and swore silently, pulling her harder against him to increase the pleasure building in his loins. God forbid if she should change her mind. He was already past the point of no return.

Johanna gasped as he rubbed himself against her and kissed her shamelessly. She was under siege, her body and her emotions. His arm was like a steel band around her waist, commanding and relentless, yet his hands and his mouth touched and teased her with an aching tenderness.

She’d had her chance to say no, hours ago in Pace, Montana. The look he’d given her when she’d hung up on Henry had been fair warning, and still she’d come with him . . . because she’d wanted this, to know him once in love. Gratitude was a minor part of her motivation. Lust even less so. Her need for him, to be a part of him, went beyond her power to reason. There was no reason to want him as badly as she did.

She did want him, though, with all her heart. She wanted to soothe him and cherish him. She wanted to kiss him with all the tenderness he was showering on her. She wanted to give him pleasure in being alive.

Under the pressure of his fingers, the snap on her jeans gave way.

“Yes,” she murmured, covering his mouth with hot kisses.

With no hesitation and little finesse, Dylan took her to the bed, lying down with her amid the pillows. He cushioned her head with his palm as he continued to kiss her, driving his tongue deep in long, sure strokes. The victory of finally having her beneath him was exquisite. The pleasure ricocheted down his body like summer lightning, touching him everywhere.

“Lift your hips,” he whispered between kisses, then pulled her jeans down her legs when she did. He sat up to finish undressing her and found her reaching for his chest again.