Forster, Suzanne (40 page)

The tack room had a weathered Dutch door, the top half of which was hanging open as Gus approached it moments later. The evening's balmy summer breezes had already turned unusually chilly and damp, and the patchy grass beneath her feet was soggy with moisture and sharply redolent of peat moss.

She was glad she had on a suit jacket as she picked her way through the darkness in her high-heeled pumps. If only she'd been able to find a flashlight. Even a thin beam of light would have helped to allay the gooseflesh and the shivery fears that were rising inside her.

She stepped gingerly onto the mossy stoop of broken bricks and hesitated, trying to get a look inside the room before entering. The chill made her clutch her arms, and no matter which way she angled her head, her own shadow prevented her from seeing what the open hatch might have illuminated. As she glanced around, trying not to stumble or break a heel, she realized the exterior light above the stable doors was out. It usually burned all night.

At least open the door, Gus, she told herself.
Open the door and get ready to run.

The hatch creaked and swung free when she lifted the iron bar, which forced her to step around it. Moonlight cast a faint shadow, her own, against the far wall. Otherwise, the room appeared empty. Caution told her to shut the doors, bolt them, and go back to the house, but she never could leave a riddle unsolved. Her brain wasn't wired that way. Curiosity, she decided, might be her worst failing.

"Anyone there?" she asked, straining to make out details.

No one answered, and finally, still clutching her arms, she stepped down into the thick gloom. The place smelled strongly of old leather and saddle soap. Alfalfa, sweet and damp, mingled with the pungency of horse droppings from the stables next door.

A shadow flared against the far wall, engulfing hers.

"Who's
there?"
Panic sent her stumbling backward for the door. The high heels made her clumsy.

She barely had the words out before someone caught her by the arms, spun her around, and forced her to the wall, face-first. A brawny forearm, obviously male, anchored her shoulders. Fear rose up in her throat, gagging her. It gripped her like fists and held her even more roughly than her assailant was doing. This was the stuff of her childhood nightmares. Stupefying terror. She had to fight it off, or she wouldn't have a chance against him.

She made no attempt to resist him. Instead, she went very still, her breathing ragged. It took her a moment to get her bearings, but once she'd recovered her balance, she came to a quick and startling conclusion. She was being groped! The arm that had pinned her shoulders was her primary concern, but she was astonished and horrified to feel his other hand roving all over her, flying down her arms and snaking inside her jacket, fondling her butt, pulling up her skirt.

"Stop that!" she gasped, unable to move against him. "What are you doing?"

"Patting you down for weapons. Spread your legs. "

She recognized the grainy masculine voice at once. It was the man who ground glass with his teeth. "I will not! I don't have any weapons. "

"You think I'm going to take your word for that?" Jack Culhane muttered. "Somebody's trying to kill my ass! Excuse me, somebody
besides
you. My room's been searched, I'm under surveillance, and tonight I get a scribbled note that says come to the stables. So who shows up? My loving wife?"

"I got a note, too. From you! It came with roses. "

"Roses? I never sent you a note
or
roses. "

"Why aren't I surprised?" She arched back against his arm, moaning with relief as he eased up on the pressure. She was still shaking from the roar of adrenaline through her system.

"Spread your legs, and I'll let you go," he said.

She had thought he was releasing her, and the shock of discovering that he wasn't filled her with mute outrage. Surely he didn't think she'd come here to kill him? That was absurd. He was just being perverse, torturing her. She kicked at him, missing repeatedly. Her aim was off. It was wild! When she finally did catch him in the shin with her high heel, she got herself shoved back up against the wall for her trouble.

"Simmer down, " he said.

"Let me go!" The shrill demand backfired. He brought his knee to her backside and nudged it this way and that in a rough caress. The pressure was so suggestive it shocked her into silence for a moment. She was in a terribly vulnerable position, and the erotic quality of the attention he was applying made her all the more indignant, especially as he gently, but determinedly, tried to wedge his battering ram of a knee between her thighs and pry them open.

"You bastard," she breathed. "If you ruin my nylons I'll kill you!"

"Come on, Gus," he said, his mouth hot against the silky hair on her crown. "Spread 'em, babe. This will only take a minute. And when I'm done, you can search me if you want to. "

"Only if I can take a riding crop to your naked flanks."

"No wonder horses run away with you, Ms. Lizzie Borden. I would, too, if you were riding me. "

His knee was rocking against her private parts, and though she had no intention of letting him know that his show of brute force was in any way disconcerting, she was afraid of what her body might do if she let him continue. Nerve endings were fiendishly fickle things. They had a way of sparking and firing whether you wanted them to or not, and hers were already on overcharge. Her heart was kicking so hard the beat of it in her throat had begun to arouse her in perverse ways. She could feel the blood rushing from her head to destinations south, and her breasts were tingling as if they'd been exposed to the cold air. Why did he always have that damn, disgusting effect on her?

He'd frightened her so thoroughly her body didn't know which way to jump, and now he was confusing and exciting her circuits even further. They thought they were supposed to respond to what he was doing.

"All right," she said, opening her legs just enough to accommodate a hand. "Do it. Quickly. "

She felt him press his entire body against her, but especially down there, his hip nudging hers, the fly of his jeans chafing at the side seam of her skirt. But it was his hand that claimed her attention as he slipped it under her ultra-slim mini.

His fingers skimmed lightly up the inside of her thighs like a spider over a web. They startled a telltale sound out of her as she braced herself for what was coming next. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, waiting... waiting for the moment of unbearable contact. That moment when he would touch her in quick, illicit, intimate ways, and she would begin to sweat through every pore....

Her legs trembled and her nerves drew taut with expectation, but his hand didn't move. His fingers hovered at the apex of her legs until the tension felt as if it might pop like a tiny balloon.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"Savoring the moment... how about you?"

"Do it, you smartass cowboy, do it!"

"Do what?"

"You know! Get it over with... oh!" she cried, thinking he had touched her, thinking she'd felt the feather caress of his fingers in a tender place, and then just as quickly realizing that she hadn't. That he hadn't. Her face was burning! The exquisite tension, the heat and energy emanating from his body made it feel as if he were stroking her, and her nerves danced in anticipation. But in fact he was still tormenting her, forcing her to imagine his touch in vivid detail. Thrilling little clutches of sensation tantalized her.

"What do you want me to do?"

"N-nothing—" She got it out, but weakly.

Everything. Do everything to me.
The forbidden answer flooded into her mind before she could smother it. It poured through her like steamy water, pooling in her breasts and her belly, swelling tissue and tightening the skin that lay over her flesh. She tingled deep inside. It was excitement, vibrant and alive. Excitement so vital it seemed to cry out for contact.

"Let me go," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I want you to let me go. "

His fingers swept from the space, grazing the silk of her pantyhose without ever really touching her, yet leaving her so sensitized it felt as if he were still there, as if he'd always been there, a dragonfly hovering between her braced legs, ready to sting.

"You're clean," he said, stepping away from her. "Too bad."

She knew one thing and one thing only. Somehow she had to get her heart steady, her legs working, and her rear end out of the place before he could think about stopping her. Without a word she yanked down her skirt and headed for the door, aware that something was wrong as she approached it. Both the top and bottom hatch were closed. She'd left them open, hadn't she?

She tried the top first, and when it wouldn't budge, she knew somehow that the bottom wouldn't either. They were trapped. Either the doors had jammed or someone had locked them in. Refusing to believe it, she summoned her strength and gave both doors a sharp push with the flat of her hands.

"What's the problem?" he asked.

She tried again, using her shoulder and shoving with all her might. She could only imagine what the moldy, slivery wood must be doing to her black suit! The doors held firm, and a sound of despair slipped out of her. "They're jammed!"

She pivoted, glaring at him, straining to make out his features in the darkness. "You did this!"

He threw up his arms. She could see that much.

"How could I have jammed the doors? I was in here with you. " The floor groaned as he walked toward her, stepping over some worn cowboy boots and a saddle tree on his way.

He must have extraordinary night vision, she decided. He moved around like a cat, even though the room was rigged with hidden obstacles. "Then who did it?"

The thud of his body against old wood reverberated in the tiny room. Metal bridle bits clanged jarringly on their wall hooks as he tried the door again. "It's been barred from the outside, " he said. "Somebody locked us in." He pivoted, searching the room. "There must be another way out of here. "

"There is no way out," she announced with finality. "The room has no windows. We'd have to take an ax to the door. "

"Isn't there an intercom in the stables?"

"Yes, but there isn't one in this room. There should be a light, though, on the wall behind you. "

He found it after a bit of searching. She heard the hoarse squeak of a rusty chain being pulled and the saddles, bridles, and bits that hung on the walls suddenly materialized. The small, smoky globe didn't provide much light, and it wasn't terribly aesthetic, but at least they wouldn't be falling over each other.

"What did the note say that came with the flowers?" he asked. "That might tell us who set us up. "

"My note?" She was reluctant to tell him, just as she was reluctant to mention anything that had happened that night, including the confrontation with Rob and the feeling that she was being watched. He hadn't yet convinced her that it wasn't him. Who else would go to so much trouble to trap them together? It was possible Rob had them both under surveillance, but she couldn't imagine why.

"You don't think we're being watched, do you?" she asked.

"Anything's possible. " He performed an immediate search of the small room, inspecting the walls and door. When he was finished, he checked the saddles and riding gear, as if looking for bugs. "The place is clean, " he pronounced at last. "What about that note? Who sent it?"

"The note was nothing, just a silly remark."

"So who sent the flowers?" he persisted.

She shrugged as if to put him off again, but the way he was staring at her made her uneasy. His gaze could quickly turn piercing, as she well knew, like diamonds drilling through rock. "I don't know who sent them."

He rested a fist on his hip. "You're not giving me much to go on here."

"Oh, all right." She sighed. "The note said 'Bite me.'"

"Come again?"

"You heard me." Unfortunately now she could see his expression better than she wanted to, and the smile that was lying in wait could only be described as wolfish. That and the hip-sprung pose made him look rather at home in this room of leather and silver, ropes and whips. His jeans were faded out in the crotch, and they fit snug to his body, clinging to his thighs like well-worn buckskin gloves. His T-shirt looked old and soft from many washings, and the thin cotton material appeared fragile against the brawny curves of his upper body.

"Who are you on 'bite me' terms with these days besides me?" he wanted to know.

"You were the first one I thought of." That wasn't quite true. The note's message had been playing through her mind ever since he asked about it, and she had realized there was someone else she was on those terms with, only she couldn't quite believe what she was thinking. In fact, her hunch was so preposterous she wanted to dismiss it out of hand, especially since he seemed to have murder plots in mind. Still, she could even imagine the person's motive.

"There is someone, " she acknowledged softly, speaking as much to herself as him. "Someone who has the words 'Bite me' immortalized in needlepoint on the wall of her bedroom, right next to her print of Renoir's
The Young Dancer.

"Omigawd," she breathed. A smile startled soft laughter out of her. She'd just realized she was right and was inordinately proud of herself for figuring it out. "It's Bridget."

The hand on his hip lifted, signaling his disbelief. "You're saying a five-year-old came up with this Machiavellian scheme? She sent you flowers and me a note, then locked us in this room together?"

"Bridget does not have a five-year-old mind. This must be her romantic idea of getting us together." The more Gus thought about it, the more sense it made. Bridget had been fascinated by the idea of her new stepuncle since Jack first appeared. She'd been pestering both of them for days with questions about their relationship. "This is probably a scene from one of her ballets, " she observed, more laughter bubbling. "Sigfried and Odette's pas de deux in the tack room. "