Heather Graham (21 page)

“Kent, I’m not telling you to bat her in the head or anything,” Sam was saying. “Just be careful of what you tell her. Don’t give out any of our strategies or tell her any of the plays we’re planning on using. Kent?”

“I’m here. I—I’ll see you soon, Sam. Thanks for the, uh, call.”

He set down the receiver and turned around.

There was something different about him, Katie knew. Something that made her sorry she’d insisted he speak to Sam.

He looked wired, as if he were facing a hefty tackle on the goal line. The lines about his eyes appeared deeper, just as their color seemed darker, tenser. Damn, she thought, Sam probably said something about the game, and the stupid game drove them both.

She longed to ease the strain from his face. Katie reached out to touch his brow, but he caught her hand. For a moment she was certain that his eyes narrowed and glinted. His grip upon her was tight.

But then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Where were we?” he asked, smiling. But she didn’t like the smile.

“Is Sam all right?” Katie asked worriedly. Maybe that was it.

“Sammy is fine,” Kent said quietly, leaning over to kiss her. His fingers grabbed the hair at her nape roughly, but his lips were warm, and his mouth touched hers with fervor and passion. Attuned to him, Katie responded, certain that the edge of roughness had something to do with the interruption in their lovemaking. And yet … his hold on her was so fierce that she winced, trying not to cry out or protest.

With that same naked tension and a swift agility, he moved above her, his body taut. His fingers were entwined in her hair as he looked into her eyes as if challenging her in some way.

Kent knew he should let her go … now. He should roll away from her with the contempt she deserved—spurn her, hate her, but from a distance. The fury that ripped through him like lightning tempted him to slip his hands around her neck and squeeze. But he couldn’t. He hated himself, he hated her, but he had determined that her game would be played out. He’d teach her what it felt like to be used.

He smiled. “Time and time again, Katie?” Damn those eyes of hers, wide and liquid with confusion. When she lifted her hands to his cheek, he found her wrists and held them by her sides, smiling still as he wedged himself deeper between her thighs.

And then he closed his eyes because he felt her embrace despite his sudden entry; he felt her form shudder, heard her little cry. And despite the rage and the wrenching pain of betrayal he felt, Kent wanted her so desperately. A shattering, driving need swept him now, not with violence but with a blinding force. He moved with a furious beat, perhaps believing that the ache in his heart could be released with the fever of his desire.

It was over quickly, a volatile, shuddering explosion. Then he heard her ragged breath—and he knew instantly that his pain hadn’t lessened, and his anger grew again because he could not slake her from his system. He rose above her again, moving damp strands of blond hair from her face, watching her eyes, feeling further betrayed by the innocence in them.

“Tell me,” he grated, “does Paul enjoy your hair? Does he like to run his fingers through it when he kisses you?”

“Paul?” She seemed confused and dazed, the ultimate actress to the very end.

“Paul Crane.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, impatience and something like apprehension in her voice.

He dropped her hair and rolled to his side, resting on an elbow. “You’ve never dated the man?”

Katie frowned. The vivid, incredible beauty of a daydream was becoming a nightmare that she didn’t comprehend. What was going on? She hadn’t imagined the difference in him—it was real—and his rough tension hadn’t had anything to do with passion.

She was shaking, thinking—and trying to be honest. “Yes, I’ve dated him, but I don’t—”

“You don’t understand?” Kent finished for her, his tone very low, very silky. He ran his fingers over her abdomen, stroking lightly. They caressed the shadow between her breasts, fluttered over the mounds with a loving tenderness that had been absent moments before when she had ached for it.

But now it was wrong. All wrong. And she was too lost, too stunned, still groping for understanding.

“Congratulations,” Kent continued with the same husky tenor in his voice, “I’ve just heard about your impending marriage.”

“What?” Katie whispered in amazement. It didn’t make any sense.

“I know that you’ve been seeing him for the last six months, Katie. But I want to know, was this … all this … because you love Paul so much or because you still believe I betrayed your father? Or was it just because you still think I stole your time with him?”

She found the strength—and the fury—to push his hand away. In a second she was on her knees, edging away from him, staring at him with the dawning of horror.

“So help me, Kent, I don’t know what you’re getting at! The extent of any of my previous relationships should have been pretty damn obvious to—”

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, “a virgin whore. So much the better.”

“Oh, my God! You’re insane with your arrogance—” Katie began, her voice as soft as his, her words enunciated clearly as she struggled just to articulate.

“You know,” he interrupted calmly, “I thought at first that you were willing to sell anything for a story. But there were higher stakes than an article, weren’t there? I never did care much for Paul Crane—even when we were on the same team. He’d sell his own mother for a win; I shouldn’t be surprised about you. Of course, you would have thought he’d want to reach the punch first himself, but maybe he didn’t think you’d have to go quite so far. But cheer up, he hasn’t got any old-fashioned hang-ups that I know of. He’ll probably still marry you anyway.”

There were things she would think of later, the absurdity of the thought of herself and Paul Crane married, or the idea that Sam—whom she had cared about so much!—had only to make a few statements and she was condemned, but these thoughts escaped Katie at the moment.

With cool reasoning she might have made a mockery of the situation and Kent’s behavior, but there could be no reasoning after the things he had said. White hot fury, a roaring blaze of it, washed through her. She screamed and attacked him, sobbing and shouting her hatred for him. She lunged madly, her nails raking for his flesh. He rolled easily from her attack and caught her wrists.

“No, Miss Hudson, I already bear your scars—enough for a lifetime, thank you.”

Katie lashed out with a string of expletives, but none of them were quite adequate to describe how she felt about him. Nor could she free herself from his grasp. He listened to her, his features taut and white.

At last she was caught above him, gasping for breath, feeling the heat of his body beneath hers.

He smiled icily at her. “Once more, for old time’s sake, Katie?”

When she twisted desperately, he released her. She was still shaking with rage, but now she was seeking the dignity of control.

“I hate you, Kent. I really, truly despise you. I’ll never forgive you for this.” She managed to stand and find her clothing. “I don’t ever want to see you again, as long as I live. I’ll dance on your grave when your stupid game pounds you into it.”

It was dark. Tears were stinging her eyes, and she couldn’t see him anymore.

“What do you think you’re doing now?” he demanded harshly.

“Leaving,” she said shortly.

He snorted something derisive without rising from the bed. “Don’t be a fool. You can’t leave a snowbound mountain by yourself.”

“Watch me,” Katie replied.

“Don’t be an idiot! I’ll get you back down—without touching you again.”

Katie ignored him with single-minded purpose. She was out of the house before he had stumbled from the bed.

And she hurried. Some kind of reason was with her again. She hated him—oh, how she hated him!—but though he was arrogant and stupid, and any number of other things she couldn’t begin to think of yet, she knew he would come after her, certain she would perish in the snow if he didn’t.

She didn’t know if she cared about perishing. All she knew was that she had to get away from him. The snow was ankle-deep on the paths, up to her thighs in the surrounding drifts. It didn’t mean a damn thing to her—she just didn’t want to be anywhere near him. It might be foolish to attempt a mule ride in the cold of a frozen night, but she was certain she could do it. She would take Clarabelle and ride down to Bill’s, then drive the Jeep back to Denver. It was simple, and it was possible to accomplish.

“Katie!”

She looked back. Kent was standing in the doorway, a tall silhouette against the warm flood of light from the cabin. He had his sheepskin jacket on, and he appeared extremely broad-shouldered and muscularly trim as he blew on his hands to keep them warm.

Katie watched him for a second. Then she resolutely turned toward the barn once again.

“Katie! Kathleen Hudson—dammit, woman, just what kind of a fool are you?
What do you think you’re doing?”

She ignored his furious question and didn’t look back. What do you think I’m doing, you idiot? she wondered bitterly.

Then she heard his footsteps on the snow. “You’re going to get back in here, now, young woman—”

Just who in the hell did he think he was to abuse someone with mental cruelty and then command that same person?

She kept walking, hearing the crunch of her own footsteps, realizing that his were moving more quickly. Was it instinct, she would wonder later, or the result of the fury and pain that touched her heart and soul with lunacy? She began to run. Perhaps it was only a set determination to escape him. If she could reach the mules first, she could take Clarabelle and release the others.

And it felt good to run. The air burst into her lungs like a fresh, cleansing wind. She loved to run, and she was fast. She was Dante Hudson’s daughter, and he had been a great runner. Quick to throw the ball, equally quick to charge ahead with it, leaving guards and tackles falling at his feet while he raced for the line …

Running faster now, her breath coming in pants, her legs reaching, muscles warming. The cold brought tears to her eyes—or was it the cold? Katie felt like the wounded animals they had discussed earlier … a lifetime ago. She would run, glory in it, find victory in escape.

“Kathleen!”

His voice, ragged, incredulous, was close. She made the mistake of looking back and lost a stride. Her heart hammered hard against her chest, and when she tried to look forward again, it was too late. Arms like steel came flying around her, and she was falling into the snow with all the impetus of her speed.

Katie was stunned and breathless as she landed, aware at first only of the snow, cold and biting where it touched her cheeks. She wanted to cry; she refused to. And she felt the greatest bitterness. Something hollow and empty. She’d played it all very badly from the beginning, culminating here.

She could run, yes. But only someone touched by true insanity tried to outrun a man who had broken records with his speed on the field.

“Katie!” He was above her, shaking her, bronzed flesh taut across his features, his mouth grim. He looked tired, she thought, and worn, as if he had just battled the L.A. Raiders instead of a foolish woman who couldn’t get close to first down.

Instinctively, she tried to twist away from him. No matter what her action, she could not forget his words or live down the fury.

“Katie!” He grated out her name once again, and she felt a harsh tension in his arms.

“You can’t leave, alone in the night!” he told her stiffly. “I’ll take you in the morning.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Dammit, I won’t touch you. I won’t even talk to you. But you can’t go down the mountain alone at night.”

“Would you move then, please?” she requested quietly.

He pushed himself from her and dusted the snow from his pants. Katie stood and stepped over him, walking rigidly toward the cabin. She heard him following behind her, and she heard their footsteps crunching in the snow, echoes in a suddenly very silent night.

K
ATIE CLOSED THE DOOR
behind her. Kent opened it, then closed it again. She felt his presence and knowing that he was there made her feel as if she were a stick of dynamite with a very short fuse. It was impossible to be near him.

He moved quietly into the kitchen while she wondered what she should do next. She could lock herself in the bedroom. Yes, she decided, that was probably the smartest thing to do.

“Would you like coffee or a drink?” he asked her tonelessly. “You should have something, or you’ll wind up with pneumonia.”

“You’re not supposed to be talking to me,” Katie reminded him sharply, swallowing quickly after her own words. She wanted to be calm and behave rationally, but there was only one thing to do when a relationship—whatever there was of it—was irrevocably broken. The thing to do was leave, and she couldn’t. And if she couldn’t leave, she was going to feel like fighting and defending herself—proving to him that he was the one who was horribly, stupidly wrong.

Forget it, forget him, she advised herself. But she realized that wouldn’t be easy. She had fallen in love with him, and though she hated him for his callous words and accusations, she could not so easily turn off the feelings he had bred in her heart.

“Katie,” he said very quietly from the kitchen, and she knew from his rigid stance, from the grim position of his jaw, that he felt the almost unbearable tension himself. “I’ve promised to leave you alone and see you back to Denver. I couldn’t allow you to leave because you could have killed yourself.”

“Wouldn’t that have been convenient?” she drawled as she fought a new rising fury. “I wouldn’t have been able to see Paul and give out any secret game strategies.”

“You sound like a child—”

“I do?” Her voice rose incredulously. “You’re the child. You and your damned game! Does it ever occur to you that the world is filled with people who don’t give a damn about a game?”

He was setting the coffeepot on the stove. If anything, his lips compressed more tightly together, his teeth clenched hard.