Hide and Seek (12 page)

She glanced at Shawn who was playing with Armor from under a blanket then slammed her hands on her hips. "As if those poor animals can't wait to make a trip to the slaughter house."

"Those
poor
animals spend most of their life grazing on pastures I seeded with Bahia. And during their lifetime, they receive excellent vet care."

“Because of you, I'll never eat beef again."

His eyes twinkled. "Ahh, Caprice. You'll change your mind when you see my Limousins. My grandfather imported the original bulls from Canada in the early nineteen-seventies. Now they're Okaloosa County's finest, raised strictly for butchering."

When she winced, Holt’s rich laughter coaxed her to smile. "Why did you shave?"

He picked up his glasses and re-opened the map she had set on the counter. "Because, Montero will be looking for a beard when we arrive in Elixir."

****

Later, Shawn slept in the bunk and Caprice stood in Holt’s oversized shirt, waiting for the electric kettle to heat water for the peppermint tea she had purchased at the camp store. Now was an excellent opportunity to consider her predicament and make plans, but Holt was in the shower singing
When a Man Loves a Woman
.

Surely, there was no danger in letting his baritone woo her soul. She closed her eyes and listened to the sad lyrics of betrayal. Without warning or invitation, images appeared of Holt gliding a soap bar over his chest and flat stomach. He hit a low note and her imagination had her quivering like a taunt string on her grandmother’s violin.

By the time the bathroom door opened, she was a malleable mass. He was bare-chested, his skin glistening. His jet hair hung in damp, unfettered shanks, touching wide, sun-bronzed shoulders. Holt LeBerger was handsome in a fierce and feral way.

A damp towel draped narrow hips, exposing his navel and hair that angled lower…much lower. She inhaled and lifted her gaze. Like a crimson ravine, a jagged scar ran from his right shoulder, mowed a swath through swirling, black chest hairs then tapered to a point over his sternum, right over his heart.

She gestured, remembering that she had glimpsed his scar at
Casa de Fuego
. "Did ‘The Terminator’ do all this to you?"

"Hmm.” He worked his arm, rubbing the shoulder. "The joint is pinned. I told you, I'm a beat up old dog."

"Holt, it would be..."

She indulged herself, devouring his physique, his sculptured good-looks. His brow quirked and his voice dropped to a seductive rumble. “Yes?”

"…horrible if any harm came to you because of my situation."

"Darlin', you’re blushing. And for the record, harm already has come my way. I've been waylaid with a conch shell and a wrench."

The water boiled and steam curled from the spout, but she had lost interest in the tea. She jerked the kettle’s plug from the outlet, determined to drive her point home. "Holt, you don't know Alan like I do.”

Grimness edged his lips. "Like I said, plan to leave early."

He started to turn, but she gripped his forearm, contacting hard bone under warm skin and bunched muscles. "Wait. There's something I want know. Why were you arrested?"

"Let’s see…disorderly conduct at a bar.” He began to count on his fingers. “Disturbing the peace, and...”

She cringed. “There’s more?”

“Resisting arrest. Resisting cost me three months in a cell. It could have been a year or more, but I had a decent lawyer and a clean record up to that point.”

She exhaled, digesting his words. "Then Jack was right. You were angry about Lilah."

"Hell. That's no excuse." He swept a finger along her jaw bone. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

She looked down and plucked at the soft cotton. “I never packed anything to sleep in. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. You look a hellava lot better in it than I do.”

A harsh thump against the Freelander’s metal side jolted her. Armor released an air-severing bark, but a sharp command from Holt silenced the dog. Holt stepped close, reached over her shoulder to snap the light switches, and shut them into an inky and confining darkness. The soapy scent on his bare skin invaded her senses, but her mind screamed with terror.

Chapter Seven

Another hard knock sounded, and Holt denied himself the luxury of breathing. He opened the cupboard over her head, and his fingers clamped the Glock's grip while Caprice remained motionless. As he released the pistol’s safety, his brows jammed. Was this a trick to draw him outside? On the other hand, how likely was it that Montero had found them?

He kept the pistol pointed at the floor and left her. At each window he used the fingertips of his free hand to partially pull the blinds and curtains aside. A large raccoon crept through their campsite and foraged under the picnic table.

Holt searched the shadows among the silhouettes of trees for movement, or the moonlight’s glint on a hand-held weapon. When a gust bandied the trees, a limb thumped the unit, and Caprice’s sharp inhalation revealed her tension.

“The winds are picking up. It’s just a branch. Nothing else,” he soothed and returned to her. He imagined her smooth flesh under the borrowed shirt. When he reached behind her and set the pistol on the counter, she stiffened.

"Still afraid of me?"

"I'm not,” she whispered, but she was prickly as the clumps of cactus that grew near his pastures. “I’m just on edge about this situation. It has nothing to do with you.”

"Then prove it. Touch me."

It was a tall order. She was still for so long that he nearly gave up when her palm, cool and hesitating, flattened over his sternum.

His heart kicked like a stall-bound horse, and her breath caught, a nervous unsure sound. He forgot that she was responsible for his black eye, and the throbbing gash on his forehead. He forgot her fastidious, overly-organized ways as well. Instead, from somewhere inside his chest a longing seized Holt as he pulled her close, inviting her to settle against him.

Caprice's hands slid over his chest. It was a whisper, a touch that sent goose bumps rippling in waves across his skin. Did his scars repulse her? Yet, her warm caresses became bolder as if she wanted to see the contours of his body through the sensitive nerves in her hands.

Spreading his fingers across the small of her back, Holt crushed her to him, but he wanted more, a lot more. He wanted Caprice passionate and aroused. He angled his mouth over hers, and her unsteady breaths, little puffs of air caressed. And, then he stole, covering her lips to savor her honeyed-sweetness.

Her arm circled his neck, and Holt shifted, covering her breast with his hand. Caprice was all curvy perfection. His tongue delved deep, sliding along hers as his thumb caressed an erect nipple. Her soft gasp struck a brushfire, lighting the brittle kindling in his soul. When he rubbed his erection against her, she responded, moving her hips, but all too soon she went still.

She shoved her palms against his chest and stepped aside. "Let’s stop." Cool air replaced her soft warmth. “After I give Alan's planner to your friend, I'm going to see Grace. I’ll return to Charleston, pick up my mural business, and Shawn will return to kindergarten. So, let's not start something I’ll regret."

Reaching blindly, Holt caught her arm then used his free hand to grip her chin. He leaned close and his mouth hovered over hers. Her minty breath comingled with his. Unable to resist, he kissed her hard, receiving satisfaction when she responded. Caprice made him feel ten years younger and determined as a bull after a heifer. He lifted his lips and slid his hands down her arms.

"You smell sweet…like peaches."

"Did you hear a word I said?"

She released an exasperated sigh and moved away. Her light footfall crushed the carpeted step. When she shimmied up into the bunk, he would have sold his good shoulder to see her wriggling derriere.

"Holt, you've helped me, Shawn, and your father, but who looks after you?"

He set the pistol into a high cupboard as her sheets rustled. "Me, myself, and I."

"What's your home like?"

"It's…unique."

The ensuing silence was filled with witchy tension that only Caprice could create. “Unique?”

"I mean…it's exactly the way I like it."

Seconds past and she yawned. "I heard you singing in the shower. Your voice is golden, Holt. It makes me feel good."

He gripped the counter.
Makes me feel good
.

Caprice’s sleepy drawl spooned hot syrup into his veins, arousing him further. He was damned tempted to tell her exactly how he could make her feel a hellava lot better. But what had happened to his self-control? Caprice O'Brien had his blood boiling, his heart racing, and he wanted to combat this aching restlessness.

****

With Holt’s clean scent and his lusty kiss lingering on her lips, Caprice rolled onto her side and slipped the inside of her wrist under her cheek. Deep in slumber, Shawn’s elbow jammed her back, grounding her in cold reality.

Although she hated this detour to Florida, her son deserved stability and safety. Holt had supplied that for Shawn, and she was grateful, but after Holt's friend took the planner, and they returned to Charleston, Caprice suspected she would need her mural work to help her forget Holt LeBerger.

Gloomy skies greeted the new day along with a relentless downpour. The thumping sounds of Holt storing hoses and electrical cords in the bins near the wheel wells were now familiar to Caprice. Careful not to disturb Shawn, she slipped from the bunk. She pulled on her jeans and a green top in the dimness then started the coffee.

Holt stepped inside. His pitch hair dripped in strings while his tee shirt molded to his torso. "Good morning," she said, offering him a dry towel.

He peeled off his rain-soaked shirt and tossed it into the sink. Gripping the carafe, he poured the brown liquid into a chipped, ceramic mug. “I left the flashlight on the counter last night. Now it’s gone."

She opened a drawer near the stove, retrieved the light, and handed it to him. "You're disorganized.”

"Not really.” He sipped the coffee and grimaced. “If you'd leave my stuff alone,” he said, setting the mug and flashlight down with a disgruntled thud, “I wouldn't have to ask you where things are."

She gestured to the sink. "Such as where you just threw your sopping shirt?"

“Exactly.” He exhaled. “Now, let’s discuss your lack of coffee-brewing skills.”

"Let me explain. I don’t drink coffee. I prefer tea.” The skin around her eyes twitched. “I loathe your slapdash habits." Without thinking, she lifted the dripping shirt and flung it at his chest. "Your house must be an abominable shambles.”

He grinned. “A
what
shambles?”

“It's probably a pigsty, a putrid receptacle of filth."

He gripped the shirt and plunked it onto the counter. A muscle in his jaw flexed. "There's not a thing wrong with the way I live, Caprice."

She ignored his tone’s warning edge. "I’ll bet muriatic acid can't clean the toilet stains." Holt stepped closer. She gasped, bumped into the counter, and held her hand out to stop his advance. "It's probably a hovel, a reeking dung hill, a compost heap."

"Stop while you're ahead, darlin'."

She couldn't, she wouldn't. She was shaking, but not from fear. "It's probably a rat infested outhouse, a health department nightmare that you call home.”

"Hold on." Bending his knees to be on eye level, Holt scrutinized her then whispered, "Well, I'll be damned."

"Damned slovenly." She trembled.

"Little witch, you're green-eyed with curiosity."

"It's most likely a maggot infested…" He closed the distance between them, slipping his arm around her waist. “…fish camp.” She stared at the vein throbbing at the base of his neck as she lost a battle to searing awareness. "Move your arm, LeBerger."

"Sure." His arm tightened. He pressed her to his hard length, and the air around them changed as he searched her face. "I want to kiss you, Caprice. I want to kiss and forget."

Something in his solemn tone pierced her heart. "Forget what?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he lowered his head. He captured her lips and her insides sizzled like butter on a hot griddle. She expected roughness, but Holt was always gentle. He smelled clean, of the rain, of pine trees, and everything right.

If only for a moment, she wanted to concentrate on the arms that held her, to forgive Holt’s atrocious housekeeping and set aside her concerns as to where he was taking them. She slipped her arm around the cool skin on his neck and returned his fervid kisses, while outside the rain drummed along with her pulse.

When he stopped abruptly, her eyes flew open. Holt leaned away, looking smug. "You'll like my house, Caprice."

****

Welcome to Elixir.
Caprice read the sign that boasted a population of seventeen thousand. Inside Elixir's town circle was a park. Magnificent live oaks draped with feathered boas of Spanish moss provided shade. Like spokes on a wheel, bench-lined sidewalks drew inward to a tall, bronze statue of a uniformed Confederate. The infantryman’s features looked hard and unrelenting against the storm-darkened skies.

Holt glanced at his watch then gestured toward the statue. “Bill Lundy. The last Confederate.”

Across from the circle, red brick buildings flanked a thoroughfare. Local store shops had their windows boarded for Gemma’s potential fury. Soon, Holt turned the motorhome into a private drive. A sapphire hedge of hydrangeas rimmed the clapboard sides and front of a white, Victorian home.

When Holt parked behind the dwelling to conceal the vehicle, Caprice was cruelly reminded of the reason she and Shawn were in Elixir. At the same time, Holt was concerned about protecting his livestock and property.

Two small girls, their raven hair in braids, abandoned a large swing set. "Uncle Holt! Mom! He's here."

"Uncle Holt," Caprice murmured. "I like the sound of that."

He glanced at his watch then eyed her. “Look, Melissa can be forceful, damned temperamental actually, so don’t let her talk you into staying.”