Hold Me (4 page)

Jane laughed when she saw what passed for a bathroom. A hole in the ground did not a toilet make. The little cubicle stank, and she identified a bucket as the source of the stench. The system must work like a camping latrine—paper in the bucket. She hoped she had some antibacterial wipes in her purse.

Harrison waited for her near the exit. She glanced beyond him and saw people returning to the bus. Sunlight lit him from behind, leaving his face in shadow. Several women passed, giving him admiring looks, but he appeared disinterested.

Gay?

Back on board, she tried to get comfortable. The sun made it too bright to sleep, although Harrison had managed to catch a few winks earlier. He offered her a bottle of soda with a twist-off cap. She guzzled it and scrutinized his profile. “So, what’s your story? Even you can’t hold out this long without revealing one personal fact.”

He looked at her and slid off his shades. “If I told you I’d have to surrender you to the charms of the border guards.”

She smiled. “Seriously, tell me one thing. Where are you from?”

He scanned her face before he spoke. “Los Angeles, born and raised.”

“What do you do for a living?”

He pressed his thumb to her cheek and she stilled.

“Smudge.” He wiped away whatever had been there.

Her heart flip-flopped at the touch of his callused fingers. “Don’t distract me,” she whispered.

His gaze went to her lips as he tucked her hair behind her ear then withdrew his hand. His light caress left tingles in its wake. She focused on his lips, full but firm, and wished he would trail them across her cheek instead.

“But you’re so distractible.”

“Are you gay?” She frowned at her husky tone.

His eyes narrowed. “No.”

She struggled with his answer. Not married, not gay. That left not-that-into-her. “I apologize, that was probably too personal.”

He shook his head. “Not as personal as what we nearly did last night.”

Her heart stopped. “Did we? Nearly do something?”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a small and somehow jaded smile. “You damn well know we were two seconds away from fucking each other’s brains out.”

Her breath caught. His coarse words cut into her, a swift aphrodisiac. She remembered the heat between them last night, attraction firing between their bodies. Lust pooled between her thighs, sharp and liquid. His eyes darkened and focused on hers with something like need. At least she hoped it was need.

The bus hit a pothole and jolted, knocking her forward. Harrison caught her, gripping her arm with solid fingers, and pulled her back into the seat. His hold on her arm became gentler, but remained. Her thigh pressed against his. A nerve ticked in his jaw and the bones of his cheeks seemed to sharpen. His lips parted.

He had made his attraction to her visible, but still he held himself back. Tightly bound, restraint radiated from his body like an aura.

Jane risked a sideways glance at Harrison. Suddenly, she recognized him.

No
way
.

Chapter Four

“You’re that actor,” Jane said in a high-pitched voice that might as well have been a squeal.

Harrison winced. Here it came.

She squeezed his arm painfully, beneath overeager fingernails.

“The guy with the trench coat and the stereo... ” She was obviously dredging up the right memory. “From the Eighties. That movie.” She scrunched her nose. “What was it called? And that other one with those kids and the pirates.” Her face brightened with delight when she remembered. “You’re Cady Hewes.”

She’d pronounced it correctly, like the letters K and D strung together. He hated his given name.

Cady “Harrison” Hewes slid his shades back on and wrestled his abused arm from her grip. Sliding lower in the seat, he hoped none of the other passengers recognized his name. A few Americans had heard Jane and turned.

“Keep it down, for Christ’s sake,” he said.

So, she’d solved the mystery. He hoped to God she wouldn’t go all psycho-fan on him. He’d liked spending time with her. The reluctant thought gave him pause. If she asked for his autograph, he’d have to think again.

Jane took the hint and contained her excitement. She leaned into him and he caught a whiff of her perfume. To think he had considered acting on the attraction between them.

With a frickin’ reporter.

Who knew where he lived.

The foundation he’d carefully built over the past few years now looked damned shaky. When he’d been an A-list movie star, the press hounded him. He’d worked hard to create an anonymous life for himself, and he wasn’t willing to lose his privacy now.

He glanced at her. Head cocked, she scrutinized him. Usually, after a fan recognized him they would try to tear his clothes off, or at least get an autograph. Her silence unnerved him.

“What?” he asked.

Her eyes widened.

“What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking, what are the odds?”

Betting. Another former vice. “Of meeting a washed-up teen actor on a bus in Guatemala?”

She laughed. The sound thrummed through him and he liked it more than he should.

“Oh. My. God.” She covered her smiling face with her hands. “I
loved
you.”

If he had a penny for every time...

“I’m sorry, this must be really irritating. Lord knows I hate it when a fan comes up to me, gushing everywhere.” She looked contrite. “It’s just so
cool
to meet one of the original brat pack.”

The bus lurched again.

“How long have you been living down here?”

He shook his head. “Long enough to know better than to rescue a lost American, thus jeopardizing my entire way of life.”

She leaned closer. “I’m intrigued, I must admit.” Her lips quirked up at the corners.

Maybe he should stay on the bus beyond the El Remate stop so she’d think he lived in Flores. Just as soon as the thought occurred to him, he let it go. Anyone with half-decent Spanish, or his photo, could find him in this region, no matter where he pretended to go. Buried this far into Guatemala, a white man tended to stick out—especially one who lived here year-round.

He sank back into the seat and pretended to sleep, watching her from the corner of his eye. Jane took out her cell phone, and he tensed. She tried turning it on to no avail, frustration obvious from her sighs. The phone was dead. Great. A reprieve.

“El Remate,” the driver called, eventually.

Jane jerked her head up from the broken phone.

He sighed. “Home, sweet home.”

The bus deposited them at a crossroads and he lugged Jane’s suitcase out of stowage. She gazed at the lush jungle, awestruck. He remembered the first time he’d seen the place—exotic, dangerous, inviting. Just as he was beginning to see Jane.

Too damned dangerous.

The other passengers walked ahead, disappearing into houses along the half-mile trek toward town, leaving them alone. Jane tottered ahead of him on the muddy roadside in those impractical heels that made her legs look fantastic. How did she manage to look so glamorous in the jungle?

He was ready for food, a shower, then bed. Reporter or no, he couldn’t stop thinking about where she would sleep tonight. He blinked back a vision of those long legs wrapped around his waist, her hips pumping under him.

Now that she knew his identity, she’d probably start behaving like every girl he’d known. Money-hungry. How could he trust the way her eyes kept sliding back to meet his, the shy duck of her head, the blush of her cheek, when life had taught him that women were supreme actresses? Was Jane like them? Probably. Her profession required at least a little acting.

Dusk fell rapidly on the unlit road. The lights of the village glinted over the crest of the hill. Cady’s gut clenched at the thought of Jane finding a phone in El Remate. Could he allow her to call home, perhaps report her sighting of a used-to-be-famous Hollywood star?
Maybe she won’t tell.
The thought was a whisper, quickly scorned.

He watched the sway of her ass as she walked.

To hell with it, he decided. He wanted her in his house, in his bed. She could tell the world tomorrow, as long as he didn’t have to deal with the media himself.

“Hey, Jane.”

She paused.

“It’s late. Chances are the bed and breakfasts are booked out.”

“Great.” She looked tired but not defeated. Humor lifted her features, as if she was too exhausted to be anxious.

“I have a second bedroom. You’re welcome to stay.” He gestured to his left. She probably couldn’t see the stone steps leading off the road and down to the water below. The lake was hard to make out through the trees and fading light.

“You live here?” She sounded impressed.

He narrowed the gap between them and he knew he didn’t imagine her sudden stillness. The shallow rise and fall of her breasts beckoned him closer. He bent and lifted her suitcase. “After you.”

There were no handrails and she peered into the gloom before stepping down. The first step negotiated, she began her descent. A monkey screeched and some birds startled from sleep flew above them. Jane jumped but continued down the steps, finally reaching his back patio.

He smiled as she stared at the wooden façade and tin roof with glee, not disgust as he had expected. The exotic plants draping from pots dotted around the porch drew her attention, then she caught sight of the lake, rippling and black, just beyond the side of the house.

“You live on a lake?”

She brushed past him to traverse the narrow stone pathway that led out front. Jane beamed, looking almost giddy. Seeing her that way unlocked something tight in his chest. Following her, he watched as she gazed at the now visible moon that reflected off the inky water.

“The moon is bigger down here,” she whispered.

“Closer to the equator,” he replied, an alien huskiness in his voice. The gentle lapping of water and the chirp of cicadas formed a cocoon of soothing night-music around them. The rich scent of jungle blooms heated from the day’s sun wafted over him—the aroma of sweet perfume. Jane smelled just as heady. He wanted to move closer to her, inhale her essence, the idea of her under him intoxicating. He wanted her naked.

Shit, he was in trouble.

“Come in when you’re ready.” He turned away briskly.

“Thank you,” she called. “You’ve come to my rescue so many times.”

“No problem, Jane.” He shrugged, then made his way indoors, flipping on a light and illuminating the tiny hall. Rolling her suitcase into the bedroom-turned-office, he folded down the futon and grabbed some sheets.

His mom had been the last guest to stay here when she’d come to visit a year or so ago—a long time to go without seeing a loved one. Loneliness weighed in his chest. He missed his mother.

The front door of the house creaked open as he finished tucking in the sheets. Jane found her way to the bedroom and leaned against the doorjamb. He fisted his hands to restrain himself from grabbing her and throwing her onto the mattress.

Why this woman? Why now?

Perspiration beaded on the tanned skin revealed by the neckline of her shirt.

“Shower?” He forced himself to sound casual, not as easy as he’d thought, even after years of acting.

“God, yes.” She moaned her pleasure, nearly undoing him.

“Behind you.” He pointed to the little bathroom on the other side of the hallway. “Towels are on the rack.”

Christ, he needed a drink.

The sound of running water tempted him as he took meat out of the freezer and quickly defrosted it, then threw it into a pot with black beans, rice, and vegetable stock. He hoped she liked his cooking. Jesus, how pathetic was that?

He hadn’t asked her how long she intended to stay in El Remate, trying to find her father, but it couldn’t be long. She would go home to New Mexico, back to her job in the public eye, and a life he abhorred. He could easily picture her in that environment—he’d been interviewed on enough morning news shows. Everything about the setup had struck him as false. The teleprompter telling him what to say, the fake smiles of the hosts, the lighting, and the set. He and Jane had zero in common. Well, maybe not zero.

He became a little feverish at the thought of her naked with only a thin plasterboard wall between them. The shower turned off and it wasn’t long before the door of her room creaked open, then closed.

The stew simmered on the stove, reminding him how starved he was. Setting the table with his best ware took his mind off the rustling of Jane’s clothes.

Time to grab a quick shower himself. He made his way to the bathroom, deciding to shave before showering. His tension eased with the rote strokes of the razor. Smooth-faced, he stepped under the spray of hot water and washed, running his hands over his chest. Every slick movement reminded him of his barely-concealed state of arousal. His skin felt hotter than usual, and he was ready. For Jane.

Her footsteps padded past the bathroom door, headed toward the kitchen. He grabbed fresh clothes from his bedroom and followed.

She wore a breezy white blouse, the kind tourists wore, and jeans, her feet bare. She stepped next to the stove and inhaled the aroma of the stew.

“Yum,” she said, then lowered her eyebrows. “That’s not goat’s meat or anything, is it?”

He smiled, pulled out a chair, and waited for her to sit. She gave him an appreciative glance, as if she wasn’t used to such a simple gesture of respect. As she sat, her mouth came close enough to kiss, and her eyes held his attention. A unique light sparkled in their depths, as if she could read his thoughts. And was the same expression of longing on his face?

He broke away and served the stew, needing to put his hands on something besides Jane. This was temporary insanity bred out of lust, nothing more. He sat opposite her and tried to eat. She sipped the stew from a spoon and made an appreciative hum deep in her throat. Awkward silence settled between them. He didn’t imagine her to be the silent type.

“I won’t tell anyone, you know,” she said, sounding earnest. “About you.”

He stilled.

He wanted to believe her.

Then she looked at him. Vulnerability, need, uncertainty—all passed over her beautiful face. She shook her head as if hoping to deny what was clearly there.

Leaning across the table, he took her hand in his, slowly, so as not to scare her. He was crossing a line, the one that separated hearts, not just bodies. Trusting Jane Caldwell might be the biggest leap of faith he’d made in years. He held his breath until her fingers softened then returned his touch. Her eyes shimmered with moisture. She’d been through a hell of a lot recently. Her palm felt warm under his, her smooth fingers caressing in an almost subconscious invitation for more.

His body responded, standing at attention. He trusted her
enough.
That was going to have to do for now. She pulled away, stood, put her dish in the sink, and rinsed it. He hesitated, then rose and stood behind her, turning off the faucet. She was crying now, her shoulders shaking.

He turned her to face him. Tears slipped down her cheeks and dripped onto her shirt. She wouldn’t look at him, but he forced her to. With his thumb, he brushed the moisture from her face, her lips. Her breath caught. He tipped her head up so their eyes met.

Then he kissed her, gently at first, wanting to soothe all that pain, that loss, needing to stoke the banked fire behind the hurt. Her soft lips molded to his, opening, letting him in. The slide of her tongue sent streaks of heat to his groin. He tugged on her lip with his teeth, pulling her mouth open to him. She tasted sweet and spicy. Deepening the kiss, he pulled her hips towards his, stroking her tongue, preparing her for what he wanted. What they both wanted, he hoped.

Lowering his mouth to her hot, damp neck, he kissed her just under her ear. He brushed her hair back, tangling it through his fingers, the strands soft, sleek, and warm. Her breasts pressed against his chest and she arched herself into him. Dying to touch her, he slid his hand over the smooth fabric of her blouse and cupped one of her breasts in his palm. She hummed in delight. Drawing back so he could watch her face, he stroked her. A thin bra was no barrier to the erect nipple begging for his caress. He caught the peak between his thumb and forefinger and massaged it gently.

With her neck arched back and hair cascading into the sink, she offered him both breasts, and he wasn’t about to refuse. Undoing several buttons of her blouse, he bared her bra to the warm, kitchen air. Her cleavage was dewy with sweat. Anchoring his hands to her hips, he bent between her breasts. Wanting more, he slid his hands into the cups of her bra and eased them out. Generous and pert, the dark pink areola begged to be tasted, and she groaned when he obliged, her eyes wide.

She was all salt and soap. He laved the tips of her nipples with a fevered tongue, while beneath his thighs, her hips strained and rocked. Bringing his mouth back to hers, he dropped his hand to the juncture of her thighs. She was hot and damp through the denim of her jeans. She whimpered, pushing toward his fingers. He groaned and rested his forehead against her brow, loving how their breath mingled in warm puffs. Pressing her mouth against his, she nipped at his lower lip, eliciting another unguarded growl. Her hands were busy below. Hell, had she just unbuttoned her jeans? His fingers found the undone zipper and discovered the thin cotton of her panties bared.