Left To Die (41 page)

“For starters. I also want you to look after Harley.”

Chilcoate grunted his assent. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said and led the way down a narrow stairway.

MacGregor had made three calls from the first pay phone he’d come across. One was to the hospital, where he was assured Jillian Rivers was in stable condition, though the hospital would give him no further information. The second was to Jordan Eagle, the veterinarian at the clinic on Fourth Street. Jordan, who he’d known for years, had talked to him personally and assured him that Harley would live, though there was a chance that the dog might lose his back right leg. “He lost a lot of blood and there’s quite a bit of tissue damage, a torn tendon, but he’s lucky in that the bullet didn’t hit his spine or go through his other leg.” MacGregor had listened quietly, the receiver held in a death grip, his back to the cold wind. He’d barely noticed, so intent was he on the phone conversation. “Worst-case scenario: I’ll have to amputate. Best: a partial recovery. I won’t kid you, Zane, he won’t be the same, but I think he’ll live a full, good life. Lots of dogs get around great on three legs.”

MacGregor’s stomach had roiled, bile rising in his throat when he thought of the bastard who had sighted a rifle on his dog and, with malicious intent, pulled the trigger. This was no accident. To Jordan, he’d said, “Do the best you can. I’m on my way.”

“He’s gonna live, Zane. But don’t rush over here. He’s still out of it from the anesthesia.”

“Thanks.” He’d hung up and sworn a blue streak at the son of a bitch who had tried to kill his dog and then left Jillian for dead. At least Harley knew Jordan, as she was an old friend of MacGregor’s, a woman he’d once dated, a woman who had, briefly, shared his bed. Had he loved her? No. Nor had she loved him. Not in any way other than being lonely friends. They both had realized the mistake and ended the affair amicably. Sex always changed things, but in their case, their friendship had only deepened.

It was, however, the singular time that had happened in his life. He thought about Jillian and knew, deep in his gut, if they ever made love, the course of his life would change forever. She affected him in a way that bothered him, a complicated way he’d rather avoid.

Even more than Callie, the woman he’d once loved and married. He felt a pang of regret thinking of his wife and child, so long gone, but he couldn’t dwell on the past. That never helped.

But it could serve as a reminder that with love came the chance of heartache.

Not that he was in love with Jillian Rivers.

Far from it.

But she’d gotten to him.

No doubt about it.

That woman had burrowed her way under his skin.

The third call was to Chilcoate and they’d agreed to meet at the diner up the street. Zane had walked the three blocks, ordered two cups of coffee to go and, collecting the steaming drinks, then strode into the parking lot, where a few early risers had parked their rigs.

Within minutes Chilcoate had arrived in an old army Jeep, and they’d hauled ass up to his cabin, a roughhewn log building complete with running water, electricity and a basement few people knew about.

During the ride up a winding road, MacGregor had told Chilcoate as much of his story as he thought advisable, including how he’d found Jillian in her wrecked car at the bottom of a ravine and how, after healing, she’d been abducted and left in the forest, while his dog had been shot.

Chilcoate had listened, asking few questions, then had led the way into his cabin. Now MacGregor followed him into a dusty basement, where they dodged old ductwork, made their way past broken furniture and a rusted-out barbecue, passing hidden cameras tucked into the shadowy cobwebs of the crossbeams. At the back wall, Chilcoate stepped into an alcove ostensibly built for firewood and hit a switch. The back wall swung open and an array of computers, monitors, photographic equipment, radios and cameras was revealed.

“Okay, then,” Chilcoate said, smiling, as he sat at a desk chair that rolled the length of a twenty-foot table. “Let’s get to work.”

Jillian felt the heat from the fire.

Outside the winter raged, snow blowing against the windows, ice hanging in glittering shards from the roof. But inside the cabin was warm. Hot. Blood pounded through her veins as she stared into the eyes of a stranger, a lover.

“MacGregor,” she whispered as his hands skimmed over her body, finger pads stroking her bare skin, brushing over her rib cage and the bend of her waist, as they lay face-to-face upon the wide couch.

God, she wanted him. Ached for him. And yet she knew this was wrong. So very wrong.

There was danger.

Evil.

Lurking in the dark corners of the room, unseen eyes watched with the same hunger and passion that, at this moment, ran through her veins. She caught a glimpse of something, a piece of glass reflecting the room, but the image was distorted, in grainy black and white, a photo with a bus and a man…no, not just a man. Aaron. Her husband. So why was she here, with this stranger?

Aaron ran to catch the bus, his legs moving.

He’s running away from you, Jillian. He’s…he’s…

As he charged forward, flagging the bus, his clothes ripped away and his exposed body was shriveled, the flesh decaying.

She gasped and he turned, looking over his shoulder, smiling widely as his face became a skull and the mirror on the bus flashed numbers and letters that she couldn’t see.

He’d dead. Aaron’s dead. Your husband died in South America.

No, not Aaron. Mason. Mason is my husband. Or was he?

The skeleton face grinned in wicked glee before stepping in front of the bus.

She cringed. Shrank away from the image. Screamed in silent horror.

In a second the image faded and she was again in the cabin, lying naked with a man, feeling the heat of his body. He held her tight and kissed the crook of her neck. Instantly her blood turned to liquid fire and her fear was replaced by desire, hot, wanton, undeniable desire.

She looked into the eyes of the man holding her, this sexy stranger, who was caressing her, cradling her against him, pushing his hips against hers. His erection was thick and hard against her, rubbing against her abdomen, creating friction and a shameless need. Oh, to feel him inside her, to experience the ecstasy of his thrusts as he parted her legs and pushed deep inside.

But it was wrong. She didn’t know him. Couldn’t just foolishly make love to him. Yet she was quivering with want, perspiring with need. “MacGregor…I—I don’t—”

“Shhh.” His lips swept softly over hers and she moaned. “Don’t think about anything.” His voice was so low, so seductive, and his hands, oh Lord, his hands. Skimming her nipples, whispering across her abdomen, touching gently, exploring eagerly, probing into her flesh. She gasped as he caressed her, getting her ready, her body responding, juices flowing.

“This is wrong,” she managed to say, though it was a whisper, as her lips barely moved.

He kissed her then. Hard. Urgently.

She felt all of his muscles strain as he pulled her up against him, and she couldn’t help but wind her arms around his neck, kissing him back fervently. Eyes closed, she felt the hard wall of his chest, the delicious scratch of his hair against her flesh, the heat from his skin below.

Her own heart was pounding crazily, blood throbbing in her ears, her skin afire.

Don’t do this
, a voice in her head warned.
You don’t even know him.

But that was crazy. Of course she knew him. She understood him. It was as if they’d been searching for each other for years.

Do not do this, Jillian.

Oh, be quiet, she thought, and gave herself up to the sensations of his touch, the smell of his skin, the feel of his whiskers against her face, the salty taste of his lips upon hers, as he shifted, pulling her beneath him, pressing her body into the cushions with his, breathing hard and fast against her skin. His tongue flicked against her lips, pushing through to glide along her teeth.

With a groan she opened to him. His hands found her breasts, kneading the soft flesh, causing her nipples to pucker and her insides to melt. An ache, deep and primal, swirled deep between her legs, and she closed her mind to anything but making love to him.

What would it hurt, just this once?

She loved him, didn’t she? Hadn’t she known it from the minute she’d awoken in this very cabin? And his touch, oh Lord, what he was doing to her, what her mind was imagining. She wanted this, the fusion of their bodies, the blending of their souls.

Moist heat curled deep inside, and she caught her breath as he came to her, his hard body covered in sweat, a sheen to his skin in the firelight. One masculine hand cupped her buttocks, pulled her close, fingers digging into her skin.

She trembled.

Desire pumped through her body.

“Jillian,” he said, gazing longingly at her. “Jillian.”

She tried to answer.

Couldn’t.

Her breath and voice were lost in this weird mix of love and lust and fear. He was breathing faster now, harder…or was that eager, excited panting her own unchained breaths?

She swallowed hard and thought the sound might be coming from another source.

A chill ran down her spine as she realized it might be from something dark and hidden and observing.

Something rabid and excited.

Something, or someone, licking his tongue in anticipation.

Oh God…

“Jillian!”

What?

The voice…was it MacGregor’s? Or was it resonating from the dark corners of the room?

Her heart stilled.

From somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

Harley?

She was suddenly outside in snowdrifts that reached her knees. She thought she saw the dog loping easily through the snow, as if following a broken path. She tried to call to him, to run after him, but her legs were leaden and he was moving so fast, a blur of white and black, his tail streaking behind. His ears were cocked forward as he leaped over a final snowbank and disappeared into a frigid thicket of pine and spruce.

No!

She felt the danger.

Tried to call out.

A rifle cracked.

The dog yelped in pain. “Harley!” she gasped, but again, her voice failed her, and Zane MacGregor, who had just been with her, was gone. She was freezing. She looked to the fire, where the dog, teeth bared, eyes glowing red from the reflection of the coals in the fire, lay, his coat matted in blood.

“Jillian!”

Someone was yanking on her hand. The demon in the corner? The monster who was watching her make love to MacGregor? The psychopath who had shot the dog?

Terror ripped through her.

She tried to scream.

Where the hell was MacGregor?

“Jillian! For the love of God, wake up!”

Her eyes flew open and she swept air into her lungs. In a second she realized she’d been dreaming and the images of the cabin withered away. She was still in the hospital, lying beneath wrinkled sheets, her heart pounding in fear. Outside a dog was barking, not crying in pain, and here, in the room, standing next to the bed, his big hand clasped over hers, his face a mask of concern, was Zane MacGregor.

The man to whom she’d just made mental love.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Are you all right?” Zane asked, and she shook the cobwebs, as well as the fantasies, from her mind. She thought about her dream and how she’d imagined making love to him, and she felt herself blush.

It had to be the drugs. Whatever they were pumping into her body in terms of antibiotics and painkillers and sleeping medication had obviously caused her to lose contact with all reality.

“I’m fine…well, kind of.” Scooting herself up in the bed, she tried not to think about the blue-gray of his eyes or the way she imagined his hands would feel on her body. For the love of God, they hadn’t even really kissed, unless you counted that chaste little brush of his lips across her cheek, and here she was dreaming about stripping him of his clothes and making love to him in front of the fire.

But the dream had changed, turned into a nightmare.

“Harley,” she said. “Is he all right?”

“Recovering. I stopped by there a few minutes ago. There’s still a chance he could lose a leg, but he’ll survive.”

“Thank God. I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have let him out.”

“And what? Let him pee all over the house? It’s okay, Jillian. You’re both alive. That’s all that matters.” For the first time, she noticed that his hand was still holding hers, his big, calloused fingers wrapped around hers.

As if he, too, recognized that he was touching her, he slowly released her hand and took a step back.

“You look like hell,” she said softly.

“That’s what a night in the Pinewood County Jail can do.”

“Did you break out?”

He almost laughed. She saw it in his weary gaze. “Nah. They had to let me go. Lack of evidence. And it really pissed them off, just like I pissed off the guard who’s at your door. He didn’t want me to come inside, but I sweet-talked one of the nurses, who told him to back off.”

“And he did?”

“A little.”

She glanced past MacGregor to the door, where a short cop was glowering but not entering the room. He took one step over the threshold, and Jillian shook her head, glaring back at the man and letting him know in silent but no uncertain terms that he was to keep his distance.

“I need to get out of here,” she said softly to MacGregor.

One side of his mouth lifted. “Cabin fever?”

“Hospital fever, but yeah.”

“And do what? Go home?” he asked, his eyes narrowing just a fraction.

She shook her head. “I’ve got unfinished business.” She found the controls for the bed and pushed the button to raise the head of the bed until she was in a sitting position.

“What’re you planning?”

“I’m going to find Aaron, if he’s alive.”

“You still think he is?”

“I don’t know what to think. Maybe it’s an elaborate scam to lure me over here; I don’t know. I wanted to believe that I was a mistake, that this maniac killer you’ve got running around this part of the country hit the wrong car. But I’ve had to rethink that since the attack that put me here. This guy, whoever he is, wants me dead.”