Maggie's Man (12 page)

"Maggie? Maggie, what's wrong?"

"I went to jury duty," she cried.
"And the—"

The phone went click. She stared at the
receiver incredulously. And then slowly, her gaze drifted up to the single,
callused finger holding the button down.

Her gaze rose farther and
finally encountered the chilling green eyes of a man who looked fit to kill.

Chapter 5

«
^
»

"
W
hat the hell do you think you're
doing?"

She cringed instinctively, only to become
trapped by the cool, hard feel of the metal pay phone. Cain's eyes glowed with
almost demonic rage from beneath the brim of the baseball cap. In contrast, his
grim jaw was set and his face perfectly expressionless. He looked like a
murderer, and at that moment she was more terrified than all the previous
moments put together.

"I didn't run away," she offered
weakly, then winced as his eyes narrowed dangerously. In one quick, forceful
move, he planted his hands on either side of her head and clasped her legs
between muscle-hardened thighs. She couldn't move, she couldn't twist away. She
was caught as effectively as a fly in the spider's web, and she was unbearably
aware of the heat of Cain's body, the soft feel of his cotton shirtsleeves
against her cheeks, and the scent of deodorant soap flaring her nostrils.

"Who did you call?"

She moistened her lips nervously with the tip
of her tongue. That only brought his gaze homing in on her mouth with
single-minded focus. She stopped moistening in a hurry. "N…no one?"
she tried.

He bent over her so fast she didn't have time
to breathe. One moment she was simply trapped, the next she was consumed by his
body, his hands, his mouth. She felt him touch her lips with his—surely that
was his mouth there. Her whole body cried out for escape, to run, to hide, to
cringe. But there was only the cold phone bank and his heated torso. Only the
unyielding sharp corners of the phone hurting her back, and the smooth,
sculpted lines of his biceps bracing her cheeks.

Her hands were wrapped in his overshirt,
handfuls of blue chambray fisted between her fingers. Her breath held and
caught. The emotions thundering through her blood made her dizzy. He was not kissing
her—that thought took a minute to penetrate. He was not even hurting her—that
thought took a minute more.

"Who did you call?" Each word was
enunciated clearly. Each syllable brushed his lips over hers, violating her
space intimately, ravishing her with his control and determination.

She could feel the frustration and rage
crackling around him. Beneath it was the fine-wire tension of his fear, the
hair-raising prickle of panic running up his own spine. So many emotions. So
much power held tautly in check through the force of his will, the grit of his
jaw. He could hurt her a hundred ways, but he still didn't move. He just stood
there, hard and powerful and charged.

Her belly contracted. Her breath held. She
didn't fight him; she didn't pull away. She stood on the tingling edge of his
war, and the hair prickled up her arms and up to her shoulders. She could still
feel his anger, and she could still feel the thin layer of steely control
holding it in check.

And for one suspended beat of time, she realized
that she wanted to rip away that barrier. She wanted to strip him raw. She
wanted to wrap her arms tight around his corded neck and see what happened.

"What the hell are you doing?" he
demanded hoarsely.

She looked at him blankly, unaware of the deep,
mesmerizing hunger blooming in her large, round eyes. "Wh-what?"

"God," he said, and his green eyes
darkened a fraction more. His gaze fell to her lips, and suddenly, she was
aware that he wanted her, too. He wanted her fiercely. He wanted her as a man
wanted a woman, with passion and fire and thunderbolts. Holy smoke—no man had
ever looked at her like that before.

She
liked
it.

"No," he declared abruptly, harshly.
"Dammit, no." He twisted away so fast she had no time to prepare
herself. The cool spring air hit her like a slap in the face, and she was so
stunned that for a dangerous moment tears stung her eyes.

Cain backpedaled fiercely, his steps short and
jerky. His hand came up, knocked off the baseball cap and raked through his
hair so vehemently he should have pulled all the strands out by the roots. Then
he did it again. Then he took a deep breath.

He whirled back again, and the tight look in
his face made her suck in air all over again.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded
angrily. His eyes had darkened to a midnight forest that had never seen the
sun. His chest rose and fell in rapid, bone-deep fury.

She just stared at him, opening and closing her
mouth and not finding any words. She'd wanted to kiss him. Oh God, she still
wanted to kiss him. And she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted … oh, Lord, she
wanted, she wanted, she wanted.

That was it. She was damned. Twenty-seven years
of clean, boring existence wiped out in a mere heartbeat. She would never be
able to look her grandmother in the eye again.

Her gaze fell miserably to his chest. She saw
his collarbone, exposed, broad, and strong. She saw the pounding beat of his
pulse at the base of his neck. And she wanted to press her lips right there and
taste his skin.

She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for the
earth to open up and swallow her whole.

"Oh, no, you don't," Cain whispered
lowly. Abruptly his rough fingers were beneath her chin, forcing up her head.
"We're beyond the blushing virgin stage," he said crisply. "If
you think you can use your 'feminine wiles' to turn me into a blithering idiot,
think again, Maggie. One more inviting look like that and I'll throw you on the
ground and take what you're offering. But I won't let you go afterward and
nothing will be changed. Do you understand that?"

The blush started at the base of her throat and
crept all the way up to the roots of her hair, then darkened four degrees and
set her skin on fire. She would gladly have curled into a ball and hidden until
nightfall, but his green eyes wouldn't let her escape and his fingers were
still rough and insistent beneath her chin. She took a deep breath. "Uh …
yes. I understand."

"Is that what you want? Are you one of
those women attracted to dangerous men?"

"Oh no," she said most hastily.
"That's not what I want. I … I … I don't do the dangerous man thing."
Or any man thing. Oh God, how had she gotten herself into this?

He seemed to relax a fraction, but his gaze was
still hard. "I believe in the power of choice," he stated firmly.
"We make our decisions, we pay for them. If you come on to me again, don't
believe that afterward I'll shoulder the blame or accept any guilt. I've told
you what you're getting into. You choose to play this dangerous game, then you
get the consequences."

She smiled weakly. "Not much for pillow
talk, are you?"

"Do you really need more platitudes in
your life, Maggie?"

Her breath caught, then she released it with a
smile that was old and wise for her. "No," she admitted honestly.
"I don't need any more platitudes."

"Good." His fingers released her
chin, but he didn't step back. "Now tell me who you called."

"My brother." It didn't occur to her
to lie.

"The Marine Force recon, the one who's
invented new ways for me to die?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell him where we are? Did you tell
him you were a hostage?"

She shook her head. "I didn't have time. I
just said I … I needed him."

Cain's gaze went flat. "Where does he
live, Maggie? Where is he?"

Her chin came up defiantly, her nostrils
flaring. They both knew he was wasting his breath. Maggie would fold if he so
much as plucked a hair from her head, but she'd fall willingly into her own
grave rather than hurt someone else. Her blue eyes stared back at him
mutinously, and finally he swore.

"He'll find us," he said curtly.
"It shouldn't take a rocket scientist to put all the pieces together.
Damn."

His fingers curled abruptly around her arm,
hard enough to bruise. "Get in the truck, Maggie. We have a lot of ground
to cover now, thanks to you."

He sounded furious, but he also sounded tired,
and that fast the spirit left her. Her shoulders slumped. She followed the pull
of his arm without protest. He didn't say another word. He didn't have to. The
disappointment and stress were obvious in his green gaze, and she curled up
inside herself just looking at him.

It was illogical, she knew, to feel as if she'd
failed her captor, but her parents had trained her well. Or maybe she'd trained
herself well. She didn't know anymore. She just knew she'd disappointed Cain,
and logically or not, there was nothing she couldn't stand as much as
disappointing someone.

Once inside the cabin of the truck, Cain
produced the handcuffs.

She held out her wrist without protest, and the
sound of the metal cuff closing in the silence rang in her ears.

In Sedona, C.J. didn't waste any time. He dialed Maggie's office and learned
from her secretary that she was supposedly on jury duty downtown. Then he
dialed Maggie's home just to be sure she wasn't there. Finally, he dialed their
grandmother, Lydia, in Tillamook.

After a brief discussion, he thought he knew
what was going on. According to Lydia, Maggie had reported for jury duty at the
Multnomah County Courthouse just that morning. And now according to news
bulletins, a murderer had escaped from that building.

C.J. didn't bother with shock or denial. He had
some practice in this sort of thing. And nobody, but nobody was going to hurt
his baby sister. He gave Lydia her instructions. Then he called and left a
succinct message with Brandon's answering service.

Ten minutes later, C.J. had a bag swung over
his shoulder and was striding out of his bar. "Gus," he thought to
call over his shoulder at the last minute, "you're in charge now."

Gus didn't even look up from drying the freshly
washed beer mugs. C.J.'s "other job" as a bounty hunter had made his
spontaneous exits for places unknown for times undetermined fairly commonplace.

C.J. was whistling beneath his breath as he
shouldered open the door. "Hang on, Maggie. The cavalry's coming."

Cain wasn't speaking to her anymore.

Hunched up on her side of the truck, her arm
laid out across the bench seat thanks to the handcuff, Maggie stared miserably
out the window and told herself that silence was a good thing. What kind of
pathetic prisoner longed to make idle conversation with her captor anyway?

She was obviously already suffering from
Stockholm syndrome, a phenomenon where a hostage bonded with her jailers and
began to sympathize with their plight. Why not? Maggie had always been too
sensitive for her own darn good. And now she was insane as well.

She sneaked another glance at Cain. The
baseball cap was off, and his window was rolled down two inches. The cool
spring wind tousled his light blond hair, every now and then raising the
strands high enough to reveal the port-wine stain at his hairline. So his
father had named him Cain due to that birthmark. What would it be like to go
through life named Cain?

She had a feeling that indicated less than
desirable family dynamics. Was that why he became a killer? It sounded as if
his family was violent and steeped in paranoia. Maybe he'd never had a chance.
If he'd been raised in more idyllic surroundings, he and his brother would have
suffered from simple sibling rivalry instead of a homicidal need for revenge.

What are you going to do, Maggie, reform him on
the road? She was idealistic to the point of hopelessness. Even as she called
herself a dim-witted fool, she found herself saying hesitantly, "Are you
still angry with me?"

She risked a second glance at him. His forehead
had creased into long lines. His hands flexed on the wheel of the truck, then
slowly curled around the grip. "I'm not angry," he said abruptly,
"I'm frustrated." He turned toward her briefly. "And why does it
matter if I'm angry with you?"

"Well … you do have a gun."

He finally nodded as if to say that was a valid
point. She sat up a little straighter. "You must be getting tired,"
she said after a moment.

He didn't respond one way or another, but her
stomach growled. She flushed and his lips twitched suspiciously close to a
smile. "I must be getting hungry, too," he suggested.

"Perfect," she said with false
cheeriness. "I'm starved!"

"When we get to Bend."

"Bend? That's another fifty miles!"

"So it is."

"Why do we have to wait so long? We
haven't seen a cop since Salem."

"And I'd like to keep it that way. Plus,
we now have this brother of yours to deal with."

She managed to bite her lower lip right before
she blurted out that C.J. couldn't possibly be on their tail yet since he had
to come all the way from Arizona. She might be naive, but she was trying not to
be a complete idiot.