Maggie's Man (20 page)

Belatedly, she realized both her feet had sunk
deep into the mud, miring her into place. With a shake of her head, she planted
her hands on the wet, slippery slant of the hatchback and worked on freeing her
feet. Enough. Back to the matter at hand.

She made it the last two feet and looked at the
small rear of the pathetic automobile with blatant determination. "All
right," she said and squatted down, curling her hands beneath the bumper.
"I'm ready."

"Lift with your legs, not your back."

She slanted him a narrow look. "I know
that. Have you hefted a bale of straw lately? They're not that light. And the
alfalfa—we didn't build with alfalfa much. Even C.J. could barely lift it."

"Of course," Cain murmured. "On
the count of three."

"Right."

"One-two-three." With a mighty grunt,
he heaved forward. She gritted her own teeth and lifted and pushed for all she
was worth. The car groaned. The mud emitted a giant sucking sound.

"A little bit more," Cain gritted
out.

"Right," she gasped back, and threw
her entire 103 pounds behind it.

More sucking. More groaning. Then a slight
tearing sound that might have been her muscles ripping or Cain's.

"Damn," he said weakly and abruptly
let go. She released her grip as well, looking at him with genuine concern.
Sure enough, his face was still contorted and his hand went to his back.
"This really isn't my day."

"You've hurt yourself!"

"It's nothing serious."

"Of course it's nothing serious!" she
snapped with genuine exasperation. "All men say that, it's instinctive and
brutish. A bone could be protruding from the skin and you guys would still
chirp, 'It's nothing serious.' The first caveman who got stepped on by a
dinosaur probably unpeeled himself from the ground and grunted, 'Nothing … ugh,
ugh … serious' right before dropping dead."

She was already walking behind him, her ruined
shoes making squishy, sucking sounds in the mud. Without hesitation, she placed
her hands on his rain-soaked back. He stiffened immediately.

"Upper or lower back?" she said in a
brisk tone she thought her grandmother would be proud of. His back felt lean
and strong, muscled and warm. She had a ridiculous urge to press her cheek
against it and wrap her arms around his lean waist.

"Lower," he said in a strangely
strangled voice.

"Okay." She prodded it gently with
her fingers, secretly delighted by the feel of his lower back. The flesh was
firm and toned, muscular and well-defined. Nothing squishy or soft here. No
extra rolls of flesh or the classic doughnut rings she was used to seeing on
men. Cain felt … powerful, raw, like stroking the flanks of a wild stallion. If
she moved too fast, he might bolt, but if she stroked him just right, maybe the
beast would stay, flesh quivering beneath her touch.

"Ah!" He winced, and she knew she'd
found the spot. She remained standing there, her fingers pressed against soaked
cotton, her belly lined up with his denim-molded buttocks. She wanted to start
over again, stroking her fingers down from his broad shoulders to his tight
butt over and over again, as if she were gentling a pawing mustang.

"Maggie?" he inquired. Was it just
her, or was his voice breathless, too?

Maybe it was the pain. Her body, her touch,
didn't inspire much in men. She was a scrawny thing, she knew, definitely not
cover model material. She could pump weights and eat her Wheaties forever and
still not achieve the primal perfection of this man. This body … this was the
kind of body Rodin had sculpted.

She wanted it.

Very carefully, she dug her fingers into the
spot, slowly and surely rubbing tiny, tight circles. He stiffened. She could
feel the apprehension and pain roll off him in waves. She held her breath
unconsciously, continuing to rub the spot, wanting with every fiber of her
being to feel him relax, to feel him respond to her. Maybe she would never
inspire grand passion, but she could give comfort. She hoped, she wished, to do
at least that much.

Slowly, bit by bit, his body relaxed beneath
her ministrations. The muscle went from stiff to pliant, his shoulders
abandoned their rigid stance and came down, rolling as the breath left him as a
reluctant sigh nearly lost in the rain.

His body eased into her fingers, surrendered to
her, and her blue eyes began to glow like magnificent, feral sapphires. It was
a heady feeling, intoxicating and exhilarating. That she could affect him so,
that her fingers could give him such a gift, make him sigh, make him relax
against her. She wanted to touch more. She wanted to strip off his soaked
clothes until he stood as naked and pale as marble in the night. Then she would
lay him down in the rich red mud and stroke his entire body, learning every
inch of him while gazing into his eyes so she could measure the impact of every
touch and learn every nuance of his desire.

She'd never had a man. Never really gotten to
touch one, never had one belong to her, sigh for her, want her. She'd watched
her friends fall in love instead, listening to their stories about the new man,
watching their gazes glaze over as they whispered of the first kiss, or the
time
he
whispered in their ear. They never really talked about sex with
her, though she didn't think any of her friends was a virgin. They just didn't
associate her with sex or passion or desire.

She was a sexless woman, the kind, benevolent
friend more akin to a dead saint than a flesh and blood woman. They talked to
her of emotions and feelings, and when the time came, invited her to their
weddings where they introduced her as "dear, sweet Maggie." So she
bought wedding presents and attended the ceremonies solo. These days she was
buying baby shower gifts, watching other people's radiance and wondering if it
would ever be hers.

Maybe it wasn't inside her. Maybe she was too
weak, too timid for a grand passion. Brandon had found it, but he was strong
and fierce, even though he pretended not to be. C.J. fell in love every week,
going through women like wine with an easy, beguiling charm.

Maggie couldn't seem to manage either method.
She didn't have Brandon's strength, or C.J.'s gift at flirtation. Men spoke to
her in bars and she simply stared at them with shell-shocked eyes, wondering
why they were speaking to her. Or worse, after ten minutes of casual
conversation, they abruptly poured out their entire life's story and adopted
her as their new little sister.

She now had more "brothers" than any
woman deserved, needed or desired. Not that she ever told any of these men
that. She would never hurt them that way, and every one needed someone with
whom to speak. If they were so comfortable talking to her about all their
troubles with other women, maybe she should be satisfied that she could help
them and bring them a degree of consolation.

But she was twenty-seven now. Twenty-seven and
wondering if there was something wrong with her. She wanted marriage and
children, white picket fences and that special, secret code of "us, our,
we." She wanted a daughter to tell all the stories Lydia had told her. She
wanted children to carry on Hathaway traditions, as she would carry on Lydia's,
and invent new ones.

She wanted so much more than Friday nights with
two cats, rented movies and low-fat microwave popcorn.

"Maggie. My … my back feels better now.
Thank you."

His voice was so low it took her a minute to
hear it. Then she stared at his back, where her small, pale fingers were still
rubbing tiny little circles. I don't want to stop, she thought blankly. I don't
want to.

"Maggie…"

Her fingers fell to her sides. Her eyes burned
abruptly, but she figured it was all right if she cried because she was already
so soaked by the rain who would notice? She could cry and cry and cry and he'd
never even know because the tears would just mix with the raindrops and it
would all be the same. When she was younger, she'd thought that rain meant God
was weeping. If so, God wept for Oregon an awful lot.

"We're not going to be able to get the car
out," Cain said. His back was still to her, his arms braced on the
hatchback. His voice didn't sound so steady anymore. "I … uh … I think
we'll just have to wait for someone to come along."

"Do you think that couple will come
back?"

He shook his head, his voice dry. "I don't
think they're quite that stupid," he said.

"Not like me," she whispered.

He turned for the first time, his face
curiously compassionate. "You're not stupid, Maggie. But you do have a
generous heart, and in this day and age that's not easy." She wasn't
comforted by that thought, which he seemed to understand. He added softly,
"If you saw
another
stranded couple, would you stop?"

"Of course!" she exclaimed,
bewildered by the question. "Those people might actually need help."

His lips curved. His green eyes softened for a
moment, and she could only describe his look as gentle. "Exactly."

She looked away, not able to stand that
expression on his face and all the turmoil it sparked inside her. Half of her
was insanely pleased by the simple glance, the small, needy half of her that
was no better than an insecure puppy granted a loving pat by her master. The
other half, the half of her that longed to be something more, that didn't even
completely understand why she hadn't become something more already, was
irreconcilably hurt. She didn't want gentleness, she didn't want another
adopted brother—not even an escaped-murderer adopted brother.

She wanted Cain to look at her and see a woman.
A flesh and blood, desirable, passionate woman. And she was probably stupid to
want such a thing from a man such as him. She did not know much about hostage
protocol, but desiring a captor was probably self-defeating and sick.

She wanted him anyway. She wanted him, for her.
Man to woman. Sparks, Fourth of July fireworks, the whole nine yards.

Cain turned and walked away from her.
"Let's look inside the car and see what we have to work with."

He popped open the door, leaning inside. Maggie
stood obediently in the rain, too soaked through to notice the raindrops
anymore. Besides, she'd lived in Oregon on and off for twenty years now; this
wasn't the first time she'd gotten wet.

"Nothing," Cain declared at last,
beginning to look tired now. "Three unpaid parking tickets on the floor,
umpteen gum wrappers and one empty can. Guess those guys traveled light."

"Do you think they were escaped felons,
too?"

He stood and shrugged. "I don't know. They
seemed too nervous to have much experience in this sort of thing. My guess is
that they're just starting down the road of crime, but I don't know why. Maybe
they're after the thrill, maybe just too lazy to work for things. Maybe they
just robbed a liquor store and needed a getaway vehicle after theirs got stuck.
I don't know."

Maggie looked down the empty stretch of road
for a minute. She couldn't see much of it, the pavement disappearing quickly
into an inky night. "I guess we just wait for the mud to dry out."

"Or someone else to come along."

She looked at him abruptly. "You're not
going to hurt anyone, are you?"

He was silent for a minute, as if he were
unwilling to commit either way. Finally, he said, "I don't want to cause any
more trouble than I have to, Maggie. In chess, there is something called a
quiet move. It's a move that neither checks nor captures, it doesn't contain
any direct threats, just helps improve your positioning for the final, last
thrust of direct, decisive action. That's how I would like to pursue this game
and locate Ham—quietly. If such a thing is possible with half the state after
us."

"If you turned yourself in, my brother
would help you. You heard what he said." A feeble, overused line but she
had to offer it.

Cain didn't look impressed. "Let's get in
the car, Maggie, and crank the heat. We're both soaked to the skin and if we
stay out here much longer, we might fulfill your prophecy of catching pneumonia
and dying."

His fingers began unbuttoning his shirt. She
froze, though her gaze didn't leave his chest.

"You're taking off your clothes?" she
whispered at last.

"Some of them."

"Your … your pants?"

His fingers stilled. "I don't want to make
you uncomfortable."

"Oh." His fingers started moving
again. His outer shirt opened up and fell limply, like an overused dishrag. He
stripped it off casually and she saw the gun. He followed her gaze.

"You promised to cooperate,
remember?"

"Yes."

He removed the gun from the waistband of his
jeans, and with one quick move yanked the T-shirt up off his head.

She stared. She couldn't help herself. She'd
wanted him naked and here he was, pale, sculpted and breathtaking. He didn't
have chest hair, so nothing marred the smooth, defined lines of biceps, triceps
and pectorals. His flesh was corrugated over his ribs and rippled like a
washboard down his stomach. She would be delighted to scrub soap and cloth
against that belly. She'd be delighted to press her lips there and taste his
rain-streaked skin.