Out of Control (19 page)
“Get out of my tent,” she ordered again. “Both of you. And don’t come back until you’re ready to stop acting like idiots. You know what? I’m going to make a big sign for the door. No Idiots Allowed.”
Jones found himself outside, staring at Billy as Molly closed all the flaps in her tent with no small amount of violence.
“Stay away from her,” Billy said tightly. “You’re not welcome here.”
He stomped off toward one of the other tents.
“God bless you and keep you, too, my son,” Jones called after him, and he could have sworn he heard a burst of hastily stifled laughter from inside Molly’s tent.
And he knew what he had to do. He headed for the trail to his camp at a jog—fast enough to get there as quickly as possible, and slow enough to keep from raising a sweat and messing up his pretty clothes.
As the flight to Hong Kong achieved cruising altitude, Ken pretended to sleep.
Sitting next to Savannah was bad enough without having to endure her bouts of small talk that came in fits and starts. She was too polite to sit there without saying anything, but really, what was there for them to say?
The second time they discussed the three-hour layover in Hong Kong, Ken had had way more than enough.
He’d reclined his seat, closed his eyes, folded his arms across his chest, and concentrated on breathing.
But even then, Savannah managed to intrude. She was wearing perfume. The same kind she’d had on last night. As a result, he was going to—forever—associate that particular scent with incredible sex.
He could hear her, too. Her breathing was ragged, and he knew without a doubt that she was on the verge of tears.
Great. That was all he needed. A crying woman—his personal kryptonite. He was completely unmanned and defenseless when women resorted to tears. Adele had learned that early on. No doubt she’d passed the info on to her protégée.
Ken forced himself to keep his eyes closed. Ignore her. Pretend she wasn’t there.
But as the seconds turned into minutes, he realized that Savannah was trying—desperately—not to cry.
He opened his eyes and saw that she’d turned away from him. Her eyes were closed, too, and she was ignoring him as resolutely as he’d been ignoring her just a minute ago.
That was new. Adele had used tears mercilessly to get her way.
But he now got the sense that Savannah would rather die than cry in front of him. She was unbelievably tough. She fought it hard for a long time—nearly a half an hour—and won.
By the time she finally fell asleep, he was exhausted.
She was tough. Far tougher than she looked in that stupid yellow suit. Far tougher than she looked naked, too.
Ken spent too much time—far more than he would have liked—thinking about Savannah, naked. He forced himself to stop, to remember instead how completely she’d fooled him, how completely he’d misread her.
He watched her as she slept, this friend of Adele’s, who had gotten him dreaming again of forever.
What a joke.
He watched her breathe, studied the way her eyelashes lay against her cheeks, the way her curls had escaped from whatever hair-care products she’d used to get that carefully coiffed look that had terrified him back in her hotel room. Her lipstick had faded too, and save for the suit, she looked like the woman who’d begged him not to leave this morning without loving her one more time.
Loving. Yeah right.
Sam Starrett had been closer to the truth. Shagging was the word he’d used. The word Ken should’ve used, right from the start.
What a joke, indeed.
As the plane headed west, toward Hong Kong and the Far East, Ken closed his eyes.
It was his turn to make goddamn sure he didn’t cry.
It took him twenty-two minutes to come back.
Molly put down the book Jones had given her—she was already over forty pages in—as he knocked on her door again.
“Molly. It’s me.”
She went to the door and spoke softly so that no one in the tents nearby would be able to hear. “I know. I’m still mad at you. Go away.”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you what I came here to tell you this evening,” he said just as quietly, through the door.
“Let’s see, that you’re sorry, right?”
“That my name is Dave.”
She laughed. Then opened the door a crack. “It is not. You are so not a Dave, you liar.”
He held something up for her to see—another wrapped package. Another book. Oh, the man was a devil!
“Can I come in?” he asked.
Molly looked from his eyes to the book and back. He was smiling his triumph, the beast. He knew she’d let him in. She opened the door wide enough to let him slip through. “God, I’m easy.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “About what I said to you this afternoon. In the plane.”
“But not about pulling a gun on Billy?”
“No,” he agreed. “Not about that.”
He was still smiling at her. He’d shaved about ten years off with the stubble and grime, and with his smooth face and clean clothes, with that melting smile, he actually looked closer to Billy’s age.
She had to give him credit. He was smart enough not to assume that he could leap on top of her simply because she’d let him in the door. But he did look around, and she saw him take in the fact that the flaps were all down. No one could see in.
It was comical—the way she could practically see the wheels turning in his head.
“I’m sorry it’s so warm in here,” she told him pointedly. “I need to keep the flaps down at night when I read. It’s amazing how determined the bugs can be when it comes to finding little holes in the tent.”
“Moths to the flame,” he murmured. “I can relate.”
Molly laughed. “Which are you, Mr. Jones? The moth or the flame?”
“Dave,” he said. “I’m Dave, remember?”
“Dave. David Jones.” She snorted. “Not very original.”
“I’m not trying to be original.”
He held out the package—the book—and she took it. “Thank you.” He made certain that their hands touched, and she smiled at him so that he’d know she knew it was no accident.
She unwrapped it, careful not to tear the paper. But oh, wonder of wonders! “The new Robert Parker!” She danced around the tent, jumped on the bed.
Jones laughed—real laughter—and she caught a glimpse in his eyes of how he’d been as a child. “It’s a good one, huh?”
“They’re all good,” Molly told him from atop her bed. “If it’s got pages and a spine and I haven’t read it before, it’s fabulous. Even if it’s a how-to guide for building an igloo. But Parker . . . For a new Parker, okay, yes, I’d have sex with you.”
“Well, all right,” Jones said. “Let’s get naked.”
She got down off the bed. “I was kidding.”
“So was I.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “No, you weren’t.”
“Okay, I wasn’t,” he agreed.
He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t move closer. He just stood there, still by the door, smiling into her eyes.
“I love it when you smile,” she whispered. “You should smile more often.”
“Make love to me. I’ll smile the entire time, I promise.”
Neither one of them was smiling now. Now there was only heat between them.
Molly turned away and set the book down on her table, next to the other one, next to her tea cup. Yes. She wanted to say yes. But that would be crazy. Wouldn’t it? “I don’t think we know each other well enough,” she said as much to convince herself as him. “Not yet.”
“I came over here so that we could get to know each other better,” he said.
Molly laughed at that. “You came over here hoping I’d take one look at you in that pretty blue shirt and find you irresistible. I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you, Mr. Jones. I have a rule about what goes on inside this tent. Nothing happens in here that can’t happen out in the middle of the village plaza. Canvas walls are very thin and—”
“How about you come have tea up at my camp?”
“Well I’m not sure—”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” she told him, relieved she had an excuse. “We hold an evening barbecue in the village every Sunday night. It’s not my turn to cook, but I still have to attend. Would you like to—”
“Yes.”
She laughed. “How do you know what I’m going to ask?”
“I’ll come to the barbecue,” he said. “I’ll go to hell with you, if you want. As long as ol’ Billy keeps his distance.”
“You’re not really jealous, are you?”
“No.” Jones met her eyes. “Yes. A little.”
“Don’t be. He’s just . . . I don’t know. A lonely little boy. Looking for a diversion, I guess. He’s tired of being alone.” She smiled. “Of course, I could probably say the same thing about you.”
“You’d be wrong.” Jones looked her in the eye, looked away, then forced himself to look back, to hold her gaze. “I can handle being alone. In fact, I, uh, I’m more . . . comfortable alone. I’m used to it, you know?”
Molly nodded. He was telling her things he didn’t normally tell anyone. And he wasn’t finished.
“You were right,” he continued. “What you said this afternoon, I mean.” He cleared his throat, gave up on the eye contact. “You scare me to death.”
She slowly sat down on the bed. That was something she’d never expected him to admit. Not ever.
And still, he wasn’t done.
“I don’t really know what this is about,” he admitted. “I mean, look at me. I’m ready to roll over if you give the command. But it’s not just about sex. If it was just me being horny, I could . . . you know, I could go get laid. There are plenty of women both on the mountain and in town who’d . . . you know. Take care of me. That way.”
Molly knew that she shouldn’t laugh. He was being so serious. So earnest. And she knew he didn’t really mean for his words to sound so utterly egotistical. “I’m sure there are,” she murmured. “You’re a very beautiful young man.”
Very beautiful and very young. Maybe too young. But she’d been honest about how old she was last night at dinner. He hadn’t so much as blinked.
He smiled. “Well, that’s something I’ve never been called before.”
“So if it’s not just about sex . . .” she prompted gently.
“I don’t know what it’s about,” he admitted. “But whatever it is, it’s powerful enough for me to risk my life by becoming friends with you.”
“Risk your life?” She didn’t understand.
Jones, bless him, actually tried to explain. “Lovers are no big deal. Walking away from a lover is easy, as long as you keep everything right on the surface.”
“As long as you keep it only about sex,” she clarified.
“Yeah. Which is why I said what I said this afternoon.”
“You mean, about your personal frequent-flyer program?”
“Yeah.” Dear Lord, was it possible that he was blushing? That he was actually ashamed of himself? “I figured either you’d go for it, or you’d never want to see me again. Either way, I’d win.”
She had to laugh. “If that’s winning . . . What do you get when you lose?”
“Dead,” he said, looking over at her. “You get dead.” He could see she didn’t get it. “Friends are a luxury,” he explained. “A dangerous one. Having friends get guys like me killed. Friends make you hang around too long when you need to get gone. Friends are a weakness—a way to get to you, to use as leverage. Friends get to know your secrets and they don’t always think before talking, so those secrets don’t stay secret for very long.
“But here I am. Ready to be your friend if you still want me.”
Molly didn’t know what to say.
And still he wasn’t done. “You want to know the name that’s on my birth certificate?” He lowered his voice. “It’s Grady Morant. If you tell anyone, if you forget and call me that in front of anyone, if you whisper it and someone overhears, I’m dead.”
“Oh, God, I don’t want to know it then,” she breathed.
“Too late.” They were the same words she’d thrown back at him this afternoon. It was too late. For both of them. They were both in this now. Together.
His honesty awed her. Oh, she knew exactly why he was telling her all this. She knew he still had hopes that she’d break her rule and take him to bed, right here and now.
But the fact that he wanted her enough to talk to her like this . . .
It was possible he was making it all up. But it was also possible that he wasn’t. She wanted to believe that he wasn’t.
“I know you’re curious about the scars on my back,” he said quietly. “But that’s something I can’t . . . I can’t talk about. Not now. Not ever.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I won’t ask you about them.”
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