The Heart Has Reasons (15 page)

Angling
herself up, she supported herself on her elbows while he quickly untied, and
then retied, the rope, increasing the amount of play to nearly two feet. 
While it would still prevent her from running, the few extra inches would allow
her to move much quicker.

He
rose to his feet with a fluid, animal grace surprising in a man of his size and
musculature.  When he reached down for her, she grasped his hands and
allowed him to pull her to her feet.  Since, when training either dogs or
men, it was essential to reward good behavior, she bestowed upon him a warm
smile.  “Thank you.”

He
reached up to clasp her face between his palms.  “I’m sorry I laughed.”

She
could practically feel the heat radiating from him, even though there was a
good foot of space separated them.  Somewhere in her dazed and fluttered
mind, a distant alarm sounded but, when she inhaled, his masculine scent filled
her, sending a rush of electric heat fluttering through her lower belly. 
Her only response to his apology was a moronic “Okay.”

Behind
the mask, his eyes were bottomless blue pools.  When they locked onto
hers, hidden currents pulled her down into their depths.  She couldn’t
move.  She couldn’t even look away.  As his hands
glided into her hair, her abdomen
tightened in anticipation and, when his lips grazed hers, she simply melted
into the kiss,
her body molding itself to his.

Blood
roared in her ears as strong hands caressed her neck, slid over her shoulders,
then traveled down her back, sending shivers dancing down her spine.  Her
mouth opened beneath his and, when his tongue touched hers, desire shot through
her in a fierce, heated rush that threatened to buckle her knees.  The
kiss grew fiercer, more possessive.

Then
the soft acrylic knit of the ski mask brushed the skin beside her mouth,
sending a chill shivering through her core.

Once
again, she was kissing her freaking
kidnapper
.

In
one smooth, continued action, she slammed both palms against his chest, shoving
herself back from him, and launched a right jab at the ski-masked face. 
Throwing up a lightning-fast forearm block, he effortlessly deflected the
punch.  His question was more surprised than angry.  “What the fuck?”

“I
told you not to kiss me!”

“But
I thought you—”

“Thought
I
what?
  Wanted to swap spit with the asshole who
drugged and
kidnapped me
?”

Wary
that she might throw another punch, he remained on his guard.  “No. 
Of course not.  I just thought … ah, hell, I don’t know what the fuck I
thought.  I was out of line and I’m sorry.  Again.”

She
backed toward the bathroom and closed the door behind her.  He offered no
protest, although the television instantly went silent.
 
Her heart
raced as an exquisite heaviness pulsed deep within her pelvis.  Leaning
against the door, she closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly and
deeply.

Although
she’d cast the blame on him, it was partially her own fault.  After all,
both times she’d impetuously returned his kisses, even if only briefly. 
What the hell was
wrong
with her?  Was he emitting so much
testosterone that the continual exposure was stoking some internal fire?
 Was the mental duress of being kidnapped trumping
her
normally
prudent intellect.  Whatever the reason, she needed to stop acting like
some adolescent with raging hormones and
get a grip on herself!

When
she finally opened the bathroom door, she found him sprawled on the edge of the
bed.  Studiously avoiding eye contact as she crossed the room, she perched
on the opposite side of the mattress and
they pretended to watch some
inane sitcom.
 
When it ended, he broke the gravid and uncomfortable
silence to say, “Tell me about the man in the big black pickup truck.” 

Grateful
to avoid the subject of their earlier imprudence, she asked, “What do you want
to know.”

“You
were romantically involved?”

“I
dated
him.”

“How
long?”

She
shrugged.  “A few weeks.”

“And
now he’s stalking you?”

She
gave him a sideways look.  “Why do you ask that?”

“I’ve
witnessed two separate confrontations between you, in one of which you
threatened to shoot off his … how did you phrase it?  Ah, yes, his
‘shortcomings’.”

Anger
blazed through her like a wildfire through dry brush.  Not only had the
asshole gone through her personal belongings, he’d spent who-knew-how-much time
spying on her.  “Steve has never hurt me, or even threatened to do so but,
yeah, he’s sort of been stalking me.  However, if I’d known you were
waiting for me inside my house, I’d have welcomed him in.  You’re not the
only one who knows martial arts.  Steve owns the dojo where I used to take
classes.  He’s a fourth-degree black belt.”

Behind
the mask, amusement sparkled in blue eyes.  “And you honestly believe he
could have taken me?”

Her
gaze flickered over the hard muscle of his naked torso and arms.  “Well,
maybe not.”

“Why’d
you dump him?”

“Too
jealous and insecure.  If another man even looked at me, he was ready to
start a fight.  He even accused me of sleeping with my boss, who he knows
is gay.”

Her
kidnapper lounged back against the pillow, arms crooked back with his head
resting in the palms of his hands.  “You ever been married?”

“No.”

“I
find it difficult to believe that a woman clearly as high-maintenance as you
wouldn’t have found a rich husband to take care of her.”

“I
am
not
high-maintenance!”

“Don’t
forget that I went through your house.  I saw all those fancy dresses in
your closet.”

“And
while snooping through my house, did you happen to notice my sewing room? 
I made all those dresses.  I doubt that a single dress cost me more than
thirty dollars to make.  I also made all the drapes, curtains, and
pillows.”

His
eyes dropped to her French manicure.  “Maintaining these fancy nails isn’t
cheap.  Nor are Brazilian waxes.”

Her
mouth dropped open in outrage.  “How do you—?  You
did
something to me last night!”

His
outrage at the accusation mirrored hers.  “I did
not
.  If
you’ll recall, I saw you naked in the shower.”

“Oh.” 
She’d forgotten about him jerking open the shower curtain.  “Have you ever
heard of the barter system?  My manicurist does my nails; in exchange, I
cut her hair.  And as for the Brazilians —
not that it’s any of your
business
— a friend and I wax each other.”

He
became very still, doing a very credible impression of a hunting dog who’d just
sighted prey.  Feeling the warmth creeping up her cheeks, Larissa
instantly regretted having been so forthcoming.  He finally broke the
fervid silence.  “Is she anywhere near as hot as you?”

“That’s
none of your business, pervert.”

“Pervert? 
I’m simply a typical man.”

She
rolled her eyes.  Yeah, right.  There was absolutely
nothing
typical about him.

“Isn’t
having the hair ripped from such an intimate area excruciatingly painful?”

“The
pain lessens over time and ... and
why
am I discussing this with
you?  My intimate grooming habits are none of your freaking business.”

“Well,
on behalf of men everywhere, I’d like to say that we appreciate the sacrifices
you women make for us.”

“Shut
up and watch television.”

“Yes,
honey.”  He grinned in response to the sharp glance she cast at him.

* * * * *

Unable to concentrate on the movie, Chase
was excruciatingly aware of her presence there beside him on the bed as his
mind continually flashed back to the way her strong, lithe body had felt
beneath his when they wrestled.  Bringing those particular clothes for her
to wear had been a deplorable mistake.  Wanting her to be comfortable,
he’d failed to take into consideration that they’d leave little of her shape to
the imagination.

And
why had he brought up the subject of Brazilian waxes?  The “intimate
grooming habits” of American women had undergone a radical change during his
fourteen years in Afghanistan.  He loved to pleasure women with his mouth,
and there was something so damned sexy about the lack of any pubic hindrance.

He’d
once mentioned to Cheyenne how sexy he found it, and she’d immediately
scheduled an appointment with a professional waxer.  Since she was doing
it for his benefit, he’d felt it not only his duty to pay, but also to
accompany her for moral support.  When the waxer had ripped off the first
narrow strip, Cheyenne had screamed like a banshee.  While redressing,
she’d spewed an ear-blistering tirade of profanity upon both him and the
hapless middle-aged Ukrainian woman.

When
he’d jerked open the shower curtain last night, his mind had registered what
he’d seen, although at the time he’d been too preoccupied with other matters to
give it much thought.  However, now that he’d broached the subject, he
couldn’t stop thinking of how she’d looked — totally bare and glistening from
the shower. 

Not
only was Larissa clearly tougher than Cheyenne, she was more courageous. 
Cheyenne would never have the courage to kick a weapon from a captor’s hand,
nor even to attempt an escape.  It was strange.  The moment he’d laid
eyes on Cheyenne, he’d wanted her.  Now he could no longer remember what
exactly had attracted him to her in the first place.

Well,
that wasn’t quite true.  After the fiasco of his short-lived marriage, he
was always careful to pick women he knew he wouldn’t fall in love with, and
Cheyenne definitely fell into that category.  Although he’d been bored
with her for some time, he hadn’t yet moved on, but spending a mere twenty-four
hours with Larissa had sharply illuminated the fact that his relationship with
Cheyenne left him feeling empty.

Although
fond of him, Cheyenne was much too self-absorbed to love anyone other than
herself.  She’d never once inquired about the events of his day, although
she continually bombarded him with the most tedious details of her own.  And
despite the fact that he’d spent years in a war zone, she had yet to ask the
first question about his life in Afghanistan.

He
glanced at Larissa.  Physically, the two women couldn’t be more
different.  Cheyenne was six-foot, with waist-length, platinum-blond
hair.  Larissa was at most five-eight, with shoulder-length hair as black
as sin.

At
twenty-six, Cheyenne was growing a bit too old for the business of modeling,
and the job offers were slowly dwindling.  Having decided to pursue an
acting career, she’d moved from New York to Los Angeles and, believing
jaw-dropping cleavage would expedite her chances, she’d gotten implants. 
The new breasts undoubtedly attracted attention but, in Chase’s opinion, were
disproportionately large for such a skinny body.  From the neck down,
Cheyenne looked like a tall boy who’d stuck the two halves of a cantaloupe on
his chest.

Larissa
was also twenty-six, but her breasts were perfectly sized for her slim and
toned hourglass figure.

Cheyenne
was a beautiful woman — when she was in full makeup.  Without it, she was
pale and colorless and, except for her height and breasts, completely
unremarkable.

Larissa,
even with her face scrubbed clean of every trace of makeup, was head-turningly
beautiful.

Apparently
sensing his scrutiny of her, she turned her head to him.  As they gazed
into one another’s eyes, the memory of how she’d kissed him popped into his
head, making his cock suddenly awaken.  Well, shit.  This was
becoming downright annoying.  Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed,
he moved over to the door, dropped to hands and toes, and started doing
pushups.

After
a moment, the television abruptly shut off.  He froze at the top of a
pushup, a suspicious eye fixed on her as she approached.  “You’re not the
only one who needs to work off some tension.  Remove this freaking
hobble.”

Because
she had the audacity to demand rather than request, he was tempted to
refuse.  But, what the hell.  If
he
were this tense, her
nerves must be stretched to the breaking point.

Once
her feet were free, she pulled the tee shirt over her head.  Wearing only
the red sport bra and red stretch pants, she stood beside the bed, pressed the
palms of her hands together before her chest, and took several long, deep
breaths.

Her
hands then described wide circles on either side of her as they came up to
meet, palms together, above her head.  She paused for a moment in this
position, and then exhaled as her arms swept out to the sides in a graceful
imitation of a swan dive as she bent forward, legs straight, chest to
thighs.  Jesus, she was limber.  This explained how, when he’d
restrained her in the bathroom last night, she managed to get her cuffed hands
in front of her.

He
gave up on the pushups and switched to squats, to afford himself a better
view.  She extended one leg back, into a lunge.  The second leg moved
back and, exhaling from pushup position, she slowly lowered herself to hover
inches from the floor.  Pushing forward with her toes, her upper body
curved upward into a backbend.  After another pause, her upper body
lowered again and her hips rose into the air.