Kitabı oxu: «Killian's Passion»

One

D amn woman.

Killian Shawnessy’s patience ran out at exactly 5:52 p.m. He’d already given up the idea of fishing today. The lake had turned choppy, and storm clouds were swelling on the horizon. It was also so blasted hot and humid he thought he was in a steam bath instead of a Texas mountain cabin.

Leaning against the cabin porch rail, he tossed back the last of a cold beer, wiped at the sweat on his brow, then frowned darkly at a clump of tall cattails on the other side of the lake where the fool woman was hiding.

He had no idea who the Peeping Thomasina was, or why she’d been watching him with binoculars for the past three hours. It was possible that Jordan had sent someone; Ian wouldn’t put it past the woman, even though she’d sworn not to bother him for two weeks if he took the Cairo assignment.

But a promise didn’t mean a rat’s behind to his boss, Ian knew. In the first two days alone, she’d already called four times. Yesterday Ian had simply unplugged the phone.

Which might explain the woman watching him, he thought with a scowl.

He’d only caught a glimpse of her when he’d checked her out with his own binoculars from inside the house. Slender, blond, on the tall side, maybe around five foot eight or nine. Dressed in boots and khakis and definitely inexperienced in the art of surveillance.

She wouldn’t last long out there. Between the heat and the humidity and the approaching storm, she’d be gone within the hour. If she wasn’t, the mosquitoes would be coming out for supper and they’d simply carry her off.

He didn’t much give a damn. He still had eleven blissful days that he didn’t have to report or answer to anyone. He’d come back to his hometown of Wolf River to see Nick Santos get married, and that was what he intended to do.

That was all he intended to do, other than fish, consume beer and watch spiders build webs.

A slight movement in the cattails caught his attention. Maybe Jordan needed a message sent back to her, Ian thought with a frown. And maybe this woman was the one to carry it.

At the first low rumble of thunder, Cara Sinclair knew she was in trouble. It wasn’t bad enough that it was so hot and humid her eyeballs were melting. Now it had to go and rain, too. And based on the size of the black clouds crowding the once-blue sky, and the smell of the storm in the air, it was going to be a whopper.

Great, just great. She lowered her binoculars and wiped at the sheet of moisture on her forehead, then blinked to clear her eyes. So much for the glamorous job of a private investigator.

Not that she was into glamour; she would hardly be lying in a thicket of cattails wearing camouflage overalls if elegance and high fashion were her style. Big diamonds and fancy clothes were for the uptown debutantes of Philadelphia society, not for a girl from a small town like Bloomfield County. She’d take a baseball game over the ballet anyday, Cara thought, lifting the binoculars once again.

Now where had Mr. Killian Shawnessy disappeared to?

Focusing the binoculars, she scanned the porch he’d been sitting on for most of the afternoon. He must have gone back into the cabin, probably for another beer, Cara decided. It was certainly hot enough, and though she’d never acquired the taste herself, on a day like today, anything cold and bubbly would be welcome. She stared at the lake, fantasized about jumping into the cool water, then sighed and concentrated on the job at hand.

At least if she had to lie in these rough, itchy weeds in this miserable gray heat and watch someone, she had a good subject. Killian Shawnessy definitely fit into the category of superhunk. Tall, thick black hair, strong square jaw. A face that was a combination of construction-workerrugged and magazine-cover handsome. Those long legs of his filled out a pair of jeans like nobody’s business; that broad chest and muscular arms under the chambray shirt he wore were enough to make a girl’s heart skip a beat or two in appreciation. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but she’d bet her brand-new-not-even-paid-for-yet 500 mm zoom lens that they were brown. Dark brown.

Not that she intended to get close enough to find out. Not yet, anyway. For now she simply needed to take a few pictures and watch him for a couple of days, then report back to Margaret.

And based on how friendly and talkative the people of Wolf River were, she’d have plenty to report.

Tracy Simpson, a fence-post-thin brunette working the cash register at the Stop N Shop in town, had turned into a regular Chatty Cathy this morning when Cara casually mentioned the name Killian Shawnessy.

“You know Ian?” Surprise lifted Tracy’s heavily lined eyebrows.

Cara shrugged and started to browse through a display of paperbacks beside the counter. “A friend of a friend. Said if I was passing through here to say hi.”

“Must be your lucky day,” Tracy said with amazement. “Ian’s been gone nearly fourteen years, but showed up three days ago. Is that a coincidence or what?”

“Incredible.” Cara could hardly tell the woman she’d followed Ian here from Washington, D.C. “Back to visit his folks?”

“Ian’s got no folks, unless you count Esther Matthews. She was his foster ma for a spell, but she passed on a couple years back. Ian’s here for Nick Santos and Maggie Smith’s wedding next week.”

“Nick Santos?” Cara glanced up from the mystery novel she’d been eyeing. “That wouldn’t be the Nick Santos, would it, as in Three-Time National Champion Motorcycle Racer?”

“One and the same,” Tracy chirped brightly. “Don’t that beat all, a celebrity like Nick Santos living right here in Wolf River?”

It sure did, Cara thought, and added the mystery novel to the bottled water and chocolate bar she’d already set on the counter. She’d been a Nick Santos fan ever since her brother Gabe had taken her to her first race when she was seventeen. More than one woman’s heart had been broken when Santos retired from racing.

Miniature silver cowboy boots dangled at Tracy’s ears as she rang up the order. “Nick and Lucas Blackhawk were the closest thing to a family that Ian ever got, him being abandoned as a baby and all. Those three boys were tight as Old Lady Appleby’s hair bun. Hey, you want some dried apricots? We got them on special today. Two packages for a dollar.”

“Sure, I’ll take four.” Anything to keep the woman talking. Especially about Ian. “You say Ian was abandoned?”

“Right on the church steps, was the story I heard growing up. But then, there were lots of stories about Ian Shawnessy, especially when he got old enough to buckle his own belt.” Tracy gave a wicked wink. “If you know what I mean.”

Cara had a pretty good idea, but she’d rather not go there. “So he’s staying with Nick until the wedding?” she asked nonchalantly, sliding a box of cheese crackers across the counter.

“Shoot, no. He’s got himself holed up in one of Harper Whitman’s rental cabins up at Silver Tree Lake. He came in here three days ago and bought enough food to feed a small country, so I reckon he’s staying a spell.”

Using one long red nail, the brunette punched in the cracker price on the cash register. “Thought I might be neighborly and check up on him in a day or two, see if he has everything he needs up there. That’ll be twelve-ohfive.”

Cara’s next trip to the real estate and recreational rental office across the street proved to be another warehouse of information, as well. Beverly Patterson, the apple-cheeked, gray-haired office manager, pleasantly informed Cara that there were indeed rentals still available by Silver Tree Lake.

“Are there other cabins rented?” Cara gave Beverly what she hoped was a timid look. “I don’t mean to be nosy, it’s just that being a woman up there alone and all, well, I thought I might feel safer knowing who else was around.”

“A woman can’t be too careful.” Beverly nodded in understanding. “But don’t you worry, dear. There’s a couple on their honeymoon just checked into cabin six at the farthest end of the lake, and Ian Shawnessy’s in cabin three. I’ll put you in cabin four right next to him.”

“Ian?” Cara’s insides did a tap dance, but she kept her voice tiny and her expression worried. “Is he someone you know?”

“Land sakes,” Beverly said with a flip of her hand, “everyone in Wolf River knows Ian. But don’t you go listening to any stories about him. Just kicked up a little dust before he went off to join the Army, that’s all, and that trouble twenty years ago with Hank Thompson was never deserved. Some folks just don’t have the good sense to let go of an old bone. Ian Shawnessy is a fine boy. You have any problems up there, you just give him a holler.”

Cara was about to ask what the trouble with Hank Thompson had been when the bell over the office door jangled. Two men dressed in fishing gear—one stocky, with silver hair, and one slender, younger, with a blond crew cut—came through the door.

“I’ll be right with you gentlemen.” Beverly smiled at the men, then turned back to Cara and slid a key across the counter. “All the cabins have phones, dear. If you need anything, just give a call.”

She made a quick trip to the market, then found the road off the main highway that led to Silver Tree Lake. The twolane road was narrow and wound upward through thick dogwood and pines. Twenty minutes later she’d unloaded her groceries and gear from her Jeep into her cabin, zipped on her overalls and grabbed her backpack.

Piece of cake, she’d thought when she’d settled herself into the tall weeds across the lake and found her man lazing on the front porch of his cabin. She snapped a roll of pictures, munched on dried apricots and crackers and replayed Casablanca in her mind to pass the time.

But as the heat settled in and the humidity rose steadily over the next three hours, that piece of cake began to quickly crumble.

When the first big drop of rain hit her on the cheek, the cake all but dissolved. The next drop splashed on her nose at the same time thunder rumbled the ground and lightning zigzagged across the dark sky. Cara might be the first one to admit she’d done a lot of foolish things, but never stupid. She at least knew enough to get out of a lightning storm. Tomorrow was always another day, as the saying went.

Tossing her binoculars into her backpack, she rose on her hands and knees and started to crawl backward out of the thick cattails.

And froze when she hit something very solid.

And very human.

Slowly she glanced over her shoulder, then swallowed hard at the sight of one Killian Shawnessy towering over her.

“Hi, there.” He stared down at her; the tight smile on his mouth did not reach his narrowed eyes.

She opened her mouth to respond, but the only sound that came out was a whoosh of air when he lunged, then neatly flipped her onto her back and pinned her down. Even in this suddenly embarrassing and demeaning situation, Cara had to admit that he was good.

Damn good.

Nonetheless, he was also a man. And with him lying on top of her like he was, he was almost in perfect alignment for her best and most effective move, a move that would have him singing soprano for days.

Adrenaline pumped wildly through her blood, but despite her finely honed instinct to slam her knee upward, she clenched her teeth together and resisted. She didn’t come here to hurt him, after all.

“You wanna tell me why you’ve been spying on me all afternoon?” he asked smoothly.

She forced her heartbeat to slow down and struggled to concentrate on his face rather than the press of his hard body against hers. His expression was calm, but his jaw was set tight, his eyes as sharp and focused as a cat with a mouse under its paw. What a strange time to notice that his eyes were brown, as she’d guessed. Deep, dark brown, with a black ring around the iris.

Eyes like Margaret Muldoon’s.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” She feigned indignation and made a pitiful attempt to pull away from his grip. She’d always found it to her advantage to pretend weakness until her opponent was off guard and the time was right. “Get off me.”

To her annoyance, his large hands tightened their hold on her wrists. He leaned closer, his broad chest pressing her down into the cattails. Sweat dripped down his throat and disappeared into the open collar of his shirt. The scent of hot skin and pure masculinity clung to him.

“I asked you a question, Blondie. I want an answer. Now.”

Blast it, if the man wasn’t solid muscle and outweighed her by at least seventy pounds. But what she lacked in strength she always made up for in endurance and timing, both of which were on her side at the moment. She didn’t want to hurt him, but if he didn’t let go of her soon, her pride would insist on taking over. Especially after the Blondie crack. Lord, how she hated those obnoxious little names men gave women.

What had been a heavy sprinkle of rain gradually increased, and Cara blinked the drops out of her eyes. “Look, buster—” she chose her own annoying little name for him “—this isn’t private property and I’m not trespassing. I’m renting the next cabin down, and I was just taking in a little scenery while I’m on vacation, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Is that so?” He scanned the length of her. “You always take in the landscape on your stomach with binoculars?”

“I’m a bird watcher. Last I heard there’s no law against that.”

One shock of dark hair fell over his damp forehead as he considered her answer. “What bird?”

“What bird?” What bird…what bird… Damn. She knew nothing about birds.

Impatience deepened his frown. “What bird have you been watching for the past three hours?”

“Oh. A three-toed, yellow-rumped sapsucker. It’s nesting in that Douglas fir twenty yards off your cabin. Very rare.” She prayed there was a bird up there. Any bird, or something that even remotely resembled a nest.

“Is that right?” He lifted his gaze to the thick grove of trees and stared. “Three-toed sapsucker, huh?”

“Yellow-rumped,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Now get off me.”

The weight of his body matched the heavy gaze he dropped back down to her. The lines on his face were hard, angular, like his body, and the intensity of his narrowed gaze made her breath catch.

He shook his head slowly. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, sweetheart. It’s your choice.”

She didn’t know what he meant by this, but she had no intention of doing anything with this jerk. She let her body go slack and turned her head away, as if she were acquiescing to him.

“All right.” She dragged in a shuddering, pathetic breath. “I guess we’ll do it—” her knee came up hard and fast and right on target “—the hard way.”

Ian sucked in his breath as the first blast of pain ripped through the lower half of his body. Stars exploded in front of his eyes as a wave of nausea washed over him. Her voice had sounded so weak and frightened that he’d let his guard down for one, sympathetic moment. A moment he was now paying for dearly.

“Now get off me!,” he heard the woman yell through the sea of agony he was drowning in.

He’d collapsed on top of her, and she shoved furiously at his chest. Even if he’d wanted to, he hadn’t the strength to move. He’d been annoyed before, but now he was downright mad. She was definitely going to pay for this, and so was Jordan. Big-time.

He gulped in a deep lungful of air, swore heatedly on the exhale. Her clawed fingers were plowing toward his face when he caught her wrists just in time. Using one hand, he pinned her hands over her head again. With his other hand he reached behind him and pulled out the rope he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans before he’d left the cabin.

Her big green eyes widened at the sight of the rope, and for the first time he saw fear there. He’d been careful not to hurt her before, but that was before she set the rules between them, or rather, eliminated the rules. He wasn’t taking any more chances with this one, and if she got roughed up, that was her choice.

She bucked under him like a crazed bronco.

“Did I ever tell you I spent six months working a cattle ranch?” He had her hands wrapped and tied in two seconds, then moved to her kicking feet. Two more seconds and they were bound, as well. “They called me Flash.”

Her eyes spit green fire while she called him a few names of her own. Lightning punctuated one especially rude exclamation she shot at him; thunder drowned out the next. If nothing else, Ian noted, she certainly was creative with her expletives.

With another loud crack of thunder, the sky opened up on them.

The cattails bowed under the driving force of the hot rain; the lake turned gray and frothy. Lifting his head, Ian cursed at the sky; the rain blasted him with the force of liquid bullets.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

He swiped at his face and stared back at the hog-tied woman. He’d planned on leaving her out here to stew for a while, but in this weather, she’d end up shish-kebab if a lightning bolt zapped her. When the heel of her boot caught his knee he grunted sharply, considered dumping her into the lake, then swore again as he bent and flung her over his shoulder. She gave a loud ommph, and he was momentarily blessed with her silence while she gasped for breath.

Her wiggling body was slender but firm under her overalls, her legs long and powerful. Any other time, any other place, he would have appreciated those attributes in a woman. Her knee caught his chin and slammed his teeth together, reminding him this was definitely not any other time or place. He stilled her thrashing with a none-toogentle grip around her knees.

“I believe a little gratitude is in order here, Blondie.” He quickly scooped up her backpack before she could knee him again. “If I left you out here, you’d either be a crispy critter or drowned, probably both.”

She expressed her gratitude with a fresh and imaginative onslaught of opinions of him and what she intended to do to him at the first opportunity. He winced at one especially descriptive suggestion and decided he had better make certain she never had the chance.

Lightning speared a tree fifty feet away, exploding a huge branch. The woman miraculously ceased struggling. The air crackled with electricity and the scent of burned pine.

“Would you quit lollygagging and get us inside?” she yelled over the storm and kicked him, only this time he knew it was to hurry him up. Annoyed, but just as eager as she was to get out of the storm, he ran back around the lake, bouncing her the entire way. It wasn’t an easy ride, but it was a fast one.

They were both soaking wet by the time he kicked the cabin door shut behind him. He dumped the woman unceremoniously on the hardwood floor in front of the unlit rock fireplace and stood over her. With her ponytail plastered to her head and her drenched overalls, the term drowned rat came to mind. She sat in a spreading pool of water, fury darkening her moss-green eyes.

He glared at her. She glared right back.

“Untie me,” she demanded.

“‘Fraid not.” He dragged his hands through his dripping wet hair, then scraped the rain off his face. “Not until I get some answers.”

“Mrs. Patterson is going to hear about this,” she sputtered at him through the water dripping down her face.

“Mrs. Patterson?” He lifted one brow. “As in Beverly Patterson at the real estate office?”

“That’s right. When she rented me the cabin next to yours she said I’d be safe up here, and that you were a fine boy I could trust. She obviously doesn’t know you like to tie women up for sport and kidnap them.”

“For a woman who’s been tied up and kidnapped,” he said dryly, “you’ve got quite a mouth on you. Maybe you like that sort of thing.”

She swung her heavy boot out at him, and he yelped when she made contact with his shin. He jumped away as she drew back for a second blow. Narrowing his eyes to fierce slits, he rubbed at his leg and growled at her. “I had no intention of hurting you. At least, I didn’t, but you certainly know how to change a man’s mind.”

When she lifted her chin and pointed it indignantly at him, Ian couldn’t help but notice the delicate shape of her face; her cheekbones were high, her skin smooth, her lips wide and lush. Too bad that gorgeous mouth of hers didn’t know when to quit.

“You don’t scare me.” She tossed back her head. “I have four brothers, every one of them mean as a rattlesnake and big as a Mack truck. They’ll hunt you down, and when they’re done with you, folks will be calling you Jigsaw instead of Flash.”

In spite of himself, he almost laughed. He had to admire her spunk, especially considering which side of those ropes she was on. He wasn’t sure if she was lying about the brothers, but he was damn certain she was fibbing about why she was up here in the mountains.

He picked up her backpack that he’d dropped on the floor beside her. “Well now, what have we here.” He smiled at her. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

“That’s my personal property, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of it,” she threatened, but he caught the edge of distress in her voice.

“Blondie, if I knew what was good for me, I’d have left you tied up in the cattails.”

As if to punctuate his statement, thunder rattled the cabin’s windows and rain pounded the roof. They’d brought the scent of the storm in with them, and the air inside the small cabin was as thick as it was hot.

Her jaw clamped tight as he snapped open the backpack. “Nice camera.” He pulled out an expensive 35mm Nikon and gave a soft whistle of appreciation. “You could take pictures of moon craters with this baby.”

“I’m a photographer for a nature magazine. I need a powerful lens.”

“Then I’m sure all this film—” he ignored her gasp when he rewound the film, then popped open the camera case “—has pictures of yellow-rumped sapsuckers and furry little critters, right? There’s a one-hour in town. How ‘bout I take them in for you and develop them?”

“How ‘bout you eat dirt and die?” she said sweetly.

Despite the foul mood she’d put him in, he grinned at her, then turned his attention back to her bag. He pulled out a small, brown leather wallet and flipped it open. “Let’s see if you have a name other than Blondie. Ah, here it is. Sinclair.” He held up her driver’s license. “Cara Sinclair.” He glanced up sharply. “Philadelphia?”

She said nothing, just shot poison arrows at him while water dripped off her pert little nose. Jordan didn’t have any agents in Philadelphia that Ian knew of. And there would be no reason for his boss to pull an agent out of their own jurisdiction for a simple, surveillance. He stared at the woman, wondered for one brief, horrible second if he might have made a mistake.

No. She was lying, all right. He might be wrong about her being an agent, but he wasn’t wrong about the fact that she was lying through her perfectly straight, beautifully white teeth.

So why the hell had she been watching him, then?

Her driver’s license appeared authentic; he could spot a fake from ten meters. It certainly described her accurately. Five foot eight, blond. Green eyes, 125 pounds, though it was hard to tell under the heavy overalls she had on. She was twenty-six and lived in an apartment on Brooks Avenue in Philadelphia. Nothing ominous, nothing suspicious.

Ian ignored her continued protests while he flipped through the rest of her gear. Binoculars, bottled water, a package of dried apricots, three rolls of film. Nothing to link her to Jordan or any government agency, but nothing that confirmed her story about working for a nature magazine, either.

“If you’re through,” she said with enough ice in her voice to slice ten degrees off the heat in the room, “you can untie these ropes now.”

If the southern section of his anatomy weren’t still aching from contact with her knee, and his shin wasn’t throbbing from that kiss from her boot, Ian would have appreciated the woman’s nerve. Even tied up, soaking wet, she made demands with the air of an aristocrat.

Tossing the backpack onto the worn leather couch facing the fireplace, he hunkered down beside the woman, draping one arm casually over his knee while he studied his prey. Chin lifted, she stared right back, her eyes shooting green lightning bolts that matched the ferocity of the storm outside.

He leaned in close, brought his face within an inch of hers and caught the scent of raspberry drifting from her wet hair. “I’ll make you a deal, Miss Sinclair. You tell me the truth, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you go.”

“I’ll make you a deal, Shawnessy,” she purred back. “You let me go, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you live.”

He chuckled, actually enjoying himself for the first time since this pain-in-the-butt had shown up. His laughter was cut short by the sudden pounding on his front door. The woman’s eyes opened wide, then her mouth as she sucked in air to call out. He did the easiest and fastest thing he could do to shut her up.

He kissed her.