Time to Run (21 page)

That was supposed to reassure him, but it didn't.

Sara peeked out of the office window. The mums she'd transplanted into the pots this morning splashed color onto the front porch. Satisfied with the appearance of the house from the outside, she focused this afternoon on personalizing Linc's office.

She was very much aware that the clock was ticking. Since dropping Kendal off at Eric's, Chase had gone out of his way to avoid her. Obviously, it was going to take extreme measures on her part to coax a promise out of him. He was still in the barn, organizing tools.

She needed a good reason to call him into the house.

Eyeing Linc's desk in the center of the room, she realized she would rather have the desk facing the window, where she could take in the view, only it weighed two hundred pounds, at least, and she couldn't move it herself.

With a prayer for courage, Sara went to fetch Chase.

She was startled to encounter him in the kitchen, chugging down a glass of lemonade. His eyes hit her like lasers as he watched her approach.

"I didn't hear you come in," she confessed. "Urn, do you have a spare moment? I could use your help in moving the desk over by the window."

He put the glass down warily, and followed her without a word.

With every nerve in her body tingling, Sara positioned herself at one end of the desk. She waited for him to take the other, and together they slid the desk next to the window. That had been way too easy.

"I'm thinking of converting the gun cabinet into a big bookcase, if you don't mind," she volunteered, keeping him from leaving. "Eventually, I'll have a bunch of textbooks, and I'll need a place to put them. It looks like the hooks come out and I can raise the shelves on the bottom. What do you think?"

He eyed the empty gun cabinet. "That oughta work," he said, avoiding eye contact.

"I'll need a computer eventually, too. But that's still down the road a ways. It's kind of scary starting up a business without a safety net," she added, giving voice to her concerns, encouraging him to talk about the future.

When he glanced in her direction, he was frowning. "I've been thinkin' 'bout that," he admitted gruffly. "I don't want you payin' me rent."

"Oh, I wasn't angling for a handout," Sara protested. "A little moral support would be nice," she added lightly.

"You know you have that," he said evenly.

She just looked at him, willing him to say more.

"Sara, if you need anything, you can call me," he invited gruffly. "My cell phone works anywhere in the world."

She allowed herself a sorrowful smile. "And what about you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"What if you need me, Chase? Are you going to call?"

He didn't answer right away. "Look"—he sighed, breaking eye contact—"I'm going to be gone for the next four years. I can't give you what you deserve in a man."

And that was supposed to convince her to surrender all hope? Not likely. She had more faith in him than that.

"That is so untrue," she said, defending him. "You're the most giving man I know. Whether you're here or on the other side of the world, I can sense what's in your heart. This isn't about your inability to care for me, Chase. This is about your fears and the fact that everyone you ever loved was taken away from you."

He blinked. It was the only sign that her words might have penetrated his emotional armor. His gaze swung toward the door.

Sara made her move. It was now or never.

She crossed to the door and locked it. "You're not leaving this room," she said, releasing the top button of her pale yellow blouse, "until you admit that you're hiding from your feelings."

The ultimatum was ridiculous, considering the ease with which he was capable of overpowering her.

But Sara was certain that the desire roaring through her veins was having the same enthralling effect on him. With trembling fingers, she released all the buttons at the front of her blouse. Beneath his stunned regard, she let it slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale pink bra she wore.

The heat that entered his eyes was unmistakable.

Sara had never seduced a man in her life. But in this case, the reward was worth the risk of rejection.

She released the catch and zipper of her jeans, relieved to discover that she'd donned matching panties. She kept those on as she pushed the soft denim over her hips and kicked it off. "Tell me this doesn't move you," she challenged.

He swallowed hard, but he couldn't manage a single word.

Emboldened by his helplessness, Sara crossed to where he stood. She slid her hands up his torso, over his broad shoulders and down his muscle-corded arms. The control he exerted to hold himself in check made him rigid.

She rolled up on her toes and pressed her lips softly, coaxingly to his. He held perfectly still, not kissing her back, but not resisting her either. His eyes drifted shut, as if he thought he could hide that way.

Sara moved her hands to the buttons at the front of his camo pants. In a moment he'd have nowhere to hide. One by one, she released the buttons that strained to keep his fly closed. Ruddy color suffused his cheekbones, a reflection of the blush that heated Sara's own face.

Never in her life had she played temptress. But the innate, feminine knowledge came to her now, emboldening her to slip a hand into the slit of his boxers and free him. Ignoring his halfhearted mutter of protest, she sank down onto her knees and took him into her mouth.

His whispered curse was the reassurance that she needed. But glancing up, she found his eyes still closed.

"Look at me," she demanded, banding him with her hand.

He shook his head, no. He couldn't.

"Look at me, Chase," she repeated, more compellingly.

He slit his eyes, giving her a glimpse of the desire fulminating in him. It filled her heart with hope. Setting her mind on his gratification, she prayed it would open the floodgates that it had the last time.

But, all of a sudden, he was pulling away, lifting her to her feet. "Stop," he commanded, seizing her upper arms. "You don't have to do this," he growled angrily.

"But I want to," she reassured him, "because I love you."

His chest expanded at the declaration. He looked like he might explode.

"Make love to me," she pleaded, desperate now, because she sensed the struggle in him, sensed that he might just abandon her here, leaving her without hope, demoralized.

He pulled her abruptly against him, enfolding her in his arms. With an ear pressed to his chest, she could hear his heart thundering. "We shouldn't," he said.

"But you want to," she pointed out.

"You don't understand what you're asking me. I can't
feel
like this and still do my job."

"You say that as if you have a choice," she marveled, tilting her head back to look up at him.

"That's just the point," he growled back. "I don't have a fucking choice!"

Because the government owned him, she realized. This was her last bid to claim some part of him for herself. "Make love to me," she said again, seeking his lips with hers. She kissed him enticingly, toppling the barricade that he fought to keep erected.

Second by second, she sensed his capitulation. And yet, one stubborn part of him continued to resist, making his kisses rough and resentful. She didn't care. She gave herself all the more sweetly, wrapping one leg around his hips to pull him closer. He half groaned, half cursed at the offering he couldn't resist. He swung her toward the armchair in the corner of the room and pressed her down into it.

And then it was his turn to drop to his knees, scowling at his own weakness. He jerked her hips forward, and she fell back, elbows braced on either of the chair's arms, chest heaving, still wearing her bra.

He didn't take the time to pleasure her, but she knew the reason why. He thought if he did this quickly, it would have less impact on him.

He yanked her panties over her hips and dragged them off. Pulling her hips to the edge of the seat, he positioned himself between her legs and surged deep inside.

Sara swallowed back her cry—not of pain but of emotional overload as she accepted his anger, his helplessness, his resistance, and ultimately his overwhelming need.

He made no attempt to be gentle. His possession was swift and hard and punishing. But if he meant to repel her, he failed miserably. She was with him through the storm, all too willing to experience what she'd been denied for years, the abandonment to lust. Her body convulsed and burned and grew taut at the same time that his did.

The harder his thrusts, the more she strained to meet him. With her heart thundering in her chest, Sara was the first to surrender. She made no attempt to conceal her ecstasy as she rode the crests of rapture. Through her lashes she beheld Chase's astonishment. He hadn't expected her to come at all. Her pleasure was a catalyst to his. With a groan of denial, he buried his face between her breasts and followed her into paradise.

For a long time, neither of them moved. Chase's breath came in and out, raggedly. Sara waited.

In the wake of such a powerful storm, how could he not offer some tangible promise of his return—verbal or nonverbal?

At last he pulled out of her. With his face averted, he adjusted himself, buttoning up his pants. "I'll get some tissues." He used that excuse to disappear from the room while she sought to recover her modesty.

By the time he came back, thrusting bathroom tissue in her hands, he'd retreated once again behind his scowl. "Sorry if I hurt you," he said on a humble note.

"You didn't," she reassured him.

A long, awkward silence followed in which Sara clutched the wadded tissues in one hand while her panties grew damp. Chase's blue eyes considered her as if she were a weighty problem.

"What do you want, Sara?" he finally asked her.

She didn't have to think about her answer. "I want you to love life again."

He scowled at her vague answer. "How am I supposed to do that?" he demanded.

"By recognizing that you're not alone. We're here, waiting for you."

With a whispered curse, he turned and walked away, giving no indication of whether her bid for assurance had resulted in victory or was an all-out failure.

Rachel Jensen got stiffly out of her economy-sized car, relieved that her working weekend was finally over, and she would actually have the holiday off.

The sun was just beginning to rise over her trailer, casting warm, golden rays onto the willows that dotted the park. A few of her neighbors were up early, lights shining in their windows. Unlike her, most of them would not have Columbus Day off.

Rachel was grateful for the reprieve. She couldn't wait to sprawl between the cool layers of her sheets and sleep to the hum of her white noise machine, which drowned out the drone of Dallas traffic.

Inserting her key into her front door, she realized, with an unpleasant start, that the lock had been compromised. The door could be pushed open.

She'd been robbed. Oh, no! Thinking immediately of her valuable ring collection, she stepped into her mobile home, never considering that the burglar might still be inside.

He was waiting for her.

At the sight of a tall, dark-haired stranger seated on her sofa, Rachel drew up short.

He calmly pointed a gun at her. "Close the door."

She did. The warm glide of her cat performing figure eights around her ankles created a bizarre contrast to the cold fear that gripped her spine. "Wh-what do you want?" she demanded of him.

"Where is she?" the man asked. His tone was silky, his voice well modulated. Yet he looked rumpled, like he'd slept on her couch for the last six hours.

"Who?" Maybe he'd come to the wrong house. She could set him straight and send him on his way.

The man reached inside the lining of his black suit and produced a platinum ring. "My wife," he said, baring his teeth in what was meant to be a smile.

It was Sara's wedding ring, the one she'd given to Rachel to add to her collection, insisting that it was the least she could do since her mother had spent so much money on them.

Rachel opened her mouth and closed it with a click. What could she say to throw him off the scent? "She's not here," she said, quickly. "I don't know where she is. She decided to move on."

Garret's eyes narrowed. "You're lying," he said, standing abruptly, his head scant inches from the ceiling. "I read the e-mails that you two exchanged. The plan was for her to live with you."

"She changed her mind," Rachel insisted, determined to show no outward sign of fear. Men like Garret preyed upon the weak. She knew because she'd married one such man herself. "We didn't get along."

"Why would she have left you her ring, then?" He closed the small space between them.

"She forgot it here." It was all Rachel could do not to cringe as he cast his shadow over her.

"Another lie," he insisted, without raising his voice. "But then, all women are liars, aren't they? Sara's no different than my mother, and neither are you."

His mother? Oh, yes, Sara had hinted that Garret's problems stemmed from being left in boarding schools while his mother went through a string of failed marriages.

That wasn't Rachel's problem. It shouldn't have been Sara's. "Why don't you go home," she recommended, forcing herself to meet his dark-as-ink eyes. "My daughter doesn't want you in her life."

His pursed lips resembled bloodless earthworms. "Tell me," he growled through clenched teeth, "where she is."

"I told you, I don't know."

His hand shot out of nowhere. The slap that cracked across Rachel's cheek knocked her back against the wall. "Does that jar your memory?" he asked, threatening her again.

Rachel hadn't survived two bad marriages by backing down. "I wouldn't tell you if I knew," she retorted, nonetheless leery of the gun clutched in his right hand.

"Oh, you'll tell me," Garret insisted, capturing her neck in his left hand. With incredibly long fingers, he pinned her against the wall and squeezed.

The pressure in Rachel's temples swelled. Her lungs burned. Still, she glared at him defiantly. She would happily lose consciousness before acquiescing to his tyranny.