After a bit, Maggie glanced over at Cain, then decided on her own she was willing to risk the act of rolling down her window. The scent of fresh-mowed grass filled the cab. The wind caught her hair, lifting the red strands to the sun and streaming them away from her face.
They drove in silence and the sky remained blue and vast around them.
They passed through Silverton and came to I-5 just north of Salem. Three miles, that was all they had to spend on the interstate. Three miles, then the welcome exit for 22 would whisk them off the highway and lead them to mountains. Three miles through the thick of Salem, four lanes of traffic and even more spots for state troopers to sit in wait for an escaped felon.
Cain’s knuckles were white on the wheel. The tendons stood out in rigid relief on his exposed forearms. He kept the speedometer at a diligent fifty-five, the appropriate speed for passing through city limits.
Wordlessly, Maggie rolled up her window and her hair died on her shoulders.
“It’s not that far,” she said quietly.
“It doesn’t take much to spot a stolen truck.”
A cop car was pulled over on the right. It had been a long time, but even after six years, Cain recognized the spot. Cops always waited there to catch the anxious speeder who hadn’t wanted to slow from the interstate’s speed limit of sixty-five miles per hour to fifty-five in Salem. At least habits hadn’t changed while Cain was behind bars.
He kept his gaze straight ahead and his hand on the wheel. Would Maggie try anything? One tap on the window, one frantic wave, and with the news of an escaped murderer posted all over the radio, the cop would pull out and blare his sirens without a second thought.
Sweat trickled down Cain’s hairline. He didn’t even risk the motion of wiping it away.
Maggie remained silent and still and he swallowed harshly. She didn’t realize, of course, the full power that she wielded, that in fact, she held his life in her hands and not the other way around. One earnest attempt on her part and the pawn would checkmate the king. He couldn’t even blame her for it. She had the right to fight for her life, to run from a convicted murderer. He, on the other hand, had gotten an innocent involved in a drama that might leave her dead. She had just cause on her side.
It was more than anyone could say about him.
The exit for 22 approached. He released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He turned onto 22 and the Cascades rose up verdant and promising before them. They picked up speed.
Beside him, Maggie rolled down the window once more and let the spring-filled wind whip through her long red hair.
• • •
The mountains were beautiful this time of year. Sunlight dappled deep green firs and lighter-colored maple. Ferns and moss formed thick dark carpeting and ran all the way to babbling brooks and, in some cases, cheery waterfalls. The sky here seemed endless and the air tasted as good as it smelled, clean and fresh and the way Mother Nature intended.
Maggie admired it as they wove along the winding highway, climbing higher and higher until they finally traversed Santiam Pass. They broke through to the other side of the Pacific Crest, and suddenly snowcapped mountains beckoned on all sides.
It was beautiful, stunningly so. Maggie didn’t pass this way often and she tried to appreciate it, because she always remembered the stories her grandmother had told her of how all this had looked to straggling pioneers after months and months of plodding across the country. How they’d taken one look at the lush, bursting greenness, and realized they’d found home.
Of course, right now Maggie was having a hard time appreciating that sentiment. She uncrossed and crossed her legs for the fifth time in twenty minutes, then gave up.
“Time for a pit stop,” she suggested, wanting to sound firm, ending up sounding desperate.
Cain frowned and finally glanced at her. “Really?” He didn’t sound happy.
That brought her chin up. “It’s been four hours. I know time flies when you’re stealing cars but don’t you think one bathroom break is at least in order?”
As if reading her mind, the road produced a sign advertising that a rest stop was available in one mile. She looked at him levelly. “Well?”
“We have to cross this bridge sometime,” he murmured. Lines creased his forehead. His finger began tapping the wheel. Maggie swallowed the groan building in her throat as she read the signs—he was thinking, and generally his thinking led to diabolical plans or at the very least, grand theft auto.
“You’re not going to dump this truck and take some poor soul’s only means of transportation, are you?”
He looked genuinely startled. “No, I wasn’t. But it’s not a half-bad suggestion.”
“I’m sorry I brought it up.” She clenched her teeth. He slowed for the exit. At least that was something.
He pulled into the parking lot. There were two cars and one big vacation vehicle present. Next to the small wooden shack offering restrooms, a family of four sat at a picnic table in full sunlight. They were eating sandwiches, passing around a thermos and chattering with the merry glee of a family on vacation.
Maggie thought, If I walked right to them and quietly informed them I’d been kidnapped by a homicidal maniac, would they help me or look at me as if I’d just stepped off the planet Mars?
As if reading her mind, Cain said, “Don’t do anything stupid, Maggie.”
Her bladder hurt; she was no longer amused. She looked at her evil jailer crossly and said, “Define stupid.”
That deepened the lines creasing his brow. His fingers began tapping the wheel again. Heaven help her.
“All right,” he said at last, in a tone of voice that declared he’d found the magic answer, “this is the deal.”
“Deal?”
“I’ll let you out of the truck unescorted—”
She perked up at that.
“But, Maggie,” he said quietly, “if you run, I’ll just turn around and take another poor innocent woman hostage in your place. As we’ve already discussed, I need a hostage.”
She opened her mouth; she closed her mouth. She stared at him dumbstruck, and then when she finally found her voice she cried in the most virulent tone she could, “You despicable cad!”
The left corner of his mouth twisted up. “I thought you’d like that.”
“You . . . you . . . !” She couldn’t think of a vile enough word. “You just made everyone my responsibility. You kidnap some other poor woman, and somehow it’s my fault. You can’t just make everything my fault!”
“I didn’t,” he said levelly. “You did. You and your Mother Teresa complex.”
“How . . .” Her lips pressed together so tightly they turned white. She glared at him as harshly as she could. He appeared completely unmoved. “You’re not a paranoid schizophrenic, are you?” she quizzed vehemently. “You’re a pure psychopath instead!”
“Possibly.” He cocked his head toward the restrooms, his green eyes steady and unyielding. “Those are the terms, Maggie. You can run away if you like. But I will kidnap another woman. Just so you know.”
“I hate you!” she declared miserably.
“I know, but do you still need to use the restrooms?”
Oh, how she wished she was C.J. at that moment. And not to run, either, but so she would know some really creative and painful ways to kill this man. She settled for stamping her feet against the floor, and when that just reminded her of how badly she did need to use the facilities, she gripped the door handle.
“Fine,” she said, her blue eyes shooting daggers.
“You do have a temper,” he observed.
“Only when you’re around!”
“Then I have my uses after all,” he murmured.
For her response, she popped open her door and slid out from the truck as fast as she was able. Her shoulders rigid, her head held high, she stormed toward the single hut containing the men’s and women’s restrooms.
After a minute, Cain pulled the baseball cap lo
wer on his forehead and followed.
“Christ, Cain,” he muttered to himself. “And you thought she was spineless?”
• • •
Once inside the questionable sanctity of the tiny women’s room, Maggie stamped around in a small circle. Two stalls, the ripe odor only a rest stop could offer and no paper towels. In her current state, she scoured the concrete floor and wooden walls for possible weapons. She could find only one feminine hygiene dispenser. Great, next time Attila the Hun pulled out his gun, she could counterattack with a tampon.
She grew so angry she actually saw spots. Spots! Meek, humble Maggie so ticked off she couldn’t even speak. She stopped long enough to take a deep, steadying breath and allowed one moment to marvel at her own temper. Maybe she was a true Hathaway Red after all. But what good was it doing her?
She hated rest stops. She hated long drives. She hated everything about this hostage business. And she still had no idea what to do about it.
She used the facilities; she washed her hands. And then, because the room hardly offered an instant-escape kit, she walked back out into the sunshine. The family was still eating—she could hear the low murmur of their voices. Cain was nowhere to be seen.
Walk over to them right now, Maggie. Walk right up to them and tell them everything.
And put four innocent lives at risk? Her mouth went dry at the mere thought.
But you can’t do nothing, Maggie! All your life you’ve done nothing. You watched your father come and go as he pleased, accepting whatever scrap he tossed you. You sat quietly as Stephanie threw all her tantrums, then simply helped the maid clean up the mess later on. You are nothing more than a bureaucrat, never taking sides, never making a stand, never putting anything at risk. The world has enough bureaucrats. It needs more foot soldiers.
Her gaze came to rest on the pay phone.
Her breath held. She glanced from side to side. Cain was still nowhere to be seen. What about money? She could call collect.
Do it, Maggie. Do it.
Her feet moved on their own. She didn’t remember consciously willing them to action, but they moved anyway, carrying her toward the phone. She arrived. She clutched the receiver for dear life and suffered one last shuddering pang of anxiety.
For one moment, she saw the bleak look on Cain’s face as he cranked the truck up the hillside to escape from the police. So much raw determination in his bulging arm, so much desperation in those intelligent green eyes.
For crying out loud, Maggie, you sympathize and protect everyone but yourself. Can’t you at least draw the line at empathizing with a murderer? Use the darn phone!
With one quick punch, she dialed the operator, and since no one ever knew where Brandon was these days, she gave the woman the number of C.J.’s bar. A ponderous moment passed; then abruptly ringing filled her ear. Once, twice.
In Sedona, Arizona, the phone was picked up and the warm, smoky sounds of a lively bar filled her ear. Eric Clapton music and laughing conversations. Fizzy drinks and pouring beer.
“Gus’s Mortuary,” C.J. announced cheerily in his deep baritone. “You stab ’em, we bag ’em.”
And suddenly Maggie was eight years old again, seeing C.J. for the first time at the beginning of the Great Experiment. His hands were scrunched in his pockets, his shoulders up around his ears. He was wearing a full-fledged scowl and looking at her and Brandon with deep resentment.
“My mother was the one he loved!” he declared hotly. “He married yours for money, but mine he loved.”
And then he looked away. Maggie thought he was going to cry.
“His mother died last year,” Brandon explained. “He’s actually been living with Max for a year. Can you imagine Maxmillian actually taking in one of his children?”
“Don’t talk about my father like that,” C.J. muttered, but Maggie could tell that he was still very sad. He hadn’t lost just one parent; he’d lost both. And though her mommy wasn’t very nice, Maggie was glad she had her just to have someone to have. Without thinking, she stepped forward. And though C.J. tensed, she wrapped her arms around him anyway. Then abruptly he sagged against her and she knew he was crying even though he didn’t make a sound, because that was what Maxmillian had taught all his children—never make any demands, never make a sound.
Never need him.
“Sure I’ll accept the charges.” C.J.’s voice, adult and assured, resonated across the phone lines. She saw him as he would be standing now, one hip cocked against the bar, the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, and his hands busy pouring the next beer while a quick, easy grin split his face. “Maggie . . . Maggie, how the hell are you?”
“C.J.,” she whispered. Her hands tightened on the phone. For a minute, she didn’t know what to say. “C.J. . . . C.J., I need you.”
“Maggie? Maggie, what’s wrong?”
“I went to jury duty,” she cried. “And the—”
The phone went click. She stared at the receiver incredulously. And then slowly, her gaze drifted up to the single callused finger holding the button down.
Her gaze rose farther and finally encountered the chilling green eyes of a man who looked fit to kill.
Chapter 5
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She cringed instinctively, only to become trapped by the hard feel of the metal pay phone. Cain’s eyes glowed with almost demonic rage from beneath the brim of the baseball cap. In contrast, his jaw was set and his face perfectly expressionless. He looked like a murderer, and at that moment she was more terrified than all the previous moments put together.
“I didn’t run away,” she offered weakly. In one quick move, he planted his hands on either side of her head and clasped her legs between muscle-hardened thighs. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t twist away. She was caught as effectively as a fly in the spider’s web, and she was unbearably aware of the heat of Cain’s body, the soft feel of his cotton shirtsleeves against her cheeks, and the scent of deodorant soap flaring her nostrils.
“Who did you call?”
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. That only brought his gaze homing in on her mouth. She stopped moistening in a hurry. “N-no one?” she tried.
He bent over her so fast she didn’t have time to breathe. One moment she was simply trapped; the next she was consumed by his body, his hands, his mouth. She felt him touch her lips with his—surely that was his mouth there. Her whole body cried out for escape, to run, to hide, to cringe. But there was only the cold phone bank and his heated torso. Only the unyielding sharp corners of the phone hurting her back, and the smooth, sculpted lines of his biceps bracing her cheeks.
Her hands were wrapped in his overshirt, handfuls of blue chambray fisted between her fingers. Her breath held and caught. The emotions thundering through her blood made her dizzy. He was not kissing her—that thought took a minute to penetrate. He was not even hurting her—that thought took a minute more.
“Who did you call?” Each word was enunciated clearly. Each syllable brushed his lips over hers, violating her space intimately, ravishing her with his control and determination.
She could feel the frustration and rage crackling around him. Beneath it was the fine-wire tension of his fear, the hair-raising prickle of panic running up his own spine. So many emotions. So much power held tautly in check through the force of his will, the grit of his jaw. He could hurt her a hundred ways, but he still didn’t move. He just stood there, hard and powerful and charged.
Her belly contracted. Her breath held. She didn’t fight him; she didn’t pull away. She stood on the tingling edge of his war, and the hair prickled up her arms and up to her shoulders. She could still feel his anger, and she could still feel the thin layer of steely control holding it in check.
And for one suspended beat of time, she realized that she wanted to rip away that barrier. She wanted to strip him raw. She wanted to wrap her arms tight around his corded neck and see what happened.
&nbs
p; “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded hoarsely.
She looked at him blankly, unaware of the deep, mesmerizing hunger blooming in her large, round eyes. “Wh-what?”
“God,” he said, and his green eyes darkened a fraction more. His gaze fell to her lips, and suddenly, she was aware that he wanted her, too. He wanted her fiercely. He wanted her as a man wanted a woman, with passion and fire and thunderbolts. Holy smoke—no man had ever looked at her like that before.
She liked it.
“No,” he declared abruptly, harshly. “Dammit, no.” He twisted away so fast she had no time to prepare herself. The cool spring air hit her like a slap in the face, and she was so stunned that for a dangerous moment tears stung her eyes.
Cain backpedaled fiercely, his steps short and jerky. His hand came up, knocked off the baseball cap and raked through his hair so vehemently he should have pulled all the strands out by the roots. Then he did it again. Then he took a deep breath.
He whirled back again, and the tight look in his face made her suck in air all over again.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded angrily. His eyes had darkened. His chest rose and fell in rapid, bone-deep fury.
She just stared at him, not finding any words. She’d wanted to kiss him. Oh God, she still wanted to kiss him. And she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted . . . oh, Lord, she wanted, she wanted, she wanted.
That was it. She was damned. Twenty-seven years of clean, boring existence wiped out in a mere heartbeat. She would never be able to look her grandmother in the eye again.
Her gaze fell miserably to his chest. She saw his collarbone, exposed, broad, and strong. She saw the pounding beat of his pulse at the base of his neck. And she wanted to press her lips right there and taste his skin.
She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.