Captive Kisses (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (2 page)

His voice was quieter, with a soft timbre that rasped along
her nerves with the feel of sandpaper. There was also a faint foreign
intonation in it, not quite an accent, and yet not wholly American despite his
completely idiomatic phrases. He was, perhaps, in his early thirties. The black
waves of his hair were sculpted to his head with dampness, and his brows, drawn
together over piercing eyes, were thick and dark. Kelly felt the prickle of
fright along her spine as she became intensely aware of the steely grasp that
held her and the quick rise and fall of her breasts that were pressed against
his chest so closely she could feel the imprint of the gold medallion he wore
on a chain around his neck. His grip tightened.

“I — I’m a family friend of the people who own this house,”
she said on a gasp, “and just who are you?”

She might as well not have spoken. “What do you think you’re
doing, sneaking around here?”

“I have a perfect right to be here, which is more than you
can say!”

“What makes you think so?” he grated.

As his hold tightened inexorably, panic rose to her head.
She began to kick and struggle, despite the strain on her twisted shoulder that
made it feel as if it were coming out of the socket. Doubling the fist of her
free hand as Mark and Peter had taught her one distant summer, she struck at
his face, catching him in the mouth.

He swore under his breath, shifting his stance. Her other
wrist was caught and pinioned behind her back also. Rage at her own
helplessness rose in a red haze before her eyes. She lifted her gray gaze to
his face, searching for some small sign of what he wanted, what he intended,
dreading what she might find. He was so close she could see the gold flecks in
the depths of his eyes, the sweep of his lashes, even the dark shading of his
beard under his skin. On his bottom lip was a dark red spot of blood from the
split place where she had hit him. A shudder ran over her, but she refused to
look away.

Imperceptibly, his grasp loosened. “Why are you here?” he
repeated.

She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “An
invitation.”

“From whom?”

“Mary — Mary Kavanaugh, and her mother.”

“And in order to take advantage of their hospitality, you
had to crawl through a window?”

“The key wasn’t where the judge used to keep it.” Anger at
the sarcasm in his tone darkened her gray eyes once more.

“And that was?”

The inadvisability of answering such a question from a
stranger flitted across her mind, but it seemed she had no choice. As his grip
increased once more, she said, “Under — under the fern tub.”

He held her gray gaze, his expression intent, measuring.
Though a little of the tension seemed to leave him, it was still as though an
electric current raced between them, passing wherever they bodies touched. His
dark glance flicked over the pale oval of her face, coming to rest on her lips,
pressed tight against the growing urge to plead with him to let her go.

“How did you get here?”

“I came in my car.”

“Where is it?”

“Parked at the side of the house.”

He looked away then, to where the back bumper of the small
car could just be seen at the corner, though it would not be visible from the
lake, the direction from which he had come. He gave what might have been a nod
of satisfaction, then looked down at her once more, his gaze settling on the
pulse that throbbed in her throat, then dropping to the curves of her breasts
and shoulders outlined by the soft terry cloth. Tilting his head, he let his
gaze run down over her brief shorts.

“It seems unlikely that you could be concealing a weapon,”
he drawled, “but it might be better to be safe than sorry.”

By the time his meaning penetrated her haze of disbelief, it
was over. He had released her wrist, and with quick and easy competence, run
his hands over the curves and hollows of her body.

She stumbled back, trembling with rage and the need to
strike out at him as her face flamed with color. What kept her from hitting him
was the lack of feeling in her fingers, and the certain knowledge that
retribution would be swift.

“Who do you think you are?” she cried.

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” he told her. “What concerns us at
the moment is the fact that Judge Kavanaugh gave me permission to stay in his
house. I have been here several days already, and intend to stay several more.”

“Judge Kavanaugh told you —”

“He said I was to make myself at home, though he never
mentioned sending a female along for companionship.”

“He didn’t!” Kelly said indignantly. “That is, I was told I
could come, but nobody mentioned you being here, either — which seems a little
strange!”

“Undoubtedly the judge neglected to inform his family,” the
dark man said, not at all discomfited by the hostile manner in which she was
regarding him.

“That doesn’t sound like Judge Kavanaugh to me.”

It was true that things had been in an uproar at the
Kavanaugh house with the preparations for going to Europe, and that Mrs.
Kavanaugh could not be expected to have any great interest in the lake house
after so many years. Still, the judge and his wife were a close couple who
discussed everything except the most confidential aspects of his work. He must
have mentioned such a matter as a guest at the lake house to her, if only to be
certain that the place was fit for company.

“The fact remains that I am in residence, and have no
intention of leaving. You will have to make other arrangements. I understand
there is a fisherman’s lodge on the other side of the lake. You should be able
to find accommodation there.”

His supreme self-confidence was daunting. It was possible,
of course, that the judge had issued an invitation. If he hadn’t been so rough,
had not performed that last embarrassing search, she might have been inclined
to leave and allow him possession of the place in peace. As it was, she did not
feel so obliging.

“You have been here some time,” she said. “Why can’t you
pack up and go to this lodge?”

“It doesn’t suit me,” he answered, his tone soft.

“Well, it doesn’t suit me either.” Kelly lifted her chin,
silver lights flashing in her gray eyes.

He let his dark gaze drift down over her in insolent
appreciation. “There’s an easy solution. Stay here with me. There’s plenty of
bedrooms, not that we will need more than one.”

“You — you —” There were no words to express her feelings
without resorting to profanity.

His face tightened. “Take care,” he said, an odd note in his
voice that was at variance with the naked interest he allowed to surface in his
eyes. “If we are going to spend any length of time together, it will be better
if we don’t get off on the wrong foot.”

It was beginning to look as if the most intelligent thing
she could do was to get away from the lake house while she still could. “We
aren’t! The only way I could be persuaded to spend time with you would be if I
were roped and tied! I’m leaving, but I’m certainly going to mention you to
Judge Kavanaugh to make sure he knows what kind of man he has staying at his
house.”

An expression that could have been regret flickered in his
dark eyes and was gone. “That will be a little difficult, won’t it, since he’s
not at home.”

“He’ll be back,” Kelly answered, her tone scathing, “though
I expect by then you’ll be gone.”

She swung away from him. She had not taken two steps before
she discovered she had lost one of her sandals in the scuffle. That she had
failed to notice the fact until now was an indication of how upset she had
been. It lay on the ground under the window. With a hard look that dared him to
comment, she bent to pick up her footwear.

Her attention was caught by the sound of voices. They came
from the direction of the guest cottage that could barely be seen through the
trees, on the opposite side of the house from where Kelly had parked. A moment
later, two men appeared, coming along the overgrown path. The first was stooped
and elderly with graying hair and gold-rimmed glasses. He was dressed casually
in a pair of bright blue coveralls. Behind him was a hefty giant of a man whose
balding head was fringed with black hair. He wore a white shirt buttoned to the
collar, creased dress pants, and highly polished street shoes. Across his burly
chest was strapped a black leather holster, and in it rested a heavy snub-nosed
revolver.

The man beside Kelly swore a sibilant oath in what might
have been the French language. At the sound, the two men looked up. With
surprising quickness, the bigger of the two caught the arm of the elderly man
and swung him around. With one hand on his gun, keeping a hard stare on Kelly,
he pulled the other man back down the path with him, in the direction of the
cottage.

What in the name of heaven was going in here? Kelly lowered
her head and slipped on her sandal. With a fine pretense of oblivion, without
daring to look at the man beside her, she turned toward her car.

“Wait.”

“I — I can’t stay, not if I’m going to find another place
before it gets dark.” She edged along another step or two, aware that he was
moving after her.

“I think it might be better if you stayed here after all.”

“I couldn’t, really.”

“I think you must.”

“No!” As he reached out for her, she evaded his hand,
sprinting for her car. She dived for the handle, but as she pulled the door
open, it was slammed shut again. His hard fingers closed on her elbow.

“I insist,” he said gently.

She twisted around to stare at him, her eyes wide. “You can’t
keep me here.”

“Can’t I?”

She fought him in silent fury then, kicking, clawing, using
fists, knees, resisting with every ounce of will and strength. It did no good.
He countered her blows, avoided her nails, held her until she tired, and then
bending swiftly, caught her with one arm under the knees and lifted her high
against his chest. Swinging her dizzyingly, he strode around toward the front
of the house where it faced the lake.

He snatched open the screen door, shouldering through to the
main entrance. Holding her with an iron grip, he reached for the knob and
pushed inside. The front door had not even been locked. Before that fact had
time to register, before her eyes were adjusted to the gloom after the
brightness outside, Kelly was thrown down on a leather couch on her back. The
man dropped down beside her, pinning her wrists to the leather with his hands
on either side of her face.

With a strangled cry catching in her throat, she strained
against him, writhing, trying to slide from the couch. He leaned over her,
pressing her down with his weight until she was motionless.

“Lie still,” he grated, his mouth inches from her ear. “I’m
not going to rape you!”

She could hardly breathe, much less move. She lay rigid,
allowing the words to sink in, aware of the steady beating of his heart against
her and the pounding of the blood in her veins. By slow degrees, he raised
himself from her, though he did not release her arms. Leaning over her on the couch,
he surveyed her golden-brown tresses spread in a fan around her flushed face,
and the panting rise and fall of her breasts. His black gaze fastened on the
gray pools of her eyes, clouded now with the forced knowledge of her own
vulnerability.

The sound of their breathing was loud in the quiet. Kelly
lowered her lashes, concentrating on the shining gold disk that hung between
them, swinging slowly from its chain around his neck.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice a thread of sound.

“You may call me Charles. The last name doesn’t matter.”

“Why are you doing this?” The gleaming disk was a religious
medal showing a relief of St. Michael, the patron saint of warriors.

“My reasons don’t concern you.”

The coolness of his tone touched her on the raw. “Don’t concern
me! How can they not concern me if you won’t let me go?”

“Maybe,” he said with deliberate irony, “I felt a sudden
need for company.”

“I don’t believe it. Those two men —”

“Are good friends, but they are no substitute for a
beautiful woman.”

“You can’t do this, you can’t,” she said, her voice rising
as she lifted her gaze to his black eyes once more.

“It seems, my sweet, that I already have. Since we are going
to spend some time together, I may as well know your name, too.”

She compressed her lips, the look in her gray eyes defiant.

“I could call someone like you darling and dearest and
sweetheart, but that might put me in an amorous mood. I don’t think you would
like that, though it’s hard to be sure with women these days. We could
experiment a little, by way of finding out.”

His intention was plain as his glance flicked to her parted
lips. She watched as he lowered his head, speculation lurking in the darkness
of his gaze. A shiver ran over her nerves, and she tasted defeat. Against the
firmness of his mouth as it hovered an infinitesimal space above hers she said,
“Kelly. My name is Kelly.”

Her strength was dissolving into a great lassitude. She grew
aware of the heat of his body, of the corded muscles of his arms and shoulders,
the board hardness of his chest with its furring of hair, and the flatness of
his stomach above the low-riding waist of his swimsuit. Her own clothing was
damp from the water that had been clinging to him, and as she watched, a drop
of water edged from his hairline, running down the high ridge of his cheekbone.

“Who are you, Kelly?” he asked, his tone softly menacing,
his breath warm against her lips.

Her eyes flew wide. “I told you.”

“The only trouble is, I don’t believe you. It’s too much of
a coincidence for me to swallow. I don’t know how you found out where the key
was kept, or who sent you, but I mean to learn before I let you go.”