Captive Kisses (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (7 page)

“Can you?” he asked, “and are you also able to imagine what
I am thinking now?”

“I prefer not to try.”

“Wise girl,” he said with a hint of self-mockery edging his
tone.

He deposited her on the bed, then walked into the bathroom,
returning a moment later with a tumbler of water and two white tablets. As he
held the medicine out to her in the palm of his hand, Kelly eyed it
skeptically.

“What is that?”

“Aspirin, nothing more I assure you.”

“I don’t need it.” She sat where he had left her. She had
pulled the sheet up to her waist, but she could not bring herself to lie back
and relax.

“Do you feel you have to object to everything I say and do
as a matter of principle, or do you just enjoy being stubborn?”

“It isn’t being stubborn to object to being drugged!”

“If I wanted to put you out,” he said, his black eyes
holding the glint of steel, “I think I could find something stronger to push
down your throat than two aspirin. Come on, they will help you sleep instead of
lying here feeling sorry for yourself, or stomping up and down the hall keeping
me awake.”

“I should have known it was your comfort you were worried
about,” she flung at him.

“So you should. Why would I care about yours, after all?”

“No reason in the world, any more than I care whether you
get your rest or not. It seems to me that you are the stubborn one, determined
to force your will on me. What are you afraid of — that if you let me get
around you in this one small thing, I may be able to do it with something more
important?”

He stood looking down at her a long moment, the muscles
standing out in the hard, bronzed planes of his face. Then abruptly he stepped
to the bedside table where he set the glass down with a thud and placed the
aspirins beside it.

“Take them or not, as you please,” he said quietly, “but let
me hear no more out of you until morning, or I refuse to be responsible for
what happens!”

Four

The aroma of coffee drifted into Kelly’s dreams. It was a
welcome morning smell. She stretched and opened her eyes. Her gray gaze focused
on the ceiling fan twirling gently above her. She felt rested, surprisingly so.
There was a twinge of soreness in her foot, but she did not think it was going
to give her any trouble. The events of the night before flashed through her
mind, and she closed her eyes. Charles had been right, damn him. The aspirin
had helped, though she would die before she would tell him so.

He must be up, if there was coffee brewing already. It was
strange, but the aspirins must have been a better restorative than she had
thought. She felt well and able to join battle with him again this morning. She
wasn’t eager for it, of course. That would be expecting too much, even of such
powerful medicine.

She turned her head, listening. The house was quiet. She
could hear no sound of him moving about in the kitchen. She knew he could be
extremely quiet when it suited his purpose, but surely there should have been
some noise. Maybe he had gone outside. He might even have risen early for a
swim.

It was then she saw the steaming cup of coffee. It sat on
her bedside table in the exact spot where the night before Charles had left the
tumbler and tablets.

Fury rushed over Kelly, and she sat up. He had been here in
her room this morning. He knew already that she had taken his blasted aspirins;
there was no way she could keep the information from him. He had strolled in
here while she slept as if he had a perfect right to enter her room, as if he
owned the house and everything in it, master of all he surveyed. And what he
had been surveying was her as she lay deep in slumber, unconscious, unaware.

Coffee! She longed to take the cup and throw it against the
far wall. She reached out and picked it up, then as she smelled the delicious
brew, the sacrifice seemed too great. She would drink his coffee, then she
would get dressed and go find him for the express purpose of telling him what
she thought of him. Talk about her sneaking and creeping around!

She pulled on a shorts outfit of crisp turquoise linen that
gave her eyes a reflection of blue. Running a brush through her hair, she tied
it back for coolness with a length of turquoise ribbon. Discarding the idea of
footwear of any kind, she left her room with a militant set of her features.

The thermostat for the air conditioning had been switched
off and the doors thrown wide to take advantage of the early-morning freshness.
As she stopped just inside the living room, Kelly glanced out through the front
entrance. Charles was there, standing in front of the house beyond the screened
veranda, in close conversation once more with the person who had been guarding
the elderly man. With their backs to the house, they looked out over the lake
as they spoke. The murmur of their voices came to Kelly where she stood, though
she could not distinguish the words.

Almost without thinking, she edged toward the veranda,
favoring her injured foot as she quickly crossed the open doorway, using the
cover of the front wall to conceal her stealthy approach. Flattening her back
against the paneling, she held her breath to listen.

The man with the revolver was speaking. “Seeing that girl
yesterday really upset the old guy, made him think about how long it’s been
since he saw his own family. He hasn’t given me too much trouble, you know, not
since the first day or two, but he was sure restless this morning.”

“It won’t be too long now,” Charles said.

“We hope. Could drag on for months yet.”

“I don’t think so,” Charles returned. “I believe the payoff
will come in a week, two at the most.”

Kelly clamped her hand over her mouth to prevent her gasp of
consternation. She had been right; they were holding the old man she had seen
for ransom.

“If he’s still alive by that time.”

“Yes,” Charles said, his tone hardening to an almost
unrecognizable grimness.

“What are you going to do about this girl, now you’ve got
her?”

“You leave her to me. I have plans for Miss Kelly Hartly.”

Kelly shivered. An instant later, there was the macabre
sound of cheerful resignation in the other man’s tone as he replied, “You’re
the boss!”

“In that capacity, I suggest you get back over there before
the senator gives you the slip.”

“You’d think he would have sense enough to be scared.”

“Brave men are sometimes foolish men,” Charles answered.

“On second thought,” the guard said, his tone wheedling, “How
about trading jobs with me? I wouldn’t mind watching the one you got cornered
at all. Must be a lot more fun keeping a pretty girl under wraps than an old
geezer.”

There was distaste in Charles’s voice as he replied, “Thank
you, no. You would be better to keep your mind on what you’re doing.”

“Don’t get riled. It was just an idea. See you later.”

At the sound of retreating footsteps, Kelly jerked to
attention, moving as quickly as she could from her place beside the door. She
circled toward the kitchen in clumsy haste. There, she held to the cabinet,
taking several deep breaths, trying to still the trembling that seized her.

No matter what she had thought, or what she had told
herself, she had not really believed the situation to be as bad as she had
imagined. The hint that it was even more so, that death might be in store for
the man they were holding, that Charles had definite plans of his own for her,
left her numb and shaken. She was also very aware that a part of her sickness
was caused by the fact that she had not wanted to believe it.

It was some minutes before Charles came into the kitchen. By
that time, Kelly had regained some semblance of composure. She looked up from
peeling slices of bacon apart and dropping them into the electric skillet to
return his greeting with a cool good morning.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“You didn’t have to bring me coffee this morning either, but
you did.” It was odd how normal he looked, not at all as if he had been
discussing the death of a human being.

“As a peace offering it seems to have been a failure.”

“Next time, try leaving it outside the door.” Where the
courage came from to speak so boldly to him she did not know, but she could not
bring herself to look at him while she spoke.

“You couldn’t have reached it from there. Besides, wouldn’t
that have been a little ridiculous when the door was open already?”

“Not from choice.”

“Is that what this is all about, offended modesty?”

“That’s the least of it,” she told him, “but if you want to
start a list, you can put that on it somewhere.”

He stood watching her a moment, his gaze on her slim fingers
as she picked up a fork and began to line up the slices of bacon in the pan.
Moving to the sink, he washed his hands, then found bread, butter, and a cookie
sheet. As with a liberal hand he applied butter to the bread to be toasted
under the broiler he said, “I am assuming it’s the pain in your foot that’s
making you so waspish this morning.”

“You assume wrong.”

“Then it doesn’t hurt? That’s good.”

It might be better to let him think that the injury was
worse than it was. If he saw her having difficulty getting around, then he
might be less watchful, less on his guard. “I didn’t say that.”

“I’ll look at it after breakfast.”

“That — won’t be necessary.”

“Kelly, my sweet,” he said pausing, “are we going to have to
go through all this again?”

“Not if you don’t try to force me to do things I don’t want.
And I am not your sweet,” she answered with a lift of her chin and a quick
glance at him from the corner of her eye.

He ignored the last “Even if it’s for your own good? For the
next few days, we are going to have to stay here together. If you will accept
that, and stop fighting me, you can still rest and relax, enjoy your vacation.”

“Relax? After what you have said to me, and done?”

The incredulity in her voice was not feigned. He frowned. “I
could say you brought it on yourself, but I won’t. I can promise that you will
be completely safe if you will agree to a truce.”

She sent him a look of scorn. “And I’m to take your word for
that?”

“I assure you,” he said softly, his grip tightening on the
knife he held until his knuckles gleamed white, “that you need nothing more.”

Kelly felt her nerves tighten as she recognized the thread
of danger in his tone. Once before she had dared to doubt his word. It seemed
he did not take such slurs lightly. “For how long?”

“Until the end of the week.”

“Couldn’t you wind up whatever it is that you are doing
before then, and let me have the last few days of my time off in peace?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She should have known. Despite the firm sound of his voice
just now, he had mentioned, when he was talking to the guard, the possibility
of it being as much as two weeks before the payoff came. A frown between her
eyes, she took up the bacon and set it to drain on the paper towel. Cracking
eggs into the hot fat, she said, “There’re still a few things I don’t
understand.”

“Is it necessary that you should?”

“You would prefer that I take things on faith, as if you
were God?”

He let his breath out slowly. “I’m sure it’s too much to expect,
but it would be convenient.”

He stepped to slide the toast under the broiler. As he
straightened, the light from the window over the sink slanted across the planes
of his face with sharp clarity, highlighting the small split in the smooth line
of his upper lip, and the long, raw-looking mark of a nail burn down his neck.
The sight of the damage she had inflicted gave her no joy, though it did have
the effect of making her lose track, temporarily, of what she had been saying.

She did not speak again until they were seated at the
breakfast table. The savory smell of the bacon and hot buttered toast was
usually enough to spark her appetite, but this morning all she could do was
push the food around on her plate. Charles’s appreciation of his breakfast was
unimpaired. He ate the two eggs she had cooked him with every sign of
enjoyment, then spread grape jelly on the remaining pieces of toast, topping
them off with another cup of hot coffee.

She shot him a quick look from under her lashes. Choosing
her words carefully, she said, “If you won’t tell me who you are, can you at
least tell me where you come from?”

“There’s nothing mysterious about that,” he said after a
moment. “I’m from south Louisiana, just above New Orleans to be exact.”

She had thought as much. “Your accent, then, is —”

“French Creole, which means —”

“I know. Of French descent born in a foreign country,
foreign to France, that is.”

“Good for you. Most people seem to think it has something to
do with mixed heritage, mixed blood. Nothing could be further from the truth.”