Run Among Thorns (5 page)

“Don’t make me force-feed you, sweetie. Eat something.”

She swallowed, stared down at her empty bowl. There was a pattern of daisies around the rim.
Pretty
, she thought, absently. “I feel sick,” she admitted.

The steady munching of cornflakes ceased for a moment. He was watching her again. Then, “That’ll be the drugs,” he said, matter-of-factly

Chapter
        THREE

A
nger.

Jenny had always embraced anger as an antidote to pain. If she got angry, she didn’t hurt quite so much, didn’t cry so woefully easily. Now she welcomed the bitter fire that burned in her suddenly, that lightened the blood in her veins.

“Drugs?” she asked carefully.

“We gave you a sedative. To make sure the journey was uneventful.”

These people. These people, whom McAllister worked for, had walked all over her rights, taken her freedom, bullied her, all but broken her spirit, abused her mind, and now she found out they had poisoned her body, too?

In a swift move she threw her hand forward, grasped the milk jug, and dashed the contents in the face of the man opposite.

He barely had time to blink.

There had been a good half pint in the jug. Full cream. It soaked his hair, plastering it down on his brow. It ran into his eyes, dripped off his nose and chin, soaked his T-shirt. He sat there like a statue, staring at her while she watched with a sort of horrified appreciation.

Then anger froze in cold fear.

Jenny forced herself not to run, forced herself not to flinch away. She swallowed, breathing fast and hard, gripping the chair under her with white fingers.

He began to wipe his face with a tea towel, eyes on her, measuring, gauging.

She lifted her chin. “You deserved that,” she said.

He didn’t answer. Still watching her, he rose to his feet and caught his T-shirt by the hem and drew it off, using the wadded material to wipe his chest. There were drops of milk clinging to the dark hairs, like pearls.

Mercy
. Jenny fought to keep control, to keep holding his gaze. Not to blush, not to look away. Against her will, her eyes drifted down over his chest.
Oh, dear heaven
. She had never, but
never
seen a body like that before. In magazines, yes. In films, on TV, maybe. But not for real. Not in front of her, within touching distance.

The bulk of the shoulders, muscles pulled taut across the collarbone. The hard sweep of his pectorals, tanned flesh half-hidden by a shadow of dark hair. The hard ridges of his abdomen and that trail of hair that arrowed down to the waistband of his jeans. The arching line of his hips, lean and powerful, and full of latent sexual promise.

Jenny was in trouble.

She had killed three men, been imprisoned by some powerful organisation that she didn’t understand, pushed by them to the point of collapse.

But now she was in trouble. Only now. Because physical wounds, and even mental ones, would heal. And true freedom couldn’t be taken, because it was kept deep in your heart. But her own stupid, headstrong, self-destructive desires could take her apart every time. However much she didn’t want to be attracted to a man like this, she already was, drawn like she’d always been, to the stronger character, the dynamic personality. Like a moth to a flame.

He was going to burn her up.

Despite her efforts, she blushed, defiantly lifting her eyes to meet his again.

He was still looking at her, his eyes moving over her flushed skin. He registered that flush with a twitch of one eyebrow, nothing more. Still he said nothing. The silence was a mocking audience to her heartbeat, hammering in her throat, almost choking her. She clamped her teeth down, hard, against the impulse to demand he say something, anything, and dropped her gaze to the table.

Her mind stuttered wildly, trying to take in the fact that she had just provoked the man who held her in his power so completely, more completely than he even guessed. Trying not to think about what he might do now in retaliation.

He picked up the empty milk jug and she flinched, she couldn’t help it. But he simply moved to the counter, filled it again from the carton there, and returned to his side of the table, setting the jug back on the table.

Unconsciously, she relaxed a little, expecting him to sit down.

When McAllister moved again, she nearly screamed. In slow, measured steps, he came round behind her. Jenny could hear him breathing, could feel the hair stir on the top of her head. She could smell him, too, a scent that made her think of heat and strength. And milk. Full cream.

Oh, God.

He leaned forward over her, his chest pressing into her back. She was still trying to deal with that sensation when he reached over her shoulder with his right arm and picked up the box of cornflakes. His other hand appeared at the left of her vision, reaching for her bowl. If she looked to either side, she could see the heave of his biceps, inches from her cheek. Jenny held her breath.

His heat surrounded her, leached into her through the skin of her back. She was barely aware of him filling her bowl with cornflakes, pouring milk over them, setting the bowl down again in front of her.

With difficulty she focused on the spoonful of cereal he presented to her mouth, wondering if it was safe to eat, wondering what game he was trying to play. Suddenly he reared back a little, and she felt the fingers of his left hand sliding into her hair. They tightened, gripping her hair, digging into her scalp, levering her head back. She gasped, outraged, and as her mouth dropped open, he deftly tipped the spoonful of cornflakes into her mouth.

Jenny instinctively closed her mouth. She felt the cold spoon against her chin as he scooped up one dribble of milk as if she were a baby. Rather than choke, she chewed.

His big hand released its painful grip and smoothed its way out of her hair, lingering for a moment at the base of her neck. A tremor shook her for a moment. She told herself it was fear.

Then he put the empty spoon in her limp hand, peeled himself off her, and turned his back to walk through to the bedroom.

“Eat your breakfast, Jenny,” he said.

Kier watched her from the bedroom as he put on a fresh shirt.

He was conscious of a lingering anger over the incident with the milk, not just because he hadn’t planned on a milk bath today, but because for an instant she had taken control of the situation.

McAllister hadn’t anticipated the lithe throw. She’d moved so fast he’d registered the flash of her arm at about the same time he registered the cold milk on his skin. And he had good reactions. Very good.

But hers were better.

He was irritated she’d got the better of him. And damned furious that he couldn’t get the sensation of her hair against his skin out of his mind.

It was soft. Stunningly soft for such thick, abundant curls. Those curls had twisted around his fingers and sprung into his palm like a whisper of raw silk. He’d wanted to drop his head and bury his face in them, breathe in the scent of them. And that was a distraction that was more than unwelcome; it was completely unacceptable. He’d had to draw on years of professional experience to quell those feelings, and let her know exactly who was in charge here.

Kier pulled on a black T-shirt, tucking it into his jeans, watching as Jenny obediently worked her way through her breakfast.

Obediently
. That wasn’t a word he thought he was going to be applying to Jenny all that often. The game she was playing was complex, but the woman she was impersonating had him tied up in knots.

With an effort, he pulled himself back to the job at hand. This morning hadn’t gone exactly according to plan. Maybe it was the lack of sleep.

Jenny had slipped into sleep almost immediately, hardly moving the night through, but he had been strangely aware of the sound of her breathing, of the scent of her that rose up to envelop him every time he turned and the duvet shifted. He’d found himself holding his breath to listen to her sigh in her sleep, leaning over her to watch her face, so beguilingly sweet in repose.

He’d been a hair’s breadth from bedding down on the floor, but sleeping this way, close to her, invading her space, leaving her no room, was part of the plan. It was supposed to unnerve her, put her on edge.

It was a pity that she was sleeping like a baby, and he was the one on edge.

He gave his head a rough shake and ruthlessly pulled his mind back on track. Well, this morning’s little interrogation was a nonevent, thanks to half a pint of breakfast milk. He really should get to the questioning. A few hours of the kind of mental attack she’d been immersed in for the last few days would surely make her putty in his hands. He really should take advantage of this last encounter, pile on the pressure while she was still nervous, while she could still remember the feel of his hands in her hair.

He frowned.
What is the matter with you, McAllister? Focus
.

He should act now and start to ask some of those damn questions. And he would. Soon. But now it was time to report. So. Make the report, let her sweat, and then get down to business.

Right.

Jenny looked up as McAllister came back into the room. He didn’t look at her as he left the cottage, locking the door audibly behind him. In the pool of calm left by his departure, Jenny hesitated, at a loss. She didn’t know what to do now, what was expected of her. He hadn’t told her what to do.

The enormity of that thought hit her. Only a day in his company and already she was starting to become dependent on him. Already she was measuring her actions and reactions against his expectations, as well as she could judge them. Which was ridiculous, worse than ridiculous. How could she think she could anticipate his expectations when she knew nothing about him? Nothing.

She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight.

She didn’t want to know him, didn’t want to be influenced by him. Didn’t want her emotions to get the better of her, to break the flow of logic and lose her self in the chaos.

Just for something to do, Jenny began to clear the table.

Even that had her mind screaming at her. This McAllister character was bent on proving his own masters’ paranoid beliefs, confirming that she really was some kind of trained … what? Assassin? Spy? She paused on her way to the sink, her hands full of dishes. It was ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous.

She dumped the dishes in the sink and started to wash up.

Here she was in the middle of nowhere, completely under the power of this
character
, and she was doing his washing up? What was she trying to prove? Did domestic goddesses not kill people or something?

Jenny sighed, warming her hands in the sudsy water she’d poured. What was she going to do? Throw the dishes around the room? Brain him with the milk jug this time, not just the milk?

Part of her said, yes, that’s exactly what she needed to do, but the other part of her was terrified, simply terrified of what his comeback might be if she did.

She remembered the hard strength of his fingers against her scalp, knowing all the while he was only showing her a part of his strength, that he was holding so much in reserve. What could that strength do to her?

She had an idea.

And it would be naïve to suppose he wouldn’t hurt her. Why wouldn’t he? He wanted answers. More importantly, he wanted the answers he expected to hear. It was her bad luck she couldn’t give them to him.

When Kier came back in, cautiously, Jenny was sitting quietly at the table, hands folded on the table in front of her, back straight. She didn’t turn round as he stepped inside and locked the door behind him, but he saw her hands tighten their grip on each other.

He sat down opposite her again and looked her over. She was staring at the tablecloth, her breathing deep and even, as if she were working hard to control it. He interpreted that as sign of cracks in her defences, and viewed it with professional pride. “Okay, Jenny,” he said, and watched her fingers twitch, just once. “We were answering questions, as I remember. I have lots of questions for you, Jenny.”

She still hadn’t looked up.

“How did your parents die, Jenny dear?”

She looked up then, all right. Fast. Her lips parting slightly as her breath came quicker. The dark lashes lifted, unveiling those warm hazel eyes. For a moment there was a look of pain, of wariness, of aching vulnerability there. He could have sworn it was real.

Then he saw her sink back into that quiet control again, the emotion that had animated her face smoothed away. Her gaze slid away from his.

He leaned forward, dropping his chin into his hand. “So, how’d they die, Jenny?” It wasn’t as if he didn’t know, but how she spoke about it could be revealing. He was already almost certain her parents and their death were not part of any cover story.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, her soft voice expressionless.

He raised his eyebrows. “You know better than that. Remember the rules.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t give you any choice.”

She looked up again, stared at him malevolently, jaw clenching so tight he could see a muscle bunching. She expelled a deep breath through her nose and worked her jaw free, swallowing before she spoke.

“I tell you what,” she said. “An answer for an answer. I’ll answer a question of yours, if you answer a question of mine.”

What did she take him for? Some kind of idiot? Like it was ever going to be that simple. There was no reason not to play along, though. It could be revealing. “Okay, sure.” He shrugged. “How’d they die?”