Solid as Steele (5 page)

Still no answer.

He twisted the knob and pushed the door open. The light was off, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. When they did, he saw Jamie lying on the
bed. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was regular. He walked closer, seeing that her lips were slightly parted. They looked so damn kissable. Quickly he flicked his gaze away, where it landed on her breasts as they rose and fell. She was sleeping and totally vulnerable to him. He could look at her in a way he'd never done when she was awake.

Only it wasn't any fun because he felt an immediate sense of guilt at invading her privacy. He caught his breath, then backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Obviously, she was worn out. She'd hardly slept the night before, and he wasn't going to wake her to go out to dinner, but he could bring back something they'd both like.

The question made him realize how little he knew about her tastes. But he remembered a Light Street Fourth of July party where he'd seen her eating ribs and buffalo wings. Something like that was probably safe.

The hotel had a binder with information on local restaurants. He found there was a place down by the river where you could get ribs and crabcakes. Kind of a weird combination, but it looked like he could walk down a path along the canal and get there in a few minutes.

In case Jamie woke up and wondered where he was, he wrote her a note explaining that he'd gone out to get them dinner. He left the sheet of paper on the rug where she'd be sure to see it if she stepped out of the bedroom.

Then he stopped at the desk to make sure he knew which way to walk. On the way to the restaurant, he passed an old dye works that was partly demolished. Too bad it was sitting right down in the tourist section of town. But maybe they could use the part that was still standing for shops or something.

Inside the restaurant, he grabbed a menu and scanned the selections. The cream of crab soup sounded good. He asked for two cartons and two orders of barbecued ribs. And salad. Women always liked salad.

While he waited for the kitchen to prepare the food, he looked around the restaurant and found a rack near the door with local newspapers. Maybe they'd give him some information that would help lead to the funhouse.

As he turned from the rack, he saw a man at a corner table watching him. The guy was pretty ordinary looking, but there was something unsettling about him.

Mack took in details. The guy was sitting down, but from the way he filled the chair, he was probably about six feet tall. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with dark hair. Dark eyes. Wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a blue flannel shirt, hiking boots and dark slacks.

When he caught Mack scrutinizing him, he bent to his plate of crabcakes.

“Your order's ready,” the woman behind the counter called out, and Mack turned away to get the food. When he'd paid with his credit card, he took one more look at the guy in the corner and saw he was now reading an outdoor magazine.

Mack exited the restaurant and took the path back to the hotel. When he walked into the room with their dinner, Jamie was sitting on the couch watching a recap of the earlier newscasts.

She used the remote to turn off the television and silence rang in the room.

“You're up,” he said, thinking that was a pretty dumb line. “How are you feeling?”

“Rested.”

He set the bags down on the coffee table. “Sorry. I
forgot to get drinks. But we can grab something from the minibar.”

She got up and crossed the room, opening the little refrigerator. “What do you want?”

“Do they have Dr Pepper?”

She laughed. “That's your soft drink of choice?”

“Yeah.”

She got out two cans of Dr Pepper and brought them to the table.

“You, too?”

She nodded. “Yes. I hate to find we've got something in common.”

“Why?”

The question hung in the air between them. When she didn't answer, he sat down and gestured toward the food, as he told her what he'd gotten.

“There's only one place in town where you could have scored that combination.”

She reached into one of the bags and took out the cartons, not hesitating to spoon up some of the soup. “I haven't had this in a while. It's as good as you can get in Baltimore.”

He took the chair across from her, pulling it closer to the table.

After taking a spoonful, he nodded. “It's strange to specialize in crab when you're this far from the ocean.”

“Uh-huh.”

It was an oddly polite and cautious conversation. A few hours ago, they'd gotten intimate too fast. Now they were both backing off.

He wasn't sure how to get comfortable with her. She was obviously having similar thoughts, because she didn't offer any other topics of conversation, so they ended up eating most of the meal in silence.

After she'd eaten about half of her soup, ribs and salad, she got up and went into the bedroom, leaving him to clean up the trash, then open up the sleep sofa.

It wasn't the most comfortable bed he'd ever lain on, and it didn't make it any easier to sleep when he kept thinking about the woman in the next room.

 

J
AMIE TOOK A SHOWER
, then pulled on a long T-shirt over her panties and climbed into bed. There was another television in the bedroom, and she turned it on, flipping through the channels to find the local news. It was the same information she'd heard before. Nothing new. Yet she couldn't shake the conviction that there was something about to happen. Something she wasn't going to like.

Another dream?

She shuddered. She didn't want to dream about Lynn Vaughn again. And why should she? Lynn was dead.

Still, to keep herself awake, she kept pressing the buttons on the remote, finally finding an old movie that she'd seen before, but it was something to keep her mind off the man in the next room and the growing unrest that was making her chest tighten. She kept the television on past midnight, then worried she was going to keep Mack awake. When she finally flipped off the set, she was wrung out.

When she slid down under the covers, sleep claimed her easily. For a little while, she was at peace. Then the dream that had been hovering at the edge of her consciousness since she'd climbed into bed grabbed her by the throat and made her gasp.

She was back in the funhouse, running down a dark corridor, the breath sawing in and out of her lungs as she tried to get away from the man who had brought her here.

He'd drugged her and left her in a cell. She remembered that part. Then he'd told her to wake up and play the game
he'd planned for the two of them. He'd said it was going to be fun. She'd known from the tone of his voice that he was lying.

It was deadly serious. For both of them.

He was behind her again, letting her get far enough away for her to hope that she could escape. Then he'd catch up with her the way he had before.

For Jamie, it was a replay of the previous trip through the funhouse. Only this time, it wasn't Lynn Vaughn. She was sharing another woman's thoughts and panic gripped her when she realized she had no idea who the woman was.

That had never happened to her before. When she'd had dreams before, they were always about a person she knew, a friend or someone from school. But even as she struggled to figure out who it was, she could detect no sense of familiarity. She didn't know this woman. Yet something tied them together, something she didn't want to examine too closely.

She longed to wake herself up, to escape from the funhouse and the man behind her, but deep in her heart she knew that would be taking the coward's way out. She must find out what was happening and who the man was.

That sense of purpose kept her tangled in the dream, kept her running for her life down a narrow corridor in the same house where she'd been the night before.

She had seen some of these traps in her previous visit, only there were new variations. The night before a witch had come flying down from the ceiling on a broomstick, screaming as she went. Tonight it was a green-faced monster.

Other elements were completely new. The woman came to a place where the corridor opened into a small room. She stopped short, trying to decide what to do next. There were
three exits, and when she stepped toward one, a sizzling sensation zapped her nerve endings, making her scream. She jumped back, bumping into something swinging in the air. Whirling, she found it was a hangman's noose.

“No,” she cried out, backing away, hitting another place on the floor where a live electric wire lurked. Again pain surged through her body. She screamed and wanted to keep screaming and screaming. But what good would that do? Teeth clenched, she ordered herself to calm down and think.

He had said she could get out of here. All she had to do was find the exit.

Her heart pounding, she looked around, then chose the middle exit from the room. As she stepped through the door, the wooden floor gave way beneath her, and she tumbled through space, landing on a cold cement surface that rattled her bones. When she could finally breathe again, she pushed herself up, sending terrible pain shooting through her arm.

Reaching out in her mind, Jamie tried to say something reassuring. But the other woman couldn't hear her. Apparently, the communication only went one way.

Still, the woman's thoughts and her terror pounded her.

She held her injured arm against her chest, trying to ease the pain.

“Don't let it slow you down,” she warned herself as she took a moment to rest. She was in a cellar, with cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. When she stretched out her foot, her shoe dipped into something slimy, and she stifled a scream.

After wiping her shoe against the floor, she looked up and saw something that made the blood freeze in her veins.
A man was peering at her through the hole in the ceiling where she'd come tumbling down.

It was him. Dressed in black with a death mask instead of a face.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she gasped out, still cradling her arm.

A moment ago, the man had been above her. Suddenly, his grating voice came from behind her. Had he taken another way to the basement? Or was the voice coming from a speaker?

“You know.”

“I don't! Please. Just let me go.”

“You ruined my life. You and the others. You took away everything from me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Please. Let me go.”

“If you can get out of here.”

Ignoring the pain in her arm, she started running again, desperate for an escape route. When she spotted a flight of stairs leading upward, she almost sobbed in relief. If she could get out of the basement, maybe she could find her way out of the house.

As she dashed toward the steps, she stumbled over something lying in her path and almost lost her footing.

It looked like the dead body of a woman, her hair spread out across the cold basement floor and a knife sticking out of her chest.

His last victim? Jamie knew that couldn't be true because the police had discovered Lynn Vaughn along the road. The other woman must not have connected that case to this killer, this house. Or maybe she didn't even know about it.

Righting herself, she made it to the stairs and began scrambling up. She could hear his breathing, feel it on
her neck. His hand came down on her shoulder, and he shook her.

“Wake up.”

“No!” she screamed, struggling to get away.

“Jamie. Wake up, Jamie.”

She tried to dodge away, but it was no good. He held her fast.

She struck out with her fist, connecting with a hard body.

“Jamie, don't. It's Mack.”

Her eyes blinked open. In the light coming from the sitting room, she found herself staring into Mack Steele's tense features.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Another dream,” she managed to say through chattering teeth. She was cold all the way to the bone, although she was under the covers and the room was warm.

She couldn't stop shaking, and when he gathered her in his arms, she clung to him. Part of her mind was aware that his shoulders and chest were bare. He wasn't wearing a shirt, but she saw his denim-clad legs. Either he'd been sleeping in his jeans or he'd pulled them on before running in here.

“What happened?” he asked again.

She turned her head to the side, pressing her cheek to the pillow. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“All right,” he answered, but she knew that the reprieve
was only temporary. He was going to make her tell him about it, because he wasn't the kind of guy to let this go.

“Not now. Please. Not now,” she protested.

“It's okay. You're okay.”

Was she?

They were in a hotel room. Far from the funhouse. She should be safe here. She wanted to feel safe. Even more than that, she wanted to feel normal, and the most normal thing she could cling to was the man who held her in his arms. He was solid and strong. Sure of his own values. She'd always liked that about him, even when she'd understood that those values were keeping them apart as much as her own resolve.

A resolve that had apparently melted away. She'd reached for him once—and she needed to do it again.

Unable to stop herself, she lifted her face at the same time she clasped the back of his head and brought his mouth to hers.

After resisting for a moment, he covered her lips with his. The first kiss they'd shared in the car had been tender. That wasn't what she needed now. She needed to wipe out the memories of the awful dream. The moment his mouth touched down on hers, she moved her lips against his with a desperation that surprised her.

She was under the covers and he was above them, but she felt his weight shift, felt him stretch out beside her on the bed so that he could gather her close. As she clung to him, she closed her eyes, wanting him to be the only part of her reality that mattered.

She stroked his naked back, then downward until she encountered the waistband of his jeans.

He shifted again, drawing away, and she was afraid he was going to leave her. Instead he pulled down the covers
to her waist so that he could gather her more tightly against his broad chest.

She burrowed into his warmth, loving the corded strength of his arms and the large hands that stroked over her shoulders and down her spine, sending shivers over her skin and deeper. When he brought his mouth back to hers, her tongue flicked out to play with his lips, then darted back, inviting him to follow. He did, stroking the inside of her lips, her teeth, the side of her tongue, sending currents of sensation through her.

It had been so long since she'd lain in bed with a man. As he kissed her and stroked her arms, she rediscovered sensations she'd forgotten existed.

With dreamy deliberation, she raised her hand, tracing a path along his cheek, loving the way the scratchy stubble contrasted with the softness of his lips moving over hers. His beard prickled at her nerve endings, raising the heat level of her whole body.

When her hand trailed to the side of his neck, she could feel his pulse accelerate. His response was like a secret jolt of power that fueled her own need.

He raised his head, staring down at her, and she felt her lips curve into a smile before she brought his mouth back to hers so she could deepen the contact, drinking in the wonderful taste of him.

She understood that he wasn't going to be the one to push things any further, but she needed more. Her breasts were full and achy now, and she had to feel his hands there. She found one and pulled it to her breast, cupping his palm around it, pressing her taut nipple against him.

He made a low sound as his other hand came up to join the first so that he could lift and squeeze her breasts gently, wringing a cry of satisfaction from her.

What he was doing felt so good that she was lost in a
swirl of sensations. Restlessly, she moved the lower part of her body against his, feeling his erection through the layers of fabric that separated them.

He was half lying on top of her and she squirmed against him, tugging at the covers, trying to get them out of the way so that she could get closer to him. As she wrestled with the bedclothes, she felt him go very still.

Suddenly, he lifted his weight off of her and rolled to his back, dragging in great draughts of air as he lay beside her on the bed, pressing his hands against the mattress. His whole body looked like an arrow about to fly from a bowstring, and she knew that was her fault.

“Mack?” she whispered, hearing the broken sound of her own voice.

“We can't do this.”

“Why not?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“I came in here because you were having a bad dream. I'm not going to take advantage of you.”

“You're not.”

“You know damn well I would be!” he said, and the force of his denial shook her to the core.

He was right. She'd reached for him because she was scared, and he'd stopped to give her time to consider what she was doing.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He took another breath and let it out. “Tell me about the dream.”

She shuddered. She didn't want to relive it or talk about it. But maybe that was a good way to cool herself down.

“I was back in that horrible funhouse.”

“You were Lynn Vaughn again, reliving the experience?”

“No!” Her denial rang out in the darkness of the bedroom.

“Then what?” he asked in the maddeningly reasonable voice she had come to hate.

“I was another woman.” She gulped. “His next victim.” As she said the last part, her voice broke, and she began to cry.

She tried to scramble off the bed, but Mack reached out, wrapped his fingers around her arm and kept her on the bed. Turning, he cradled her in his arms again. This time there was nothing sexual about the way he held her as he stroked her back and shoulders. It was pure comfort.

She closed her eyes and stayed in his arms, struggling to get control of herself. And finally she was able to shove the tears away as she realized something important. Last time, he'd thought she had some special knowledge of Lynn Vaughn—that she was giving him information she'd gotten in some normal way. Not now.

“This time you'll have to believe me,” she whispered, her voice not quite steady.

“What do you mean?”

“It's happening again. But we're together in this hotel suite. You'll have to know I didn't have anything to do with it.”

“Okay,” he said, but she couldn't help feeling like the response was automatic.

“You'll find out in the morning,” she said again.

“Who was it this time?” he asked in flat voice.

She waited a beat, struggling and failing to dredge up a name. “I don't know.”

“You said you're always familiar with the person.”

“Yes. But this is different. I don't know the woman. At least I don't think so.”

“What happened, exactly?”

“It's not all that different from the last time. It's the
same place. Some of the traps are the same. Some are different.” She winced.

“What?”

“She was running down a hallway trying to get away and fell through a trapdoor in the floor. When she landed in the basement, I think she broke her arm. She was in a lot of pain, but he was coming after her, so she had to pick herself up and keep going.”

She related more details of the dream, wishing she could just wipe the whole thing out of her memory. But that was impossible—and the wrong thing to do. She had to make the man stop, and the only way to do that was to figure out who he was.

“He said he wanted revenge. For ruining his life,” she finished.

“But you don't know what the woman did to him?”

“No. And neither did she. She kept asking what she'd done, and he said she knew. But she had no idea.”

He nodded, then asked, “Do you know where to find her body?”

“No! Please, don't ask me any more questions.”

“Okay.”

When he started to shift off the bed, she grabbed his arm. “Will you stay here?”

“And not touch you?” he asked.

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Or maybe I'm being too selfish.”

“No. I understand.”

Did he? She wasn't going to belabor the point. When he settled down beside her, she relaxed a little. After a while, she heard his even breathing, but it was a long time before she could finally fall asleep again.

 

I
N THE MORNING
, when her eyes blinked open, it took a moment for her to remember where she was and why
Mack Steele was lying on the bed next to her, shirtless and wearing a pair of jeans.

Then she recalled everything. The kissing. The way she'd rocked against him and cupped his hand over her breast. The way he'd rolled to his back and pressed his palms against the mattress to steady himself.

His eyes were open, and when she looked at his face, she found he was watching her.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Okay.”

He looked at the clock, then sat up and reached for the remote that she'd left on the bedside table.

She sat up too, looking down to make sure her legs were covered.

When the television switched on, they were staring at another roadside scene where a male reporter was standing, holding a microphone.

He was saying, “A second woman's body has been found outside of Gaptown. She has been identified as Jeanette Baker.”

He went on to give a few more details, but nothing that gave a clue about who had killed her and why.

“Last time they didn't release the name so soon,” Jamie murmured.

“I guess two cases put more pressure on them to identify the victim. Do you know her?” Mack asked.

“I told you last night, I don't. And I said that you'd have to believe I wasn't involved, because we were both here when it was happening. Unless you think I climbed out the window and snuck over to the funhouse.”

“Of course not!”

“So how did I know, if it wasn't a…psychic dream?”

“I guess there's no other way.”

“You guess.”

“You want me to confirm that you're having out-of-body experiences?” he snapped, and she knew from his tone that she'd pushed him further than he was willing to go.

She felt tears at the back of her eyes again and clenched her teeth to hold them at bay. Damn, she was in fragile shape. For too many reasons. Before she could start crying in front of Mack again, she climbed out of bed. Keeping her back to him, she rummaged in her overnight bag for clean clothing, then dashed into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Under the spray of the water, she had the feeling that she was shutting out the world.

 

F
ROM THE STIFFNESS
of Jamie's shoulders when she'd rushed into the bathroom, Mack knew she was upset, and not just by seeing the news account of the murder victim. She'd wanted him to say he believed in her paranormal dreams, but he couldn't get the words out of his mouth, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because of what had happened last night. He'd been pretty close to the edge, but somehow he'd rolled away and stopped himself from making love with her.

He hadn't been lying about the reason for stopping. He didn't want her coming back to him saying that he'd taken advantage of her when she was emotionally vulnerable.

But damn, he wanted her. Not just physically. He wanted to bridge the gap between them emotionally. Which was why he'd told her things about his childhood that he almost always kept private. Unfortunately, he still couldn't deal with the psychic dreams.

He climbed out of bed and ducked out of the room. There was another bathroom in the main part of the suite, and he used it to take a quick shower and dress.

As he shaved, he took a good look at himself, wondering if his background was part of the problem. He hadn't
grown up in a normal household. Neither had she, for that matter. Maybe that was why both of them were lousy at communication. It sounded like her mother hadn't known what to say to her about the dreams, and Mrs. Wheeler didn't know what to say to her now about her own life or their relationship. That was something he and Jamie had in common. His own dad had clammed up about his mother. After she'd left, it had been like she had never existed.

Was that normal? Maybe they should have gone to family therapy to work through the pain and anger.

But what was normal, anyway? Maybe everybody was damaged by their backgrounds and secretly as screwed up as he was. Or was he just looking for ways to excuse his fumbling attempts at dealing with his own feelings and Jamie's?

When he stepped into the living room, Jamie had made up the sofa bed for him and was sitting in front of the television with her shoulders slumped, watching another news segment.

He wanted to sit down beside her and pull her into his arms, but he stayed where he was.

She glanced up, then away. “Anything new?” he asked in what he hoped was a neutral voice.

“A guy who knew both Jeanette and Lynn is going to talk to the media.”

“His fifteen minutes of fame?”

“I guess.”

They sat through commercials for a local grocery store and a national car rental company.

Then one of the station's reporters began talking to a young man with dark hair and a neatly clipped dark beard. He was wearing a corduroy sports jacket and jeans. His name was Aubrey Rollins, and he looked like an upstanding member of the community.