The Defiant Hero (38 page)
Touching her would be like touching silk. She had the most gorgeous skin he’d ever seen—smooth and flawless and the delicious color of café au lait.
She rolled slightly onto her back to look up at him, and the picture she made lying there—that pretty face with those ocean green eyes, breasts filling out that T-shirt, belly button peeking out—brought the truth slamming home like a kick to the balls.
Drunk or not, if this woman threw herself at him, all that shit about being an officer and a gentleman was going right out the window. Right out the window.
If she threw herself at him, he was catching her with both hands and he wasn’t letting go.
But she was in no position to move, let alone do any throwing.
“Kick off your shoes and get comfortable,” he told her, starting for the other room. “I’ll get you a blanket. The couch pulls out to a bed if you—”
“Wait.” She struggled to sit up and took a healthy slug of whiskey, as if that would help.
Actually, that was his fault. He’d implied that another drink would help keep her awake.
“No way am I falling asleep,” she told him. “As soon as I do, you’ll disappear.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said again. Was she nuts? Did she actually think that he would fulfill his lifelong dream of sharing a hotel room with Alyssa Locke only to sneak out on her?
It was true, at this point he was talking about her spending the night on the couch. But maybe come dawn she’d wake up, not too badly hungover, and she’d realize . . . something. He wasn’t sure what, but whatever revelation she had would magically make her see how foolish she was to resist him, and how perfect they’d be together. As they made love in the early morning light, she’d breathe his name and . . .
Yeah. What was it she always said to him? Dream on.
“Look,” Sam said, “if you want, we can push the couch right in front of the door. That way, if I try to leave—”
“Right, and while I’m over there guarding the door, you’d be going out through the sliders to the balcony.”
The idea of him exiting via the balcony was completely absurd. But laughing at her when she was glaring at him like this wasn’t going to help. He may have a buzz on, but he wasn’t so fried he could no longer recognize that truth.
“There’s a king-sized bed in the other room,” Sam said, and the moment the words left his mouth, he realized how ridiculous a suggestion this was. There was no way in hell Alyssa Locke would even think about sharing a bed with him, no matter how big it was. But he’d come this far. He might as well finish the thought. “It’s big enough to push up against both the door and the slider to that balcony.”
She stood up.
Alyssa actually pushed herself up off the couch and, taking her drink with her, went into the bedroom to take a look.
She came out almost immediately, holding . . .
The light caught and gleamed and . . .
It was a pair of handcuffs.
“Will you let me cuff you to the bed?” she asked.
Dear, sweet Jesus.
Of course she didn’t mean it that way, still, Sam didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”
“Just so you know, I’m UA,” John said. “I’m guilty of unauthorized absense. If I don’t go back with you in tow, I’m completely cooked.”
Meg stared at him. “What?”
He glanced at her and nodded. “Yeah, I’m looking at a court-martial and a dishonorable discharge for dereliction of duty and lying to my CO. I’ll probably even get jail time.”
She let herself get angry. “You’re trying to guilt me out. Well, forget it. It’s not going to work.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to write to you from prison,” he continued, “because you’ll be locked up, too, and prisoners aren’t allowed to correspond with other prisoners.”
“I never asked you to do this,” she said heatedly. “I didn’t ask to you to—”
“That’s right,” he said. “You didn’t ask. I volunteered. I knew all about the trouble I could get into, and yet I came after you anyway. Don’t you get it, Meg?”
She glanced into the back. Razeen was asleep, and even if he wasn’t, he wasn’t going anywhere. Last pit stop they’d made John had tied him up, tethering his handcuffs to the metal frame of the front seat so that Razeen couldn’t attack them. Or try to escape through the back window.
“You need me,” she said tightly to John. “Right. I got that. Loud and clear, thanks. But I’m sorry. I don’t need you.”
Please, John, don’t go. I need you. She heard an echo of her own voice from that night so long ago.
“Not anymore,” she whispered.
“Sorry, I just don’t buy it.”
“Oh,” she said, “of course. You know better. You know the real truth is that I haven’t slept a single night without dreaming about you since we almost . . . since we . . .” She faltered, because the look he shot her was so penetrating, his eyes so knowing, as if he could see into her head, see all those nights she’d ached for him.
“I should have stayed,” he said. “I regret leaving the way I did that night. Of all the things I regret in my life—and believe me, Meg, there’s a list—I regret that the most.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe if I’d stayed . . .”
I can’t do this. He’d pulled away from her suddenly, breathing hard.
Meg still remembered, as clear as if it were yesterday.
“You’re going to wake up tomorrow and hate yourself,” he’d said. “Even worse, you’re going to hate me.”
She’d stood there, leaning back against the wall because her legs wouldn’t have been able to hold her up by themselves, just watching as he refastened his belt, tucked in his shirt, buttoned his jacket.
“You’re serious,” she’d said. “You’re just . . . leaving? Just like that?”
“I have to go before we do something you’ll regret. You’ve had too much to drink, and—”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Okay, you haven’t,” he agreed. “But you’re upset and your judgment is skewed. You’ve got to trust me here, Meg. Look, I’ll probably be Stateside again in a few weeks. I’ll call you then.”
She was upset. And he was probably right. Nothing good would come out of this. But she wanted him. God, she needed him. “Please, John, don’t go.” To her horror, her voice broke.
He swore sharply, but then he was back, warm and solid as he pulled her into his arms. “God damn it, I don’t want to go.”
“Then stay. Please stay—Daniel’s all but written us a permission slip.”
He laughed, but it sounded harsh, painful. “I don’t want his permission! Christ! I want . . .”
“I need you.” She kissed him, and he resisted for all of two seconds.
It was exhilarating. Terrifying. He kissed her ferociously, as if he were moments from sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to her bed. But then, again, he pulled back.
“Do you love me, Meg? I know we’re friends, and I know—God, I know—there’s this attraction between us, but if this is just sex, then you’ve got to think again. Because tomorrow you’ll wake up, and everything we’ve done tonight will be irreversible. It’ll be a part of you—forever. And if you’re not going to leave Daniel, it’ll be this poisonous lump of guilt that you’ll carry with you. I don’t want you to remember me that way. With pain and . . . and . . . I don’t know, hatred. Jesus, I don’t want that.”
Did she love him? No, she couldn’t answer that. She wouldn’t even consider it. Because if she wasn’t going to leave Daniel . . .
John was watching her intently, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he waited for her to respond.
It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t imagine Daniel having suffered so when he’d slept with Leilee. He’d probably slid into her bed and between her legs without a thought of love or friendship or whom he might be hurting.
He certainly hadn’t thought about Meg.
Or Amy.
Amy, who, more than anything, wanted her father in her life. Amy, who so desperately wanted her family back.
Meg didn’t say a word, but John nodded, as if he knew the direction her thoughts had turned.
“I’ll call you when I get back,” he said. “In case, you know . . . you change your mind.” Somehow he managed to smile. To touch her cheek. “Wish I’d met you first.”
She tried to smile, too. Failed because her lip was trembling. John had been sixteen when she’d married Daniel. What was she doing here with him? This was crazy. Completely crazy.
“You can always call me,” he told her. “If you need me for anything. Any time. Just . . . call me and I’ll come.”
Meg nodded, knowing that this was really it. After tonight, she truly wouldn’t see John Nilsson ever again. After tonight, if they met—even by chance—she wouldn’t stop to talk. She’d smile, sure, even say hello, but she’d walk swiftly away. She’d never call him. Never again.
He kissed her once more. Sweetly this time.
It was a kiss to remember.
A kiss good-bye.
He stopped and looked back at her, his hand on the doorknob, as if he wished she would stop him.
But then he turned and went out the door.
And she let him go.
This wasn’t going to work.
Locke sat on the floor next to Sam’s bed.
The bedframe was put together with nuts and bolts. She could handcuff Sam to it, but it would take him about twenty minutes—tops—to get himself free.
He came out of the bathroom, wearing—oh, God—only a pair of shorts and a smile. “Okay, warden, I’m ready. Lock me up.”
“This isn’t going to work.”
“Hey, it’s no big deal. I’ve got food for if and when I want it . . .” He lifted the lid on the room service platter that had arrived minutes earlier and now sat on the bedside table. He’d ordered three different kinds of sandwiches, all wrapped in plastic, a two-liter bottle of Coke, and a bucket of ice. He’d ordered ice cream, too, but he’d put it in the freezer section of the little fridge that sat out in the suite’s kitchenette. “I’ve got food and the remote control. What more could a man want?”
He reached down and took the handcuffs from her and cheerfully snapped one end onto his left wrist.
Locke shook her head. “Look at the bedframe, Starrett.”
He crouched next to her and saw the problem instantly. “Oh, crap.” Standing again, he looked around the room.
“Don’t bother,” she told him, resting her head against the bed. “There’s nothing in here that would hold you.”
“Well . . .” He cleared his throat. “Actually, there is.”
Locke felt the mattress give under his weight. He’d sat down on the bed, next to her, and as she looked up at him from the floor, he reached down and lifted her right arm, pointed to her wrist. “That’ll do it.”
His hands felt cool against her skin. He had big, work-roughened hands, with almost ridiculously large fingers. One of his nails was bruised, as if he’d recently smashed a finger, but other than that, they were neatly trimmed and clean.
His skin was tan from working outside—he was almost as dark as she was.
She had to laugh. He was actually suggesting she handcuff herself to him. Was he completely out of his mind?
Starrett laughed, too. He had a blinding smile, and when he laughed, his eyes sparkled. They were mesmerizingly blue.
“You’re kidding, right?” She pushed herself up, to her feet, pulling her hand away from him. God, she was dizzy. Whoever invented alcohol was a total idiot. “People are idiots,” she told Starrett. “Alcohol, cigarettes, drugs—the more poisonous it is, the more we want it. It’s insane. I’m never going to drink again.”
“That’s too bad,” he drawled, leaning back on both elbows, moving into a pose that was almost unbearably sexy, “because you loosen up when you drink. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before tonight.”
“I laugh all the time,” she said defensively, wishing he would sit up so that she’d stop wanting to skim her hands across the planes and angles of his muscular chest and arms. And those abs and legs and . . . “Just . . . not when you’re around.”
God, she needed to sit down—as far from Mr. Sexy as possible. This was going to be one hell of a long night.
Starrett was watching her closely. “It’s your call about this handcuff thing. It seems crazy not to do it—I mean, if I’m cuffed to you, I’m not going anywhere without you knowing about it, right?”
She shook her head.
“Course if you’re afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands offa me . . .”
Locke stared at him. Did he know? Could he tell what she was thinking? God, she wasn’t doing something like drooling, was she? She forced herself to react, to sputter, as if in outrage. “I’m not afraid. Don’t think you’re so—”
“I can understand the potential embarrassment,” he continued. “You’ve had too much to drink, and who knows what you might do in your sleep. I mean, it’s a big bed, but . . .” He shrugged expansively.
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