Tempt Me - Caroline Cross

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maybe he could as concerned this particular issue—damn him—but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy. It would do his character good to worry a little for a change.

      Grabbing her parka off the hook near the door, she slid it on, checking her pocket to make sure the keys to his rig were still in it. “I guess I’ll see you later. Or then again—maybe not.”

      “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

      She smiled without humor and scooped up her purse. “You think you know everything. Figure it out.” Her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Oh, and just so we’re clear? I wouldn’t sleep with you if you came dipped in chocolate.”

      Without looking back, she flicked him a wave and sailed out the door.

      Four

      Gripping the bathroom doorjamb, Taggart glanced narrowly at the silvery twilight rapidly fading beyond the cabin windows.

      Terrific. Just frigging terrific. It was getting dark and there was still no sign of Bowen.

      He walked unsteadily to the bed and sank gingerly down on the edge. Careful not to jar his head, he unlaced his hiking boots and slid them off, then lay back and stretched out, letting himself stew as he scowled up at the plank ceiling overhead.

      Not that he was worried. At least, not much. While he still didn’t buy the concept that anyone could be as pure of heart as she was reputed to be, he was confident little Ms. Genevieve was coming back—and for reasons that had nothing to do with her supposed concern for his health.

      She had, for example, gone to considerable effort putting together whatever was simmering deliciously on the stove. Why do that if she didn’t plan to return to eat some of it? It sure as hell wasn’t as if he could reach it, he thought, trying to ignore the pathetic way his mouth was watering in reaction to the rich, savory aroma.

      What’s more, there was no way she would’ve taken off without the duffel bag and the box of books that were currently parked by the door, which she must’ve hauled in from the truck while he was in la-la land. It would also be reckless and stupid of her to have left so late in the day without a plan—and from everything he’d seen so far she was plenty smart.

      By now, she was bound to have figured out it would be a day or two before anyone would expect them to show up in Silver. It wouldn’t take much additional brain power for her to realize that even when they were a no-show, an alarm most likely wouldn’t be immediately raised since he was so obviously not the kind of guy to tolerate a short leash.

      Which was why the prudent thing for her to do would be to remain at the cabin and take some time considering her next move.

      The alternative—that she’d taken off for good—was unacceptable.

      Because, damn it, he’d already searched every inch of space he could reach and hadn’t found a thing he could use to pick the lock on the handcuffs. Just as he’d tested each chain link as well as the bed frame for weakness and scored a big fat zero.

      So if Bowen didn’t come back, short of gnawing his hand off he’d have no choice but to wait to be rescued.

      The mere thought of that set a nerve ticking in his jaw. And not just because of the obvious humiliation factor. Or that his brothers were guaranteed to give him serious grief the second they learned he’d let an amateur—and a woman at that, for God’s sake—get the drop on him. Or even because he’d be forced to start the hunt for a certain annoying little brunette all over again.

      No, what was really going to rankle was that he’d have no one to blame for her decision to run but himself.

      So what if he had a monster headache? So what if the past three months had been beyond frustrating? Who gave a rip that being at someone else’s mercy seriously teed him off? Or that it was a well-known fact, at least in his portion of the universe, that he sucked at charming chitchat.

      Only a freaking idiot would antagonize his jailer without a specific goal or a damn good reason.

      Yeah, but that’s precisely what you did, Ace. And you might as well admit that what really pushed you over the edge was Bowen herself. Face it. There’s just something about her that rubs you the wrong way.

      The ache in his head ratcheted up a notch and with a stab of impatience he realized every muscle in his body was as tightly strung as a trip wire. More than a little exasperated—control, after all, was his middle name—he blew out a pent-up breath and ordered himself to get a grip.

      Okay, so being around her made him feel…itchy. As if his skin was too small for his body. And for some inexplicable reason, probably because the blow to his head had temporarily disconnected a wire, he kept getting unwanted flashes of the way she’d felt against him, all small and soft and perfectly curved, when they’d wrestled in the snow earlier.

      It didn’t excuse the fact that he’d screwed up. That he’d flat-out failed the first rule of Hostage 101, which was to make your captor see you as a fellow human being. Worse, he’d let his mouth get ahead of his brain and gone out of his way to antagonize her.

      And now all he could do was wait—and reflect on his numerous and varied mistakes.

      So that when Bowen did return—and she would, by God—he’d be ready to make nice, to channel some of his brothers’ winning ways with women and try to forge a bond between them, however slight.

      But then, slight was all he needed. His goal, after all, wasn’t to become her best friend or her lover. It was simply to get her to stick around long enough for him to regain control of the situation. To regain control of her.

      He didn’t have a doubt in the world he could do it. God knew, he’d faced far tougher situations doing recon missions in Afghanistan. And while the make-friends, play-nice-with-others thing wasn’t going to be easy, nothing that mattered ever was.

      Besides, it wasn’t as if he had to share his life story with her. Or talk about anything he cared about. Like being banished as a kid to Blackhurst. Or the disaster at Zari Pass, which had put an end to his military career—and been the last time he’d allowed anyone to call him J. T.

      No, his personal private business could, and would, remain just that. Personal and private.

      All he had to do was be nominally civil. To offer Bowen—no, Genevieve, he admonished himself—the proverbial olive branch until either she lowered her guard enough for him to get the drop on her or he figured out how to free himself. As for payback…he’d see to that later.

      For now, all he needed, all he wanted, he thought, finally giving in to the hammering in his head and letting his eyes drift shut against the fading light, was for this frigging headache to take a one-way hike.

      And for Genevieve to be predictable for once and walk back through the door.

      Nighttime fell like a heavy ebony cape.

      Caught midway along the track that led to the cabin, Genevieve slowed the pickup to allow her eyes time to adjust to the swift slide from hazy dusk to inky darkness.

      Despite the choppy rumble of the engine, she could hear the wind as it surged restlessly through the towering evergreens around her, making the snow-shrouded trees sway like uneasy ghosts. Overhead, a pack of marauding clouds took ever bigger bites out of the sky, obliterating the moon and swallowing stars a constellation at a time.

      A shiver skated down her spine. She tried telling herself she was just chilled—she hadn’t been kidding earlier when she’d told Taggart the truck’s heater didn’t work, and in the past ten minutes her fingers, nose and toes had started to go numb—but she knew that wasn’t all it was. There was simply something spooky, a sort of bone-deep dread, that came with being alone in the dark, surrounded by an untamed wilderness, with the threat of a storm lurking in the wind.

      Add to the cold and the declining weather the fact that she was tired, as much from the stressful events of the day as the

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