Night Hunter Page 11

  “Laird?”

  He blinked and focused on her, but she didn’t speak until she’d slid off him and onto her knees—not because she wanted to but her weight pressed against his hip bones had to be uncomfortable.

  “I met your brother. Did I tell you? Of course I did. I’m still—”

  “He is not my brother.”

  “I know. But you think of him that way, don’t you?”

  He nodded. Although he looked half asleep, she plunged on. “He’s the only family you have. He didn’t tell me much. Just enough that I have some idea of your upbringing.”

  “Do you?”

  Of course she didn’t. The thought of never knowing what it meant to have parents brought her to the brink of tears.

  “And I saw where you live—the place you built. You have a right to be proud of it.”

  He chuckled and flattened his hand over her rib cage. “I am not sure it would pass a building inspection.”

  “But it’s yours.” She forced her mind off his hand—tried to anyway. “Because a place to call your own is important to you.”

  He didn’t say anything and had grown tense, wary. Don’t get too close, she read. But if she didn’t try, she’d always regret it.

  “After all those years of being tossed from one foster home to another, finally, no one can force you to move again.”

  “Clint told you that?”

  “No. I figured it out by myself.” Made uneasy by his tension, she sought to defuse it by feathering his cheeks with kisses. “Laird, I spent years working for someone else. I’ve been a cashier, a bank teller, a receptionist in a dentist’s office. Those jobs paid the bills and most of the time I enjoyed the people I worked with, but nights and weekends were devoted to making jewelry.”

  “All your nights and weekends?” He ran his fingers down her belly and buried his nails in her pubic hair.

  “No,” she managed. She should be satiated, unconscious. Instead, his touch had awakened desire. “Not—not all of them.”

  “I did not think so.”

  She’d come back to the Everglades to try to get him to leave with her. She couldn’t forget that, didn’t dare.

  “Don’t,” she warned and rolled away from him. She scrambled to her knees and made a feeble attempt at covering herself. Leaves and dried grasses stuck to her sweaty flesh. “If sex is the only thing between us, that’s sad.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” she insisted. “Your brother told me there’ve been a lot of women in your life.”

  “A few.”

  “How many do you remember? How many did you want to spend the rest of your life with?”

  He sat up and regarded her. His nakedness obviously didn’t bother him. Only, he wasn’t completely naked because he wore the leather necklace. “What business of yours is it?” he challenged.

  That stung, but she didn’t allow herself to wallow in self-pity. “Will you answer something for me, Laird? If you hadn’t reached out for me when all this began, who would it have been? Those women—would any of them have interrupted their lives for you? Can you even remember their names?”

  His hands balled into fists. His glare seared through her. Fighting fear, she forced herself not to back down. “I don’t want to pick a fight with you or make you defensive. That’s the last thing I want.”

  Did she dare say more? Did she dare not? “The things you’ve done to me—I never knew it was possible,” she admitted. “I—maybe I’ve waited my entire life for what’s been happening.”

  “Have you?”

  Although he sounded calm enough, she’d be a fool to allow herself to be sucked into his tone.

  “Do one thing for me, please,” she begged. “Before you turn your back on the only world you’ve ever known, the houseboat you built with your own hands, your business, return to it with me.”

  His expression darkened, putting her in mind of a trapped animal.

  “Please.” She looked around for her backpack, intending to show him the clothes she’d selected, but it wasn’t there. Shivering, she scanned their surroundings but couldn’t see anything of the Seminoles. Just the same, she had no doubt what had happened to the pack. The warning was clear. The Indians weren’t releasing their hold on Laird. It occurred to her to let them have him and save herself from any more emotional upheaval, but she couldn’t do that—for both their sakes.

  Risking everything, she took his face in her hands and leaned forward until her mouth found his. He briefly returned her kiss, then turned away.

  “They need me here,” he said.

  “But is it what you need? Is it?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Laird? You’ve been in here since the accident. They did that deliberately, are trying some kind of mind control. You can’t let them get away with that. You can’t!”

  “They need—”

  Not taking her eyes off him, she cradled his cock and balls and gently closed her fingers over them. “So do I,” she whispered.

  I know, she heard him say inside himself.

  The farther they got from the Everglades, the more remote Laird became. Now that Alligator Alley was behind them, and they were nearing the marina where his business and house were, she counted herself lucky that she’d been able to convince him to put back on the loincloth before stepping out of the wilderness.

  She’d turned the radio onto a sports talk station and even commented on how the local teams were doing, but he paid no attention. She’d kept her right hand near his thigh and had occasionally run her fingers over him in a subtle reminder of the sex they’d shared.

  Fortunately, he hadn’t insisted on driving, since he obviously wasn’t concentrating on what was going on around him. She had no doubts his thoughts were on what he’d left behind, but there was no way she’d bring that up. Instead, she held on to the hope that familiar surroundings would snap him out of his lethargy—if that was what it was.

  She’d hoped they could make it from the parking lot to the houseboat without anyone seeing them, but as they were navigating the floating walkway, an expensive pleasure boat glided past. The two men leaning against the railing stared and one’s drink glass slipped out of his hand to fall into the water. Their female companions, making Mala think of trophy wives, first gaped at and then applauded Laird. He didn’t appear to notice. Mindful of the fact she hadn’t bothered with her bra when getting dressed, she folded her arms across her breasts.

  When they reached his place, she reminded him they didn’t have a key. How were they going to get in? His look made her wonder if her words were incomprehensible to him, but after a moment, he walked over to the heavy rope holding the houseboat in place and reached for something at the base of the anchoring post. With a key in his hand, he rejoined her. Then he unlocked the door and walked in, leaving her to follow after him.

  He’d left a couple of windows open, but the compact interior smelled of stale air. Ignoring it and him, she took in her surroundings. Everything from the handmade coffee table with driftwood legs to a couch and chairs in browns and blues cried out “masculine”. Three photographs of the bay—two at sunset and the other taken at dawn—constituted the only wall decorations. The kitchen was adjacent to the living room but divided from it by a waist-high counter and a couple of stools. A quick glance reinforced her suspicion that Laird didn’t spend much time cooking, but at least the small refrigerator looked nearly new. She loved the exposed ceiling beams and round windows, the sense of wood and sea.

  When she turned her attention to Laird, she realized he hadn’t moved.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Do you think someone’s been here?”

  Another shrug, this one reinforcing her fear that he had yet to reconnect with his life.

  “You must be tired,” she said. “And hungry. Do you want me to see if I can pull together something for you to eat?”

  This time he didn’t acknowledge that she’d spoken
. He was looking out the window that faced the open sea.

  “Do you want to go there?” she asked. “We could get in one of your boats and—”

  “No.”

  Getting something out of him should have encouraged her, but it didn’t. She also knew not to press. He looked so lonely standing in the middle of what was probably the only place he’d ever called home. Unable to leave him like that, she came to stand behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Feeling his legs against hers brought desire rushing back. She pressed herself closer, but he didn’t respond.

  Don’t close me out, please. But maybe he had no control over his mood.

  She sucked in what she hoped would be a calming breath, then wrinkled her nose. “You need a shower,” she whispered into his ear. We both do.

  Unfortunately, there was no “both” in the travel-trailer sized shower. However, because there was only a shower curtain, she pushed it aside and soaped him as he stood naked and remote under the spray. She loved the way the water ran down his finely honed body, particularly the small trickles curving toward his groin before disappearing under his dark pubic hair.

  Once she’d scrubbed his upper body with the faded washcloth, lingering over each bone and muscle, she turned her attention to his lower half. By then she was nearly as soaked as he was. Inch by inch, she ran the washcloth closer to his penis. She turned the act into a game, teasing and retreating, barely touching, then pressing the flesh on the inside of his thighs. Little by little his cock responded. When he was fully erect, she folded the cloth over his shaft like a mother swaddling her baby in a receiving blanket and massaged.

  He stared at nothing.

  Frustrated and closer to tears than she cared to admit, she unwrapped and dropped the cloth and replaced it with her fingers. The sensation of hard, soap-slickened skin made her wild to tear off her sodden shorts and squeeze in beside him—at least it did until he grabbed her wrists and pushed her away from him. Without so much as a word of explanation, he turned his back on her and reached for the shampoo.

  Hugging herself, she watched him. Shampoo foam slid down his broad back, briefly pooled at the top of his hips, then ran down his buttocks. She swallowed, hard.

  She had gotten to him. He wouldn’t have had an erection or pulled her hands off his cock if she hadn’t. If she tried a little harder, came up with something inventive—

  When he ducked his head under the spray to rinse off the shampoo, her attention snagged on the sodden leather pouch dangling from his neck. He wasn’t naked after all, was he? He hadn’t left the past behind, not really.

  When he straightened again, she thought he’d turn off the water, but he went back to resembling a mannequin. Much as she’d love to study him, she didn’t dare—not until she’d ripped him free of the Everglades prison. Reaching past him, she stopped the flow. Then because she’d anticipated that that wouldn’t make an impact, she handed him a towel.

  “Start with your face,” she told him. “But get out first.”

  He did as she prompted. Once he’d dried his face, she grabbed another towel and used it on his hair. She had to stand on tiptoe to accomplish the task and if her breasts wound up flattened against his chest, so be it. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed when he made no move to touch her.

  This wasn’t about her and her tender ego. He wasn’t pushing her away so much as struggling to find his place in the world. And if he chose the past?

  What about her?

  He’d dried his neck and shoulders without her having to spell out the procedure, but after that he must have lost interest in the task. Instead, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Once, when her father broke his right hand, she’d shaved him. By the time the cast came off, she’d considered herself an expert—a skill a few men had complimented her on. She’d demonstrate her handiwork to Laird as soon as she—

  Sudden anger, or maybe it was fear of the question she’d just asked herself, distracted her from her musing. Almost before she knew what she was going to do, she grabbed the shell-covered pouch and pulled on it, looking for the knot. She’d no sooner found it and was trying to figure out how to deal with wet leather than Laird clamped his hands over her shoulders. Growling, he shoved. She flew backward and crashed into a wall.

  “What—” she gasped.

  Before she could get another word out, he came at her. She tried to dodge out of his way, but it was impossible given the confined space.

  “Laird, stop it!” she gasped as he pinned her to the wall.

  “Do—not—touch—”

  “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry. I won’t.”

  Breathing so rapidly she thought he might hyperventilate, he continued to lean into her while spearing her with a hate-filled look. She wasn’t sure he recognized her. She certainly didn’t know the creature he’d become.

  “I wasn’t going to throw it away.” Try as she might, she only partly succeeded in controlling her panic. Her shoulders had gone numb from the pressure he was exerting on them. She couldn’t move if her life depended on it. “I just—I couldn’t think of any other way of getting through to you.”

  He shook his head. His parted lips and strong white teeth both fascinated and frightened her. Everything about him felt huge.

  “It has power over you,” she said as soothingly as possible. “I—you left the Everglades, but you brought part of it with you.”

  He shuddered and looked haunted. “A gift. Gift and responsibility.”

  Although she wasn’t sure what he was talking about, now wasn’t the time to ask for an explanation. At least he spoke. Maybe that meant she was getting through to him. She’d do whatever it took to reach him and get him to tell her what was going on inside him. He frightened her, and yet she sensed that his emotions were even more intense. The small bathroom seemed to have shrunk. He was everywhere, everything. And there was nothing civilized about him. Not that she wanted it otherwise.

  “I-I realize that,” she managed. He was using his legs to pin her against the wall. As a result, his cock was being driven into her belly. Did she dare take hold of it, try to distract him? No matter. She couldn’t move her numb arms. “Laird? You’re hurting me.”

  He leaned away but didn’t free her. His gaze raked over her, then settled on her breasts under the wet fabric. Her already hard nipples became even more so. For some insane reason, her attention locked on the drip-drip-drip coming from the shower. She was glad the mirror was steamy because that way she didn’t have to see her expression. Caught in the rhythm of dripping water, she was slow to sense the shifting of his muscles. By the time she realized what he was doing, it was too late.

  One moment she was standing face-to-face with Laird. The next, he’d grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her over his shoulder. He whirled and headed out of the room, forcing her to press her head against his back to keep from hitting it on the door jam. Three long, determined strides took him from bathroom to bedroom. He again clamped his hands around her waist, this time pulling her off his shoulder and throwing her onto the bed.

  Bouncing on the mattress, she stared up at him. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t find anything she recognized in his features. They’d darkened, his eyes more animal than human, muscles as tense as a panther stalking prey.

  “Laird! Laird, what are you—”

  He grabbed her waistband, unfastening it and yanking down the zipper. A single rough tug had the garment off her. She was still trying to decide what to do if he started tearing at her top when he jerked off her shoes and panties. Then he sat beside her, his greater weight pulling her toward him. She was still afraid of him, unnerved and unsure. However, there was no denying that his rough treatment had also turned her on.

  The need to let him know that must be responsible for the way her now tingling fingers reached for him. Finding his belly, she trailed her nails over his navel. She couldn’t quite talk herself into meeting his eyes.

  “It’s all right,
Laird,” she said as soothingly as possible. “You’ve been through so much. It’s going to take time to put it all behind you. I can—I know how to help.”

  “My—my name is Thunder.”

  “Thunder.” She barely got the word out.

  For the third time in less than a minute, he wrapped his hands around her waist, now repositioning her on the bed so she was in the middle of it. When he was satisfied, he pried her hands off him and pinned them over her head. Caught between a million conflicting emotions, she struggled to free herself, but lacked the strength. All her gyrations accomplished were to twist her top around her middle. She felt imprisoned by it. He solved that by pushing it up and over her breasts. She should have put back on her bra, not that it would have made a difference—or stayed on very long.

  Without so much as a by your leave—not that she expected it—he pressed the heel of his hand against her right breast, flattening and trapping it but not causing pain. At the same time, he reached across the space between her breasts and fingered-massaged the left one.

  Don’t move. Don’t let him know he’s gotten to you. Turning the warning into action, she pressed her hips against the bed and kept her legs clamped together. She wanted to believe he knew the difference between play and force, but he now called himself Thunder. Who knew what was acceptable behavior in that world? If he forced himself on her, if he even started, would she fight him?

  The real question was, did she want to?

  Quickly, so quickly she didn’t know how it was possible, he released her hands and breasts, forced her legs apart and settled himself on his knees between them. She tried to sit up, but he pressed a hand against her belly, holding her down. A growl rumbled deep in his chest.

  Somewhere between anger and helpless anticipation, she slapped his arm. It must not have registered because he now stared at the thatch of dark hair over her pelvic area. She felt her cunt fill with hot fluid, and her inner thighs heated. No, that wasn’t the response of a woman about to be forced against her will.