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  “Damn it, Bowen—”

  “You know, if I were you, I really wouldn’t swear at me. What’s more, I’d at least try to be nice. Otherwise, I may forget to tell someone where you are once I’m gone.”

  His face hardened. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not buying. If you meant to take off and leave me to rot, you’d have done it earlier. You’re going to have to come up with a better threat than that.”

  “I don’t think so.” She came to a sudden decision. So he thought he could predict her behavior, did he? Well, 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

  G ripping 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 wa
s. 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 three-mile hike through the snow she’d made to complete her errand, and it was no wonder she was ready to get back to the cabin.

  Even if that meant having to share space with one John Taggart Steele. Whose complete name she now knew courtesy of the registration in his rig, which she’d confirmed by finally taking a look at the ID in his wallet, which she’d liberated when he’d been unconscious.

  Not, she told herself hastily, that she cared what he called himself. Except for a mild curiosity about his aversion to being referred to as J. T, which, as it turned out, really were his initials, it was no skin off her nose if he went by Bozo the Clown.

  What did matter was her discovery that he and the firm he worked for carried the same name. It might not be a hundred percent proof-positive, but when factored in with his relentless, self-assured personality, it made her strongly suspect that he was a principal in the enterprise rather than simply an employee.

  If that was true, it was good news for her since it meant he had not just power but autonomy, and that made it a lot less likely anyone would be checking up on him anytime soon or expecting him to report in regularly.

  It wouldn’t be smart to count on it, however, she reflected as the truck shuddered over the last rise and the cabin came into sight. Grateful that she’d had the foresight to switch on the stove and porch lights before she left, she drove down the shallow hill and parked, muscled open the badly dented driver’s-side door and headed inside, his lightweight pack slung over her shoulder.

  No, she was a firm believer in hoping for the best but doing whatever was within her power to make things go her way. Which was why, she thought, as she climbed the cabin steps, retrieved the distributor cap from her pocket and dropped it with a satisfying thunk behind the wood pile, Taggart was going to have to make a trip to the auto parts store in the near future if he wanted his big black SUV to run. Of course, first he’d have to find it in the abandoned barn where she’d hidden it.

  Stomping the snow off her boots, she said a sincere thank-you to the book gods for Alan’s Guide to Auto Engine Basics. Then she pushed open the door and stepped inside, mentally straightening her spine as she braced to go another round with her less-than-charming captive.

  To her surprise, no sarcastic remark greeted her return. Instead, except for the faint hiss and pop of the fire, the dimly lit room was eerily quiet.

  Her heart stuttered. In the space of time it took her to toss away his pack and pivot toward the bed, her imagination conjured the worst possible scenario: Taggart had somehow gotten loose. Any second now he was going to explode out of the shadows, wrap his iron-banded arms around her and yank her against his big, hard-as-steel frame—

  But no. No. Relief sucked the starch right out of her as she made out the solid, long-legged shape sprawled on the bed. Locking her shaking knees, she fought to regain her composure, only to abandon the effort as fear for her safety reluctantly gave way to concern for his well-being.

  She felt a stir of alarm at his continuing silence. Driven to make sure he was still breathing, she crossed the room and crept as close to the bed as she dared. To her gratification, from her new vantage point she could see his chest in his gray flannel shirt rising and falling as steadily as a metronome.

  The breath she hadn’t known she was holding sighed out while her legs once again went as weak as spent flower stems. In need of a moment to regroup, she marshaled her strength and prepared to step away and leave him to sleep.

  Before she could do more than think of retreat, up snapped Taggart’s eyelashes—thick, black as the night outside and the only part of his angular face that could possibly be described as soft looking—and then she was trapped in the pale-green tractor beam of his eyes.

  “Hey.” For all the intensity of his gaze, his voice was as rough as a weathered board and more than a little groggy. “You’re back.”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced beyond her toward the darkened windows and frowned. “What time is it?”

  “A little past seven.”

  “Huh.” He raised his unfettered hand and she prepared to lunge for safety, but he only scrubbed it across his face. “Feels later.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Yeah. I noticed.” His hand fell away and something she couldn’t define flickered in his eyes. “You had me worried.”

  She wondered what he expected her to say. I’m sorry? Not a chance. Good, it serves you right? Well, that might be closer to the truth, but it wasn’t in her nature to gloat. Even if he so richly deserved it. She gestured toward the pack she’d deep-sixed near the door. “I brought your things.”

  His gaze flicked over, took note, came back again. Speculation flashed across his face, but he didn’t say anything.

  She cleared her throat. “How do you feel?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

  He hiked himself higher on the pillows and gave a slight shrug. “Except for my vision being blurred, my stomach churning and my head feeling like the Green Bay Packers used it for a practice ball, I’m terrific.”

  Well, great, she thought with a sinking feeling. He’d just described all the things her first aid book listed as indicative of a concussion. Although, the upset stomach could be the result of the megadose of pain reliever he’d recklessly gulped earlier….

  “How about you?”

  She gave a start of surprise. “How about me what?”

  “You okay? No worsening aches or bruises, that sort of thing?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay. I just…” He glanced away, clearly unwilling to meet her gaze and gave another dismissive little shrug. “Somebody I once knew said the same thing after a car accident. And then…It turned out later she had some internal bleeding.”

  He sounded so cool and detached he might have been commenting on the weather. So why was she suddenly certain that the outcome for the “she” in question hadn’t been good? And that beneath his tough-as-nails, don’t-give-a-damn exterior the incident still haunted him, at least a little?

  Because you’re a bleeding-heart romantic with a vivid imagination, Gen. A sucker, as already noted, for anyone even the slightest bit wounded.

  Uh-huh. More likely she was just a sucker, period. Because the chances were excellent that he was simply making the whole thing up, creating a fictitious person and a fictitious event in an attempt to get to her. Just as he was feigning concern for her well-being in hopes that she’d make a misstep he could use to his advantage.

  And if he wasn’t?

  Well, that didn’t matter either, she told herself firmly. Whatever the truth, she strongly doubted he’d welcome her sympathy, and she certainly didn’t want his.

  “I’m fine,” she said again, turning her back on him and walking away. Tugging off her gloves, she shed her parka and hung it up, then sat down on the ottoman next to the sofa to divest herself of her boots. “Look, I realize you may not feel like it—” she pushed to her stocking feet and padded into the kitchen “—but would you be willing to try to eat something? I mean, I’ll understand if you’re not up for it, but it might help settle your stomach.” Lifting dishes down from the cupboard, she glanced at him over her shoulder.

  “I can give it a try.” Shutting his eyes, he rubbed gingerly at his temple.

  Well, great. Here she was, trying to ply him with food to prove that he was well enough that she could take off in the morning with a clear conscience, and he had to choose now not only to be a good sport but actually to show a hint of weakness. Annoyed, she concentrated on ladling soup, steadfastly ignoring the clink of chain behind her that was followed by the slap of the bathroom door.<
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  Seconds later, as she was rummaging around for a tray, she heard the toilet flush, followed by the sound of the faucet coming on. Pushing the hair off her forehead, she glanced around just as Taggart reappeared, his shirtsleeves rolled up, water dotting his rugged face. Standing there, he seemed to dominate the room in a way that had nothing to do with his size.

  And that was why—the only reason why—her throat suddenly felt dry.

  She swallowed. “You all right?” She waited as he sat back down on the bed, stuffed a pillow behind his back and leaned against the headboard before she started toward him with his food.

  “Yeah.”

  She stopped while she was still well out of reach. “Look, I’m just going to set this on the end of the mattress, okay? I strained the meat and vegetables out of your soup, so it’s just broth, but it’s still hot. One false move and you’ll be wearing it, understand?”

  “Relax,” he rumbled. “I’m not up for a wrestling match.” His gaze flicked from her to the tray she slid his way with its helping of broth, soda crackers and 7-Up, and back again, and a sort of resigned exasperation that she didn’t understand flashed across his face. “For now, anyway.”

  Shaking her head—he really was the most perplexing man—she got her own food and carried it over to the couch.

  To her surprise, she was suddenly ravenous. Grateful for once that Taggart wasn’t much for small talk, she applied herself to the hearty soup and thick slice of buttered French bread she’d fixed for herself.

  Yet as much as she tried to pretend she was alone in the room, she couldn’t completely shake her awareness of him. Which was why she knew to the second when he was done, even before he picked up the tray and stood.

  She looked up warily as he approached.

  Coming as close to her as the chain would allow, he set the tray on the floor and gave it a shove in her direction with his foot. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “That was good.”