License to Thrill Page 7

  Even now, she wanted to press her fingers against her unkissed lips, to satisfy the tickle of wanting there that had gone unsatisfied. Instead, she held the doubled-up towel against the bedroom window and carefully tapped it with the brass clock.

  Melanie cringed. The sound of breaking glass was louder than she expected as the pieces fell onto the tiled patio outside. Ignoring her thudding heartbeat and the urge to take a moment to see if Marc had heard her, she quickly pulled out the remaining shards, then folded the towel over the sill.

  It wasn’t a long drop. Maybe only five feet or so. If she lowered herself carefully, there wouldn’t be any drop at all. No risk of hurting the baby. Still, that didn’t ease the knot of fear that had remained with her since the night…

  She drew in a deep breath and tried to swing her leg up, but her dress forbade the movement. Hiking the skirt up to her hips, she ignored the irony and swung her leg over the sill. Had she been thinking straight, she would have grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of sweats from Marc’s drawers.

  But she didn’t have time now. She had no idea how long Marc planned to talk to his visitor—God, was Roger Westfield really his new partner?—but she didn’t gather it would be long. Her leg slipped, and she grabbed onto the wood window molding for dear life. Taking long, measured breaths, she leveraged her other leg through the window, her edginess having more to do with her still raging hormones than concern about getting caught.

  Okay. Now all she had to do was turn around and with the strength of her hands and arms, lower herself down.

  Easier said than done.

  Inside the town house she heard the slamming of a door. Her heart threatened to leap from her chest. Right this minute Marc was probably rushing toward the bedroom. She quickly maneuvered her body around and through the window, her gaze cemented to the closed bedroom door. It remained closed. In one arm-testing move she lowered her feet to the ground, cringing when glass bit at her stocking feet. But she didn’t care. What were a few scrapes and ruined panty hose compared to having her heart broken all over again?

  She turned and ran straight into Marc’s chest for the second time that day.

  4

  DESPITE HER THWARTED escape attempt, Melanie was thrillingly aware of every inch of Marc that brushed against her. Her heart beat an uneven cadence in her chest that had little to do with the exertion of climbing from the window and more to do with the irrational hunger she felt for him. The type of craving that did crazy things to her head and made her body hum. The kind of need that had made her press her backside against him minutes before. The sort of irrational yearning for him to be the man she needed right now.

  “God, Mel, you’re killing me here,” he said hoarsely, his fingers clutching her hips not quite against his, but not pushing her away, either.

  She swallowed hard, wondering just who was doing the killing when she could feel every glorious inch of him crowded against her stomach.

  He groaned and set her firmly away from him. “I take it you’re ready to go.”

  The overdose of hormones combined with sexual frustration made her want to sock him in the nose. She settled for whacking his arm with her open hand. “Oh, I’m ready to go all right. Home. My home. Now.” Before I do something stupid like make love with you.

  Marc’s fingers curled around her chafed wrists, eliciting a shiver. “Sorry, Mel, but that’s not an option.”

  The somber, almost regretful way he said the words made her uneasy. “It is if you let it be.”

  He said nothing, but the bemused expression left his face. Melanie fought to keep her gaze locked on him, though she wanted to look away.

  “Where are we going, then?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  All at once, the details of the past hour clicked off in her head. Marc saying they wouldn’t be staying at the town house long. His haphazard packing. The visit from his new partner, Roger Westfield. She felt the pounding of her pulse where Marc still held her wrist, remembering the ominous words she caught of Marc’s conversation with Roger before she slipped into the bedroom and out the window.

  Hooker had escaped.

  She felt suddenly faint. That meant Hooker hadn’t called her from jail that morning, as she’d assumed…He’d already been out.

  “Okay.”

  One of Marc’s eyebrows rose. “Okay?”

  Melanie’s throat seemed unbearably tight, but she managed a smile. “Yes. Okay.”

  He instantly released his grip. “After you.”

  Walking with as much dignity as she could muster, given her torn dress and thwarted escape attempt, Melanie led the way to the French doors and waited patiently as he unlocked and opened them.

  SHE KNOWS. Marc admitted he might be a little dense when it came to relationships, but he knew Mel. He took the cat carrier from her and put it into the back of the Jeep. Her new awareness didn’t manifest itself in the obvious way. No. She was far from demanding an explanation, but her acquiescence was more unsettling. There was a worried tension around her mouth, and her movements were stiff and awkward. Her only demand was that they take Brando with them when he had been about to pour a hefty amount of food out for the old, fat tom.

  Damn. She must have overheard his conversation with Roger. Sure, he knew he’d have to spill the beans sooner or later and let her in on the reason he had swiped her outside the john at her own wedding rehearsal dinner. But he’d planned to play his cards close to his chest at least until he could figure out a way to break the news to her gently.

  He eyed the way she nervously pulled at the tear in her dress and tried to reassure Brando, who was meowing up a storm in the carrier. Her skirt-pulling wasn’t nervous in the way it had been earlier, when he suspected her intention was a vain wish to keep him from sneaking a peek. No. Mel looked ready to jump right out of her skin. And that bothered him.

  Before he could stop himself, he brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “You all right?”

  The worry vanished from her green eyes an instant too late. “Sure, I’m fine. Considering I’ve been kidnapped by a madman.”

  He grinned at her feeble attempt at humor. This Mel he could deal with, even if she wasn’t running at full speed. He reached for the cuffs in his pocket.

  Mel eyed him. “Don’t tell me you’re going to shackle me up again.”

  Marc fingered the cool, heavy metal. “Given your new habit of creating an exit where one wasn’t meant to exit, I think it’s a pretty good idea, don’t you?”

  “Trust me, I’m not about to go jumping out of a moving vehicle.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “I’d really like to take your word for it, Mel, but considering we both had the same training, and I figure you’re at least as good as I am at rolling out of a moving car…” Marc placed one of the cuffs around her left wrist. She yanked on it angrily.

  “Pig.”

  “Mule.”

  He hustled her toward the driver’s door. Only when her back was turned did he attach the other cuff to his right wrist. Mel tugged.

  “Watch it, will you,” he grumbled. “I’m attached to that arm.”

  She swung around, glaring when she saw what he’d done.

  “Get in the Jeep, Mel.”

  She yanked on the cuffs again and smiled at his scowl. “Doesn’t feel so hot when the cuff’s on the other hand, does it?”

  “Bite me, Mel. Now get in.”

  When she continued to hesitate, he maneuvered her around and boosted her up, his palms blessedly full of her sweet behind. She squeaked, and he gave her delectable cheeks a good squeeze, liking that he still knew some of her buttons to push. She immediately scrambled inside and over to the passenger seat, nearly taking his hand off in the process.

  “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by acting like a cad,” she said, giving the cuffs a tug for emphasis after he was in the Jeep.

  I hope to keep you at arm’s length, Marc thought, tugging her hand so he could tur
n the ignition. He needed to keep his wits about him now that they were going into the open. More patrols looking for him meant fewer on Hooker’s trail. “Hey, can’t blame a guy for taking advantage of an especially advantageous situation, can you?”

  Mel turned toward the window and whispered something under her breath.

  “I’m over here, Mel.”

  “I’m very clear on where you are, Marc. At least physically.”

  He grimaced, wishing the tightness of his jeans away. She didn’t have any idea about his physical position.

  “So, tell me,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “how long have you and Westfield been partners?”

  He shrugged, but didn’t feel any of the nonchalance the action indicated. Not when she’d been lying in a hospital bed recovering from a bullet wound that had nearly taken her life. “A week after Hooker was arrested.”

  “Oh.” She turned away again, but this time she spoke loud enough for him to hear her. “How are you two getting along?”

  Not as good as you and I did. “Fine. He can grind on a guy’s nerves after a while, but otherwise he’s on the ball.”

  Her smile caught him off guard.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He hated when she did that.

  She sighed. “I was just wondering if there’s anyone out there who’s capable of not grinding on your nerves.”

  He looked at her squarely. “You were okay.”

  “Oh, no, I wasn’t. At least not in your book.”

  He frowned. Mel was the best damned partner he’d ever worked detail with. Didn’t she know that? She pulled at her short dress again, jerking his hand in her direction. He guessed she didn’t have a clue how he really felt. “I thought we were pretty good together.”

  “At least up until the point where I nearly got myself killed.”

  Marc shifted his fingers the fraction of an inch needed to cup her knee. He was frustrated by the stockings that separated her skin from his. “What happened to you could have happened to anyone, Mel. You were doing your job.” And if I had been doing mine, I would have taken that damned bullet for you.

  Her gaze was unwavering. “Where in the job description does it say I have to take down one of our own?”

  “Hooker stopped being one of our own the minute he shot at the senator.”

  Marc’s fingers stilled on her knee, and the silence stretched. She turned her engagement ring around and around on her finger.

  “Did I ever tell you Hooker and I trained together at VMI?” He shook his head, recalling how green he’d been back then. A regular know-it-all and do-it-all who took crap from no one.

  He sensed rather than saw Mel’s gaze on him.

  “One night after really tying one on with some of the guys, it was Hooker who saved my ass.” He remembered how he’d tried to take the other, smaller man on after Hooker had told him and the others to cool it. It might have been because of his compromised condition, but quicker than he’d been able to blink, Hooker had pinned him to the ground and told him there was going to be a surprise midnight inspection and he was too damn good a candidate to screw things up now.

  Marc realized he’d never thanked Hooker for straightening him up. Two of the guys he’d been with had been booted out that night, no questions asked.

  He grimaced, thinking it really didn’t matter now. “I never would have thought him capable of something like this. I guess a lot can change about a person in eleven years, huh?”

  “A lot can change about a person in three months,” Mel said softly.

  “You can say that again,” he answered just as quietly.

  Her .25 was in the glove compartment, where he’d put it. He decided not to worry about it since she didn’t seem too intent on escaping anymore.

  “Look, Mel, I put off telling you about Hooker because I didn’t want to scare you. But I do think it’s a good idea if we talk straight now.” She nodded, but averted her gaze. “I don’t know how much you heard back there, but Hooker told his cell mate he was coming after you.”

  He watched her swallow.

  “So far we have reports of clothes stolen from a clothesline at one place, firearms taken from another, both houses just outside D.C., not too far from here.”

  She looked at him, her eyes round.

  “There, I said it.”

  A charged silence fell between them as they racked up the miles.

  “Thanks,” she said softly. “You know, for telling me everything.”

  He gripped the steering wheel more tightly. “No problem.”

  He felt her gaze on him again, probing, seeking out chinks in his armor. He rubbed his chin against his shoulder, wondering how the conversation had gotten so serious so fast. And how, exactly, he could steer it back to safer territory.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  Marc studied the highway with exaggerated interest. He thought they’d passed a milestone, but he couldn’t be sure. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said, preoccupied.

  He moved to rub his palm against his jeans, accidentally dragging her hand along for the ride. She gasped when she found her fingers within inches of his zipper. A car horn pierced the air, and Marc realized he’d veered into the next lane. The Jeep nearly went on two wheels as he quickly made the needed correction.

  If he didn’t watch it, he wouldn’t have to worry about Hooker’s intentions because both he and Mel would be out of the picture.

  “I see your driving hasn’t improved much.”

  The chuckle that vibrated in his chest released some of the tension. “Yeah, well, if I recall, you’re not much better behind the wheel.”

  “Guess that’s why neither of us had been given driving detail, huh?”

  He briefly locked gazes with Mel, grateful for her tactful ability to drain the stress out of any situation. He supposed it was a gift of sorts, the way she wrapped things up neatly and put them aside. If only that same gift hadn’t allowed her to neatly box him up and put him in the closet of her past so easily.

  Marc moved to rub his neck, but the clanking of the cuffs told him he’d better not. Instead, he laid his clenched hand on the seat between them, inexplicably irritated by the careful lengths to which Mel went to avoid touching him.

  He thoroughly searched the road in front of and behind the Jeep, keeping an eye out for local and state police. The last thing he needed was another monkey wrench thrown into his plans.

  THE HANDCUFF around Melanie’s wrist felt strangely heavy. Not so much physically, although the metal was hard and unyielding. The peculiar sensation that made her acutely aware of her shallow breathing stemmed more from the symbolism of being attached to Marc than anything else. A physical depiction of what she’d felt mentally for the past three months.

  She brushed errant tendrils of hair from her face with her free hand, admitting she’d been wrong to think the baby was the cause of any unfinished business between her and Marc. The truth was that without closure, she may as well be chained to Marc when she walked down the aisle in two days. There was still so much between them. Unresolved emotions. Sizzling tension that arced between them like a visible electrical current. She was aware of his every movement, every tap of his index finger against the steering wheel. Every flex of his thigh muscles as he accelerated or slowed to match highway traffic. Erotically aware of the snug fit of his black jeans across his groin.

  Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she turned to the window, watching the city quickly give way to the lush greenery of the country. But it was the low heat in her lower regions, and not the roadside, that got the bulk of her attention.

  Aside from brotherly goodnight kisses, she’d never shared physical closeness with Craig. She’d told herself it didn’t matter. Her failed relationship with Marc was an example of why relationships based solely on physical attraction were doomed for failure. But though nothing but a short chain connected her and Marc, she felt his pre
sence more strongly than a physical touch. She was aware of the dampness between her thighs and the involuntary, sporadic tightening of her thigh muscles that caused shivers to shimmy up her stomach and her breasts to swell.

  She closed her eyes and dragged in a deep breath. It wasn’t fair. How could she still want Marc so much with her body, yet know with her mind that he wasn’t the man with whom she could share forever? With whom she could raise her child in a stable, loving environment that included two parents?

  She slowly opened her eyes. She’d be better off focusing on where Marc was taking her rather than trying to rehash all the details that led to their breakup.

  Breakup. Now there was a word. Had she and Marc really broken up? Not in the traditional sense. They’d had that heated discussion about love that had broken her heart, but there had been no vocal parting. Rather their relationship had suddenly ceased. She’d gotten shot, found out she was pregnant. Her mother had taken over, and Marc had disappeared from her life.

  “Hang in there, Mel, it isn’t much farther.”

  She slid her gaze toward Marc, blinking at the familiar words. He’d said exactly the same thing when she was in the ambulance, with him bending over her and smoothing her hair from her face.

  “What?” she whispered.

  He eyed her closely. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  Maybe it was because she had.

  Until that moment she’d completely forgotten the snatches of consciousness between the time when she’d first spotted Hooker to when she’d been hit in the chest. She’d felt her knees give out, one by one, then she’d slumped to the ground. She couldn’t remember anything in one uninterrupted piece after that, only in snatches. And in every snatch there was Marc’s boyishly handsome face creased in anger and concern just inches above hers.

  Melanie tugged at the hem of her skirt, then stopped when she found Marc’s hand resting on her knee. She looked at his well-shaped fingers and the way they curved just so against her skin. Then, afraid of reawakening the deep well of feelings for him, she removed those same fingers from her too hot flesh and laid his hand firmly on the seat between them.