She was a far cry from the well-packaged First Daughter paraded about the country—not that she was any Grace Kelly by any stretch of the imagination. No, not even on her best day. There’d been enough skits on Saturday Night Live featuring her awkwardness for her to know precisely how she was perceived.
But this woman staring back at her didn’t possess even a fraction of her usual polish. She was a hot mess. Gone was the tightly contained hair. She normally wore it pulled up or blown out into smooth sleekness. Also missing was the power suit and heels that her stylist insisted slimmed her down, giving her body length and her girlish features an aura of maturity. Whatever the hell that meant.
She angled her face from side to side, studying herself. She could use some makeup. She looked defenseless without the armor of cosmetics. Her fear and uncertainty were too readily visible.
She sucked in a deep breath and schooled her features, attempting to deaden her face. To not look so nervous. Her father lived by that mantra. Never let them see you sweat. No matter what he confronted, he never showed fear. The only emotion that leaked out of the man was carefully planned and orchestrated. He expected the same level of control from her. He drilled that into her often enough, even if nine times out of ten she came up short and disappointed him.
Sometimes it baffled her why her father didn’t simply let her go live her life somewhere away from the spotlight. She could come around during the holidays and on important occasions. He’d refused her request to attend graduate school, claiming he needed her on his “team” even if she wasn’t a sparkling First Daughter. Her mother brought the sparkle. She was beautiful, if not the cleverest. She looked good on his arm. Grace simply completed the picture of family man.
Her father insisted the excitement of a wedding would give his campaign additional life. He imagined that the buzz could escalate along the lines of Prince William and Kate Middleton’s wedding mania. He was delusional.
Shaking her head, she wished she had just given her father a flat out no instead of ditching her detail and making a run for it. She didn’t have to do what he said. In the past it was just easier to give in rather than fight him. She was an adult. Everything she was going through now was decidedly harder than a confrontation. Facing down her father after all of this would be easy enough.
Another thought trickled in, clouding her features as she gazed at her reflection. She wondered if he was disappointed in her now. If he blamed her for this. He must know she had slipped her Secret Service detail by now. Those guys would not hesitate to reveal the truth. They never wanted to be assigned to her. She’d picked up on that vibe often enough. They thought it was a joke. A powder puff detail. They would be looking to protect their own butts. Not that the truth would save them. They were probably fired anyway for letting her slip out undetected.
Her father had to know this was her fault. The granddaddy of all lectures probably awaited her if she got home—and not just from him, but from various members of his staff, Charles included. Charles especially. He would not understand how she could have bailed on her security detail. He would deem it the height of recklessness and irresponsibility. Not that he would be wrong. Especially in hindsight.
She blinked at her reflection, just then catching her previous slip. When she got home. Not if. Reid wouldn’t hurt her. Sure, he hadn’t released her yet, but he wasn’t like the others. Truly. And yet there was still that intensity to him, a look in his eyes that made her stomach knot. She didn’t understand it. It wasn’t fear precisely. It was something else. Something uncomfortable. He might not be like the others, but the man was dangerous.
Shaking off the tangled thoughts, she dropped the towel and slipped on the well-worn cotton T-shirt. The boxers were too big and she had to fold them at the waist several times, which only hiked them up.
Closing her fingers around the doorknob, she stepped out of the bathroom in her indecently short boxers and plain cotton T-shirt. She half expected him to be standing there, waiting for her with that hard expression of his, but he was nowhere to be seen.
The house was silent. A lamp beside the couch radiated a low glow that saved the place from total darkness. It was something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She almost expected to see a pair of little girls in old-fashioned nightgowns scampering across the wood floors, dragging rag dolls behind them.
Blinking, she shook off the fanciful image. There was nothing sweet about this scenario. Her bare feet padded quietly across the wood plank floor. She moved tentatively, stealthily. She slid a longing glance to the front door, wondering if she should dare try again. She might use up the last of his goodwill if she attempted another escape tonight. No, the next time—and there would be a next time—would be better planned so she wouldn’t fail. This whole nightmare was her fault. The least she could do was get it right by escaping.
She moved to the door of the room where she had earlier slept and peered inside. He was there (thankfully no longer naked), pulling back the covers. Her lungs tightened, air seizing for a moment at the way his back worked and rippled with his movements. Whose back looked like that? Two possibilities popped into her mind. A Calvin Klein model or a felon who had a lot of time to work out. Obviously, she knew which one he was.
He looked up at her from where he was leaning over the bed and slowly straightened, putting that big body of his on even further display. He wore a pair of sweatpants that sat low on his hips. It was sinful, the way his skin looked both soft and hard at the same time, stretching over ridges of sinew and cut muscle.
She wasn’t the only one staring. He took his time looking her up and down in her ensemble of T-shirt and ill-fitting boxers. “Feel better?”
She nodded jerkily, tucking the hair behind her ears self-consciously and glancing from him to the bed. With the covers pulled back, it looked inviting . . . big enough to sleep two. She lifted her chin. “What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed. I know you took a nap, but I’m beat.”
Nap or not, she didn’t feel rested.
“You’re sleeping in here?” She pointed to the wall in the direction of the neighboring room. “But there’s another bedroom.”
“Yeah. After your little sprint through the woods, that idea gets a fat no.”
“You’re sleeping with me?” she asked, needing the clarification, needing to hear him say it before she could even start to panic.
He nodded, a grim twist to his mouth. “You don’t trust me. I don’t trust you. So this is where we’re at.”
She didn’t want to be at this place at all. Not with him. Not again.
Her gaze flicked to him and the bed, the panic in her heart alive and real. “No.”
He angled his head as though not trusting his hearing. “No?”
She nodded.
He sighed, and she heard the weariness in that sound. “I’m not up for another battle with you, Grace. Just give me a night to sleep and I promise we can keep playing this cat and mouse game tomorrow.”
She pulled back in affront. “This isn’t a game to me. It’s my life.”
“And I promise you’ll get back your life. Just a few more days.” His steely gaze held her stare for a long moment, as though hoping to let that sink in, hoping to convince her. “But right now I’m getting in this bed and so are you.”
She inhaled and took a step away, letting that be her answer.
His glittering eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his nicely formed chest. It galled her that she couldn’t help noticing that. Those nice arms only seemed to draw attention to that chest. “Is this because of the last time?”
Last time. He meant last night. It already felt a lifetime ago.
“I promise there won’t be any of that going on, ” he added. That being his hand fondling her between her legs and making her almost orgasm on the spot. That being the most shameful and mortifying thing to ever happen to her. “Even if I was interested, I’m exhausted.”
“Oh. That’s right. I??
?m not your ‘type.’” The words burst forth before she could stop herself. And she hated them. Hated herself for saying it. She sounded wounded when really it was skepticism she felt. Was she so undesirable? He was a felon fresh out of prison. He couldn’t be that picky.
He hesitated. “Yes, that’s true.”
“Forgive me if I have my doubts. You’re an escaped felon. I doubt me not being some leggy blonde matters.”
His features hardened. “I might have escaped from prison, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a code. I’m not a rapist. If I was going to attack you, I already would have.” His top lip lifted in a slight sneer. “Your virtue is safe.”
He was right. And that was when she had to face the truth . . . when she confronted what it was that truly frightened her. Herself.
Then she knew exactly how much trouble she was in . . . isolated in this cabin with this man.
Oh, no, she wasn’t worried about him raping her. Grace knew he wouldn’t do that. She was worried that he wouldn’t have to—that he could have her if he wanted her. With a look, a word from him, she would give him everything. Permission granted, he could take her. That had become her worst fear.
She was afraid she would respond to his touch. Welcome it, even. Maybe invite it if she got into that bed with him. In the darkness the temptation to forget herself—forget the world—could overtake her when she was pressed against a man whose body was made for tangling in sheets and taking a woman hard, using her in a way that would unravel her.
A part of her wanted to shatter the proper and controlled veneer of her life. To finally be touched. For someone to see her and peel back all the layers and tap into something that was real. To uncover that part of her that was locked away, neglected. Never felt. Never touched. Never seen.
If he made any overture, she could crumble.
It was strange. You never knew where you were going to be when self-realization decided to Taser your ass.
She inhaled a shaky breath. He stabbed a finger toward the bed and she almost flinched at the ferocity in the gesture. He had reached his end for the day. “Now get in this bed, Grace.”
She didn’t know what did it for her—if it was his tone of voice or the shock of her self-realization—but she stepped forward and slid beneath the sheets. Now that she knew her vulnerability, she could resist. She was armed with the knowledge of her weakness. She would not fall prey to him—or herself.
The bedside lamp clicked off and he slid in beside her. A small measure of light spilled into the room from the lamp in the living room.
She curled on her side and her mind immediately turned to escape. She couldn’t count on him letting her go and she definitely needed to get as far from him as soon as possible. She began turning over the possibilities. Once he fell asleep she could ease out of the bed, grab the keys, take the van and go. It was doable. Except she didn’t know where he stashed the keys.
Then his voice rolled over her in the semidarkness. “And just in case you’re thinking of running again . . .” He sat up and flipped the covers off them. Cool air wafted over her bare legs. She yelped as he picked up her foot and looped something around her ankle.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, sitting up in the bed and watching him as he leaned over her feet.
She felt a tug on her ankle. He turned slightly then and seemed to be working on his own ankle. “Just tying our ankles together. There.” Reid settled back down beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. He lifted his foot. The motion pulled her ankle up, and she could see the plaid scarf connecting them.
Her gaze flew back to his. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“I’m a light sleeper. I will feel it if you try to untie that knot.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. He simply rolled onto his side. Even with a good amount of slack on the scarf between them, her ankle felt the pull.
“Ass,” she muttered beneath her breath. His light chuckle told her he must have heard her.
With a huff, she rolled onto her side, indifferent to the sudden move that yanked the scarf taut between them.
Fuming, she lay there, convinced she would never find sleep, but eventually her lids grew heavy. She closed her eyes, thinking about how glad she was going to be when she got out of here . . . and how she was going to make certain her life changed for the better. She would tell her father she was finished living her life campaigning for him. She would break things off with Charles for good. And she would never again be a woman longing for the touch of an unsavory criminal.
Eleven
Reid woke with a raging hard-on. It wasn’t so unusual. It happened. Especially in prison where the yearning for a woman could be so acute that wet dreams occurred with high frequency. He blinked a few times, chasing away the cobwebs of what had been a deep sleep.
The only unusual component to the situation was the woman sprawled on top of him. Her hair was all over him like some kind of damn silken web. An accurate description. He felt ensnared.
Her head was cushioned on his shoulder, one of her legs wrapped around him like he was a giant pillow. The fullness of her breast nestled into his chest. She was braless. He felt the bead of her nipple through the fabric of her T-shirt. He wanted to roll her onto her back and pull that breast into his mouth so badly he ached. And there was his dick at full mast . . . wanting to do other things to her, too.
He faced the ugly truth. It didn’t matter what good faith words he spouted. His body wanted what it hadn’t had in years. It wanted Grace Reeves.
He could profess that he wouldn’t touch her all he liked, but putting himself in this kind of proximity with her was just misery.
He sat up abruptly with a curse and reached for his ankle, ready to put an end to the torture. She stirred, coming awake slowly. “Wh-What’s happening . . . ?”
His fingers fumbled, but he eventually got the knot undone. “Go back to sleep,” he said tersely.
He strode from the room, careful to keep his back to her so she didn’t see his traitor cock. He marched into the second bedroom and yanked the bedding and pillow off the bed. Positioning the pillow in front of him, he returned to the master bedroom.
She was sitting up in the bed now, blinking those deep, endless eyes of hers at him as he flung everything down on the floor in front of the door. He didn’t even bother to hide his temper. He was pissed. At her, at himself . . . at how easily she got to him. He should tie her up tomorrow and drive into town and get his itch scratched by someone else, then he would put an end to this thing between them and put things in correct perspective. He was the captor. She was the captive. He wasn’t some sick fuck that got his rocks off abusing women. He wasn’t like Rowdy or half the guys in prison.
“You’re sleeping on the floor?” she asked in a soft voice. Even that voice got him hard. Well, harder.
He settled himself down on his makeshift pallet. Even with the bedding, it was uncomfortable. His prison mattress was better than this.
“Yeah, I’m still in the room, so don’t think about making another run for it. It won’t go well for you.” He knew he sounded like a surly bastard, and from the way her brow furrowed she didn’t like it. Which was for the best. She didn’t need to like it. She didn’t need to know that he was cock-hard for her either.
He didn’t want her to think he was totally soft and without threat. A little bit of fear was a good thing. For both of them. She’d keep her distance that way, and God knew he needed that.
“Is something wrong with the bed?” she asked.
Yeah, you’re in it.
“Just go to sleep,” he growled.
It was a while before she lowered herself back down. He listened as she rustled around on the bed before finding a position she liked and going still. He listened, counting the minutes until her breath evened and she went to sleep. It was torment. He didn’t relish spending the next few days sleeping on the floor, but he would do what he had to do. Just like he always had. His life had been a series of unpleasant e
vents, one after the other. Why should that change now?
Reid never expected life to be easy. He didn’t know what easy was, so it was natural that he shouldn’t look for something he didn’t know existed. Even so, he saw that other kids had it different. Better. Kids whose moms packed their lunches. Kids who got new shoes and talked about the vacations they took.
His mother worshipped at the altar of whatever drug was available. Crack, molly, heroin, meth. Whatever she could get her hands on. She was an equal opportunity addict. Whatever flavor the current man in her life provided, she gladly embraced. It enslaved her, made her weak, made her forget about her children living under the same roof with her.
She forgot about food. That fell to Reid. He’d scrounge for loose change under the car seats and couch cushions. He’d use that and whatever Grandpa gave him between visits. Not trusting to keep it in the house with Mom and her burnout friends coming and going, Reid would bury the money in the woods behind the trailer park in an old mason jar.
Once a week he’d dig up his money, take what he needed, and walk to the corner store with his brother. He bought the essentials, carefully tracking the cost. Peanut butter, a loaf of bread, some juice, a couple cans of soup. Just enough to keep them from starving.
Reid would feed his brother first, then venture into his mother’s bedroom, wade through the stale air that reeked of sweat and cigarettes. He’d force some water and peanut butter sandwich down her. Peanut butter sandwiches she never made him but he was an expert at preparing.
As shitty a mom as she was, he loved her. He held on to vague memories of being tucked in, her cool fingers brushing through his hair as she hummed him to sleep. There was that. She wasn’t all bad. Not as long as he had those memories.
The best thing she ever did was give her father unlimited access to him and Zane. They’d stay weekends with their grandfather. In the summer he would take them for weeks at a time.