“No. I remember the fire.” Confusion mingled with the anger in her topaz-colored eyes. “What I don’t understand is how you made that happen. What did you put on my skin, and why couldn’t I wipe the substance off? What was it?”
Based on her knowledge of science, that conclusion wasn’t a bad one. “No chemicals.” Lightning zapped the area by the rocks, zinging the scent of ozone through the forest. While he’d easily survive a lightning strike, as a human, she would not. “Time’s up, beautiful. We’re taking refuge in the cabin and now. You walking or do you want to be carried?” He’d love to get his hands on her again, even for a short time.
Another lightning strike hit, this one closer.
She jumped. “I’ll walk.” She shoved him again, and this time, he stepped back.
“Good. Follow me.” Without waiting for more agreement from her, he took her hand and started back toward the cabin. He could see in the dark, unlike her, and he steered her away from loose branches and torn-up roots. The rain increased in power, and he shielded her the best he could until they arrived at the cabin. This time, he kept hold of her as he strode onto the porch and to the door, opening it and gently nudging her inside.
She stumbled but righted herself. “You had time to bring in my suitcase, turn on the lights, and start a fire before you ran after me?” Her voice sounded lost. Confused.
“Yeah.” He’d promised not to lie to her. So he shut the door and then moved to put another log on the fire. “I’m a good tracker.” Maybe she’d be satisfied with that explanation.
She rubbed her hands down her wet arms.
He turned and got his first good look at her now that they were out of the storm. Her hair curled wildly, and with her makeup washed off, she looked pure. Beautiful with her tawny skin and those topaz eyes. Her clothing was…wet. The white material of her shirt clung to her very full breasts, and the sweats outlined her thigh muscles. Heat rose through him, singeing his ears. Desire glided along his skin, inside his torso, landing torturously in his groin. Hard. He coughed and cleared his throat, willing his suddenly raging dick to behave itself.
She sneezed.
The sound propelled him into action. He lifted her suitcase and delivered the heavy bag to the only bedroom before returning. “Go in there and change into something warm. I’ll heat tea and then we can talk.”
She hesitated and then followed his directions. When she reached the doorway, he spoke.
It was only fair to give her warning. “There’s a sliding glass door in the bedroom. Feel free to make use of it and run back into the storm. I will find you and bring you back here. It’s dangerous out there, Honor,” he murmured.
* * * *
Honor stepped inside the room. “It’s dangerous in here,” she said, shutting the door. She leaned against the smooth wood and took several deep breaths. Okay. This situation was beyond her experience. What did he want from her? What kind of game was he playing? None of it was making sense. When she didn’t show up for breakfast with Kyle, would he call the authorities? Or would he realize she knew about his cheating and figure she’d just left him?
If nothing else, she knew she couldn’t count on Kyle. She was on her own.
She sneezed again. Catching pneumonia and dying wasn’t the way to go. So she quickly changed into jeans and a thick blue sweater along with plush socks. Then she searched for a weapon, but there wasn’t anything useful in her pack. She looked around the bedroom.
The bed was larger than any she’d ever seen, and it was covered by a comfortable-looking plaid bedspread in greens and blues. Twin bedside tables flanked the bed with a dresser to the left. To the right, a sliding glass door did, indeed, lead out to a deck that extended to the rocks. Outlines of chairs, a table, and maybe a couple of stools were visible in the pouring rain.
She hustled toward the bed tables and rummaged through them, only finding odds and ends. No weapons. She looked at the rickety dresser. Hurry. She had to hurry. So she tiptoed over and went through the drawers, just finding jeans, T-shirts, socks, and boxer briefs. Warmth flushed her as she rifled through Sam’s personal belongings. What was wrong with her?
“Honor?” he called from the other room. “All my weapons are in a closet on the other side of the kitchen. Not in my drawers.”
Heat lanced into her face. Lacking any other option, she stood and strode toward the door. There had to be a decent knife in the kitchen. If she could arm herself, she could force him to give up the car keys. Her head held high, she moved into the small living room, which held a sofa, one chair, and the fireplace. An alcove by the door contained different motorcycle boots, tennis shoes, and leather jackets. A couple of loose socks were on the floor by the fireplace, and the room smelled like warm woodfire and dust.
“Thirsty?” Sam stood in an L-shaped kitchen on the other side of a counter, complete with two chairs on her side. He’d tossed his wet shirt onto the kitchen table and stood there in wet jeans and bare feet. Nothing else.
She swallowed.
His chest was wide and muscled, which she already knew from when he’d carried her. But seeing it was something else. Talk about a cutout of a perfect male body. Too bad it belonged to a kidnapper. Two steaming earthenware mugs were in front of him, and he liberally poured bourbon into one. “Want some?”
“No.” She angled toward the barstools, her gaze scouting the kitchen. Wooden counter, closed cupboards, stove top, oven, and microwave—all dingy white and at least ten years old. The place was definitely a bachelor pad. Where were the knives?
“The knives are in the drawer by the sink,” Sam said, setting down the bottle.
She paused.
He grinned. “Saw you looking.”
She smoothed her hair away from her face, noting that the heavy strands were starting to dry. “How many women have you kidnapped?” If there had been others, they would’ve done the same thing as she, looking for weapons.
He rolled those dark emerald eyes. “None. You’re my first.” He lifted the mug in a toast.
Her legs wobbled.
“Seriously. Stop being afraid.” Now he sounded frustrated. Turning, he opened a drawer and revealed his strong back. A jagged tattoo covered his left scapula in a series of barbed lines that formed an intricate circle. A scary one. He turned back and slid a large knife across the counter. “Here. If it makes you feel better, take this.”
Her hand trembled, but she reached out and clasped the wooden handle. The blade glinted in the soft light.
“Feel better?” he asked, tipping his glass to his mouth.
“Not really.” She tightened her hold and held the knife away from her leg. “I don’t understand.” Was this some sort of weird game?