She struggled to sit up, cursing the awkwardness caused by her hands being restrained. She wormed her way out the open backseat door and stood. When she put her weight on her right foot, it tingled painfully and was virtually useless. Shifting most of her weight to her left foot, she ran in a lurching gait toward the door.
Shaw was silhouetted in the opening, looking up at the sky but from inside the building where he couldn’t be seen. He heard her coming and turned in time to halt her before she cleared the door.
She screamed as loud as she could.
“Save your breath, Jordie. You won’t be heard.”
She knew it was futile, but she continued to scream anyway, mostly out of frustration as she kicked at his shins, at anything she could reach. When she aimed her knee at his crotch, he pulled back just in time, his body going concave. But she’d come perilously close, and he realized it.
Grabbing a handful of her top’s fabric, he thrust her away from him and held her at arm’s length, while using his other hand to pull the door shut. The clatter of the approaching helicopter became louder. The tin roof vibrated and rattled as it passed directly above them. Then the noise began to fade, as did Jordie’s short-lived hope of rescue.
Eventually Shaw released his grip on her blouse, pushed open the door, and looked out. “They had better get where they’re going soon. Storm’s moving in.”
She was surprised to discover that she’d slept away most of the afternoon. The sun was low in the west and blocked by a thick layer of clouds that had ushered in higher humidity. Now the shelter didn’t feel so much like a convection oven as a steam bath.
They watched the retreating helicopter until it disappeared. He dusted his hands. “So much for that. Nothing to get you all excited.”
His smugness outraged her and, giving no thought to the consequences, she launched herself at him. She resumed kicking, but rather than backing away from her, this time he drew her up against him and placed his feet between hers, making her efforts ineffectual.
The lethargy that had claimed her earlier was replaced by manic determination. She channeled every bit of strength she possessed into inflicting pain, or, at the very least discomfort, anything to upset his damned complacency. She twisted and squirmed, blind with fury, demented by rage, heedless of everything.
Until she realized that she was fighting only herself. He had stopped resisting.
He still held her, his hands splayed and firm on her hips, but the way they were securing her against him wasn’t combative.
She fell still and tilted her face up to look into his.
“Now I’m excited.”
There was an underlying, primitive thrum in his voice, and an insistent and unmistakable pressure against her open thighs where her body involuntarily responded with a purl of sensation.
Mortified, she stumbled back, and, to her surprise, his hands fell away and he let her go. But that only underscored that it was always his choice, that despite her tantrum, he maintained control.
She had no control, not even over her own body. Her breathing was hectic. She knew her face was flushed. His flint-colored eyes moved from her blushing cheeks to her breasts and in an attempt to explain their noticeable physical reaction, she said, “I’m angry. That’s all.”
“Yeah? Remind me to keep you angry.”
Smarting, she said, “Look, I’m sick of your manhandling and your lewd innuendos. This isn’t some kind of…”
When she failed to come up with an appropriate word, he arched an eyebrow. “Some kind of…what?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Kinnard. And make no mistake. If I get a chance to kill you, I will.”
He watched her for a moment. “Noted.”
He made to go around her, but then stopped suddenly and cupped her chin in his palm, forcing her head back. He ran his thumb across her lower lip. “Make no mistake. If I decide to turn this into something of that kind, Jordie, I won’t use innuendos. I’ll tell you straight out that I’m gonna fuck you.”
Josh stared into the flickering television, which was the only light he allowed himself this evening.
Two images of him flashed onto the screen. Even he was shocked by the difference in his appearance from what it had been six months ago.
Jordie had gotten all the advantageous genes, even the good looks. His had never been anything to brag about, but he really looked pathetic in the drawing they were showing on T
V. It was only a sketch done by a police artist, but…still.
No wonder the security on him had become lax. Who would’ve predicted that a scrawny dork who looked like him could pull a big one like this over on some of Uncle Sam’s best?
He had. He should be taking a bow, toasting himself for the outstanding achievement.