He sat up, his lean body silhouetted in the early-morning light, and she watched as he rose and worked the kinks from his body. The convertible dinette made a cramped bed, and he was a tall man. At least there was some justice in this world.
He paused by her bed, looking down at her. “Do you have to pee?”
Jesus, what a question! “No,” she snapped.
“You always did a have a bladder like a camel’s,” he said affably. “We’re about two hundred miles from Bear’s Claw, and this isn’t a formal campground, which means the wood’s our toilet and the river’s our bathtub. Since you’re in no particular hurry, I’m going to clean up. You got towels?”
“Not for you.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I have no problem with nudity if you don’t.” He was out the door before she could protest, but Merlin stayed where he was, sitting on his haunches in the guard position she was used to.
“Great good that is,” she said to him, her voice full of affection. “He’s the one you’re supposed to be protecting me from.”
Merlin gave her that look. It was one uniquely his, one she’d never seen on another dog, a canine expression that roughly translated to “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I don’t suppose I could talk you into chewing through the duct tape?” she said.
Merlin’s whine could have been expressing his regret. She sighed. He’d simply met another alpha dog—it wasn’t his fault. “Give me a kiss, baby,” she said, and Merlin licked her nose with his long tongue, snuffling at her with sympathy.
She needed the sympathy. In her annoyance she hadn’t realized just how much she had to use the facilities, or lack thereof. Bishop would take his own sweet time, and in the meantime all she could do was lie there and try to figure out what the hell was going on.
She had very little to work with. Her thieving gigolo of a phony husband had popped up out of nowhere, in the middle of the wilderness, with a gun and a ruthlessness that was a far cry from the slow-burning sexuality that had once kept her in such a haze of desire that the rest of her brain had stopped working. He’d given her some cock-and-bull story about keeping her safe and matters of life and death, and she wondered if he was batshit insane. Why the hell had he shown up now? Could she believe a damned thing he said?
She already knew the answer to that. He was made of lies, and there was no way she could ever trust him. She couldn’t outthink him—he was too flat-out ruthless. She wouldn’t put anything past him, including using that gun on her.
She flinched at the horrible memory of pulling the trigger. It had been a moment of sheer rage, all the hurt and betrayal and misplaced love exploding in one violent moment. What if the gun had been loaded?
He’d called it. She’d be cleaning his brains off the dinette. She hadn’t been able to think of any way to threaten him, any leverage. So she’d pulled the trigger—he’d known perfectly well how horrified she’d been at her own action. He knew she wouldn’t carry through with it again, not unless her life was in danger.
Oddly enough, she didn’t think she was in any danger from Bishop. Sane or not, lying or truthful, he wasn’t going to hurt her. Physically, that was. He’d already hurt her so much in every other way that there was nothing else he could do to her.
She also wasn’t going to play along with whatever fantasies or lies he was spinning. Since she couldn’t fight him, and she didn’t even consider the option of asking, of begging him to go away and leave her alone, then her only choice was to run. She could make it in the woods on her own for a good long time; she could walk to civilization no matter how long it took her. Anything that awaited her in the woods was less threatening than the return of James Bishop.
“So what are you going to do, baby?” she said to Merlin. “Are you coming with me, or staying with that slimy bastard? And if you stay, are you going to rat me out?”
Merlin looked at her out of those wise black eyes, but his answer was anyone’s guess. She suspected he’d come with her—he was still in his protective mode, even though he seemed have a case of love at first sight with Bishop. She couldn’t blame him there—the same disease had hit her long ago in Italy, much to her shame.
Bishop took too damned long doing whatever he was doing, and she was ready to scream in rage when he finally opened the door and climbed in. She’d been sure he’d be naked, but he was fully dressed in clean clothes, similar to the ones he’d been wearing. His blond hair was wet, but he hadn’t bothered to shave, and his stubble looked good on . . . what the fuck was she thinking?
He tossed a backpack onto the dinette/bed and paused by her bed, an eyebrow lifted. “Still got an iron bladder?”
“If you don’t cut me free I’m going to pee in the bed and I’ll make you sleep in it.”
“Kinky.” He already had a knife out, one that was far too big for the job, and it was all she could do to keep from flinching as it slid against
her skin. She suspected he did it deliberately—the flat blade of the big knife a subtle caress against her, and she wanted to jerk away. If she did she could get hurt, so all she could do was lie perfectly still as he cut the bonds away, finishing up with the tape wrapped around her ankles. He caught her arm in one large, strong hand, pulling her upright to get at her bound wrists, and despite her best efforts to keep still, she cried out in pain.
He frowned, but said nothing as her hands were suddenly free. She wasn’t even aware of the tape ripping away from her skin—the pain in her shoulders was blinding, and she closed her eyes and sucked in her breath, trying to still any more sounds of distress.
She felt his hands on her shoulders, and much as she wanted to jerk away, she couldn’t. He was kneading her flesh, his thumbs pressing into the joints, a slow, sure massage that was working out the knotted muscles that had felt frozen. Feeling rushed back to her arms like an army of fire ants covered her skin, and she let out a little yelp. His hands slid down her bare arms then, rubbing, and the memories of Venetian nights overwhelmed her. She forced her eyes to open.
Big mistake. He was too close, and he was looking at her from those damned sea-blue eyes that were so wrong yet so familiar. Suddenly he stopped, looking at her, so close, too close, and he was going to put that gorgeous mouth on hers, and she had no idea what she’d do if he did. Would she kiss his damned lying mouth back? Or would she sink her teeth into his tongue?
She didn’t find out. He dropped his hold on her and got up from the bed, moving away from her as if she had rabies. “Go ahead and use the facilities,” he said, as if they hadn’t shared a tight, yearning moment.
Maybe they hadn’t. She was nothing to him, nothing but a mark, and he’d been everything to her. She climbed out of the bunk, stiff and sore, and moved carefully, holding on to the bed for support. “If I want to wash can I trust you not to look?”
His derisive laugh made her remember the missing .22 fondly. “Feel free to prance around the camp in your birthday suit, Angel. I’m going to explore the area—take your time. I’ll leave Merlin on point.”