Captive Kisses (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (6 page)

Of course, it was possible that she could get away from the
house on foot. It was at least a mile to the nearest dwelling of any kind,
however, and there was no guarantee that it would be occupied. Most of the
homes on the lake were summer places, used a few months out of the year, or
else over the weekends. She could walk miles and knock on doors for hours
without finding anyone in residence this late on a Sunday evening in September.
Charles, it seemed, had chosen his hideaway well. Kelly lay back down, staring
with wide and burning eyes into the darkness.

It was sometime later when she came awake from a fitful
slumber. She lay still, disoriented, caught at the edge of a nightmare she
could not remember. Then she realized it was no dream but reality. She sat up
abruptly, coming fully alert. That movement sent a throbbing pain up her leg.
Her foot; she had forgotten the thorn. It was no wonder, but who could have
thought it would hurt like this?

Pushing herself higher in the bed, she reached to turn on
the lamp. She brushed the covers to one side, then turned her foot so she could
look at it. The thorn was a gray line under the skin of the most tender portion
of her instep. The area around it was red and swollen, and there was a red
streak running up over the top of her foot. It was infected; there could be
little doubt of that. She applied gentle pressure with her thumbs, but it did
no good. The thorn was embedded. It was going to have to come out, and to do
the job she was going to need a needle.

She rummaged in her shoulder bag, searching for a straight
pin, a safety pin, anything that might be pressed into use. There was nothing,
nor was there anything in the dresser drawers that she slid quietly open and
shut. The medicine chest in the bathroom held basic supplies, but nothing
sharp.

Standing in the middle of the floor, she tried to think.
Mrs. Kavanaugh had been a needlewoman, forever stitching at embroidery of some
kind, whether it was petit point, cross-stitch, or crewel work. There had been
a worn, wooden sewing box that she had used. It was always kept in a cabinet in
the living room. If the judge’s wife had not changed her habits and her
pastime, Kelly should be able to find what she sought there.

All was quiet in the next room. The cooling system had come
on, masking a little of the sound she had made. Scarcely breathing, moving with
care, she left her room and limped along the hall. As she passed the room where
Charles was sleeping, she could not resist the impulse to glance in at the
door. In the dim glow cast by the lamp in her bedroom, she could just see his
shape upon the bed, see the dark splotch of his hair against the pillow, the
sheet cutting across his waist, and one long arm flung above his head.

The pieces of furniture in the living room were bulky
shadows in the darkness. She did not dare turn on the overhead light; it might
wake the man sleeping down the hall behind her. There was no real need for it,
not if the sewing box was where it had always been kept. She could find it by
touch if need be, then carry it back to her bedroom to sort out what she
wanted.

The cabinet was actually the lower portion of the built-in
bookcase that took up one wall of the living room. The hinged wooden box was
where she expected it to be, on the bottom shelf. With a sense of triumph, she
knelt and pulled it out. Switching the handle to her right hand, she got to her
feet.

Without warning, a hard hand closed on her shoulder. Charles
whirled her around and scooped her into his arms.

“You!” she exclaimed.

“Who else did you expect?” came the hard reply. He swung
around, striding toward the hall.

“I didn’t. I — Charles, no!” The last cry came as he
shouldered into his bedroom.

“I did warn you.” Reaching the bed, he dropped her upon its
surface. The fall jarred the handle of the sewing box she still clutched in her
fingers. It tumbled away from her as Charles put one knee on the mattress and
threw himself down beside her. She tried to twist away from him, but he was
lying on the skirt of her gown and negligee. He clamped a hand to her waist,
pulling her back against him. He hovered above her there in the darkness, the
muscles in his arm slowly tensing, and then his mouth came down upon hers.

With firm and warm sensuality, he tasted her lips, exploring
the sweetness of their gentle curves and the nectared moistness of one corner,
insidiously increasing the pressure of his kiss until they parted under his. It
was at that moment Kelly realized she had not attempted to resist him past that
first instinctive protest, realized the treachery of her burning mouth and
leaping pulse. The shock of that recognition gave her extra strength as she jerked
away from him. He lunged after her, and with that violent movement, the sewing
box teetering on the foot of the bed tumbled to the floor with a crash that
sent buttons and bobbins, embroidery hoops and spools of thread scattering in
every direction, skittering over the polished floor.

He went still, then with an oath, he sat up and turned on
the light. His dark gaze moved from the debris on the floor to Kelly’s flushed
face as she lay beside him.

“What,” he said with an expressive gesture, “are you doing
creeping around in the dark with that thing clutched to your bosom?”

Kelly scrambled away from him, snatching her gown from under
his thigh. “I wasn’t creeping anywhere,” she snapped. “I was taking the box
back to my room to find a needle.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You were overtaken in the
night by a sudden urge to sew a seam?”

“I have,” she informed him, her gray eyes stormy, “a thorn
in my foot!”

He stared at her, his dark gaze moving slowly from the
tumbled glory of her golden-brown hair to the rose-petal color on her
cheekbones and the creamy softness of her shoulders, more revealed than
concealed by the pale green garment she was wearing. A muscle corded in his jaw
as he transferred his regard to the slim feet that were tucked under her as she
hesitated, ready for flight.

“Let me see.”

“I will not!” she returned, sliding from the bed, uncaring
that her gown rode up well above her knees. She put her feet on the floor, and
immediately winced.

He came up from the bed, a tall bronzed figure wearing only
the bottoms to a pair of blue silk pajamas, outlined in a golden nimbus from
the lamplight behind him. “I want to look at this thorn that’s giving you so
much trouble you had to rid yourself of it before dawn. If I have to do it the
hard way, I will, but I would rather not be forced into it.”

“It’s no business of yours.”

“If you think I’m going to let you neglect it to the point
where I’ll have to take you to a hospital, then you are mistaken.”

“I never intended any such thing! It’s just a thorn. I can
tend to it myself!”

“How can I believe you, when you won’t let me see?”

She had the feeling once more that she was being
manipulated, but there seemed nothing she could do about it. There was about
him that animal alertness, the assured confidence amounting to arrogance that
told her it was useless to attempt to evade him. “Oh, all right!”

She sat down on the bed with a flounce. Lifting her gown,
she crossed her ankle on her knee, turning the sole of her foot to the light.
He went to one knee on the floor beside her, his fingers warm and gentle as
they probed her instep.

“Um-hum,” he said. Straightening, he moved into the
bathroom, returning in a moment with a bottle of alcohol, a tube of ointment,
and a collection of bandaging material. He placed these on the bedside table,
then scanned the contents of the sewing box strewn over the floor. Kelly saw
the gleam of the needle at the same time he did, but it was Charles who came up
with it.

Without looking at her, he stepped to me bedside table,
opened the bottle of alcohol, and plunged the needle into the contents. As he
turned toward her once more, Kelly held out her hand.

He shook his head. “Turn over on your stomach.”

“What?” She stared at him, her gray eyes wide.

“Roll over and put your foot on my knee. I can reach it
better that way, and you won’t have to watch what I’m doing.”

“You are not going to do anything,” she told him.

“But I am,” he said softly.

“Why?” The word was bald, stiff with suspicion.

“A number of reasons. First of all, to see that it gets done
properly. Second, because I can see the thing and get to it better than you can
if you have to twist your ankle in your lap. And third, because — because I
want to do it.”

“I know. You will enjoy sticking a needle in me and watching
me squirm!”

Anger leaped into his eyes. “No! Because I —” He pulled
himself up short. When he spoke again, all expression was gone from his face. “I
can hold you down, if you insist.”

“If I insist? You must be crazy. All I want is to be left
alone.”

“The last thing that is likely to happen. Will you lie down?”

“I despise you!” she said, the words bursting from her
before she could stop them.

“I don’t doubt it. On your stomach, please.”

The nagging pain in her foot exacerbated her nerves that
were by no means calm in the first place. She wanted the thorn out, and the
sooner the better. Just now, her swollen instep was a handicap that she could
not afford if she meant to get into a foot race. And if she were caught and
dragged struggling back to his bed, what would be the result of their tussles
in their skimpy nightwear if he carried out his intention of forcing her to lie
still under him? She had already had more than one demonstration of the
chemistry that could be ignited between them. It would be foolhardy in the
extreme to invite another.

Giving him a look of fulminating rage, Kelly stretched out
face down across Charles’s bed and buried her face in her arms. He sat down
beside her, and picking up her ankle, set her foot on his knee directly under
the light.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

“It’s a little late to worry about that, don’t you think?”
she said, her voice muffled.

“Such a martyr,” he jeered. “I wonder if you will put
yourself in your husband’s hands so reluctantly and fatalistically on your
wedding night.”

“I hardly expect it to be the same as having a thorn
removed,” she said, her voice tart. Then, as the possible implications of her
remark struck her, she was fervently glad that her face was hidden.

A tremor shook him, as of silent laughter. His tone suspiciously
grave, he said, “I hope not.”

The touch of his hands was firm, yet gentle, the restraint
he kept on her movement complete. She felt the pricking of the needle against
the tightly held skin of her instep. A shiver ran over her as the steel of the
needle touched the thorn.

“It’s deep,” he said. “I can’t think why in the name of
heaven you didn’t mention it earlier.”

She unclenched her gritted teeth enough to say, “You were so
busy threatening me, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

“If I remember correctly, you did your share of the talking.”

“For what good it did me.”

He made no direct reply, asking instead, “When was your last
tetanus shot?”

“What difference does that make?”

“It’s a puncture wound, and this is cattle country. It’s
been against the law for several years to allow cattle to range free, but
sometimes the farmers let them out in the winter.”

“That’s trusting of them, beef prices being what they are.”

“Isn’t it?” he said. “It also increases the danger of
tetanus, if you take my meaning.”

He was speaking of the germ’s preference for incubation in
fresh manure. She grimaced. “What would you say if I told you I had not had a
tetanus vaccination since I was twelve?”

“I would send to the nearest hospital for serum and give it
to you myself.”

She didn’t doubt it for a minute. His words, spoken without
haste, were too even, too deliberate. “That won’t be necessary. I had a booster
when I went in for my physical before I started to work.”

He gave a grunt of satisfaction, though whether it was for
the information she had given him, or for the success of his operation, she
could not tell. Hard on the sound, he said, “Here is what was causing your
problem.”

She lifted her head, twisting to see the prize. Nearly an
inch long, it was a brownish-black locust thorn. She had hardly been aware of
his deeper probing for it. She knew that she had the firmness of his grip
around the point of entry to thank for that oblivion, and also his provocative
comments that had distracted her, keeping her attention from what he was doing.
She levered herself higher, trying to turn.

“Lie still.”

She felt the sting and smelled the pungency of iodine,
followed immediately by a soothing application of ointment. Over this he placed
a square of sterile white gauze, then fastened it with strips of nylon tape.
His movements were quick and sure, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You go about that like a professional,” she said, a
tentative note in her voice.

“On a place as big as —” he began, then stopped, all
expression leaving his face. “Let’s just say I have had a little experience.”

What had he been going to say? She could make no sense of
it. “I suppose I should be grateful for it.”

He did not answer. Kelly lowered her lashes as she realized
how ungracious her comment sounded. Turning over, she sat up, pushing toward
the edge of the bed.

“Not so fast,” he said. Turning from tightening the lid on
the iodine bottle, he leaned to put one arm under her knees and the other
across her back before he surged to his feet.

“I can walk,” she protested as she found herself in his arms
once more.

“Yes, but not run. You don’t know how relieved that makes
me.”

“I can imagine,” she said, though there was a shadow of
nervousness in her eyes as he carried her from the room and down the hall.