Sleepless in Montana (3 page)

When she hurried off, exploring his home
without waiting for an answer, Hogan shook his head— his tranquil
home was threatened by a tornado of clashing colors and nonstop
woman. He followed her into the kitchen, resenting the need to be
herded or to follow Jemma Delaney anywhere.

“Carley’s Whirlwind” hadn’t changed— Jemma
ate voraciously, she bossed and prodded, and she loved Carley
without qualification.

Hogan frowned at the artist awakening in him—
the need to touch, to smooth that lithe taut female body between
his palms, absorbing the curves into him, to store for use in his
work.

He’d always had the need to touch, to draw
into him, and he resented the need to feel Jemma’s body beneath his
palms, to smooth those narrow hips and stroke those firm, long
thighs, to wrap his hand around her ankle, an image of male
capturing a female. Her uptilted breasts had taunted him since
she’d matured years ago.

He pushed away the artist and slid into the
man who knew Jemma too well— she always wanted something, and she
wasn’t sweet.

In the kitchen, Jemma bent, studying the
contents of Hogan’s double-wide refrigerator. “I’m starved.”

“What else is new?” In contrast to his
rounder, shorter half sister, Jemma’s lithe, restless body never
reflected her bottomless-pit eating habits. “I suppose you flew in
your own plane.”

“Sure.” A top entrepreneur, she’d been an
arctic bush pilot.

Hogan tried not to study those tight jeans,
that wiggle of her bottom as she leaned down to the bottom
shelf.

Despite his attempt to kill his response to
Jemma, the artist within him awakened at her smooth, graceful
movements, her slender, eloquent hands that could— Hogan inhaled
sharply when he realized that his skin had tightened almost
sensually.
And he didn’t like that his body reacted to
Jemma’s...

Jemma was not a sensual woman, never stopping
to enjoy a texture or image. In constant motion, she disturbed
Hogan’s naturally methodical senses, creating an earthquake, a
tidal wave in his smooth, calm, pensive waters.

She had as much sensitivity as a block of
marble. Unless Carley was concerned, Jemma was strictly geared to
stuffing her checkbook.

Jemma straightened and scanned his spacious,
gleaming kitchen, all in one quick movement.

Hogan disliked her efficiency, the way she
bundled her movements, her quick takes.

She turned toward him, her eyes locking onto
him, and his senses spiked. He knew that edgy look; Jemma was on a
mission... “What’s up, Jemma?”

“Nice place. Expensive and classy. Cold,
though. But it suits you, I suppose, all this gleaming stainless
steel. Yes, it does suit you.”

“Now I’m ‘stainless steel.’ The last time I
was Mr. Granite Heart.”

“You’ve always worn armor, as long as I’ve
known you. You never let anyone get too close— all the doors swing
shut— even with your family. That’s awfully hard on people who love
you— but then, you don’t care about that, do you? You know— family,
loved ones? Carley?”

Hogan leaned against the wall and crossed his
arms. The comparison to stainless steel grated. He resented the
quick glance in the kitchen window to see his reflection, to see if
he was that easily read.

Nettled that Jemma could distract him so
easily, he turned to her. The sooner he got answers, the sooner
she’d leave. “Cut to the chase... What about my family? What about
Carley?”

“She’s in trouble. You’re going to help.”
Jemma opened the refrigerator door and bent down, scanning it.

Hogan tried not to notice the tight fit of
her jeans across her hips. He frowned, certain that the sudden
jarring he’d just felt was the awful sunflower pattern clashing
with his artistic sensibilities. He had the awful image of
gathering those soft, sunflower-decked hips into his open hands—
His body jolted to hard alert, the primitive need to take,
startling him.

Hogan lowered his lids and wished the slight
tic at his temple would stop— he had no interest in Jemma’s body.
He needed sleep; his raw edges were showing.
Jemma Delaney did
not appeal to him.

Jemma retrieved half of a blackberry pie from
the refrigerator and placed it on the counter. She withdrew a roast
turkey breast and mashed potatoes. Hogan’s eyes narrowed as she
hacked at the neatly cut meat, slapping it onto a plate, and
plopped a generous helping of mashed potatoes beside it. She bent
to study his microwave, punching the buttons. “You must have a
cook.”

He noted the slivers of meat and dollops of
potatoes Jemma had left on the counter. Hogan wiped them away and
neatly replaced the wrapping on the roast turkey breast, replacing
the food in the refrigerator.

Hogan saw no reason to explain that Maxi
Dove, Ben’s housekeeper, and her daughter, Savanna, came and went
in his home as well. He appreciated the meals, laundry, and
housekeeping. When neither would take money, Hogan had funneled
regular payments in their names to Aaron Kodiak’s brokerage company
in New York. Neither woman knew that they owned shares in Kodiak
Designs.

He’d wondered at times if Savanna was his
sister, her sleek, dark, Native-American coloring matching his own.
Maxi was Assiniboine and Blackfoot—
what was he, in a land of
Blackfoot, Crow and Cheyenne, and Kootenai?

He treated Maxi with respect, and she had
acted as his mother. Clearly Ben honored her, protected her when
she had Savanna outside of marriage—
Who was Hogan’s
mother?

“About Carley?” he asked, pushing away that
cold, haunting, and familiar ache.

Jemma pushed a fork filled with turkey into
her mouth, chewed and closed her eyes. “Mmm. Good.”

She reached for a wooden pepper grinder, used
it, and carried the pie and plate of food into the living room. She
sat cross-legged near the fire and flicked an impatient glance at
Hogan. He was nettled by having to follow her through his house to
discover why she had come. Jemma had always managed to place him in
positions he didn’t like.

“Stop hovering. I’m not going to hurt you,”
she said.

In typical Jemma fashion, she ate the pie
first, all of it, stuffing it into her mouth with a spoon. She
licked the last bit of blackberry from her lip and dived into the
roast turkey. “Ben still doesn’t know about that summer when Carley
and I were hiding in the bushes. I circled around, because I
thought if you guys went skinny-dipping, I wanted to see it all.
Anyway, I’ve always felt guilty that I left her and that creep,
whoever he was, almost raped her.”

Hot rage slapped at Hogan, the fierce need to
protect his sister. He didn’t like feeling helpless, and Carley’s
haunted expression made him want to—

He glanced at the window and saw a killer’s
face...

“You’re blaming yourself again for not
catching him that night. The rest of us are humans, Hogan. We
accept that we make mistakes— but you’ve an unforgiving, cold
heart, even with yourself. You’re almost terrifying when you look
like that, Hogan. I wonder sometimes what would have happened to
him, if you had caught him. I don’t think he would have lived—
you’re very protective of your family, and that’s your only value
to me.”

Her fork paused over the mashed potatoes.
“Steamed brown rice would be healthier— You don’t have gravy, do
you? No, you wouldn’t.”

“I’ve had a plate or two of fettuccini
Alfredo in my time.” Hogan resented the way Jemma could put him on
the offensive so quickly. In the way that had served for years, he
quietly returned the barb— just a little warning tap to remind
Jemma that he could defend himself. “You were married, weren’t you?
About four years ago?”

The color of brewing thunderclouds, her eyes
flicked at him as she disregarded his question. “Sit down. You’re
making me nervous. You’re too big and tense. You fake that easy
look, but it’s all packed up tight inside you. You haven’t changed.
You’re just as moody-looking, intent like a cougar waiting to
spring. I see you’ve still got the long hair Ben hates, though
that’s probably a high-priced designer cut, tied at the back with a
leather thong. The short ponytail at your nape works. It’s better
than that long braid. But you know how to market yourself—the artsy
look. I like that.”

“Get to the point,” Hogan said, and instantly
regretted the sharp edge to his usual quiet tone. “You came here
for a reason. What is it? Is this about Carley?”

Jemma’s expression tightened into fury and
words burst from her like bullets. “That bastard who nearly raped
Carley has followed her. He’s been sending her little messages.
Eighteen years, and he’s still after her.... Hogan, she hasn’t
slept in all these years— not unless you or Aaron or Mitch or Ben
were in the vicinity. No one is sleeping, it seems, haunted by that
night and watching Carley come apart.”

Hogan’s indrawn breath hissed around the
room. “Damn it.”

She took a deep breath as if preparing
herself to go on, and then words burst angrily from her. “I think
she’s afraid something is going to happen to Dinah, too. One night
I found Carley sitting in the kitchen with a knife in each hand,
just sitting there, staring at the door. You know she’s never told
anyone— even Dinah— and now he’s started the threats. Dinah knows
Carley is terrified, and Carley won’t leave her job. Every day, she
goes to the office, walking on the streets, terrified of everyone,
every shadow...”

Jemma’s fist closed on her fork, the knuckles
showing white beneath the skin. “She’s a sitting duck right now. I
promised I wouldn’t say anything before this— before he started up
again— he might have died meanwhile, anything could have happened,
and I was hoping Carley would forget.... But she can’t now. Because
he’s back, and we have to do something.”

Hogan’s blood ran cold; this time he couldn’t
push his rage back into the shadows, and his fist hit the wall. He
knew then that he was capable of murder, if not of love.

Jemma shoved back her hair and crossed her
arms as she stared out into the night. For an instant the glass
threw their reflections back at them, the pale vibrant woman, hair
aflame and the dark dangerous man, towering behind her, his eyes
burning hot with rage.

In a typical, restless, abrupt motion, Jemma
rose and turned; she walked to the wine decanter, and filled their
glasses. “There’s one thing about you, Sasquatch, I can always
count on you for Carley’s sake. We may not like each other, but
you’ll be there for her and for Dinah.”

Hogan continued to stare at his reflection,
all shadows and harsh planes, his eyes glittering. His fists locked
to his sides, fists that wanted to batter his sister’s
attacker....

“We shouldn’t have run over those tire prints
that night, trying to get him,” Hogan said, lashing at himself.
Carley’s attacker was back and threatening, and she can’t take a
second attack.

He turned slowly, tethering his frustration,
his fear for Carley. He stared at the glass Jemma held out, watched
the swift way she downed hers and hurried for another. She stared
at the red wine, held it up to the light to study it.
“Expensive.”

She glanced at Hogan, who was still holding
the glass. He saw Carley’s face, pale and shattered after her
attack, in the dark red liquid. For a moment, he heard his
brother’s shouts, Jemma’s and Carley’s cries....

Jemma slashed out a hand, dismissing Hogan’s
regrets. “That’s old stuff... the tread marks. The area was rocky
anyway. He could have stolen any car; no one around here used to
bother to take their keys out of the ignition. Let it go.... We’ve
got a real problem. Dinah is scared, and she’s called Mitch and
Aaron. They’re tying up business and they’ll both be here for as
long as it takes. She knows good and well that Ben and Carley’s
brothers are the best men to protect Carley.”

Hogan watched her pace back and forth in
front of the fireplace. “Here, as in Kodiak land?”

“Where else?” Jemma took a deep breath, her
gray eyes steady upon his. “Dinah and Ben never knew anything about
that summer, or the messages the bastard has sent Carley through
the years. Dinah only knows that Carley is being threatened now—
Dinah opened a package addressed to Carley. It was a pair of
panties. ‘Wear this when we meet,’ he’d written.... Sick weirdo.
Dinah thinks it’s because some creep got mad at Dinah’s Temporary
Employment Service, because they wouldn’t hire him. I don’t think
so.... It’s the same guy. He also sent her own panties from that
night—”

Her eyes were huge, haunted now, filled with
fear for Carley. “Hogan, he’s had them all these years, saving
them. He’s so sick and he wants to get her.”

Despite his rage and fear for Carley, Hogan
noticed that Jemma was shivering and pale. He took her glass from
her. “Sit down.”

She swung a fist into the couch, then her
nails dug deep into the woven material. “I can’t. I’m so mad.”

“You didn’t know that would happen, Jemma,”
he began reasonably as he placed their glasses on an old chest he’d
refinished. He studied the large piece of flint there, the layers
of color running from beige to gray.
How many times had each of
them crucified themselves for not protecting sweet young Carley
that night?

“Didn’t I? I should have—a girl, unprotected
and somewhere she shouldn’t be. But oh, no, I didn’t think about
what could happen to Carley,” she said too tightly, and again Hogan
suspected that Jemma’s life had not been easy.

“The same thing could have happened to
you.”

“I could have dealt with it. And I would have
given that bastard a fight. Carley isn’t built that way, not then
or now.”

Jemma walked to Hogan and shoved a finger
into his silk-clad chest. “Dinah and Carley are coming here. And
we’re all going to stay at Ben’s house. You’re going along with
this, Hogan, and
you’re going to make friends with Ben.
We’re all going to be one big happy family until this is over. You
are not—
repeat not
— going to upset Carley or Dinah even
more by tangling with Ben.”