First You Run (9 page)

It was his own card, probably from the stash in the console of the rental, and a phone number was written on the back. He opened his cell phone and dialed. It clicked on the first ring.

“Back off, Jack,” a male voice said. “Or she’ll die.”

“Who’ll die?”

“The girl you’re trying to find.”

He turned back toward the patio, where Willie held a cell phone to his ear. He snapped it shut and disappeared into the clubhouse, never looking in the direction of the parking lot.

He still had it.

But the question now was, what the hell did he do with it?

“O
H, MY HEARTY
,
that was a party.” Fletch belted his favorite drinking song as he soaped his body in the piss-poor stream of hot water offered by the overpriced beachfront hotel’s shower. He’d left the door open a crack and could see the California morning sun streaming into the room, teasing him with fantasies of walking along the shore or spending the afternoon poolside with Miranda.

Not that they were there on holiday, but if she had a bathing suit in one of those suitcases he’d lugged into the suite in the dead of night, perhaps he’d find the tattoo with a simple suggestion that they take a dip.

It was definitely time for Plan B since the gods had once again smashed their sexual mojo. After fleeing Canopy, any chance of getting her undressed was put to rest with the firm latch of the bedroom door and the unspoken suggestion that he spend the night on the salon couch.

But she’d let him in a few minutes ago to use the bathroom, scrambling back into her bed without any greeting.

He turned the water to ice cold, faced it for a few minutes, and twisted the faucet off, hearing a low, long moan from the bedroom. Without hesitation, or a towel, he charged in.

She sat up in the bed, her back stick-straight, her eyes closed, her arms extended with her palms up, the low moan coming from her chest.

“Miranda?”

She didn’t open her eyes. “Please. I need all my concentration.”

“Meditating?”

“Oh!” She folded forward with the angry exclamation, burying herself in a mountain of fluffy bedding. “I can feel it start, and I’m trying like mad to ward it off.”

“A panic attack?”

“Yes.” The down muffled her response. “I. Can. Beat. This.”

Water dripped onto the carpet as he reached the bed in four strides. “Of course you can. Here.” He knelt next to the bed and lifted her shoulders, easing her back. “Close your eyes. Deep breaths. This worked for you the other night. What brought it on, anyway? You were fine when I walked in here.” He hesitated, staying below the side of the bed but gently rubbing her shoulders as she sank into the pillow. “Me?”

“No.” She exhaled. “I slept well, but when you woke me up to come in here, I just started reliving that…that…tomb.” She punched the bed again, turning toward him. “Dammit! I was okay until I remembered…how dark it was.”

He stroked her arm, stealing a quick look at the paper-thin cotton camisole top and sleep pants she wore. “I’m sure you were scared. You’d have every right to be, in that dark hole.”

Her eyes flashed blue flints at him. “I don’t want to be scared. More than anything in the world, I don’t want to be scared.” She closed her eyes. “But the fear’s stronger than I am.”

“No, it’s not,” he told her, continuing his soothing ministrations and stealing a few more glances at the way her breasts rose and fell with each calming breath. “You need to channel all that fear into something else. Anger. Action. Something you have control over.”

“That’s just it,” she said. “I
don’t
have control. I tried to find my way around that building, and
bam,
I was locked in. Trapped. Buried…”

“You’re fine now. We got you out.”

“What if you hadn’t been there?” She hitched herself up on one elbow. “What happens when you’re gone?”

Good freaking question. What
would
happen to her when he was gone?

He knelt lower, aware of his nakedness, the skimpy clothes she wore, and the great big bed that suddenly looked damned inviting.

“Does that help?” he asked, sliding his hand under her hair to massage the tense muscles of her neck. “Do you feel better?

“Yeah.” Chills rose on her skin, and her nipples hardened from the cool air of an overhead fan. Or maybe his touch caused her body to react. “That’s…better.”

Her skin! What was he doing admiring her breasts when he finally had the opportunity he’d wanted for two days? His gaze moved over the sweet, buttery skin of her arms and throat, her shoulders. He stroked the inside of her arm with a light, soothing, nonthreatening touch.

She inhaled again, definitely calmer. “Thank you,” she murmured, turning to smile. “That helps.”

“Turn over, luv,” he suggested. “Let me give you a bit of a rub. You’ll feel better.”

She did, without any look of doubt regarding his motives. So trusting, so ready for a pair of hands to calm her down. He could do that. And he could examine her for a tattoo at the same time. “Just let me unwind you, then.” He continued with soothing strokes, massaging her back, seeing nothing on the exposed skin. Under the top?

He lifted it and felt her tense. “No worries,” he assured her. “I’m just relaxing you.” He inched the T-shirt up her back, scanning every inch for even the smallest drop of permanent ink.

There was no ink, only deliciously soft, feminine skin. She shuddered under his fingertips, her soft sigh like a shot of arousal to his groin.

She arched slightly, almost giving him a glimpse of the side of her breast. Desire, sharp and hot, fired straight through him, and he burned to slide his fingers around to cup her delicate breast. To taste it. To taste
her
.

She wouldn’t stop him. That knowledge just made him harder. He squeezed his eyes shut and lifted his fingers from her skin. It was wrong to take advantage of this willing woman; he was already on shaky ground. Seducing her and then running off if he had the wrong girl…Now that he knew her,
liked
her, that was sinking to the depths.

He forced himself to think like a mother instead of a man. Where might someone mark an infant? Aborigines did it on the bottoms of the feet and very high on the thigh, near the groin.

He ran his hands over the rise of her buttocks, her soft flannel pants offering very little barrier under his palms.

She rose again, a natural, feminine response, and, his cock went right up with her. Ignoring the drain of blood from his brain to his balls, he continued to stroke her thighs and her calves and finally reached her bare feet.

Massaging one, then the other, he checked the tender skin of the bottoms. He even separated her toes to check the delicate skin in between, and she wiggled them invitingly.

It would be so easy to lick that tender flesh and continue his inspection…with his mouth.

He shifted his weight on his knees. It had to be on the thigh. Or maybe under her breast, or on her stomach, or lower. He needed to see all of her.

And he needed to get his hands off her before he lost control.

“You should take a warm bath,” he suggested. “That’s very relaxing.”

She turned her head to face him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. “Alone?”

“I’ll draw the water,” he said, purposely not answering the question. “And you’d better turn the other way, unless you want to see all of my ink.” And all of his body.

Her eyes widened. “Other than the ink on your arm?”

He rose a little, revealing the small black deer’s head with stylized antlers slightly below his navel.

She stared at the drawing, and of course he just got harder, but he kept low enough so she couldn’t see his full arousal.

“Is that a reindeer?”

“That’s the emblem of my rugby club in Hobart, the Glenorchy Stags. A bunch of larrikins who hit the midnight tat parlor after we won the championship a few years back.”

She smiled a little, her gaze hot on his flesh. “Any others?”

He knelt lower, and slid a finger in her waistband. “No fair. You’ve seen two of mine. What have you got?”

“None.”

“You sure?”

She gave a soft laugh. “Of course I’m sure. And this is the second time you’ve asked.”

He inched the elastic down, torturing himself with the sight of more creamy skin. “What if I don’t believe you?”

“I’d say you’re trying like hell to get me naked.” She turned on her side, offering him another glimpse of the underside of her breast. “What do you want, Adrien?” The question was loaded with provocation.

“I want…to see you.” It was the raw, honest truth.

“Right.” She used his accent again, slathering sarcasm in the drawn-out syllable.

“It’s true.” He wanted much more, but balls to the wall, all he
had
to do was see her. “You’ve very beautiful.”

Her smile widened. “Byu-ee-ful.”

“You are,” he said quietly.

She said nothing, but searched his face “Why don’t you draw that bath?”

Why didn’t he? “All right.” His voice was husky as he forced himself to take his hands off her and twirl his finger. “Round you go, then. Unless you want to see my real stag.”

She didn’t move.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned.” He pushed himself up, her gaze locked on his erect cock. He stood and turned to walk toward the bathroom.

“And that,” he said, reaching back to tap the vivid red and blue design that covered his right shoulder blade, “is a bunyip.”

“A whatyip?”

He imagined her staring at the beady eyes and sharp teeth of his favorite tattoo.

“The official monster of Australia.”

“He’s scary.”

“That’s why I got him.” He closed the bathroom door behind him, and leaned against it, both hands closing over his aching hard-on. But he didn’t stroke himself, even though release would have been instant and easy. It just wouldn’t have been remotely satisfying.

Instead, he turned to the sink and flipped the cold water on.

The last thing he should do was mess this job up with sex. He cupped his hands and splashed his face.

The
last
thing.

Miranda gave the door a solid push, one fist on the sheet she’d wrapped herself in the way they did in movies when no bathrobe was handy. Adrien stood in front of the mirror, a small electric razor buzzing in his hand, a towel around his waist. Behind him, the tub was nearly full.

“No bubbles?” she asked.

“I can’t see you that way.”

She dragged her gaze to his towel, adding a meaningful slant of her brow. “I can’t see you, either.”

“You’ve seen me,” he said. “Get in while it’s nice and warm.”

She let the sheet fall and stepped in, sliding into the hot water.

“Feel better?” he asked, resuming the work on his face.

“Yes,” she lied, dipping low enough for the water to cover her whole body, but angling her head against the tub so she could surreptitiously study the official monster of Australia. And his tattoo.

“How long have you had these panics?” he asked, adjusting the razor to a different setting. The tickle setting, no doubt.

“The first one I remember was around eleven. My mother said I used to have night terrors when I was a toddler, violent, wild nightmares with screaming that you don’t remember.”

“Do you still have nightmares?”

“Not since I moved to California—and rarely before that.”

He nodded as though he was mulling that over. “Why do you think your mum was so overprotective?”

“My safety has always been her biggest worry.”

“Why?”

She frowned at him. “Aren’t all mothers that way?”

He snorted softly but didn’t answer.
If you want me to cool off fast, ask about my mum.

She didn’t exactly want him to cool off, but there was no sign of the mighty erection she’d just seen, so maybe he’d cooled himself off. “So, what happened with your mother?”

The shaver stopped buzzing. “My mum racked off when I was about five years old.” He tapped the side of the sink with his shaver, hard enough to send a little flurry of whiskers out of it. “She hated my dad with a passion. For good reason, too, since he was a stinking bludger who beat the crap out of her.”

“And…she left a five-year-old behind?”

“Well, she was a stripper and a whore, so I didn’t really fit into her lifestyle.”

Stunned, she sat up at stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“As the dead.” He turned, his caramel eyes hot and direct. “Not everyone has dreamy childhoods in suburbs with doting parents whose biggest concern is whether or not their baby gets a skinned knee.”

“It’s not my fault my mother was overprotective,” she shot back.

He shrugged. “Think of the alternative. No fear…no family.” His voice trailed off, and he looked back in the mirror at his reflection.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, drawing her legs up to hug them.

“Don’t be. Wasn’t your fault.”

“Still…” She let out a little breath. The blinding sexual pull she’d felt in bed was diminished, replaced by a different ache. This one much higher, in her chest, as she imagined a tough little Adrien growing up like that. “No fear? Of anything?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you. You must be afraid of something.”

He splashed water on his face, droplets flying everywhere, hitting the mirror, wetting his hair. “Not a freaking thing, luv.”

“Not scared of dying? Of being alone? Of spiders? Nothing?”

He laughed a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m afraid of leaving you alone to fend for yourself against some creepy people who want to hurt you.”

Then don’t leave
.

But she didn’t say the words. He knew what she wanted. And if he didn’t, there were more effective ways to tell him.

She stood slowly, letting the water slide down her body just as his gaze did, from her neck, over her breasts, down her stomach, to her thighs.

He stared at her, hard, relentless, and direct.

Then don’t leave
.

His towel tented, giving her a rush of satisfaction. His eyes moved like a steam iron over her skin, the heat of his gaze making her nipples ache and her stomach constrict.

“You said you wanted to see me,” she whispered. “So look.”

He did just that, the burn of his eyes as arousing as if he’d run his tongue along the same lines.

Heat pooled low in her, wet and warm and achy as his gaze settled there, so intense she felt her clitoris tingle and burn and throb.

Her fingers ached to rub it, to ask him to do the same.

“Turn around.” His voice was husky and tight.

She did, sensing him come closer, feeling the fire of his scrutiny.

“Lift your hair,” he said.