In the Arms of a Stranger (Entangled Ignite) (17 page)

He washed the dishes. It only seemed fair since she’d cooked. He really hated washing dishes. After his father’s death, things were tight. They couldn’t afford a dishwasher—the only family he knew who didn’t have one—so his mother split the chore between herself, him, and his two sisters. Funny, but until this moment, when he found himself doing something so mundane, something that he flat-out hated, he hadn’t realized the fairness of splitting that duty. His mother would laugh if she saw him, his hands in dishwater.

The thought warmed his heart. If his mom could find any humor in anything about him, he’d be happy. As far as she knew, he’d gone missing. For over a year. He wasn’t sure what good old Brooks had told her, what the official story about him was. Nothing good, he imagined.

Had Brooks investigated her? Her friends? His sisters? Harassed them?

He heard the water in the shower. Abby was bathing. He was in the kitchen doing the dishes and she was bathing. To distract himself, he looked outside into the darkened woods that surrounded the cabin and suddenly wondered what Cole would think of the place.

He frowned.

That confirmed it. He’d lost his fucking mind.

…

Abby towel-dried her wet hair and combed out the tangles.

Heat
. He’d looked at her with eyes that smoldered.
I have never, ever, thought of you as a child
.

Just as she could think of him as nothing other than a captivating man. One she was increasingly infatuated with.

She would do everything he said. She’d follow every order. But if he tried to turn her over to Brooks, she would not let anyone believe for a single instant that JP had kidnapped her.

She wrapped a second towel around herself and checked the ant bites. Angry and swollen. She wasn’t allergic, but she needed to put something on them or she’d start scratching. The only thing in the medicine cabinet that might help was alcohol.

She slipped on clean panties, pushed her heavy wet hair aside, dampened a cotton ball with alcohol, and began dabbing it on the bites she could reach across her shoulders and neck. Damn, it burned. A couple of bites on the back of her head really itched, as did three on her back, but even though she twisted and turned, she couldn’t reach them.

“Abby,” JP called from the other side of the closed bathroom door.

“Yes?”

“I found some Caladryl,” he said. “Open the door.”

Caladryl would be soothing. But she wasn’t ready to face JP with his last words and the memory of the ant bite episode sizzling between them. Especially dressed in panties and a towel.
No way
. “Just put it down by the door. I’ll get it in a minute.”

She heard movement on the other side and figured she’d wait a minute, give him a chance to walk away. She was such a coward—she shouldn’t be embarrassed to face him. After all, they’d spent plenty of time together after she’d been bitten. But standing in the bathroom, holding the towel she’d hastily gathered to her chest when she heard him call, evoked too many memories of his hands on her.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She was thirty-four. A mother. Stable, reliable. A woman who for some reason felt drawn to men who weren’t accountants or salesmen.

But what in heaven’s name did JP see in her?

Nothing, you fool
. It had probably just been a while since he’d had sex.

Was that all he wanted?

Was it all
she
wanted?

She held the towel against her breasts and opened the door.

JP stood inches from her, one hand propped high on the door frame, the other holding the lotion. She nearly screamed. Nearly. The barest hint of a smile curved his lips. Humor touched his eyes.

Humor, and so much more.

“I don’t bite, you know.”

No, he didn’t. He did things that were much worse. He tempted her to abandon herself. To let the passion she felt rule her.

He waved the Caladryl. “And if I do, we’ve got the cure right here.” She felt her eyes grow round, and he grinned. “Just kidding. Let me help you put this on your back, Abby.”

Oh, God
. Even his voice did things to her. And that smile…

No
. She refused to let temptation skew her common sense.

“Okay,” she said. Her voice came out in a croak. On unsteady legs, she took the few steps back to the sink, picked up a clean cotton ball, and, towel gripped tight to her chest, handed it to him. His grin prompted her to add, “But no biting.”

He winked at her. “No promises. Turn around.”

She obeyed like some sort of robot. What would she do if he asked her to go to bed with him?

What would she do if he
didn’t
ask?

“Move over a little, so your back’s in the light,” he said.

He was being practical and she was being ridiculous. She moved and looked over her shoulder at him. “This good?”

He turned her slightly, his hand gentle on her shoulder, until she faced the mirror and he stood behind her. She could see his movements. Head bent slightly, he dabbed moistened cotton onto her bites. The cool soothed the burning itch. Goose bumps spilled over her skin at his touch. He dabbed at the bites along her shoulder, then the ones under her arm, so close to the outer swell of her breast.

Her nipples puckered. She clutched the towel against herself with both hands.

“Lift your hair,” he said, his voice a whisper in the damp air of the bathroom.

Her eyes met his in the mirror.

“So I can get the bites on your hairline.”

He sounded so matter-of-fact while she was ready to incinerate. But she could do this. She could be as unaffected as he was.

Carefully clutching the towel against her breasts with one hand, she reached back and pulled up the weight of her wet hair with the other.

He reached around her for another cotton ball. His eyes, reflected in the mirror, zeroed in on hers. She couldn’t look at him. She bent her head, watched his beautiful hands as he moistened the cotton with lotion, then closed her eyes. She felt him dab it on her neck.

Then he touched her scalp, his fingers parting her wet hair. She wouldn’t have been surprised if her body actually hummed. The temptation to lean back against him was so strong she had to fist the hand that held the towel. She didn’t dare open her eyes. If she saw them together in the mirror, she’d do just that.

“I think I got them all,” he said.

His warm breath tickled the nape of her neck. The towel slipped slightly from her numb fingers. She managed to grasp it before she dropped it completely. She opened her eyes and saw that her right breast was uncovered. Quickly, she pulled the towel over herself, and glanced up to the mirror.

He was gazing at her. With the same look as earlier.

“I’ll, uh, finish the dishes.” He swallowed, turned, and walked out, closing the door softly behind himself.

Oh, God
. She was never coming out of the bathroom again.

…

Okay, so he was a saint. He
did
deserve a medal. He’d sincerely wanted to help her with her bites. But the sweet torture of touching her had become a Herculean challenge. Could he help her without doing more? Without letting his body take over his good sense?

It would have been so easy to gather her close, to pull that damn towel away from her, to cup her beautiful breasts in his hands. To yield to the desire that raged through his body.

But his feelings for Abby didn’t matter. This wasn’t about him. He would do what was best for her, protect her—
from himself if necessary
—his own needs be damned.

If he could keep this up, this test of his willpower, he’d prove he was a damn saint and she’d be fine.

Right
. He laughed wryly and glanced down at himself.

Oh, yeah. He was doing a fine job of keeping it up.

And there wasn’t a single saintly thing about him.

…

There was only one bed.

Naturally.

So Abby slept in the easy chair. She’d insisted on it, despite his vehement objection. She was now clinging to the chair arms to keep herself from doing something stupid. Like tell him they could share the bed. Or just crawl in next to him, without asking.

She’d offered to check JP’s wound before they turned off the lights, but he’d refused. Avoidance seemed to be his new strategy. He did that very, very well.

Despite everything, she did rest, though sleep proved more elusive. Every time JP moved in his bed, she froze. Not that she could even turn over in the chair. She lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the only light a sliver of moonlight that shone around the edge of the blinds that covered the windows. And wondered about herself, her son, and the choices she’d made in her life. Eventually she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of JP’s fingers on her back, tempting her.

The incessant chirping of a bird woke her. Confused, she looked around the cabin, to the bed on the other side. The sheets were rumpled, the blanket tossed aside. The two pillows lay in a disorderly heap.

Her heart hammered wildly in her chest.

JP had left her
.

She tossed aside the quilt, jumped up, and ran to the front window. The car was gone.

Damn, damn,
damn
! Why had she trusted him? Angry at herself, she pulled on her tennis shoes. If she had to walk, she’d walk, damn it. But she wouldn’t wait here. Would not wait again. Ever.

With deliberation, she calmed herself, considered what she’d need in order to go on alone. She’d been asleep when they drove up. She didn’t know exactly where they were, or how far it was to the nearest town. Reality plowed into her. Where would she go? What would she do?

She had to toughen up, not trust so easily. So, she wanted to play with the big boys? The spies? Well, being Ms. Helpless wasn’t going to cut it.

Good God, what was she thinking? That she was suddenly going to turn into some character in a Bourne movie? The most difficult thing she’d ever done was manage twenty-four elementary school children. As if
that
had prepared her for JP and his world.

Great, so she really
was
Ms. Helpless.

She would not cry.
Would not
. She refused.

She had to calm down. Stop. Think.

She found there was still warm coffee in the pot. She poured herself a cup and went into the bathroom to wash her face with cold water. Afterward, she felt a little better. A little stronger.

But coffee and cold water would not get her out of this.

She looked at herself in the mirror—the mirror where just last night she’d been tempted to turn around and throw herself into the arms of JP Blackmon.

You’re a fool, Abby
.

Maybe she should have. Maybe then he would have kept her with him. If nothing else, for—

She didn’t expect the little sob that caught in her throat, thought she’d stopped it. Her image in the mirror blurred.

That’s when she heard a car driving up. Swiping angrily at her traitorous tears, she rushed in alarm to the window. And sucked in a breath.

JP!

She watched him get out of the car, bend and reach inside, then pull out a bag. She blinked.

Donuts.

He’d gone to buy donuts.

And here she was, crying like a ninny.

Because of him. Because she thought he’d left her.

She didn’t want him to see her like this. Tear-streaked and needy. Swiftly, just as he slammed the car door, she dashed back into the bathroom and whipped the door shut. She turned on the water and washed her face again, hoping the cold water would erase the vestiges of her tears.

“Abby? You all right?” JP asked.

“Yeah. I’ll be out in a second,” she called, muffling her voice with a towel, just in case.

She looked at herself in the mirror.
Sure she would
. She’d go right out. Looking like she’d been crying.

Get over it
, she told herself.
Get over yourself
. He didn’t care if she cried or not. He didn’t feel that way about her. He felt attraction, nothing more. And last night, it seemed he’d changed his mind about that, too. In the bathroom, with her body a quick towel-pull away from naked, he’d walked away without even trying, totally unaffected by her nearness.

If he could change his mind, she could pull herself together and face him.

She was here because she had to find out the truth about Wade. Nothing more. She refused to live the rest of her life not knowing, dodging Cole’s questions as he got older. That was all.

“I brought donuts,” JP said through the door. “And milk.”

“Great!” She groaned at herself in the mirror. That had sounded way too enthusiastic. “I’m coming,”

She ran a comb through her hair, examined her eyes closely, and decided she looked about as normal as she could.

When she opened the door, he was putting plates out on the small table. He was dressed in jeans that hung a bit low but clung to his thighs, a faded Disney World T-shirt tucked only in the front, and boots. He’d hooked his holster, with the gun, onto one shoulder.

He looked up and smiled. “I thought we could use something sweet. Milk or coffee?”

“Milk.” Her auto-response made her think immediately of Cole.

“Grab a couple of glasses from the cabinet,” he said.

He’d charmed her son, charmed her. Made her lose perspective.

“Abby, are you okay?”

“Huh?”

He was staring at her. Because she was staring at him.

She whipped her gaze away. “Oh, yes. Just thinking about Cole. He loves donuts. I wonder if Steve—” She took a breath. She was babbling. She didn’t need to explain herself.

“What about your brother?” he asked.

“Nothing, just you know, mother things,” she shrugged, embarrassed.

JP crossed the small cabin toward her. Big, strong, exquisitely masculine. “Your brother knows him, Abby. He’s family. He’ll take good care of Cole.”

The tenderness in his voice, the way he was looking at her, took her breath away.

“I saw them together,” he said.