Over the Line (24 page)

She bit her lower lip. "The names on the list. What do they have to do with anything—
if
they have something to do with what's going on."

He sighed heavily, as frustrated as she was. "Look— there's only one thing I'm certain of right now. Too many coincidences are racking up for them to be coincidences."

Way too many,
he thought, getting out of the car and starting the gas pump. A woman was dead. Another appeared to be the next target.
And not just any other woman,
he thought as he topped off the tank. A woman he'd grown to like and respect, and there was no way in hell he was letting anything happen to her.

His mind kept winding back to the million bucks. And that million bucks bumped another question to the top of his list of priorities. He needed to find out how Janey's mother had been living in relative comfort without any means of support and without spending Janey's money. And he needed Alice's motor vehicle record to see if she had ever been in an accident.

Somehow, he felt that an answer to those questions were the key. He wasn't going to get any answers tonight, though. Tonight, the only thing he could do was keep Janey Perkins out of harm's way—and maybe do something about that haunted look in her eyes.

He paid for the gas at the pump and they headed out again. An hour later, certain they didn't have a tail, he pulled into the first motel that popped up along the interstate. She needed sleep and it was up to him to see that she got it.

"Okay, hot stuff. Gimme your best shot." If anyone had asked her five minutes ago if she was capable of smiling, Janey would have told them with a look and a snarl to get real.

But she was smiling now. It was forced and it was weary, but Wilson had a way about him. And he was employing it to great effect.

He'd checked them into another one of those "we'll leave the light on for ya" motels. He'd booked a suite this time, with two bedrooms and a small living area between them.

She'd watched in curious silence as he'd moved all the furniture to the edges of the living area before it dawned on her what he was up to.

He was offering her a kickboxing match. A chance to work off some of her tension. At this very moment, he stood before her in his jeans, T-shirt, and bare feet. The only other thing he wore was a cocky grin.

Another day, another time, she'd have loved to go a few rounds with him. But this wasn't the time.

Yeah, she'd like to let off a little steam with a good, hard round of physical exertion with an opponent who she strongly suspected could give her a helluva lot better run for her money than a staff trainer at a local gym.

Yeah. She'd like to. But tonight, she was too tense. Too close to the edge. She might end up doing more than fighting. She might end up crying, and she didn't want to do that. Not in front of anyone. Especially not in front of him.

"Look, I know what you're trying to do," she said, putting on her best "I'm fine and dandy" face. "And I appreciate it. But not tonight, okay?"

"What's the matter? Afraid of a little competition?"

He was goading her. It may have been well intended, but it was goading just the same. It ticked her off, but she wasn't going to bite.

"If you want to think so." She turned toward her bedroom, where she knew she'd spend a sleepless night.

Behind her, he made clucking sounds.

She stopped. Clenched her teeth. And slowly turned, working hard to keep her temper from getting the best of her. "Is that how you talked to your dates back home on the farm?"

He raised an eyebrow, his grin broadening. "That's it? That's all you've got? Trash talk? Puny trash talk at that."

Bastard. He was enjoying this just a little too much. "Look, Blue Eyes, when the time is right, I'll drop you like a bag of dirt. But now," she continued, walking slowly toward him, "is not the time."

She struck like a snake. A swift, high, exact kick that caught him off guard and hit him dead center in the breadbasket—just like she'd planned it.

He doubled over with an "umph," gasping for breath and clutching his gut. She took advantage with a sharp kick behind his knees and he landed on his back with a thud.

"On second thought, maybe this
is
the right time," she amended, standing above him with a triumphant smirk.

"Ah," he managed when he caught his breath. "The lady plays dirty. I respect that in a woman."

He held out a hand, which she took. The least she could do was help him up.

Wrong.

The next thing she knew she was flat on her back on the floor beside him after falling for the oldest trick in the book. He'd latched onto her hand, kicked her feet out from under her, and taken her down without so much as a by-your-leave.

"That would fall into the turnabout's fair play category," he said when she turned her head to glare at him.

"Fine. So we've established that we're both cheaters."

"Restores my faith in the all's-fair-in-war theory," he said, his beautiful blue eyes searching hers, she knew, to make certain he hadn't hurt her.

He hadn't. She was fine.

And if she told herself that often enough, she would be. She jerked her gaze away when hot tears stung her eyes.

She was okay. She'd make it be okay. She'd make the overwhelming sense of vulnerability, the encroaching sense of catastrophe, go away. She'd make the need to cry for a mother who'd been a drunk and a father who hadn't been go away, too. A need that she'd bottled up inside for more years than she could count. A need that had been building since she'd been told her mother was dead and since she'd found a photograph of a man who might be her father. A need that swelled in her chest, pushed at her throat, burned behind her eyes ... and oh, damn.

A huge sob racked her body.

"Hey ... hey. It's okay. Just let it go. God knows, you need to let it go."

His voice was soft and soothing. And then his fingertips were there. Just as soft. Just as soothing. Touching her face, brushing away the tears she'd fought and denied but spilled over anyway. No matter that she didn't want them to. No matter that she hated herself for giving in to the weakness.

"I don't... cry," she whispered, her voice clogged with tears.

"I know. I know you don't. Everyone knows that you're one tough hombre," he murmured as he gathered her close against him and held her.

Like she was a child. Like she was fragile. Like her pain had become his.

And like a child, she turned into him. Snuggled close to all that warm, male strength and the protective comfort he offered.

She didn't know how long they lay that way. She didn't know how long she cried. And she didn't care. He'd been right. This man who was so not a boy had known exactly what she'd needed. And he'd given it to her. Selflessly.

His hands on her back were so strong yet so gentle. His breath in her hair so warm and deep. His body against hers hard yet giving, his scent a comfort and a
 
distraction.

For the first time in days she felt totally and utterly safe. For the first time in years—yes,
years
—she felt totally and utterly understood.

How had that happened? How had someone she'd known for barely a week come to understand what she needed before she had?

She tipped her head back so she could see his face. His beautiful, concerned face. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth so very close to hers. And the fear and frustration that had finally loosened its hold on her gave way to a slow-building heat, a heat that settled low in her belly and flared to fire when she saw an answering flame in his eyes.

"Love and war," she whispered, unable to resist any longer. She'd wanted to know what it would be like with him since the first time she saw him. Tonight she was finding out.

"All's fair in
love
and war."

And finally,
finally,
Janey did what she'd been wanting to do, what she'd been needing to do, for days now.

She touched her mouth to his. A brief buss of her lips against his. A gentle friction as she brushed her mouth back and forth, soft to supple, warm to hot.

My God. He was so hot. She wanted to lose herself to all that heat. Immerse herself in the power of it, let it take her over, take her under, take her away from the reality of stalkers and murders and the mess her life had become.

"You had it wrong before," she whispered again, loving the feel of all of him against all of her. "All's fair in
love
and war."

His entire body shuddered. He closed his eyes, met her mouth with his, then, on a ragged breath, pulled away. "One doesn't apply here, Janey. And the other... the other was just a game."

She wasn't so sure about that anymore. Wasn't sure about anything except that she needed to keep on kissing him. Needed to know what he tasted like deep inside. What he felt like when he was wanting, too.

"Okay." She met his mouth again. And again. Another brush of lips to lips. Not so tentative now. Not so tame. An expedition into foreign territory where they could both be winners if he'd let them.

"Okay. Got it," she whispered, intent on seduction, aching with need. "It's just a game. And we both know the rules up-front. No one gets hurt. No one gets angry."

"Janey." Her name grated out on a low moan when she worked her hand down between their bodies, molded her fingers around the long, thick erection that told her he was as turned on as she was. "We ... Jesus ... we can't do this."

"We can." She squeezed, felt his amazing body tense just before he covered his mouth with hers.

His suddenly hungry mouth.

His wildly ravenous mouth that fought hers even as he took her under in a kiss that erupted with passion and fire and a need so sharp and huge it stunned her. She felt his hand in her hair, cried out when he clutched a handful and tipped her head back to scatter openmouthed, biting kisses against her jaw, along her throat, before returning greedily to her mouth and slipping his tongue inside.

An explosion of sensations detonated inside her as he kissed her deeply, not a bit sweetly. She loved it. She craved it. The unchecked need in his assault. The raw desire she tasted on his tongue.

Gripping his powerful shoulders, she rolled to her back and pulled him over on top of her. Then her hands were under his shirt, pulling, tugging, dragging it over his head while he did the same to her T-shirt and made quick work of her bra.

She sucked in her breath on a rush when he released her mouth with a long, eating kiss to find her breast, draw her nipple deep into his mouth, and suck and lave and feast as if she were his last meal. Or his first meal. Or his only meal.

Sharp, exquisite pleasure shot from her nipple and arrowed through her belly where it seared between her thighs. Long. It had been so, so long since she'd felt this electric arousal, this edgy, achy yearning. Maybe she'd never felt it. Not this intensely. Not this desperately.

She was beyond desperate now as she arched toward his mouth and parted her legs, making room for him between them. And lost her breath on a serrated sigh when he pumped his hips against hers fueling the fire, stoking the burn.

His back was so broad, his skin so supple, over hard, ropey muscles. He was so warm beneath her fingers as he rocked his hips against hers, pinning her to the floor with his weight, making her ache with every move. She lowered her hands to his tight buttocks, moaned in protest when he pulled away, then sucked in a breath of urgent shock when he reached between them, worked the snap and zipper on her jeans, and opened them in one swift, wild rush.

He took her mouth again, all hungry suction and greedy tongue, swallowing her gasping moan when he tunneled a strong hand inside her open jeans and cupped her, absorbed her damp heat, then plunged a finger inside.