Reckless. Linda Howard

chattering of her teeth. It was hot and steamy inside the dark tent, but chills were running up and down her body. Why didn’t he say something else, anything, rather than lying there so quietly? She might as well have been alone. It was unnatural for anyone to be that soundless, that utterly controlled.

      “How was Dad?”

      “Why?”

      “I just wondered.” Was he being deliberately evasive? Why didn’t he want to talk about her father? Perhaps he hadn’t been hired by her father at all and didn’t want to be drawn into a conversation about someone he was supposed to have met, but hadn’t.

      After a measured silence, as if he had carefully considered his answer, he said, “He was worried sick about you. Surprised?”

      “No, of course not,” she said, startled. “I’d be surprised if he weren’t.”

      “It doesn’t surprise you that he’d pay a small fortune to get you out of Turego’s hands, even though you don’t get along with him?”

      He was confusing her; she felt left out of the conversation, as if he were talking about someone else entirely. “What are you talking about? We get along perfectly, always have.”

      She couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him, but suddenly there was something different about him, as if the very air had become electrically charged. A powerful sense of danger made the fine hairs on her body stand up. The danger was coming from him. Without knowing why, she shrank back from him as far as she could in the confines of the small tent, but there was no escape. With the suddenness of a snake striking, he rolled and pinned her down, forcing her hands over her head and holding them shackled there in a grip that hurt her wrists. “All right, Jane, or Priscilla, or whoever you are, we’re going to talk. I’m going to ask the questions and you’re going to answer them, and you’d better have the right answers or you’re in trouble, sugar. Who are you?”

      Had he gone mad? Jane struggled briefly against the grip on her wrists, but there was no breaking it. His weight bore down heavily on her, controlling her completely. His muscled legs clasped hers, preventing her from even kicking. “Wh-what...?” she stammered. “Grant, you’re hurting me!”

      “Answer me, damn you! Who are you?”

      “Jane Greer!” Desperately, she tried to put some humor in her voice, but it wasn’t a very successful effort.

      “I don’t like being lied to, sugar.” His voice was velvety soft, and the sound of it chilled her to her marrow. Not even Turego had affected her like this; Turego was a dangerous, vicious man, but the man who held her now was the most lethal person she’d ever seen. He didn’t have to reach for a weapon to kill her; he could kill her with his bare hands. She was totally helpless against him.

      “I’m not lying!” she protested desperately. “I’m Priscilla Jane Hamilton Greer.”

      “If you were, you’d know that James Hamilton cut you out of his will several years ago. So you get along with him just perfectly, do you?”

      “Yes, I do!” She strained against him, and he deliberately let her feel more of his weight, making it difficult for her to breathe. “He did it to protect me!”

      For a long, silent moment in which she could hear the roaring of her blood in her ears, she waited for his reaction. His silence scraped along her nerves. Why didn’t he say something? His warm breath was on her cheek, telling her how close he was to her, but she couldn’t see him at all in that suffocating darkness. “That’s a good one,” he finally responded, and she flinched at the icy sarcasm of his tone. “Too bad I don’t buy it. Try again.”

      “I’m telling you the truth! He did it to make me a less attractive kidnap target. It was my idea, damn it!”

      “Sure it was,” he crooned, and that low, silky sound made her shudder convulsively. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

      Jane closed her eyes, searching desperately for some way of convincing him of her identity. None came to mind, and she had no identification with her. Turego had taken her passport, so she didn’t have even that. “Well, what about you?” she blurted in sudden fury. She’d taken a lot from him, endured without complaining, and now he’d frightened her half out of her mind. She’d had her back to the wall before, and had learned to strike back. “Who are you? How do I know that Dad hired you? If he did why didn’t you know that no one ever calls me Priscilla? You were sloppy with your homework!”

      “In case you haven’t noticed, honey, I’m the one on top. You answer my questions.”

      “I did, and you didn’t believe me,” she snapped. “Sorry, but I don’t have my American Express card with me. For God’s sake, do I look like a terrorist? You nearly broke my arm; then you knocked me out. You’ve bounced me on the ground like a rubber ball, and you’ve got the utter gall to act like I’m dangerous? My goodness, you’d better search me, too, so you’ll be able to sleep tonight. Who knows? I might have a bazooka strapped to my leg, since I’m such a dangerous character!” Her voice had risen furiously, and he cut her off by resting all his weight on her rib cage. When she gasped, he eased up again.

      “No, you’re unarmed. I’ve already had your clothes off, remember?” Even in the darkness, Jane blushed at the memory, thinking of the way he’d kissed her and touched her, and how his hands on her body had made her feel. He moved slowly against her, stopping her breath this time with the suggestive intimacy of his movements. His warm breath stirred her hair as he dipped his head closer to her. “But I wouldn’t want to disappoint a lady. If you want to be searched, I’ll oblige you. I wouldn’t mind giving you a body search.”

      Fuming, Jane tried again to free her hands, but finally fell back in disgust at the futile action. Raw frustration finally cleared her mind, giving her an idea, and she said harshly, “Did you go in the house when Dad hired you?”

      He was still, and she sensed his sudden increase of interest. “Yes.”

      “Did you go in the study?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then a hotshot like you would have noticed the portrait over the mantle. You’re trained to notice things, aren’t you? The portrait is of my grandmother, Dad’s mother. She was painted sitting down, with a single rose on her lap. Now, you tell me what color her gown was,” she challenged.

      “Black,” he said slowly. “And the rose was blood-red.”

      Thick silence fell between them; then he released her hands and eased his weight from her. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt—”

      “Well, gee, thanks!” Huffily she rubbed her wrists, trying to keep her anger alive in the face of the enormous relief that filled her. Evidently her father had hired him, for otherwise how could he have seen the portrait in the study? She wanted to remain mad at him, but she knew she would forgive him because it was still dark. In spite of everything she was terribly glad he was there. Besides, she told herself cautiously, it was definitely better to stay on this man’s good side.

      “Don’t thank me,” he said tiredly. “Just be quiet and go to sleep.”

      Sleep! If only she could! Consciously, she knew she wasn’t alone, but her subconscious mind required additional affirmation from her senses. She needed to see him, hear him, or touch him. Seeing him was out of the question; she doubted he’d leave a flashlight burning all night, even assuming he had one. Nor would he stay awake all night talking to her. Perhaps, if she just barely touched him, he’d think it was an accident and not make a big deal out of it. Stealthily she moved her right hand until the backs of her fingers just barely brushed his hairy forearm—and immediately her wrist was seized in that bruising grip again.

      “Ouch!” she yelped, and his fingers loosened.

      “Okay, what is it this time?” His tone showed plainly that he was at the end of his patience.

      “I just wanted