Strange Bedfellows. Кейси Майклс

screech of metal against metal, the Jeep’s frame scraping along the guardrail, sent sparks into the air and turned their wild ride into a bizarre, frightening, macabre amusement park adventure.

      And then he saw it. A boulder so big it was higher than the roof of the Jeep. Wider. Wedged between the guardrail and a huge, overturned tree.

      And the Jeep was heading straight for it, swept along at about thirty miles an hour—or so it seemed to Sean—held against the rail like one of those tin rabbits that circle a dog-race track.

      “Hold on!” he shouted over the escalating noise…the rush of rain…the rolling thunder that slammed and reverberated inside his chest…Cassandra’s single scream, which cut straight into his heart.

      Chapter Four

      It was like a head-on collision with a brick wall, and the hood of the Jeep folded up like an accordion even as Sean threw himself across the front seat and on top of Cassandra, knowing he had to get himself away from the steering wheel, which could otherwise have ended up halfway through his chest.

      He stayed very still, trying to decide if they had reached the end of this latest storm-induced journey, listening to the relative quiet that followed, watching for lightning, then silently counting one one-thousand, two one-thousand, just as Cassandra had suggested.

      Yes, the rain was beginning to slacken off.

      Yes, the storm seemed, at last, to be moving away from them.

      But the mud remained, and the danger was still with them. There could still be another slide.

      Slowly, he began to realize that Cassandra was lying quietly beneath him—quietly, but with her arms wrapped around his back in a death grip, her body pressed against his, her teeth chattering.

      “It’s all right, Cassandra,” he breathed quietly, soothingly, whispering the words through the tangle of her hair, his lips against the warm skin of her ear. “It’s all right. I promise.”

      She swallowed. Once. Twice. He could feel the movement of her throat, sense her fear, hear the small catch in her throat as she took several deep, steadying breaths. “Just hold me, all right?” she asked after a moment. “Please. Just hold me. Keep telling me it’s going to be all right.”

      The smell of her perfume teased at his nostrils. The warmth of her body, fitting so perfectly against his, set off warning bells in his head. She held on to him with all of her strength, all of her desperation, all of her very reasonable fear.

      Because they could die out here. One more large slide and the guardrail was sure to break away, or they’d be buried alive under the mud and boulders.

      He knew it. She knew it.

      And lying to her, saying everything was going to be “all right,” didn’t mean squat.

      She probably knew that, too.

      He pressed his lips against the side of her throat, tasting her, trying to soothe her, divert her attention away from what might be the inevitable tragedy that awaited them. “I’m here with you, Cassandra. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

      God! She felt so good. So alive. And he needed to feel alive.

      He allowed his mouth the liberty of another kiss, and then another, tasting the sweet skin of her throat, easing himself backward slightly, moving his body lower along the length of her, so that he could lift his head.

      Lift his head…and look down at Cassandra as she lay against the seat, her hair now loosened from its ridiculously severe style to tangle in a golden softness around her head, to frame that so vulnerable, so unexpectedly beautiful face.

      Lift his head…so that he could watch Cassandra’s face as the now infrequent lightning gifted him with enticing glimpses of her doelike eyes, her clean, flawless sweep of cheek, her full, trembling mouth.

      Lift his head…so that he could attempt to read her expression, gauge her level of fear, be comforted and aroused by the trust he saw there, her willingness to believe he was there for her, wouldn’t leave her, would never, ever leave her.

      Lift his head…then lower it to find her mouth.

      White-hot lightning exploded behind his eyes, a thunder he’d never heard before shook his entire body with its intensity.

      Her mouth was warm in the damp coolness of the night. Her body, a blast furnace giving off the heat he sought, the heat he needed. It was the life force he so desperately required to prove that he was alive, that she was alive, that they both would survive, and would not possibly perish here on the side of a mountain.

      The first seconds of tentativeness quickly gave way to a fierce intensity that had him slanting his mouth against hers again and again, pressing her head back against the cushions as her full lips opened, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

      She didn’t move to push him away. Her arms tightened around him, drawing him closer, even as he realized that his hands were on her body, finding her, molding her, learning her lush beauty through the camouflage of her business suit. The crisp white blouse seemed to disappear beneath his oddly fumbling fingers.

      It was all so High School Harry, his brain warned him. So crazy. Making out in the front seat, frustrating himself with kisses and petting and long hours of unfulfilled sexual longing. The steering wheel jamming into his thigh, the chrome door handle only an inch from his head, his suit jacket twice as difficult to remove than his letter sweater had even been.

      But he couldn’t stop. And Cassandra didn’t want him to stop. Not when she had somehow undone the buttons of his shirt, not when she was even now pressing kisses against his neck, his bare chest.

      They didn’t speak, for there were no words. There was only this strange urgency, this need to feel alive. To give. To take. To share.

      To keep the bogeymen away…

      She was silk beneath his fingers, fire burning his flesh. He unsnapped her front-closing bra, a small part of his brain amazed by the feminine beauty of her undergarments, the lace and satin she hid beneath her business suits and long, shapeless cotton dresses.

      He pressed the flat of his hand against her slightly concave stomach, then found the lacy band of the slight wisp that eased so satisfyingly down her thighs, over the thigh-high stockings that were another vague, marvelously unexpected surprise.

      This was a woman who was innately sensual, no matter how she strove to show the world her professional front, her businesslike facade.

      And it all had been there, in her eyes, all along. He simply hadn’t seen beyond the tortoiseshell glasses, the scraped-back hair, the image she so carefully projected. She hid behind her glasses, her clothing, her professional exterior, the sources she quoted, the terms and theories and statistics—and all the while wearing underclothes that were designed to drive a man out of his mind.

      Why? his brain asked even as he dipped his lips into the soft indentation of her waist, sliding his tongue along the path his hands had taken, even while listening to the soft whimpering moans Cassandra breathed out with each shallow breath.

      I don’t care why, another part of him answered dismissively as she cradled his head between her hands, possibly to stop his downward investigations, possibly to urge him on to this greater intimacy.

      He kissed her belly, the silky insides of her thighs above her stockings, the curve behind her knee.

      He ran his hands along her flaring hips, teased his way across her lower stomach, then nervously slid his fingers between her legs, feeling her tense against him, then slowly relax her tight muscles as her hips lifted off the seat, as her legs fell open, as she allowed him to explore her deepest secrets.

      Only when he moved to replace his fingers with his mouth did she pull away from him, her eyes still tightly closed as her head pressed back against the passenger-side door, and she held out her arms to him, urging him to hold her.

      Because