Sudden Attraction Read online

  There was more blood on the shirt than previously. Probably he’d opened up the hole when he’d pushed the car.

  She made a little gasping sound.

  “It’s all right,” he reassured her as he started to work the buttons, but he couldn’t open them.

  When he gave her an angry look, she came over and sat on the side of the bed. “I’ll do it.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to touch me.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  When she reached to slip open one of the buttons, her finger brushed against his chest, and they both went very still.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed. “I just caught a little…sample of what you’re feeling now.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “I hope,” she murmured as she opened the next button. He kept his gaze down, but she couldn’t stop the emotions zinging back and forth between them. She felt shaken by the attack and guilty because he’d come to her rescue and gotten hurt.

  “It’s okay,” he murmured.

  “It’s my problem, not yours.”

  “No,” he answered, the denial automatic.

  He was after me, not you.

  He had picked that up from her mind. Because they were touching. He tried to focus on her thoughts, but he couldn’t even keep his own straight.

  She was still struggling with the shirt, and he knew that if he had to sit here much longer, he would pass out.

  Just rip off the damn thing, he shouted inside his mind.

  “What?”

  “Sorry.” He made an attempt to keep his voice even. “Rip it off. It’s ruined anyway.”

  GABRIELLA HAD GROWN UP in a household where every penny was carefully budgeted. Destroying clothing went against every value that she’d been taught since childhood. But she saw the logic of his suggestion. She also knew that pain was driving him past frustration.

  “I’ll help,” he said through gritted teeth.

  He held one side of the front with his good hand. She yanked at the other, and the remaining buttons popped off and flew in all directions.

  Luke worked his good hand out of the sleeve, and she grasped the fabric, pulling it free. It was clear that the effort had exhausted him, and he fell back against the pillows, breathing hard.

  Remembering the first-aid kit in the car, she said, “I’ll be right back.”

  When she returned to the room, Luke’s eyes flew open in alarm.

  “Just me.”

  “Yeah. I’m…”

  “Jumpy. We both are.”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and took a small pair of scissors from the kit, which she used to slit the other sleeve from cuff to shoulder. Gingerly, she pulled it away. The shirt was a mess, and she worked the pieces off that had stuck to his skin and dropped them in the trash can.

  For a moment, her gaze was captured by the broad expanse of his naked chest. He said he spent a lot of time at his desk, but he must work out because he was in fantastic shape. But she wasn’t supposed to be admiring his masculine physique. She was supposed to be finding out how badly he was hurt.

  Leaning down, she inspected the wound, seeing that the bullet had plowed along the side of his upper arm, making a long red track in the skin, sort of like an arm bracelet. Only it was dug into the flesh and crusted with dried blood.

  “I think you were damn lucky,” she said as she inspected the site.

  He looked at the damage. “I told you it wasn’t serious. It just hurts like the devil because it tore up a lot of skin.”

  There was antiseptic in the kit. With a gauze pad, she slathered it on the wound, then used several pads and a length of gauze tied around his arm as a covering. She couldn’t do it without touching him briefly. As she did, she sensed a welter of confused thoughts from him.

  He was thinking about the mob. About the night before when they’d kissed. His terror when he’d realized the guy was following her into the house.

  Then the thoughts stopped abruptly, and panic leaped in her chest.

  When she looked into his face and saw the even rise and fall of his chest, she knew that he had lost the battle to stay awake.

  He was lying at the edge of the bed, leaving room for her to slip onto the other side and lie down without touching him.

  First she walked to the window and closed the blind, thinking she should have done that earlier. Then, because it was now dark in the room, she turned on the bathroom light and cracked the door in case he woke later in a strange room and needed the bathroom.

  Which wasn’t such a bad idea, come to think of it.

  She used the facilities, then washed her hands and face, feeling marginally better. She would have liked a shower, but then she wouldn’t be able to hear him if he needed her. Instead, she stood at the sink and took off her shirt and bra, using a washcloth to refresh herself before drying off and putting on her shirt.

  She was wrung out in ways she hadn’t been able to imagine. The emotional toll of her mother’s death would have been enough to deal with. But she was also trying to cope with the weird bond between herself and Luke—and the knowledge that a man was hunting them. No, hunting her. Whatever Luke thought about it, she knew that was true.

  Barely able to stay vertical now, she kicked off her shoes and eased onto the bed, being careful to keep some distance between herself and Luke. Too bad this room didn’t have two beds. But he couldn’t have asked for that because he was supposed to be alone.

  Simply lying down was a luxury. It felt wonderful to relax. At least as much as she could relax when she knew that George was still out there somewhere.

  She glanced over at Luke, reassured by the rise and fall of his broad chest. She’d never felt comfortable with physical contact. But the desire to touch this man was overwhelming. Something happened when they touched. Something she couldn’t explain, but it set off cravings inside her that were stronger than anything she’d felt before in her life.

  How ironic. She’d avoided touch. Now she longed for it, and at the same time she knew that she couldn’t simply take what she wanted. She’d wake Luke up and set off feelings they couldn’t deal with now.

  Abandoning irony, she switched to practicalities. They’d pulled the bedding down so she could tend his arm. Forcing herself to move, she dragged it back into place, covering his chest.

  Again she switched gears as she realized the two of them were under the covers together.

  In the warmth of the bed, her fingers flexed, but she kept her arm at her side. He was hurt. He needed to rest. To heal. And then…

  She might try to deny it, but she knew what was going to happen. It had to.

  Closing her eyes, she let herself drift. Just for a while. When she was feeling a little less fatigued, she could get up and move to the chair.

  Chapter Seven

  George Camden had a rich selection of curses at his disposal, some of them picked up in prison by listening to experts. He used them all, including choice nouns and adjectives to describe the woman who had led him into the swamp where his car had gotten stuck in the mud.

  By the time he’d finally gotten himself out, he’d figured there was no way to catch up with them. Instead of trying to drive through more of the muck, he’d turned around and exited the way he’d come in, then circled back around to the plantation.

  Probably there was no point in going inside the big house again. It wouldn’t give any clues to where they’d gone. But the cottage was another matter. The guy had been living there, and maybe he’d know some place where they could go to hide.

  They’d locked the door, but this time George didn’t bother with the niceties of removing a whole window. He simply broke a pane of glass around back where it wouldn’t be easily spotted and reached inside to spring the lock.

  Once inside the cottage, he started looking around. Buckley had left some clothing in the closet and a gun in the nightstand. George appropriated it. Then, with an angry snort, he yanked a shirt off a hanger and took it into the b
athroom, where he scuffed off his filthy shoes, put them in the sink and used the shirt and running water to clean the mess. Then he tossed the muddy rag on the middle of the bathtub. That made him feel a little better.

  The clean shoes gave him an idea. Because Gabriella and the guy weren’t coming back, he figured he had some time. In the bathroom, he stripped off his dirty clothes and took a shower. Then he grabbed a pair of the guy’s slacks and put them on. They were a little long, but that was okay.

  Finally back on an even keel, he started looking around for anything else useful. The guy had cleared out the papers and computer that George had seen through the window on a previous visit. Under the edge of the chair he saw some of the papers Gabriella had gone upstairs to get. But they didn’t tell him anything new.

  Then he found another kind of clue. Blood on the arm of a chair. Buckley must have gotten hit when they’d been wrestling for the gun and it had gone off.

  How bad?

  Well, not bad enough to keep him from clearing stuff out. Or from pushing the car, for that matter. But he was bleeding. In pain. How far was he going to go in that kind of condition? Even with the woman driving.

  George looked out the front window. Where would a bleeding guy go? Maybe he’d have to head straight to the hospital if the wound was bad enough.

  Or maybe not if he thought he had to hide out. From the blood on the chair and what George remembered of the fight, it was a good bet Buckley was hit in the arm. Was the bullet still in him? If it was, he might be reluctant to explain what had happened. Still, the hospitals would be the first place to check. Then motels in the area. Then motels a little farther away. But which direction would they go?

  He cursed again, hating the way the interfering renter had whacked up his plans. But he’d get back on track. He had to because he knew the Badger was getting antsy.

  “Speak of the devil,” he muttered when his cell phone rang. He wanted to ignore it, but he figured he’d better answer.

  “Do you have the daughter?” the Badger asked straight off the bat.

  “She’s hooked up with her mom’s tenant.”

  “The Luke Buckley guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I did a background check on him. He doesn’t have any.”

  “The name’s made up,” George conceded.

  “You knew that and you didn’t tell me?”

  “It wasn’t relevant.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” the Badger said with a dangerous edge in his voice. “You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call me as soon as you have the daughter.”

  George wanted to ask why she was so important, but he’d learned to keep his mouth shut and follow directions.

  The line went dead, leaving him with a queasy feeling.

  GABRIELLA GASPED. She must have gone to sleep, but now she was standing in a room she didn’t recognize, staring at a man with a knife. His hardened features had solidified into a satisfied look.

  “When I’m finished with you, there won’t be a piece large enough to feed to the dogs.”

  She didn’t answer. She could barely drag air into her lungs. And she knew at that terrible moment that she was dreaming, but it wasn’t her dream. It was Luke’s.

  No, someone named Liam Bridges. That was his real name, she thought with the part of her mind that was still detached from him.

  Was the man one of the mobsters after him? Or was this something else that had happened to him? What kind of dangerous life had he chosen for himself?

  Or was it just a nightmare he’d conjured out of his pain and the knowledge that they were being hunted by a killer?

  The part of her that was still Gabriella wanted to shout to him to wake up, but in the dream, she was him. Which meant she couldn’t talk to him. Or could she. You talk to yourself inside your mind, don’t you?

  Her head spun as she tried to puzzle that out, and her heart pounded as she waited for the man with the knife to strike.

  He leaped at Luke, who stood his ground, letting the guy come, then went into some kind of fighting mode that she didn’t understand. Dodging just far enough to the side to avoid the knife, he stuck out a foot, tripping the attacker so that he went down, his own knife driving into his chest.

  Luke looked at the man on the floor, then calmly reached out and picked up the phone. She knew he was calling the police.

  Before he could speak, the scene changed. She was a young boy, running down the sidewalk, trying to get away from a bigger kid, Sunny Wilcox, who liked to wait behind a fence for the little guys and beat the crap out of them.

  Only Liam Bridges had been ready for him. As he rounded a corner he reached into his pocket and brought out two of those rolls of pennies. He wrapped his little fists around the red tubes, and when Wilcox caught up with him and spun him around, he struck with one hand, then the other, pounding the bigger boy with the makeshift weapons until he went down on his knees.

  Satisfied that the bully wasn’t going to attack again, Liam took off. He had escaped from Wilcox, but another scene grabbed him. This time a younger boy was screaming, flailing in the water, and Liam jumped in, grabbed the drowning kid, then struggled to get them both to shore, only the other boy was hitting him, and they were both going down, choking.

  Gasping for air, summoning every ounce of resolve she could muster, Gabriella wrenched herself awake, finding that Luke had moved next to her in his sleep, his naked arm pressed to hers, which was why she’d been pulled into his dream.

  She rolled away from him, breathing hard, struggling for coherence.

  “Luke, Luke,” she cried out. “You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”

  She wanted to shake him, but she knew she couldn’t touch him now.

  “Liam,” she tried. “Liam.”

  At the sound of the other name, his eyes blinked open, and he stared at her in the dim light. He was obviously trying to orient himself in time and space.

  “Sunny Wilcox…” he said in a muzzy voice.

  “He was in your nightmare.”

  He blinked. “Gabriella?”

  “Yes.”

  “What…”

  “You were having a nightmare,” she repeated.

  He flopped to his back and cursed under his breath. “Did I drag you with me?”

  “I…I don’t know if you dragged me. But…I was there.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No.” His eyes took on a faraway look, and she knew he was being drawn back to the frightening scenes.

  “Was all that real? Or did you conjure it up?”

  He huffed out a breath. “It was real. My sordid past.”

  “Not sordid. Protective. Brave. Effective.”

  He snorted, but she knew the dream was another shortcut to understanding this man.

  While she was thinking of what to say, he muttered, “I don’t usually have nightmares. Sorry.”

  “Not your fault. You’ve had a rough day.”

  She was acutely aware of the intimacy of the moment. She’d shared his dream. Now she was lying beside him in bed. She ached to touch him, to comfort him. To feel his emotions surge through her, but she knew it wouldn’t be a good idea.

  “Was the first guy from the mob?”

  He laughed. “No. That was a few years ago. He was sent by another lowlife. A Newark drug dealer who didn’t like what I was writing about him.”

  She kept her gaze steady. “You like the dangerous jobs.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Your name…”

  “I picked Luke Buckley when I needed to disappear.”

  “Who was the boy who was drowning?”

  “My cousin.”

  “Did you save him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Married with kids. Let’s keep him out of this.”

  “Okay.”

  She heard the fatigue in his voice.

  “I shou
ldn’t be asking you so many questions. Can you go back to sleep?”

  “I hope so. Can you?”

  “I should sit in the chair,” she murmured. Not because she wanted to drag herself out of bed but because it was the right thing to do.

  “Stay here.”

  After hesitating for a moment, she agreed. “Okay.”

  She closed her eyes, thinking that sleep would be impossible now. But she was wrong.

  IT WAS LATER THE SAME DAY when two men who had never traveled to Louisiana before arrived at the plantation. They parked down the road and walked up toward Cypress Cottage, the place that Liam Bridges had rented from the old lady who owned the place, only in Louisiana he was going by the name Luke Buckley. But that wasn’t going to help him now that they knew where he was.

  The two wiseguys went by Eddie and Bobby. Not their real names, but good enough for the work they did. Eddie was tall and lean, going bald and in his mid-thirties, but nobody would have dared call attention to his lack of hair. Bobby was a few years younger, but he had the same hardened look.

  They waited in the shadows under the trees for signs of life. The old lady who owned the place was dead. Which made things less messy. The lights were out in the big house. Also in Cypress Cottage, but it could be some kind of trap.

  Caution was one of the reasons these two men had survived in a rat-eat-rat world.

  After checking Boudreaux’s car, Bobby crossed the porch and tried the door. It was unlocked, and he nodded at his partner.

  Guns drawn, they stepped inside and knew at once that their quarry wasn’t at home.

  “Looks like he’s cleared out,” Eddie muttered as he took in the disarray.

  “And somebody with feet bigger than Buckley’s been here after him. Used his shirt to wipe their muddy shoes.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Don’t know. But looky here.” Bobby pointed to a fresh bloodstain on the arm of a chair.

  “Somebody’s wounded.”

  “Buckley?”

  “I’d like to know. Maybe we’re not the only ones who got a beef with him.”

  They kept searching but didn’t find anything to indicate where the man they were supposed to kill had gone.