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She didn’t want his help, that was for certain, Gabe thought with a sigh, but she sure as hell was going to get it.
Trapped.
Her heart pounding, Melanie Hart stared at her captor and fought back the dread welling up in her stomach. He was much too tall for her to outrun; those long legs of his could easily overtake her. And she’d already experienced firsthand the power and strength of his well-honed body, a body she would have greatly admired under different circumstances. He was solid muscle under his faded blue jeans and chambray shirt.
But she couldn’t let herself be caught. Couldn’t let the police find her and Kevin.
She took a step toward the doorway again, but the man moved with her, slowly shaking his head.
How could she fight him? Especially with Kevin clutching so tightly to her legs. Determination glinted in the man’s dark green gaze, and the stubborn set of his strong jaw gave her no hope. The sight of blood on his angled cheek startled her. Had she done that in their scuffle? Guilt tugged at her, but she quickly shrugged it off. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but if necessary, she would. What choice did she have?
Lifting her chin, she drew in a slow breath to steady her nerves. “This is kidnapping,” she said with a calm that amazed herself. “You have no reason, and certainly no right, to keep me and my son here. I want you to know I intend to press charges.”
“Fair enough.” He lifted a dark brow, then gestured toward the doorway leading to the living room. “In the meantime, why don’t we go sit down? Filling out all those forms will be tiring.”
Once again she thought about running, but the futility of escape loomed as dark as the night. She’d have to find some way to distract this man, or perhaps reason with him, though that possibility appeared to lie somewhere between slim and none.
He stayed close behind as she moved out of the dining room with her son, effectively squelching any ideas she might have had about dashing out the front door as they passed through the entry at the bottom of the stairs. When they stepped into the living room, he flipped on a small brass table lamp.
The room was spacious, high beveled ceilings, tall windows, hardwood floors. A fireplace big enough to drive a Volkswagen into. Oil paintings, mostly landscapes, hung on off-white walls. Two Queen Anne chairs and a long sofa were slip-covered, tables and desks and chairs of various styles and woods completed the room. Like the rest of the house, the scent was musty and stale.
Her captor gestured for her to sit. She glared at him, then took her son’s hand and moved to the sofa.
How could she have known that Miss Witherspoon had died? She had spoken with the woman, though it had been four weeks ago, not last week. Melanie had known that the woman was elderly, but she’d sounded so fit, with too much grit and pluck to die. When she’d driven up a little while ago and discovered the house empty, Melanie had simply thought that the woman was away.
She knew that she’d made a mistake lying about Miss Witherspoon inviting her here, a big mistake. Dammit. She blinked back the threatening tears. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes.
But she was tired. So incredibly tired. And so was Kevin. After leaving California, she’d taken her time zigzagging across the country. But the trip was taking its toll on both her and Kevin, not only the traveling and moving around, but the constant worry, the fear, was mentally exhausting.
But she couldn’t stay here, especially now, with the police coming. She had no criminal record, but if she was charged with breaking and entering, then she would have one. And that might leave a trail she couldn’t afford to leave. “Look, mister—”
“Gabe.” He sat down on the arm of a Queen Anne chair. “Gabe Sinclair.”
Melanie pulled her son onto her lap. His arms came around her neck as he attempted to burrow his cheek into her chest. She brushed her lips over his mop of soft hair and rocked him. “Mr. Sinclair, you’re making a terrible mistake. My husband is an important man in Washington. He’ll be furious that you kept me here without any cause or—”
“Call him.” Gabe pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. “I’d like to speak with him.”
“It’s impossible to reach him right now.” She knew that she was digging her well of lies deeper and deeper. At this point, it hardly seemed to matter.
“You know,” Gabe said, dragging a hand through his thick, dark hair, “you should at least wear a wedding ring if you’re going to lie about being married, especially to a so-called important man. Why don’t you just relax? It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
Melanie sank back into the firm cushions of the sofa. She heard her son’s stomach rumble and though he hadn’t complained, she knew he was hungry. She’d been looking for something in the kitchen cupboards when she’d heard the truck pull into the gravel driveway, then seen a man approach the house. She’d barely had enough time to lock the front and back doors, hoping that he’d go away.
But after six weeks of sleeping in thin-walled, rundown motels, eating fast food and avoiding contact with people, it seemed as though her luck, along with most of her money, had finally run out.
And she had Mr. Gabe Sinclair to thank for that.
If not for him, she would have found food for her son and herself, gotten a good night’s sleep here, and been fresh enough in the morning to drive to Raina’s tomorrow. She’d be safe in Boston, at least for a few days.
Melanie glanced at the man sitting no more than eight feet from her. Arms folded across his wide chest, long legs stretched out, he watched her. She met his intense gaze, did not look away. She refused to be intimidated by him, even if he did have the upper hand.
Damn you, Gabe Sinclair, whoever the hell you are.
As if he’d read her thought, the man’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
When Kevin stirred in her arms, Melanie turned her attention to her son and laid him on the sofa beside her. He curled up like a pill bug, tucking his small hands under his cheek and closing his eyes. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and in spite of the odds, she resolved that she would get them safely out of this situation.
The only question that remained was, how?
When the light from an approaching car flashed brightly through the front windows and swept the room, her heart slammed against her ribs. The man glanced up, then rose.
It had to be now.
She scanned the room, and her gaze fell on a statue sitting on a table beside the sofa, a lovely, foot-tall bronze of an angel praying. Under normal conditions, Melanie would never have considered what she was considering. But this situation was as far from normal as one could get.
With his attention on the front door, the man moved past her and started across the room.
Now or never.
In one fluid movement, Melanie grabbed the statue and rushed the man, swinging the heavy bronze at his head. With an oath, he ducked, then reached out and plucked the statue from her as he grabbed her firmly around the waist. He dragged her to the door with him. She struggled wildly, but other than a wince when the heel of her boot connected with his shin and a rather explicit swearword, he ignored her.
When he let go of her with one hand while he unlocked the front door, she wiggled free and took off at a run. He had his long, muscled arms around her waist again in less than a heartbeat and easily lifted her off the ground.
“Gabriel Sinclair!” A woman’s voice boomed. “Get your hands off that woman this instant!”
Chapter 2
Gabe turned sharply at the sound of his sister’s voice. The wildcat woman in his arms went still.
Cara stood in the doorway, a hand on one hip, a large brown paper bag balanced on the other. The heavenly scent of grilled hamburgers and hot, crispy fries filled the room.
“For God’s sake, Gabe, let her go,” Cara repeated sharply.
Gabe set the woman down and released her. She stepped quickly away, dragging one shaky hand through her tousled hair, glancing from him to his sister.
The confusion on Cara’s face turned quickly to an astute understanding that he had called her here for help. If anyone could help this renegade woman, Gabe absolutely knew his sister could.
“I apologize for Gabe’s lack of manners,” Cara said smoothly in a soft, calming voice. She snapped her gaze back to his and narrowed piercing blue eyes at him. “Shame on you.”
Shame on him? Gabe ground his teeth and swore silently. He’d been kicked and scratched, and his left shin hurt like a son of a bitch. Females, he thought bitterly. Who would ever understand them?
With a toss of her blond head, Cara turned her attention back to the other woman and smiled. “I’m Cara Shawnessy,” she said evenly. “This ape here is my brother.”
Ape? He pressed his lips into a thin line. Gee, thanks, sis.
At the sound of a small whimper from the living room, the woman turned, then hurried back to her son. Cara glanced at Gabe, her gaze questioning, but he simply shrugged and shook his head.
Gabe held back when Cara moved into the living room and stood beside the sofa. “Would it be all right if we sat down and talked while we ate? I hope you like cheeseburgers and fries.”
The woman gathered her son in her arms, and the glimmer of tears Gabe saw in her eyes caught like sawdust in his throat. He knew she wanted to refuse, he could see it in her hesitation, but when she looked at the bag of food in Cara’s hand, then back at her son, she let out a long, surrendering breath and nodded. “That’s very kind of you.”
“It’s the least I can do, especially after the way my brother manhandled you.” Cara ignored the rude sound that Gabe made and smiled at the woman’s young son, who was wide-awake now and watching all the adults around him. “Do you like pickles?” she asked the child.
The boy stuck a stubby finger into his mouth and nodded shyly. Cara unwrapped a thick quarter slice and offered it to him. He hesitated, then looked at his mother. Smiling, she smoothed one slender hand over his rumpled blond hair. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You can have it.”
Eyes bright, he took the crisp pickle and bit in, chewing around a mumbled “thank you.”
When a drop of juice fell onto the boy’s pale blue T-shirt, Cara handed his mother some napkins. “It’s optional,” Cara said gently, “but it would be easier if you told me your names.”
Gabe watched the woman’s hand tighten around the napkins, saw the instinctive stiffening of her slender shoulders.
“You’re safe here,” Cara assured her. “You and your son.”
Gabe saw the distrust in the woman’s face when she glanced over at him. He frowned, unreasonably irritated that she obviously thought him a threat. She stared at him, her soft gray eyes uncertain and a little bit afraid. Damn if those eyes of hers didn’t cut right through to his gut.
“Melanie,” she whispered, still looking at him. “My son is Kevin.”
Kevin sunk his teeth into another bite of pickle. “I’m four years old,” he offered.
It drove Gabe nuts, but Cara didn’t ask any questions, just chattered on about the weather as she unwrapped food and set everything out on the coffee table, including two sodas. She’d known to bring the hamburgers and fries when he’d asked for two of Reese’s best, but she’d thrown the drinks in on her own.
“Gabe, I’m going to need that report for my board meeting in the morning.” She pulled a thick paper cup of steaming black coffee out of her bag of tricks and brought it to him. “Will you be able to work up something rough for me in the next hour?”
His sister was kicking him out of here, he realized with a start. She didn’t want him around while she talked to the woman. He ground his back teeth. Damn you, Cara. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. Felt that he had some small right to at least a little information.
But Cara’s expression was firm and definitely told him to get the hell out.
He frowned at her. “Sure. I’ll, ah, just start in the kitchen. Check out the pipes and electricity.”
“Thanks.”
The single word was a dismissal. He glanced back at the woman—Melanie—felt her gaze follow him until he left the room.
He threw himself completely into his inspection, forced himself to think about wiring and water pressure instead of the woman with the sad, haunted look in her pale gray eyes.
Forty-five minutes later, Gabe leaned against the peeling white paint of a front porch column of the old house, gnawing impatiently on the end of an “It’s a Boy” cigar. Six months ago, Wayne Thompson, the proud papa, had handed them out to every male over eighteen in Bloomfield County. Gabe had put the cigar in the glove box of his truck and nearly forgotten about it, but needing something to occupy his mind and hands for the past few minutes, he’d rooted around inside his truck until he’d found the stogie, then lit it up.
He decided that smoking a handful of stinkweed would hold more appeal than Wayne’s six-month-old cigar.
Spitting a piece of stale, harsh tobacco from the tip of his tongue, he stared at the front door. Cara had been in there with the woman and her son for almost an hour now, and though he’d heard their soft murmurs as he’d passed through the house, they’d all but forgotten his existence.
Hey, sis, remember me? The one who called you? I’m waitin’ out here.
Frowning, he flicked an ash over the porch railing and watched it float silently into the darkness and disappear. It hadn’t taken him long to do a preliminary inspection and work up a rough estimate. The house had been built to last, but had been neglected for several years. From what he could see on the surface alone, the repairs were going to be extensive, and there was no telling what he’d find once he started opening things up. With a crew of three men and himself, Gabe expected to be working here several weeks to bring the house to code and make it salable.
He glanced back at the front door. What the hell were they doing in there?
Soft, yellow light spilled from the living room window, and he edged his way across the porch. Just a peek, he told himself, to make sure Cara was handling the situation all right.
He tossed the cigar into the paper cup he’d brought out on the porch with him, heard the sizzle of the burning tip as it hit the remnants of his coffee.
Backing against the wall by the front door, he casually turned his head—
When the front door opened he jumped, then straightened quickly. One brow arched, Cara stood in the doorway, staring at him through the screen door. The woman, Melanie, stood beside her.
He leaned casually against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he glanced over at them with what he hoped was a bored expression.
“Melanie and Kevin will be spending the night here.” The screen door screeched when Cara pushed it open and stepped out. “They’re going to need some heat.”
And? Gabe looked at his sister, waited for the tiniest morsel of information about Melanie and her son. Based on the expression on Cara’s face, he obviously wasn’t going to even get a tidbit.
He sighed, reached for the flashlight he’d set on the porch steps. “The pilot was shut off on the basement furnace. I’ll go fire it up.”
“That’s not necessary.” Melanie followed Cara out onto the porch. “We’ll be fine. I have a blanket in my car.”
Gabe’s hand tightened around the flashlight. Had she and her son been sleeping in her car? And if so, why? Dammit, why wouldn’t anyone tell him anything?
“It’s no trouble,” he said more tightly than he’d intended.
Cara placed her hand on Melanie’s arm. “You’ll be fine with Gabe,” she said quietly. “I’d stay, but I have to be at the airport in an hour to pick up my husband, Ian, from a ten o’clock flight due in from New Jersey. We’ll be coming back over here tomorrow morning after the board meeting. I’d like you to meet him.”
Melanie shook her head. “I’ll be leaving early.”
Cara sighed. “You have my card. Call me anytime. And my offer still stands. You and Kevin can stay here as long as you need to.”
Melanie smiled weakly. “Thank you, but my friend is expecting us tomorrow. We’ll be fine there.”
Cara squeezed the woman’s arm. “You promise to call and let me know you’re both all right?”
“I will,” Melanie said softly. “You’ve been so kind. Thank you again.”
Cara hesitated, then slipped an arm around Melanie’s slender shoulders and hugged her. The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, then closed tightly as she hugged her back.
Gabe shifted uncomfortably, praying that neither woman would start with the waterworks. Damn, but he hated that. He’d rather walk barefoot through broken glass than deal with crying women.
He let out the breath he’d been holding when Cara and Melanie parted with dry eyes. Cara turned to him. “You have that report for me?”
“It’s on your front seat.” He gestured toward her silver van. “Do you want me to wait until after the board meeting, or get started right away?”
“Right away.” She glanced up at the old house. “The meeting is just a formality. We have to do whatever needs to be done for resale.”
He nodded, and she leaned toward him and gave him a hug. “Go easy with her,” Cara whispered, and brushed his cheek with her lips. “And stop frowning.”
What did his sister think he was going to do? he thought in annoyance as he watched her walk to her van. Lock the woman in the basement? Yell at her?
And just because he wasn’t walking around with a stupid grin on his face didn’t mean he was frowning, either.
Waving, Cara pulled away with a crunch of tires on the gravel. He watched until the van’s taillights disappeared and then he turned to Melanie, waited for her to speak. Folding her arms tightly in front of her, her gaze dropped to the worn wooden planks under her boots.
“Your sister is a wonderful person,” she said quietly.
“She’s a little bossy, but my brothers and I like her well enough.”
Her gaze lifted to his. “Thank you for calling her.”
Who are you, dammit? What kind of trouble are you in? All this politeness was killing him.
He nodded, but said nothing. The cold night air closed around them. Close by, in a grove of maples, a mockingbird began to sing.
Furrowing her brow, she took a step closer to him, her gaze leveled at his face. “Your cheek,” she said, her eyes narrowed with concern. “I’m so sorry.”
He touched the ragged scratch under his left eye. It stung a little, but wasn’t all that deep. “You didn’t do that. I caught the edge of a screen upstairs when I was climbing into the window.”
She shook her head, frowned. “You wouldn’t have had to climb in a window if I hadn’t locked the doors. I—I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.”
I don’t want an apology. Just tell me why you’re hiding in an empty house. What it is, or who, that you’re afraid of.
He shrugged. “No trouble. It’s just a scratch. Trust me, I’ve had worse.”
“I…I didn’t know if—” she paused, and her voice dropped to a whisper “—if I could trust you.”
She still didn’t trust him, he thought with more than a touch of annoyance. He felt the tension radiate from her, and could all but see the wall she’d erected around herself.
Why, dammit, why?
Oh, hell. What did it matter to him? They’d crossed paths, but she’d be gone in the morning, she and her son. Whatever her problem was, it was no concern of his. She didn’t want his help, so why should he give it more than a passing thought? After tonight, he’d never see her again.
But did she have money? Gas in her car?
Hell.
Forget about it, Sinclair. Not your problem.
With her dark clothes and hair, she nearly blended in with the night. He watched her shiver, saw her breaths come out in little puffs of white and realized she was cold.
“I’ll fire up the furnace now.” He kept his voice even, controlled. “The house should warm up quickly. Is there anything else you need?”
As he’d known she would, she shook her head, but then surprised him by extending her hand. “Thank you for everything.”
He hesitated, then took her hand.
And wished he hadn’t.
Her hand was smooth against his, her fingers long and slender. Soft. In spite of the cold, her skin was warm, and the heat radiated up his arm, spread through his chest, then his body. She looked up at him, a mixture of confusion and amazement, then pulled her hand away and once again folded her arms tightly to her.
“I’ve got to go check on Kevin,” she said, her voice a bit breathless. “Thank you again.”
She turned and hurried back into the house. His eyes narrowed, then his fingers tightened around the flashlight in his hand until he heard the crack of plastic. He stood there for a long moment, waited until the overwhelming urge to follow her subsided.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
He didn’t even know her last name.
Cold fingers of pale dawn reached through the towering oak tree beside Mildred Witherspoon’s weather-beaten detached garage. Frost covered the ankle-deep, weed-infested back lawn, sparkling like a crystal blanket in the early-morning light. Behind the garage, row after neat row of ceiling-high corn stretched acre after acre to a neighboring farm, where the steep black roof of a red barn peeked out from the tips of the silky stalks. Somewhere in the distance, Melanie heard the mournful moo of a cow.
Bucolic was the word that came to her mind as she stood at the back door and scanned the land. Like something she’d seen on a postcard or coffee table book of Midwest farms. She was a city girl, born and raised in Los Angeles, and what little traveling she had done, had never been to rural America. Phillip had always insisted on the exotic, the most elegant: Monte Carlo, New York, London, Washington D.C. Five-star hotels and expensive restaurants. Cows and cornstalks had not fit into her husband’s fast-paced, sophisticated life-style.
And after that first, exciting year of their marriage, Melanie thought wistfully, she hadn’t fit very well, either.
She stepped out onto the back porch, sucked in a lungful of cold, crisp air, felt the rush of blood through her veins as her heart pounded awake. Shivering under the blue sweater she wore, she hurried down the porch steps and across a path of broken concrete that led to the garage, heard the crunch of early fall leaves under her boots. How she wished that she could linger, soak up every sight and sound of this peaceful place before she moved on.
But there was no time. She wanted to make Boston before dark, was certain that she would finally feel safe there with Raina. Raina was the only person Melanie could trust, the only real friend she’d ever had. They’d been best friends in high school, and after Melanie’s father had died, and her mother remarried, Melanie had been at Raina’s house more than she’d been at her own.
But so much had changed since then. They’d both gone in different directions after high school. Raina had gone to Greece and modeled for a short time before marrying, then she’d divorced and started working as a clothing designer for a company in Italy. Melanie had married Phillip and had a baby. Raina had never even seen Kevin.
Melanie smiled as she thought of her son. She’d left him bundled up and sleeping on the sofa in the living room. He hadn’t even stirred when she’d carried him down from one of the upstairs bedrooms where they’d slept last night. Well, where he’d slept, anyway. Even though she’d locked all the doors and windows, checked them twice, she’d still tossed and turned most of the night, listening to every creak and groan of the drafty old house.
Listening for doors opening…footsteps.
The icy chill slithering up her spine had nothing to do with the cold, she knew.
Rubbing her arms, she pulled her car keys out of her front jeans’ pocket and opened the small entry door on the side of the garage. The overhead door was closed, and it was dark and cold inside. She scanned the shadows, holding her breath, then quickly releasing it when she was satisfied no one was hiding there.