Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [48]
She still didn’t move. She wanted to. Needed to. But for some reason her body wasn’t responding to her demands. It seemed to know her better than her mind.
“Last chance, princess. I’m going to put my hands on you again, and this time I’m not going to let go.”
At the last minute she pushed away from the Cadillac, almost weak with relief. He hadn’t moved that far out of the way, and as she leaned down to pick up her discarded clothes her jeans began to sag. Her hands were full of clothing, so she couldn’t refasten them, but if she ran really fast then maybe she could keep them up. Why the hell did she wear such baggy jeans? If she wore form-fitting ones like most people they wouldn’t be sagging. But she already knew the answer to that. She wore baggy clothes to hide her body. Not that there was that much to hide.
Dillon was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his face. As if her eventual decision was no more important than what to have for breakfast.
“I’ll go now,” she said, her clothes clasped to her chest. Not moving.
“Sure you will. I think we’ve talked long enough. Come here.”
He had to be crazy. She was halfway to the door, hugging her clothes against her, and he expected her to come to him.
“Come here, Jamie,” he said again, soft, beguiling. “You’ve been running long enough. Let’s just get it over with.”
If she ran she’d panic, and she was already frightened enough. Frightened by the inevitability of it. He was inexorable, determined, and he wouldn’t stop. Because in the end she really didn’t want him to stop.
She stood there, frozen, as he came toward her, lean and smooth and very dangerous. He took the clothes out of her arms and dumped them on the cement floor. They’d get oil stains, she thought, trying to concentrate on trivialities. Her mother would be horrified. She should pick them up.
He pushed her jeans down her hips and she let him. They pooled at her ankles, and when he took her hand she stepped out of them.
He didn’t let go of her hand, and she didn’t try to pull away. She couldn’t fight him with her body, but she could fight him with her words. “Don’t do this,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything, simply pulled her into the shadows of the huge garage. There was an old sagging sofa back there, a hideous shade of green with the stuffing coming out of the cushions. She didn’t want to go there. And he wasn’t giving her a choice.
“I think we better do this fast,” he said, pushing her down on the sofa with deceptive gentleness. Deceptive, when she knew how violent he could be. He’d never turned that violence on her, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t if she pushed him far enough. As she’d been trying to, ever since she got there. “I don’t want you to panic and change your mind.”
“I never said…” Her voice caught in a gasp as he pulled the skimpy panties down her legs with the ease of long experience.
“You didn’t need to,” he said, kneeling down on the sofa beside her, pushing her back against the lumpy cushions. “You can’t spend your life running away. I never thought you’d be a coward, Jamie Kincaid.”
“I am,” she said. “A sniveling, desperate coward.” He’d pushed the camisole up and flicked open the front clasp of her bra, but he didn’t bother pulling it off her. It lay beneath her on the sofa, and the lacy straps and the camisole were halfway down her arms, limiting her movement.
He reached for the snap of his jeans, and she shut her eyes. She heard the rasp of his zipper, she could feel the shudders of panic wash over her body. He moved between her legs, and she tensed, waiting for him to touch her.
“I’m not going to help you,” she said in a low voice. “Paul made me help him. He was too drunk, and he hit me, and he made me—”
“I don’t need any help.”
She heard the sound of paper tearing, and she almost opened her eyes. A condom, she realized. He was going to use a condom.
She made one last attempt. “You’re wasting your time. I tried to get over this once. I even got this far, but he couldn’t…I was too…” There