Secrets and Lies: He's A Bad Boy / He's Just A Cowboy. Lisa Jackson
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of athletics. As she pushed against him, he laughed and to her horror he placed a kiss against her hair. “Mmm, baby, you smell so good.”
“Stop it,” she warned, but his arms tightened and she was pressed hard against him.
Rachelle struggled, but her fight seemed to arouse him all the more. She tried to scream, but he covered her mouth with lips that were hot and eager. His tongue pressed anxiously against her teeth, trying to gain entrance. The heat of his body radiated into hers. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, and she jerked her head away. His kisses brought a hot taste of fear to the back of her throat, but he wouldn’t stop and the hands that held her were as strong as steel.
“Stop it,” she ordered when he finally drew his head away. His expression in the darkness was intense. His eyes bored into hers in a savage way that made her insides curl. He transferred both her wrists to one of his hands and he kissed her again. This time his free hand slipped beneath her jacket to palm a breast.
She screamed then and tried to kick him, but he moved and covered her mouth with his hand. “No one’s gonna come to your rescue here, girl. Don’t you know that? All the guys—they’re lookin’ for their own fun.”
She bit his hand and he yelped. “You bastard!” she shrieked as he flinched. She tried to scream again, but he flattened his lips to hers and kissed her hard.
“You know you want it,” he whispered roughly, his breath tinged with stale beer. His fingers felt clammy and cold.
She kicked again, throwing all her weight into the effort as she aimed for his crotch. He shifted and her foot connected with his shin. He howled in pain but didn’t let go.
“You little bitch!” He shoved her hard against the bench, and she screamed.
“Roy, don’t—”
“You, don’t. Ya hear?” he screamed in her face. “I’m the one giving orders and you’re going to give me whatever I want and you’re going to like it—”
Suddenly he was ripped off her and tossed across the gazebo like a rag doll. Her blouse tore with a horrid ripping sound.
Roy yelled, “Hey—what the—” as he crashed into the bench on the far side of the slatted structure.
“Leave her alone,” Jackson thundered, appearing out of nowhere. Rachelle hadn’t heard his bike or boots. She gulped back tears, limp beneath a tidal wave of relief at the sight of him. He glared over his shoulder at her. “Run!”
Rachelle tried to get to her feet, but she could barely move.
“I shoulda killed you when I had the chance,” Roy yelled, struggling upward and lunging at Jackson. But the beer had made him sluggish, and as he scrabbled for Jackson’s neck, Jackson shoved him back down.
“Leave her alone,” Jackson ordered, then shot Rachelle a furious glance. “Damn it, I told you to run.” He grabbed hold of her arm and yanked her to her feet. “Get outta here!”
A dozen of Roy’s friends converged on the gazebo. There were shouts and hoots; the smell of a fight was heavy in the air.
Roy climbed to his feet, reached into his pocket and pulled out a jackknife. Jackson glared at him. Roy clicked the knife open. The blade gleamed wickedly in the night.
“No—Roy—” Rachelle cried, horrified.
But Roy smelled blood. He swung at Jackson, and Jackson spun, but not quickly enough. Roy drew back and the blade slashed downward. With a sickening rip, the knife connected with Jackson’s leg.
Jackson sucked in his breath as Roy struck again, this time plunging the knife into Jackson’s shoulder.
“Stop it, Roy!” Scott McDonald yelled.
“Butt out! This is my fight!” Roy snarled.
Jackson backed up and Roy slashed wildly.
Rachelle screamed.
“I’ll kill you, man,” Roy vowed, swinging at Jackson savagely, the blade slashing through the air as Jackson wheeled and dodged. Roy raised the knife again, and Jackson grabbed his wrist with one hand and landed a hard punch to Roy’s midsection. The knife clattered onto the gazebo floor.
Jackson smashed his fist across Roy’s cheek. Roy tumbled backward in a heap. Shaking his head, he spit and coughed. “You’re a dead man, Moore! I’ll kill you, I swear it.”
“You’ll never get the chance.”
Jackson must’ve spied Rachelle from the corner of his eye. “Are you still here?” he demanded. “Get out of here before—”
“She stays!” Roy commanded, and Jackson lost no time.
“For crying out loud!” Grabbing Rachelle’s arm firmly and half carrying her with him, Jackson vaulted the latticework of the gazebo. Together they landed in the bushes and scrambled to their feet. Jackson nearly stumbled as his leg gave out, and Rachelle pulled him upright. He was breathing hard and sweating. “Unless you want more trouble than you bargained for, you’d better get out of here now!” he advised.
“Listen, you illegitimate SOB,” Roy bellowed, “she stays here!”
“No way!”
With Jackson still tugging on her arm, Rachelle started running with him, holding her tattered blouse and jacket together as they dashed through the shrubbery, Jackson spurring her on, though his gait was uneven and he was breathing heavily.
“Stop Moore—stop him!” Roy yelled but his voice was muffled now. Jackson led Rachelle through a garden and between trees to the driveway where his bike was parked. Three boys were standing guard and when they saw Jackson emerge from the woods, Erik Patton smiled wickedly.
“Well, look what you found—Roy’s little piece,” he taunted, but Jackson ignored them.
“Get on,” Jackson told Rachelle, and without thinking she climbed astride the huge machine.
Erik lit a cigarette with exaggerated calm. “You’re not gonna get far,” he predicted, then cupped one hand around his mouth. “Hey, Roy, they’re over here! Moore and the girl.”
Jackson tried to start the bike. Nothing happened. Rachelle shivered visibly. Roy was coming. She could hear him. Her heart slammed in fear. “Come on,” she whispered, and Jackson tried again. The engine wouldn’t even turn over.
He glared at Erik for a heart-stopping second, then swept his gaze back at Rachelle. She didn’t doubt if she weren’t there that he would have climbed off the bike and torn Erik limb from limb.
“This way,” he said, hopping off the motorcycle and dragging her along. They ducked into the woods again, and Rachelle wanted to cry. She was terrified of Roy, and knew instinctively that she was safer with Jackson, yet the night was too awful to believe. Roy had intended to rape her and Jackson, her savior, wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor. She only hoped her instincts about him were right, because she guessed by the way he touched her, by the glint in his eye, that beneath his bad-boy exterior, there was a trace of good. She clung to that notion like a drowning man holding fast to a life preserver.
Twigs and thorns tore at her skin and hair, but she took Jackson’s advice and began running, as fast as her legs would carry her, toward the rocky beach surrounding the lake. She tripped twice on berry vines, but Jackson helped her struggle up and keep plunging forward. She didn’t know if they were being chased, didn’t want to take the time to look around and find out.
Her throat was hot and thick and tears streamed from her eyes. Rain poured down her neck. She couldn’t forget the skin-crawling feel of Roy’s body against hers, the terror that he wouldn’t stop until he’d stripped her of her clothes, robbed her of her dignity and…oh, Lord, she couldn’t think of that! She wouldn’t.
The trees gave way and she was on the beach,