In Roared Flint. Jan Hudson
Читать онлайн книгу.
wrong?‘ he asks. You waltz off to become Ernest Hemingway, then waltz back in six years later—on my wedding day, I might add—and expect me to take up where we left off? Well, think again, bub. And don’t call me babe.”
“But I explained, or at least part of it. If you had read my letters—”
“But I didn’t read them.”
He raked his hands through his hair again. “You would have if it hadn’t been for that bitch of a mother of yours.”
“Don’t call my mother names!” she yelled.
“She’s called me worse.”
Julie jacked up her chin and glared lightning bolts. “She has not. She never even says ‘darn.’ But I have. I’ve called you every name in the book for leaving me. Would you like to hear some of them?” She let loose with a string of invectives that turned his ears red.
“Julie! I don’t like to hear you talk like that.”
She cocked one eyebrow. “Well, la-de-dah. Isn’t that just too bad? If my choice of words offends you so badly, you can just take me home. Maybe I can still salvage my wedding.”
“No chance. Cuss until you’re blue in the face, but you’re staying here until I make you understand that there will never be anybody else for you except me.”
“You’re going to have a long wait.” She turned her back and crossed her arms.
“Honey, will you let me explain why I had to leave Travis Creek in such a hurry?”
“I’m not talking. I’m not listening.” She covered her ears and started singing “Dixie” again.
“Dammit, Julie,” he yelled. “I had received a letter the day before that knocked me for a loop. I was offered a full scholarship—”
“Look away…look awaaaaaay Dixieland,” she caterwauled.
Exasperated, he retreated to the couch and sat down. He plunked his booted feet on the pine coffee table, picked up a magazine and began leafing through the pages. He couldn’t have read it if he’d wanted to, not with all that howling and screeching going on. Julie was gorgeous; she had a well-modulated speaking voice that was sexy as hell; and he loved the woman with all his heart and soul—but the bare-faced truth was that she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Never could sing worth a damn. Six years hadn’t changed that, either.
A few minutes later, she ran down. After an interval of blessed quiet, she said, “Flint, will you please take me home now?”
“Nope.”
She sighed theatrically. “Well, if you won’t take me home, at least let me go to the bathroom.”
“Okay.” He stood. “I’ll take you.”
“Home?”
“No. To the bathroom.”
“I can go by myself. Where is it?”
“Outside.”
Julie wrinkled her nose at the accommodations. At least it wasn’t a little house down a path. The small room, which seemed to have been added as an afterthought to one end of the long back porch, had a shower, a toilet, a sink and…a window without bars.
But when she tried pulling it up she almost got a hernia. Examining it closely, she saw that the blasted thing was nailed shut. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a claw hammer or a pair of pliers.
Flint banged on the door. “Are you okay in there?”
Her keeper. She couldn’t even go to the bathroom without him standing outside waiting for her. Some way, somehow, she had to escape from this place.
He banged again. “Julie, are you okay?”
Frustrated and furious, she flung open the door. “Can’t I even use the ladies’ room in peace?”
“Sorry.” If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought that he looked contrite.
Hiking up the tail of her torn wedding dress, she brushed past him, then stopped to scout the area, trying to figure out where she was. The cabin was in a heavily wooded tract, built partly on land and partly on beams over the edge of the bank. A pier extended out from the porch steps, but she didn’t see a boat anywhere. All she saw was woods and lake—miles and miles of woods and lake. But there had to be a boat around somewhere.
Boats and water had always made her nervous, but because of the twins, she’d worked hard at overcoming her fears. She still wasn’t thrilled about getting in a boat, but she could manage if it meant freedom.
Julie walked to the porch railing and nonchalantly glanced down at the water lapping at the beams. A red bass boat rode in a slip beneath the porch.
“Where are we?” she asked casually.
“At a friend’s place on Lake Rayburn.”
She shot him an exasperated glare. “I figured as much. But where exactly?”
He grinned. “Uh-uh. I’m not biting that line.” He turned her to him. “Julie, don’t even think about trying to sneak out and take off. Riding the Harley is out, and I know how you feel about boats and water, and you can’t make it out on foot. If you tried, you’d only get lost and endanger yourself. We’re a long way from anywhere.” He stuck his fingers in his back pockets and sniffed the air. “Besides it’s going to rain before long.”
She glanced at the sky over the water. The sun was heading down—which at least gave her a directional clue—and a few clouds streaked its face, but the weather was clear as a bell. Before she could open her mouth to refute his claim, the wind kicked up a chill breeze, and she heard the rumble of distant thunder. Or was that her stomach? Clamping her hand on her tummy, she asked haughtily, “Are you going to starve me, too?”
He chuckled. “Hadn’t planned to. Let’s see what we can rustle up in the kitchen.” He gestured for her to precede him into the cabin.
“You go ahead. I think I’ll stay out here for a while.”
He lifted one black eyebrow in a who-do-you-thinkyou’re-kidding expression.
“Oh, all right!” She stomped indignantly inside—or as indignant a stomp as she could manage in her stocking feet.
If she was going to remain Flint’s prisoner, bedamned if she was going to cook, and she told him so. While he fixed dinner, she tossed the trailing tail of her ragged dress over her arm and wandered around the cabin, looking for a way to escape. She checked every window and rattled every door. She surreptitiously scavenged through cupboards and drawers, trying to find something, anything, that might help her get away. Mostly she found fishing stuff: spools and spools of line, dozens of lures and other paraphernalia, and—voilà!—needle-nose pliers.
Glancing quickly over her shoulder to see if Flint had spotted her find, she stuffed the pliers down the front of her dress, adjusting them inside her bra so that they wouldn’t make a telltale bulge.
Divine smells coming from the stove set her stomach to rumbling again—not surprising since she’d been too nervous to eat lunch, and breakfast had been a banana. She ignored the temptations Flint was concocting and continued her scrutiny of the cabin. With only two rooms and the kitchen alcove, she soon ran out of places to look. There were only so many spots to examine in such small quarters. Before she was reduced to anxious pacing, she told herself to calm down and think. Make a plan.
Picking up a stray stack of cash, she sat down on the sofa and fanned through the banded bunch of hundred dollar bills. Her eyes narrowed as she considered the money that he’d dumped in her lap earlier. The dozens of packets still littered the recliner and the floor.
Where had so much cash come from? Had he become involved in something sinister? Her mind conjured up all sorts