In Roared Flint. Jan Hudson
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She yelped and jumped two feet off the couch. “Don’t creep up on me like that.”
“I didn’t creep. I called you twice. Dinner’s ready.”
“Oh. Uh, uh, I need to wash my hands in the bathroom.”
“Wash them at the kitchen sink.”
She patted her disheveled hair. “Well, I’d also like to straighten up a bit. Do you have a brush?”
“Sure, in the bedroom on the dresser. I’ll pour the wine.”
So much for her idea of working on those window nails in the bathroom. When Flint turned his back, she made a face, then snatched up a stack of bills and hurried to the bedroom. The cash might come in handy. She stuck the packet of money in her garter, the blue one that she should have been tossing to prospective grooms about now. Her family must be wild with distress. She only hoped that they didn’t alarm the children.
When she saw her reflection in the mirror, she didn’t even care that she was a mess. Her lipstick was gone, and her mascara was runny and smeared. The circlet of roses and the attached veil had been blown off in the wild ride. Only one limp rose dangled at her temple. She plucked it from her hair and tossed it aside. After removing the pins, she gave her tangled mop a good brushing, then ripped a strip from her dress and tied the scrap around the hair she gathered at the nape of her neck.
She tried to do something with her mascara, but her efforts only made matters worse. Lips pursed, she marched back into the kitchen area and announced, “Flint, I look like a raccoon. I need to wash my face in the bathroom where I can see what I’m doing.”
He grinned. “Okay. Come on. But hurry up. Our dinner will get cold.”
After he escorted her to the bathroom on the porch, Julie cleaned the mascara streaks in thirty seconds. Leaving the water running, she yanked the pliers from her bosom and went to work on the nails. She had one nail out and another loose when Flint knocked on the door.
“Come on, sugar. Our dinner’s getting cold.”
She muttered a curse. “Just a minute,” she called. She pulled out the second nail and quickly stuck the pliers beneath a plunger in the corner. She turned off the water, turned on a smile and opened the door. “I’m ready.”
Inside, the table was set, a candle was lit and soft music played on a radio. He held her chair as she sat down.
Worry about her predicament should have taken away her appetite. It didn’t. She was famished. And common sense told her that if she was going to escape, she needed to keep up her strength. Besides, the food was delicious. Beyond delicious.
Fish sautéed in mushrooms and herbs, pasta in a delicately seasoned cream sauce, cold asparagus marinated in olive oil and balsamic vinegar with sun-dried tomatoes. And the wine was fabulous.
“Enjoying your dinner?” he asked.
She looked up from shoveling in a mouthful of pasta. He toyed with the stem of his wineglass while he watched her. Amusement played around the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed to have been caught stuffing food in her mouth like a starving refugee, she put down her fork and delicately dabbed her lips with her napkin.
“It’s quite tasty. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“In California.”
“I see.”
“Want to know what I was doing in California?”
“Not particularly.” She chugalugged the rest of her wine. He filled her glass again.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She nodded toward his untouched fork and picked up her own. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I’d rather watch you.”
“Well, don’t,” she said, lifting a bite of fish to her mouth. “It makes me nervous.”
“It makes me horny.”
Her fork clattered to her plate. “Damn you, Flint Durham, don’t say things like that to me.”
“Would you want me to lie?” His voice was barely a whisper.
His eyes, smoldering like a banked camp fire, bored into hers. A tendril of raw sensual awareness traveled between them and stroked her skin. Quivering sensation rippled over her. She tried to glance away, but she was helplessly mesmerized by the potent allure of his dark eyes. Black with longing, they seemed to draw her into their depths, mesmerize her with memories of a passionate past.
A low throb began building in her body, quickening her pulse and stealing her breath. Knowing that she was flirting with disaster didn’t stifle the feelings. The forbidden enticement seemed only to fan the flames. The attraction was still there, stronger than ever, as if it had been secretly intensifying beneath the surface for six long years. She struggled, waging an inner battle between desire and dignity.
Abruptly, Julie sprang to her feet. Her chair overturned and crashed to the floor. “Don’t do that!” she shouted.
“Don’t do what, darlin’?”
“Don’t look at me that way.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile. “What way is that?”
“As if…as if I were dessert.”
His smile broadened. “You want dessert?”
“No. I’ve had quite enough! I want to go home. Now.” She had to get away from him. She had to. Six years’ worth of barriers erected from bitterness and disillusionment were beginning to crack. She wouldn’t let that happen.
“Sorry, babe. Not yet. Not until we talk, really talk.”
“I have nothing more to say to you. I want to brush my teeth. Do you happen to have an extra toothbrush?”
“I think there’s one in the bathroom.”
Spine stiffened, she walked to the rear door and waited until Flint unlocked it.
As soon as she was in the bathroom, she turned on the water and grabbed the pliers. With strength born of desperation, she yanked out the three remaining nails in the window. Her heart hammering like crazy, she tugged it upward. It stuck briefly, then slid open. She blew out a relieved breath. Standing on the toilet, she hitched up her torn dress and threw one leg over the windowsill.
“Julie!”
She froze.
Flint rapped on the door. “Julie, are you okay in there?”
“Dammit, Flint! Would you at least allow me some privacy? I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, sounding contrite.
She poked her head out the window and surveyed her surroundings. In the gathering dusk, the lake was still. The woods were hushed. The ground beneath the window was only a few feet down. Maneuvering herself through the opening, she held on to the sill, then dropped.
She landed ankle deep in muck.
Oh, gross. She stilled, listening for a second, then scrambled up the bank.
Sharp stones and stickers shredded her stockings and punished her tender feet. Shoes. She had to have shoes. Wincing with every step, she hurried to the spot where her silk pumps were still stuck heel deep in the ground. She grabbed them up and, dancing on first one foot, then the other, stuck them on her muddy feet.
Hoping against hope that Flint had left the key in the Harley, she ran to the motorcycle. No such luck. Panicked urgency growing, she hesitated, her darting eyes scanning the densely wooded area, trying to decide which way to go, what to do next. She couldn’t try for the boat; it was moored just beneath Flint’s feet. After spotting an outbuilding through the