Deception Lake Page 6

  She eyed the drinks with a slight scowl. “Don’t suppose you have anything stronger? After the day I’ve had—”

  “I don’t drink anymore, Mara.”

  Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t expect you to do the same. But no, I don’t have anything stronger.”

  She flattened her lips briefly before bending to pull out a Sprite. “Thanks. Those crackers were about to choke me.”

  He grabbed a diet ginger ale and picked up the bag of dirty clothes, carrying them with him when he crossed back to what appeared to be his bed for the night, since Mara was sitting in the middle of the bed nearer to the door.

  “What’s in there?” she asked around a mouthful of cracker crumbs as he untied the black plastic bag.

  “Don’t get too close or you can probably smell them,” he warned with a faint smile. “I remembered I had some dirty clothes in the truck. I’d meant to look for a laundry in town, but I got...sidetracked.”

  Her lips quirked in what almost passed for a smile. “There’s probably a laundry here in Poe Creek.”

  “Yeah.” He set the bag of clothes aside, turning his full attention to her. “Which brings up a question. Just how long do you think we’re going to be here in this lovely little burg?”

  She looked down at her half-eaten package of crackers. “You can leave whenever you want.”

  “And you’re going to what? Walk out of here on foot?”

  “That wouldn’t be your problem.”

  He set aside the package of peanut butter crackers and turned to face her, leaning forward to close some of the distance between them. “It’s my problem. I’m not leaving you here to fend for yourself.”

  Her gaze came up then to meet his, curiosity battling with suspicion. “I’m nobody to you. I never was.” There was no emotion behind the words, not even regret. Just a calm statement of fact.

  And she’d never seemed less like the Mara Jennings he’d once known than she did in that moment.

  The hair on the back of his neck lifted, sending prickles of sensation spreading across his flesh. He picked up the package of crackers lying unopened on the bed beside him and toyed with the plastic wrapper. “Do you remember the night we spent camping up at Lake Meredith? It was June, wasn’t it?”

  Her gaze darted toward him without quite connecting. She shrugged. “What about it?”

  He put the crackers back down and rose, crossing the narrow distance between the two beds until he stood beside her, towering over her. He leaned forward, caging her with his presence but taking care not to touch her. “Remember how hard it rained that night? Just like tonight.”

  Her eyes narrowed as they rose toward him. Her chin jutted forward, sharp as a spear. “Your point?”

  He closed the distance between them, waiting for her to move away from him. Or push him away.

  Anything but what she actually did, which was reach out with one small, strong hand and grab the front of his T-shirt, pulling him forward until he lost his footing and landed sprawled across her.

  * * *

  OH, HELL.

  Even as Jack’s lean body fell across hers, even as her pulse skyrocketed and raw desire flowed hot and sweet through her veins, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. She’d promised herself that sex was off-limits. Men were off-limits. And sexy men were most definitely off-limits. They made her crazy and reckless and stupid, and she’d had about all she could take of crazy, reckless and stupid for one lifetime.

  But when Jack’s hips aligned with hers, and she felt his body respond to the sweet friction, she curled her fingers more tightly in his shirt and lifted her gaze to his.

  His face was so close she couldn’t focus on his eyes. So she gazed at his lips instead, the soft, full lower lip and the narrower upper lip, the way they trembled apart when she splayed her other hand against his rib cage and let it wander over the contours of his narrow waist until her fingers tangled in the waistband of his jeans.

  His breath heated her lips, and he paused, so close, so tantalizingly close. She felt his hesitation, his confusion, and a part of her brain that wasn’t swimming through a haze of need tried to coax her to push him away.

  But Jack chose that moment to move himself, not away but closer, his hands sliding to her thighs, urging them apart to fit himself more perfectly against her.

  His mouth covered hers with no hesitation, no preamble. Just a hard, hot kiss that made her blood sing and her mind reel.

  In the annals of her long history of bad decisions, this was turning out to be the worst ever.

  And she couldn’t bring herself to give a damn.

  She wrapped her legs around his lean hips and drove her fingers through his hair, anchoring his mouth to hers. She parted her lips and answered his passion kiss for kiss. He was hard in all the right places and soft in unexpected places, like the almost delicate way his tongue explored hers, as if tasting her, testing the sensations, drinking in every drop of her desire.

  When he let her go and rolled away, the loss of his body against hers was a visceral shock. For a breathless second, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could only feel a strange emptiness she couldn’t explain or even define.

  The bed moved, rocking her where she lay. Jack sat up, his back to her, his shoulders hunched forward as he rested his elbows on his knees and took several long, deep breaths.

  She dragged her gaze away from his broad, muscular back and looked up at the ceiling, hating herself. Hating him for making her want something she knew would be nothing but a disaster.

  Hating him for pulling away from her before she got a chance to dive into that disaster headfirst.

  She felt him move, felt his gaze on her. It glided over her in exploration, as tangible as a touch. She closed her eyes and still felt his scrutiny stroking lightly over her whole body.

  When he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper, just audible over the drumbeat of rain outside the motel room. “I knew something was wrong. You were wrong.”

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  “Look at me.” His voice solidified. Deepened. When she didn’t open her eyes immediately, he spoke again, his tone hard and unforgiving. “Open your damn eyes and look at me.”

  She complied and found him staring at her, his narrowed eyes sharp. His expression was unyielding and absolutely devastating.

  “You didn’t remember that I owed you seven thousand dollars. Hell, you barely even recognized me at all. I know it’s been nearly four years, but I haven’t changed that much.” He pushed one long-fingered hand through his hair, lifting spiky black tufts that her own fingers itched to smooth back into place. She clutched handfuls of the nubby bedspread to keep her traitorous hands to herself.

  “I was distracted,” she said. The words sounded weak and unconvincing, even to her.

  “A guy in camouflage grabs you, and before I can even reach you, you’ve extracted yourself from his grasp and gone for a gun.” He shook his head. “But you hate guns. You hate violence. Or you did.”

  “My sister was murdered.”

  “I know.” A bleak look turned his brown eyes ebony. “I know your sister was murdered.”

  She started to rise, but he caught her arm, holding her in place.

  “Then earlier. You wanted a drink. But you never drink. You hated when I drank, remember?” His eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’re probably going to tell me that things change. People change. Especially after a traumatic experience. Right?”

  “It’s true,” she said faintly.

  “Except when it’s not.” He let go of her arm, his gaze daring her to move. She lifted her chin, refusing to budge, and the dark look in his eyes melted into regret. “I told myself that very thing. I’ve been thinking it all day, trying to put everything into some kind of order that made sense, but nothing really fit. Until you pulled me down on this bed and showed me something I didn’t think you had in you.”

 
He knew. She stared back at him, her pulse roaring in her ears.

  He leaned closer, his heat flooding her yet somehow unable to drive away the hard chill that washed over her at his next soft words. “You’re not Mara, are you? Mara’s the woman who died that night in Amarillo. Which means you’re—”

  “Mallory,” she finished for him, dread and relief rattling through her in equal parts. “Yes. But you’re wrong about one thing. Mallory Jennings died that night, too. And she can never, ever come back.”

  Chapter Six

  Mallory’s words hung in the air between them, a ghostly echo in the silence. Jack struggled not to drop his gaze, not to look away from the raw fear and pain he saw blazing back at him in her wide blue eyes.

  “What happened?” he asked softly, not sure he wanted to know.

  “They thought she was me. So they shot her twice in the head and set the house on fire.” She broke eye contact, her gaze dropping to her lap, where her fingers twisted together like nervous spiders.

  “Who were they?”

  She shook her head. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t know? Not even a guess?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh. “Lots of guesses. But no proof.”

  “So you took Mara’s identity to save your own skin.”

  She blanched at the question, her gaze whipping up to his. “You don’t get to do that, Jack. You have no right to judge me after the things you did to Mara. So you can go to hell.”

  Anger flared in his chest. He tamped it down ruthlessly. She was right. He had no right to judge anyone else’s behavior after the things he’d done, the mistakes he’d made. “Did you know she was in danger?”

  Her gaze dropped again. “I knew it was possible, but I wasn’t sure—I thought it would be safe enough to go back there for a visit. It was Christmas. I’d already spent so many Christmases away from home.”

  “Why was it possible someone wanted to hurt you? What did you do?”

  “Why do you think I did anything?”

  “You’re not the only person Mara told her secrets to.”

  Warm color rose up her neck, into her cheeks. “Trust me, she didn’t tell you even half of it. She was far too kind for her own good.”

  He couldn’t argue with that assessment of Mara Jennings. “So, tell me, what did you do this time that put you on somebody’s hit list?

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. You’re not a cop and you’re not my lawyer.”

  “I’m the guy with a truck that can get you out of here if things get worse. You might want to be a little more cooperative.”

  Her jaw squared. “I don’t need you.”

  He put one finger under her chin and tipped her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Yes. You do. There is someone out there who wants you out of the way. They’ve tried to kill you at least twice, including today.”

  “That’s why I was trying to get out of town tonight.”

  “And go where?”

  “I’m not telling you that. Or anyone else. I trust no one but myself.”

  “That’s a piss-poor way to go through life.”

  “You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”

  Well played, he thought. “I don’t have an agenda here, Mallory. I thought you were someone I’d hurt, so I wanted to make it up to you. That’s all. And since we’re here, and we’re both sort of in trouble at the moment—”

  She shook he head. “I’m in trouble. You’re just along for the ride, for reasons I sort of understand. But now that you know I’m not the woman whose life you wrecked, you can go.”

  “Mara loved you.”

  Mallory’s blue eyes filled with tears, but he could see her steel herself against them, refusing to let them fall. She blinked a couple of times and held his gaze. “I know that.”

  “I didn’t get to tell her how sorry I was for the many ways I hurt her. I’ll never get to. But I can help her sister, so let me. Please let me help you.”

  “Out of guilt? I’m not sure that’s a good reason.”

  “Mallory—”

  “Or maybe you’re hoping that little tango we did here on the bed was just a preview?” She edged closer, her voice softer and sexier, but the deep blue of her eyes had hardened like ice. The bitter edge of her voice sliced right through his chest. “Bet you’ve never had the chance to compare twins in bed before, have you?”

  “Mara and I never slept together.”

  She pulled back, her eyes narrowed as she seemed to search his face for any signs of deceit.

  “She was different from other women.” He looked away, feeling branded by the sheer force of her wary gaze. “And it’s not that I didn’t try. Believe me, I did.”

  “But she played by the rules.” Mallory’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “I should have known I’d hurt her. I’ve never played by the rules in my life.” He might have cleaned up his act these days, but deep down, he was still that rebellious kid from the Wyoming sticks, who’d hated his hard-nosed father and loved the hell out of his sister. He had to look no further for proof than where he was right now, sitting in a cheap motel with a dead woman he’d come damn close to bedding just a few minutes earlier.

  “She never hated you. She wouldn’t even let me talk bad about you.” Mallory shrugged. “She just didn’t have it in her, I guess.”

  “But you do.”

  Her eyes slanted toward him. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Then I guess maybe you’re the one I need to apologize to.” He turned to face her fully. “I’m sorry I wasn’t better to your sister. I hurt her and took advantage of her, and I could sit here and give you excuses for why I did and what kind of person I was then, but it wouldn’t change the fact that I treated her very badly. And I will go to my grave regretting that I never got the chance to say those words to her.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asked after a long, tense moment of silence. “Grant absolution or something? So not my style.”

  “You don’t have to do anything.” He stood, needing distance from her. But there was no way to get away from himself, and he was the author of the shame and disgust burning a hole in his gut.

  He crossed to the motel room window and pushed aside the stiff canvas curtain. Outside, the night was inky, rain and cloud cover vanquishing any hint of moonlight. A lone lamp shone at the far end of the parking lot, near the motel office. There was another tall lamp on this end of the motel, but the bulb was dark.

  The parking lot was full, he noticed. It seemed the clerk hadn’t been lying about being booked up.

  “Mara said you lost your own sister.” Mallory’s voice was close. He felt the whisper of her breath on his neck. “She was murdered, too, wasn’t she?”

  He turned to look at her. She stood little more than a foot away, her arms folded around her as if she were cold, even though the motel room was well heated. Quelling the urge to wrap his arms around her and warm her with his own body, he pulled his jacket from the chair where he’d draped it and offered it to her.

  She looked inclined to refuse, but after a second’s pause, she reached out for it. Rather than hand it over, Jack circled her and helped her into it, barely resisting the urge to smooth the sleeves down her arms and tuck the collar around her neck.

  “Nice coat,” she murmured. “Cost much?”

  “Enough,” he answered. “You have a mercenary streak?”

  “I like nice things. Is that a crime?”

  “Depends on what you do to procure them.”

  She turned her head to look at him. “Just what exactly did Mara tell you about me?”

  He couldn’t help smiling, despite the bleakness of his current mood. “Only nice things.”

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “Well, she might have mentioned how much she worried about you. Said you never could seem to be happy.”

  She passed her hand over her face, her gaze dipping away.

>   “I never answered your question,” he said as tense silence unspooled between them. “Yes, my sister was murdered.”

  “And you never found out who did it.”

  “Actually we did. Almost four years ago.” Right around the time Mara had died, he realized. “Emily finally got justice.”

  “But it didn’t bring her back.” The forlorn tone of Mallory’s voice made his gut ache.

  “No, it didn’t.” He missed Emily every day.

  Mallory crossed slowly to the motel bed and sat down. She hunkered deeper inside his rain jacket, letting it swallow her whole. “Sometimes I grab my phone and start to dial her number, just to say hello, you know? I get her number all the way in the speed dial before I remember she can’t answer.”

  He eased closer, sensing that despite her introspective mood, she might still be inclined to bolt if he spooked her. She reminded him of a mustang he’d once tried to break. The filly had been as wary and wild as she was beautiful, and she’d fought him every step of the way, even though he’d seen in her liquid brown eyes a yearning to make a connection.

  He’d never saddle-broken her, but she’d stayed on the ranch where he’d worked, too bonded with him to follow the herd back into the wild. She’d died during a difficult foaling not long after Emily died. Already eaten up with grief, Jack had cried for days—for his sister, for himself and for that headstrong, beautiful mare.

  He saw a lot of that wild mustang in Mallory Jennings at this moment. And he felt an old, familiar tug of kinship that scared the hell out of him.

  “It’s late and it’s been a hell of a day. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” He crossed to the window again to give her a modicum of privacy.

  He heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper. He closed his eyes, dismayed but not surprised when his body responded to the sound of her shedding clothes for the night.

  Long minutes passed while he stood gazing out into the rainy night and waited to hear Mallory’s breathing slow and steady, but she seemed restless, the bedsprings creaking as she tossed and turned.

  He finally turned back toward the bed and found her watching him, her gaze narrowed and wary. “Something wrong?” he asked.