He came off her and blotted his cheek with the back of his hand. Seeing fresh blood, he said, “You scratch me again and I’ll tape your hand to the top of the headboard. It won’t be nearly as comfortable.”

“Go to hell.”

Confident that she couldn’t do too much damage or go very far in the amount of time it would take him to go through the cabin turning out lights, he did so. When he reentered the bedroom, she was standing at the side of the bed, tugging frantically on her left hand as she tore at the tape with the fingernails of her right, accomplishing nothing except to pull the bed several inches away from the wall.

“You plan to drag the bed all the way back to Charleston?”

“Damn you! Let me go!”

Raley unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down. That shut her up. She stared at him aghast. “What are you doing?”

“Taking my clothes off, what does it look like?” He toed off his sneakers, stepped out of the jeans, and removed his socks. He unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, pulled it over his head, and tossed it onto the nearest chair, then bent down and picked up the roll of tape.

“Get back on the bed.”

She shook her head, then said hoarsely, “No.”

He was on her before she could plan an effective defense. In seconds, she was on her back on the bed. He straddled her again while he wrapped the duct tape around their joined wrists, her right to his left. Again he bit off the end with his teeth.

“You might manage to gnaw off the tape on your left wrist,” he said, “but you can’t get free of me.”

“Maybe not,” she said between gasps of breath. “But I can make life very unpleasant for you.”

He should have recognized her wicked smile as a warning. As it was, he was almost too late to react when she raised her knee toward his crotch. She missed his balls by a margin so narrow, he caught his breath in anticipation of the pain that, fortunately, never came.

Frustrated that she’d failed, she screamed up at him, “Get off me!”

Instead, he stretched out fully, leaving himself less vulnerable by pinning her legs down with his. She was hampered but not defeated. She continued to buck like a colt, trying to throw him off. He lowered his face to within inches of hers, close enough to exchange angry breaths but far enough so they could keep each other in sharp focus.

“Stop that!” he ordered.

She didn’t of course.

“You want to know why I brought you here?”

“I think I know why,” she replied, panting from her exertion.

“You don’t know shit. I’ll clue you in. But you’ve got to stop fighting me first.”

Instantly she became still, but if looks could kill…

“I brought you here because I believe you.” Her blue eyes went wide. “I’m probably the only person in the state who does.”

“What?” she gasped.

“Yeah. I believe your memory was deliberately wiped clean.” He pressed down on her harder, for emphasis, to make certain she was paying attention. “Because the same thing happened to me.”

CHAPTER 7

BRITT WOKE UP WHEN A SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT STRUCK HER FACE. She was lying on her side, facing a window. Through the screen she could see dense green forest, the leaves of a wisteria vine fluttering against the post of an old-fashioned clothesline, and a predatory bird doing spirals against the cloudless sky.

Remembering where she was, she rolled onto her back and came up on her elbows. Daylight did little to enhance the room. It was small, accommodating only the bed, a chair, and a TV tray that served as a nightstand, on which was a gooseneck reading lamp. In the corner was a large bureau with six deep drawers.

The room had no charm except for the patterned quilt covering her legs and feet. It appeared to have been hand stitched, and the fabric remnants from which it was made were color coordinated.

The only other decorative item was a sweet potato vine growing from the tuber that had been suspended in a jar of water sitting on top of the bureau. Its roots had formed a thick nest inside the jar, while the leafy vine nearly filled the corner all the way to the ceiling, its tendrils curling around a network of string tacked to the wall.

The room was humble but tidy. His clothes were no longer on the floor or in the chair where he’d left them last night when he joined her on the bed.

Her hands were free, although she still had bands of tape around the wrists. The edges trailed fine, white threads. She pushed off the quilt and got out of bed. The door to the living area was closed, but through it she could smell fresh coffee. The aroma made her mouth water.

After using the bathroom, she hesitantly opened the bedroom door. He was standing with his shoulder propped against the front door jamb, staring through the screen as he sipped from a large mug of coffee.

The same thing happened to me.

Following that startling statement, he’d continued staring down at her for several beats, then he’d rolled off her, switched off the gooseneck lamp, and stretched out on his back beside her. They had touched nowhere except the backs of their hands that were taped together.

He hadn’t moved. She hadn’t dared. In minutes he’d been breathing evenly, obviously asleep. Impossible as it seemed now, she’d soon fallen asleep, too.

Sensing her presence, he turned. As they continued to look at each other, she wondered about his level of hostility this morning. He would hold a grudge forever, that much she knew. But if he’d meant to get retribution with bodily harm, he wouldn’t have freed her hands. His expression was blank. At least it appeared to be. It was hard to tell what the beard concealed.

Testing the waters, she said, “The sweet potato vine is a nice, homey touch.”

He looked at her for several seconds more, then nodded toward the kitchen area. “Coffee mugs are in the cabinet on the right.”

The sisal rug that covered most of the floor in the living space gave way to vinyl in the kitchen. It felt cool against the soles of her feet. She took a mug from the cabinet above a stained Formica counter and poured her coffee. It tasted as strong as it looked, but it was good.

“I think there’s some sweetener somewhere.”

She shook her head. “I’d use milk if you have it.”

“In the fridge.”

Once she’d added milk to the coffee, she sat down in one of the chairs at the small, wood dining table and began peeling the sticky silver duct tape off her wrists.

Watching her, he said, “If it makes you feel any better, I had hairs caught in mine. Hurt like hell to peel it off.”

She gave him a wan smile. “It makes me feel better.” When she finished the task, she wadded the tape into two tight balls. He extended his hand, and she dropped them into it. He tossed them in the trash can.

“How’s your head?”

“I still have a goose egg. And the roots of my hair hurt.”

“The hazards of being an uncooperative kidnap victim.” She gave him a withering look. Unrepentantly, he added, “I had to make you think I meant business.”

It wasn’t quite an apology, but she figured it was all she could expect. “At least I paid you back,” she said, motioning toward the scratch on his cheek just above the beard.

“If your knee had connected with my balls, you would have paid me back.” He turned and opened the refrigerator. “I assume you’re hungry.”

“Last night you were my abductor and this morning you’re the gracious host?”

He turned on the flame beneath a burner on the gas stove, set a skillet on it, and began lining up strips of bacon in the skillet.

“Mr. Gannon? Raley?” she said when he still didn’t respond. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Why did you take the tape off? Why am I free now?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said last night?”

“About believing me because the same thing had happened to you?”