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Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintended by the author. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark of MTM Television and NBC and the characters of that series are used herein with no mean intent or desire for remuneration. It is, instead, a tribute to innovative television, that rare and welcome phenomenon.
The Third Highway Series Part 09:
Isn't It Romantic
Chapter 1
Witch1
Toluca National Park, Oregon
Jarod breathed the clean, sweet air deeply into his lungs and stretched out on the soft cushion of alpine sedges, feeling the comforting warmth of the sunlight on his face. He sighed, thinking it was a perfect day, and reached out for her where she lay on her back beside him, stroking the softness of her face. He rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand, just looking at her: at the sunlight in her hair and her smooth, delicate skin, her perfect features, the thin arches of her eyebrows, her sweetly bowed mouth. Her eyes were closed and he kissed her eyelids, warm with sunshine, feeling them flutter against his lips as she raised her arms up around his neck and pulled him further on top of her, pressing her body against his and sighing.
He worked his way down her throat with lingering kisses, moving his hands over her warm, soft body, undoing the top button on her plaid flannel shirt and kissing the delicate skin over her collar bones, feeling her legs tense through her blue jeans, taking it as a sign of arousal. He undid the second button, reaching inside her shirt to cup one breast in his hand, trying to figure out how to get to the hook in the back of her bra. He decided he needed the shirt all the way off first. But as he moved to the next button, she took him firmly by the wrist and pushed his hand away.
"Jarod: no!"
"It's so beautiful here," he told her, running his palm up the inside of her thigh, kissing her neck again. "YOU'RE so beautiful here," he added, moving his hand between her legs, reaching for the button on her shirt again.
"But the trail, it's right there," she said, "It's too public. I can't . . . "
Jarod stroked her hair and kissed her mouth, still working on the button, while she continued to try to pull his hand away. "I want you, " he insisted. "Now. There's nothing wrong with desire."
"Then we will go back to the cabin," she told him.
"But I want you here. You're just being shy," he said. "Trust me, it's very exciting: being outdoors, the sunshine, not knowing who might come along . . . "
"**Dios mio**, Jarod, no!" Nia said, quite seriously. "Not 'exciting'- -dangerous. For me, there is a difference." She pushed him away more insistently, and he heard the irritation in her voice.
He rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes, haunted, of course, by Laura's laughter, by the way she always let passion just sweep her away. "You're thirty-eight going on seventeen," she'd told him, and had meant it as a compliment. He wanted to take big, sloppy bites out of life--he wanted everything, all the time, now. And Laura had not just accepted that, she'd actively encouraged it. Increasingly, he understood she wanted exactly the same thing. He sighed deeply and shook his head, trying to escape that thought, and Nia sat up and looked down at him silently.
After a while he opened his eyes--she was still staring at him. He opened his mouth to speak and she put her fingers gently against his lips. "No, **mi amore**, there is something I need to say."
He waited as she seemed lost in thought for a moment, clearly pondering her words. And thought of Laura again, of her saying, "Yo, pal--just spit it out, already!" whenever he got pensive. Laura hated pregnant pauses.
"I want . . ." Nia began, then started over: "You are always welcome here, Jarod. But it's very hard. When you leave. Not knowing if you will return--"
"I always have, Nia," he reassured her. "You know I can't stay here, you understand why--"
"Yes," she answered. "Dangerous. And you need to . . . " she gestured toward the outside world with her hand: a fluttering sort of motion, like a butterfly or a bird, something free. "But, for me--I cannot live with that, with the . . . not knowing. If you are well, if you are alive, if you are . . . alone."
Jarod swallowed. There wasn't much he could say about that. He'd been in the Caribbean until two days before, working on a crew of divers salvaging a Spanish wreck from the sixteen hundreds--the man who ran the operation had been selling counterfeit coins, alleging they were from the galleon, taking advantage of innocent investors and the public, and Jarod had pulled off an elaborate sting that resulted in the guy's arrest on fraud charges. But along the way there had been a woman--deeply tanned and blond and hugely willing to shrug off her bikini for him--and he really didn't want to lie to Nia about how he had been "alone." It was the kind of thing Laura never asked about-- they had a tacit agreement that it was never mentioned. She knew it happened, and she somehow just dealt with it. Except for Jenn, of course--it was testing fate to suppose that even Laura would be understanding about his having slept with her sixteen year old grand niece.
"They," Nia continued, "those people"--and Jarod knew she meant the Centre--"they might kill you. Or take you away. I would never know. I think--" and he heard the tears in her voice--"for me . . . living with that, with the not knowing. . . " And she let the thought trail off, and Jarod knew exactly what she meant, of course: that she simply couldn't live with it, that she needed stability and security in her life, and that it wasn't fair for him to just show up, stay for a night and leave before the Centre could act on whatever surveillance they might have on Nia. He knew it wasn't fair--he always had--but Nia had never mentioned it before.
He looked at her: the tears were just beginning to pool in her dark eyes, and he felt himself getting just as sad, just as tearful.
"**Mi vida, mi amore**," he said. "I will always love you: **yo te quiero para siempre**."
"I know that, Jarod," she answered, touching his face, the tracks of his tears, her voice choked with emotion. "I know you will always love me, no matter where you are."
And even as he reached for her, understanding this might be a final goodbye between them, he could hear Laura's cynical voice in his mind, saying what he knew she would tell Nia if she were there: "Sure, honey--you just keep telling yourself that."
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Ten miles to the south . . .
She saw the dust trail from the jeep coming down the road before Sam did, and gestured toward it, clicking the safety off her nine millimeter and squinting to watch the bend in the road intently. They had felled a tree across the narrow mountain road--not the newest trick in the world, but still effective--and their two limos were carefully hidden, pulled into a logging road just behind the deadfall. They'd had all afternoon to set the trap--Jarod wasn't being as careful as he normally was and had stayed with Nia an extra night, long enough that he would soon regret it, she thought. She hoped he was still thinking about Nia--lost in some maudlin, romantic goodbye scene--and wouldn't sense the danger until it was too late.
Jarod drove around the final curve and seemed to only see the big spruce tree at the last moment, pulling the jeep into a screeching, skidding stop. His path was instantly blocked by the two big black cars as they pulled in behind the jeep and they were out with guns drawn before he had a chance to even pick a direction to run in.
"You really shouldn't have--" he said, standing beside the jeep with his hands up. "A surprise party--and just for me."
"Keep your hands where I can see them, Jarod, or I might decide to find out how good it would feel to pull this trigger. Against the car, " she commanded, enjoying ordering him around immensely. "You're either getting careless, Jarod, or just too horny. You shouldn't have stayed so long will your little Senorita Bimbo. Funny, I wouldn't have thought Miss Mountain Momma was your type."
"And what is my type?" he asked, trying to sound quite casual, turning toward the car and placing his palms on it's roof. One of Miss Parker's enforcers patted him down to check for weapons, and he looked up at the crystalline blue sky, thinking of what a perfect day it was, oddly enough--breathing deeply, as though those breaths might be his last.
"Your 'type', Jarod? That is a good question, isn't it? Maybe I'm wrong--she is breathing, so I suppose that's all it takes to do it for you."
He managed a slight smile. "At least I manage to get laid," he said. "Unlike those who live only in their fantasies . . . "
But she only snorted. "My only 'fantasy' is delivering you to the Centre, Jarod, and I intend to make it quite real."
She'd moved closer to him without being aware of it and stopped, suddenly, realizing her mistake. It felt wonderful to have him so completely under her control and she was quite high from it: but not enough to lose her wariness. She'd learned how dangerous he was when he was cornered and didn't want to take any chances.
"Sam!" she commanded, and gestured for the big man to approach Jarod more closely. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam moving toward him, the shackles in his hands, and heard their dull metallic clanking. Jarod felt his heart sink, thinking in an instant of the precious freedom he was about to lose, and that he was living his nightmare of seeing all he treasured slip away. When Sam touched him, pulling him roughly around to put the cuffs and shackles on, Jarod instinctively lashed out at him, catching him across the jaw with his fist.
There were two other hulking giants, the Centre's enforcers, and they were on him immediately. The struggle was brief, and although Jarod got in a few satisfying shots, feeling his hand connect with bone and the splatter of blood, they made it clear just what they thought about his lack of respect, pounding on him more than they had to, one guy pinning his arms behind his back while Sam hit him repeatedly in the stomach and Jarod spat blood and felt his whole world define itself with pain.
"He broke my fucking hand!" the third goon said, angrily, holding one big paw cradled in the other.
He saw Miss Parker standing with her hands on her hips, her long legs spread, head cocked to the side, watching. Sam went for a higher target, hitting Jarod right in the jaw, and as his head snapped back he was just blinded by anger and hatred and grief. And an almost childlike disbelief that they were really going to keep hurting him way past the point where it made any sort of logical sense.
"Where are the DSAs, Jarod?" Parker demanded. She gestured to the third goon. "Go check the jeep," she told him.
"But my hand--"
"Afterwards, you can go to a doctor," she hissed. "Check the jeep!"
Jarod watched her closely, fully aware of just how much she was enjoying the entire situation, as she moved within inches of him. "Where are they, Jarod? We can stay here all day. Sam has many, many special feelings I'm sure he would love to share with you. Tell me where you put the DSAs."
In spite of herself, she felt a wave of sympathy wash over her, seeing his battered face, the drips of blood. And she told herself all she was concerned about was that he be returned to the Centre in fairly good condition, that her interest was quite clinical, businesslike. She had a job to do, after all. And if it made her feel aroused and disgusted in equal parts, well, those were only emotions. Which were best pushed aside.
But Jarod was completely lost in emotions, thinking of Nia, of her standing on the porch of her cabin, watching as he drove away, tears in her dark eyes. And of these brutes inside that cabin, searching for something that wasn't there, tearing her world apart. Her fears-- his capture--suddenly all too true, and her not knowing, never knowing, where he was. The sense of helplessness was becoming unbearable. It felt better to replace it with rage.
He spat out a mouthful of blood and saliva, aiming just to the right of her shoes. "'DSAs?'" he quoted thoughtfully, "'DSAs--what ARE DSAs? Let's see: Disturbed Sexual Appetites? Displaced Sexual Arousal? Or maybe Denial, Sadism and Arrogance. Or: Damned Sterile Androgyne? What about: Daddy's Special Angel? Or maybe, Dyke with a Sick Attitude?"
The anger just seemed to leap out of Parker's steely blue eyes at him, "What about Damned Smart Ass?" she sneered angrily. And in that instant he felt the guy who had his arms pinned loosen his grip just a bit, surprised and amused by her words. Enough so that when Jarod twisted abruptly and ducked downward he was free. He brought both his fists up together, satisfyingly, under the man's massive chin, feeling the snap of his jaw forced shut and the crunch of bone. Jarod ducked and twisted again, trying to faint to the left around Sam and Parker, the feeling of freedom overwhelmingly intense, the need to run more potent than any feeling he had ever experienced. But it only lasted for an instant--someone immediately hit him, sickeningly, on the top of his head with something unforgiving and hard.
As he fell backwards to the ground, through a red glaze of blood and rage Jarod saw the blue sky past the jagged tops of the dark green spruces, with a few puffy white clouds and a hawk of some kind, soaring, way, way up high above them. And then there was, blessedly, blackness.
She stood over him and nudged his limp body with the pointed, polished toe of her shoe. "Load him in my limo," she told the men. "And then you two go search Little Miss Pure and Simple's shack for the DSAs."
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She sat across from where Jarod, safely locked into shackles and belted into the seat, slumped unconscious. She leaned forward and placed her hand under his chin, lifting his head, appraising the cuts and bruises. He looked awful. She fumbled in the locker beneath the limo's wet bar, finding a pack of cheap paper towels, and dampened one in the sink, using it to sponge the blood off his face.
Sam, sitting beside her, watched impassively.
"Mustn't have my catch of the day show up at the Centre looking like so much raw hamburger," she explained, immediately regretting it: why should she explain anything to Sam? He was paid to do as he was told and not think or ask questions. She moved down to Jarod's throat, wetting more towels, surprised by how much blood there was. And delighted by the sensation of power and control the whole situation was giving her. She loved touching him while he was unconscious, there was an almost unbearable intimacy to it, something she's fantasized about but never actually experienced before.
The buttons on his shirt were almost painfully tempting--she wanted to touch his chest, to feel his heartbeat under her palm, the warmth and strength of his body completely in her control.
She shifted in the limo's soft leather seat, wishing she could get rid of Sam, but knowing it was simply too dangerous--until Jarod was even more securely restrained, he could very well still somehow break free. She understood his desperation and knew she couldn't take the risk, but she felt the familiar sense of pressure and wetness and heat between her legs, the slightly dizzying effect of her libido working at double speed, and the delightful expectation of the plane ride ahead, where Jarod would be completely, unequivocally in her power.
She sat back into her seat, literally salivating while she watched Jarod, deep into her fantasy, aroused beyond words.
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Somewhere over Idaho
He came to slowly, fighting back a blinding ache in his head and the pain of bruises all over his body, with the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembered the fight and Sam's blows to his stomach, but not whatever,--and whoever--had hit him over the head. Still groggy and disoriented, Jarod pulled against something that restrained his wrists and opened his eyes to discover the molded plastic overhead of the jet above him, the unmistakable muffled whine of jet engines. He was strapped into a deeply padded seat, half reclining--which would have been quite comfortable if he had been able to move either his arms or legs more than centimeters. He took a deep breath and shook his head briskly, trying to clear his thoughts, and looked around.
The corporate jet's cabin was small but plushly appointed: no more than twelve feet wide and about twenty in length, with wide, padded arm chairs like the one he was in, several small tables bolted to the floor, thick carpeting, all tastefully color-coordinated in mauves and dusty blue. The stiff folding curtain to the cockpit was firmly shut. Miss Parker sat across from him, leaning back in her chair, a delicate, fluted wine glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other, smiling at him smugly. He tested the restraints again--padded metal handcuffs and leg shackles, he guessed, although he couldn't see them, most likely built right into the chair. Special accommodations for transporting the Centre's less-than-willing flyers. Trust it to the Centre to think of everything.
"And I could have sworn I asked for non-smoking," he said, surprised at the strength in his voice. He felt a lot worse than he sounded.
"Very funny." Parker snapped. "Glad to see you're still alive, Jarod. I was getting worried I'd hit you just a bit too hard."
"You did this?" he asked. "I just assumed my skull had Sam's name written on it. Where is Sam, by the way? I don't see his familiar scowling face."
"I sent him up front to keep the pilot company."
"And the other two--I do remember two, right? It gets difficult to sort out all your friends, you know: they do tend to look alike."
"You broke one's hand--on your face, from the look of it. I sent them both to the hospital--the other one was whining and missing a tooth. "
"Umm--they just don't make goons the way they used to, do they? I seem to have cost the Centre quite a bit of time and money," he said with mock remorse. "What a shame. Gee--good thing I've been a lawyer so I can defend myself if I get sued for hitting his hand with my face. Over and over again." He craned his neck to look around the cabin better. "So: it's just you and me, then. How cozy. You know, it's not like I'm exactly going anywhere--you could take these cuffs off--"
"I like you just the way you are, Jarod," she answered, standing and walking over to him. She leaned over him, checking the cuffs one by one, and he drew an involuntary deep breath at her closeness, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. "What's wrong, Jarod?" she asked sarcastically, "isn't this as good for you? Now that you're the one tied up nice and tight it's just a little less fun, isn't it?"
She perched beside him on the edge of the chair and ran a fingertip possessively along the side of his face, over the bruises and around the edge of the painful-looking black eye, down to his split, swollen lip. He jerked his head back but of course could not successfully pull away from her touch. "Look what I've got," she continued, drawing the finger slowly down his throat and into the hair across his collar bones, slipping it inside his shirt collar. "I won myself a prime specimen rat boy--all wrapped up with a big ribbon on him, ready for Christmas morning. And won't everyone in the Tower be thrilled when they see you under their tree!"
"Stop gloating," he said. "You're talking about me spending the rest of my life in prison."
"What a pity," she hissed. "You're really breaking my heart."
"Just shut up," he demanded.
"You know how that is, don't you: smokers just always need to be doing something with their mouths. Smoking, talking, licking. Now maybe if you gave me something other than a cigarette to suck on the trip would go a lot faster for both of us."
He did a double take and then just looked at her for a moment. "You've got to be kidding," he said, trying again to pull away from her hand. She was starting to unbutton his shirt--lingeringly, taking her time with each button. "You must have missed the Human Sexuality class when they discussed the basic physiological differences between men and woman. Even you can't force me to screw you."
"Really?" she replied with raised eyebrows. "And who said anything about 'forcing' you, anyway? We know each other too well to play those games. The last time we did this you were so concerned that it was MY fantasy, weren't you? And didn't believe me when I said it wasn't. Well, this time it's going to be my way, believe me. And I know how to get just what I want. Don't you think I see the way you look at me, the way you've always looked at me--"
"Odd, but it always seemed YOU were the one looking at ME. Besides, you were the only girl--woman--I ever saw--"
"Well, you've 'seen' plenty of others by now, haven't you? And screwed your share, from what I understand. You just love 'em and leave 'em, don't you, Jarod? Everywhere I go there's some stupid, teary-eyed woman wondering whatever happened to her great big stud puppet. But you still want me." She'd finished on the buttons and pushed his shirt back off his chest and was moving her hands slowly, sensuously over his bruised body, then bending down over his face, keeping eye contact as she did. "Too bad my pretty trophy is damaged, " she whispered. She licked a drop of glistening fresh blood from the split in his upper lip. "Such a tasty morsel," she continued, licking his throat and downward to his chest. "I feel just like a cat," she said, licking and sucking a taut nipple even harder, "playing with my mouse before I just eat it right up."
"You'll have to do better than that," he said, coldly. "I'm afraid it just doesn't seem to be working."
She put a hand on his crotch and then drew back in anger.
"You're just so in control, aren't you?" she snapped. "You seem to forget you no longer have choices, you no longer make the rules. If you won't cooperate then I guess I'll just have to punish you. I might enjoy that even more."
She drew her hand back and slapped him, hard. He groaned despite his best efforts not to--his face ached to begin with, and the slap had hurt like hell. And yet that little extra bit of pain--the buzz he got off it--stirred something primitive inside him. Parker placed her hand back on his crotch and was shocked to feel him immediately stir beneath it as his penis stiffened in spite of himself. She slipped one hand inside his pants, working on his belt and zipper with the other, and applied a firm squeeze to his blossoming erection.
"What a surprise!" she said. "You like a little pain mixed in with the pleasure, don't you? Interesting what you've been getting off on, Jarod." She slipped one hand firmly up his by-now straining erection, running a fingertip appreciatively around it's tip. "If this is what I get for slapping you once, just imagine if I really let go on you. So much to think about! Pleasure, and pain: such a fine, fine line between the two. For both of us, evidently." She leaned down, then, and licked the length of his shaft, watching his face the whole while. "What else do you like, Jarod? Do you like this?" She wedged her face further between his legs, taking one of his balls completely into her mouth. He knew he should have been terrified. Instead he had to close his eyes and pant in pleasure at the sensation, all too aware that part of the intensity came from fear.
She stood up casually, kicking off her heels and rolling down her pantyhose, stepping out of her panties slowly, still watching his face. "You suddenly seem so silent," she said as she threw one leg over him, kneeing astride him and unbuttoning the tight jacket of her icy-blue suit. Her bra was the same pale shade of blue and he watched her unhook the clip between her small, firm breasts. She leaned forward, hiking her tight skirt higher up her thighs and positioning herself on his penis, rubbing slowly back and forth while he strained upwards to take a dark, hard nipple into his mouth.
"I want you to--" he began, then stopped himself, realizing he was asking her for something, and rephrased his request. "If I could use my hands--" he began.
"This is just fine, Jarod, this is just the way I've always wanted you. What was it you told me: 'it can be very pleasurable, just allow yourself to enjoy it?'" She held his erection upright and slowly lowered herself unto him, gasping and swallowing hard, remembering just how big and hard he got, just how good he felt inside her. She did want his hands on her body, then, everywhere, and desperately wanted him to hurt her, just a little, but knew it was too dangerous, that he was too dangerous. It wasn't just a game for him. She'd caught him and she meant to keep him. She rocked back and forth on him, loving the feeling of control, of using his body, and looking forward to having him safely back under lock and key at the Centre, available whenever she wanted him. All her chasing after him, all the frustration and irritation, might just be worth it, after all.
"Suppose Sam walked in right now?" he asked, a bit weakly--he was having tremendous trouble focusing on anything but her warmth and wetness and tightness, the incredible, deceptively fragile thinness of her body: she was actually as strong and lithe as a whip. As soon as he'd said it he knew it was a mistake--not that it bothered her in the least, she knew Sam would obey her orders and stay in the cockpit. But the thought of someone walking in on them excited him immensely, and he moved his pelvis up against her, setting a faster rhythm, trying to get even deeper inside her, wishing he could grab her hips and really take her hard. She arched backwards, reaching to rest her hands behind her back on his thighs, swinging her hair, her blue eyes finally closed in passion, cursing him--or perhaps all men--and literally slamming herself up and down against him. And when she came- -and he did as well, calling, he realized only later, Laura's name-- she didn't collapse against his chest, but instead coolly slid off him, standing up and picking up her hose and underwear and walking to the bathroom without a word. Leaving him half-lying there, exposed, gasping for breath, feeling immeasurably used and humiliated.
Isn't It Romantic
Chapter 1
Witch1
Toluca National Park, Oregon
Jarod breathed the clean, sweet air deeply into his lungs and stretched out on the soft cushion of alpine sedges, feeling the comforting warmth of the sunlight on his face. He sighed, thinking it was a perfect day, and reached out for her where she lay on her back beside him, stroking the softness of her face. He rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand, just looking at her: at the sunlight in her hair and her smooth, delicate skin, her perfect features, the thin arches of her eyebrows, her sweetly bowed mouth. Her eyes were closed and he kissed her eyelids, warm with sunshine, feeling them flutter against his lips as she raised her arms up around his neck and pulled him further on top of her, pressing her body against his and sighing.
He worked his way down her throat with lingering kisses, moving his hands over her warm, soft body, undoing the top button on her plaid flannel shirt and kissing the delicate skin over her collar bones, feeling her legs tense through her blue jeans, taking it as a sign of arousal. He undid the second button, reaching inside her shirt to cup one breast in his hand, trying to figure out how to get to the hook in the back of her bra. He decided he needed the shirt all the way off first. But as he moved to the next button, she took him firmly by the wrist and pushed his hand away.
"Jarod: no!"
"It's so beautiful here," he told her, running his palm up the inside of her thigh, kissing her neck again. "YOU'RE so beautiful here," he added, moving his hand between her legs, reaching for the button on her shirt again.
"But the trail, it's right there," she said, "It's too public. I can't . . . "
Jarod stroked her hair and kissed her mouth, still working on the button, while she continued to try to pull his hand away. "I want you, " he insisted. "Now. There's nothing wrong with desire."
"Then we will go back to the cabin," she told him.
"But I want you here. You're just being shy," he said. "Trust me, it's very exciting: being outdoors, the sunshine, not knowing who might come along . . . "
"**Dios mio**, Jarod, no!" Nia said, quite seriously. "Not 'exciting'- -dangerous. For me, there is a difference." She pushed him away more insistently, and he heard the irritation in her voice.
He rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes, haunted, of course, by Laura's laughter, by the way she always let passion just sweep her away. "You're thirty-eight going on seventeen," she'd told him, and had meant it as a compliment. He wanted to take big, sloppy bites out of life--he wanted everything, all the time, now. And Laura had not just accepted that, she'd actively encouraged it. Increasingly, he understood she wanted exactly the same thing. He sighed deeply and shook his head, trying to escape that thought, and Nia sat up and looked down at him silently.
After a while he opened his eyes--she was still staring at him. He opened his mouth to speak and she put her fingers gently against his lips. "No, **mi amore**, there is something I need to say."
He waited as she seemed lost in thought for a moment, clearly pondering her words. And thought of Laura again, of her saying, "Yo, pal--just spit it out, already!" whenever he got pensive. Laura hated pregnant pauses.
"I want . . ." Nia began, then started over: "You are always welcome here, Jarod. But it's very hard. When you leave. Not knowing if you will return--"
"I always have, Nia," he reassured her. "You know I can't stay here, you understand why--"
"Yes," she answered. "Dangerous. And you need to . . . " she gestured toward the outside world with her hand: a fluttering sort of motion, like a butterfly or a bird, something free. "But, for me--I cannot live with that, with the . . . not knowing. If you are well, if you are alive, if you are . . . alone."
Jarod swallowed. There wasn't much he could say about that. He'd been in the Caribbean until two days before, working on a crew of divers salvaging a Spanish wreck from the sixteen hundreds--the man who ran the operation had been selling counterfeit coins, alleging they were from the galleon, taking advantage of innocent investors and the public, and Jarod had pulled off an elaborate sting that resulted in the guy's arrest on fraud charges. But along the way there had been a woman--deeply tanned and blond and hugely willing to shrug off her bikini for him--and he really didn't want to lie to Nia about how he had been "alone." It was the kind of thing Laura never asked about-- they had a tacit agreement that it was never mentioned. She knew it happened, and she somehow just dealt with it. Except for Jenn, of course--it was testing fate to suppose that even Laura would be understanding about his having slept with her sixteen year old grand niece.
"They," Nia continued, "those people"--and Jarod knew she meant the Centre--"they might kill you. Or take you away. I would never know. I think--" and he heard the tears in her voice--"for me . . . living with that, with the not knowing. . . " And she let the thought trail off, and Jarod knew exactly what she meant, of course: that she simply couldn't live with it, that she needed stability and security in her life, and that it wasn't fair for him to just show up, stay for a night and leave before the Centre could act on whatever surveillance they might have on Nia. He knew it wasn't fair--he always had--but Nia had never mentioned it before.
He looked at her: the tears were just beginning to pool in her dark eyes, and he felt himself getting just as sad, just as tearful.
"**Mi vida, mi amore**," he said. "I will always love you: **yo te quiero para siempre**."
"I know that, Jarod," she answered, touching his face, the tracks of his tears, her voice choked with emotion. "I know you will always love me, no matter where you are."
And even as he reached for her, understanding this might be a final goodbye between them, he could hear Laura's cynical voice in his mind, saying what he knew she would tell Nia if she were there: "Sure, honey--you just keep telling yourself that."
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Ten miles to the south . . .
She saw the dust trail from the jeep coming down the road before Sam did, and gestured toward it, clicking the safety off her nine millimeter and squinting to watch the bend in the road intently. They had felled a tree across the narrow mountain road--not the newest trick in the world, but still effective--and their two limos were carefully hidden, pulled into a logging road just behind the deadfall. They'd had all afternoon to set the trap--Jarod wasn't being as careful as he normally was and had stayed with Nia an extra night, long enough that he would soon regret it, she thought. She hoped he was still thinking about Nia--lost in some maudlin, romantic goodbye scene--and wouldn't sense the danger until it was too late.
Jarod drove around the final curve and seemed to only see the big spruce tree at the last moment, pulling the jeep into a screeching, skidding stop. His path was instantly blocked by the two big black cars as they pulled in behind the jeep and they were out with guns drawn before he had a chance to even pick a direction to run in.
"You really shouldn't have--" he said, standing beside the jeep with his hands up. "A surprise party--and just for me."
"Keep your hands where I can see them, Jarod, or I might decide to find out how good it would feel to pull this trigger. Against the car, " she commanded, enjoying ordering him around immensely. "You're either getting careless, Jarod, or just too horny. You shouldn't have stayed so long will your little Senorita Bimbo. Funny, I wouldn't have thought Miss Mountain Momma was your type."
"And what is my type?" he asked, trying to sound quite casual, turning toward the car and placing his palms on it's roof. One of Miss Parker's enforcers patted him down to check for weapons, and he looked up at the crystalline blue sky, thinking of what a perfect day it was, oddly enough--breathing deeply, as though those breaths might be his last.
"Your 'type', Jarod? That is a good question, isn't it? Maybe I'm wrong--she is breathing, so I suppose that's all it takes to do it for you."
He managed a slight smile. "At least I manage to get laid," he said. "Unlike those who live only in their fantasies . . . "
But she only snorted. "My only 'fantasy' is delivering you to the Centre, Jarod, and I intend to make it quite real."
She'd moved closer to him without being aware of it and stopped, suddenly, realizing her mistake. It felt wonderful to have him so completely under her control and she was quite high from it: but not enough to lose her wariness. She'd learned how dangerous he was when he was cornered and didn't want to take any chances.
"Sam!" she commanded, and gestured for the big man to approach Jarod more closely. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam moving toward him, the shackles in his hands, and heard their dull metallic clanking. Jarod felt his heart sink, thinking in an instant of the precious freedom he was about to lose, and that he was living his nightmare of seeing all he treasured slip away. When Sam touched him, pulling him roughly around to put the cuffs and shackles on, Jarod instinctively lashed out at him, catching him across the jaw with his fist.
There were two other hulking giants, the Centre's enforcers, and they were on him immediately. The struggle was brief, and although Jarod got in a few satisfying shots, feeling his hand connect with bone and the splatter of blood, they made it clear just what they thought about his lack of respect, pounding on him more than they had to, one guy pinning his arms behind his back while Sam hit him repeatedly in the stomach and Jarod spat blood and felt his whole world define itself with pain.
"He broke my fucking hand!" the third goon said, angrily, holding one big paw cradled in the other.
He saw Miss Parker standing with her hands on her hips, her long legs spread, head cocked to the side, watching. Sam went for a higher target, hitting Jarod right in the jaw, and as his head snapped back he was just blinded by anger and hatred and grief. And an almost childlike disbelief that they were really going to keep hurting him way past the point where it made any sort of logical sense.
"Where are the DSAs, Jarod?" Parker demanded. She gestured to the third goon. "Go check the jeep," she told him.
"But my hand--"
"Afterwards, you can go to a doctor," she hissed. "Check the jeep!"
Jarod watched her closely, fully aware of just how much she was enjoying the entire situation, as she moved within inches of him. "Where are they, Jarod? We can stay here all day. Sam has many, many special feelings I'm sure he would love to share with you. Tell me where you put the DSAs."
In spite of herself, she felt a wave of sympathy wash over her, seeing his battered face, the drips of blood. And she told herself all she was concerned about was that he be returned to the Centre in fairly good condition, that her interest was quite clinical, businesslike. She had a job to do, after all. And if it made her feel aroused and disgusted in equal parts, well, those were only emotions. Which were best pushed aside.
But Jarod was completely lost in emotions, thinking of Nia, of her standing on the porch of her cabin, watching as he drove away, tears in her dark eyes. And of these brutes inside that cabin, searching for something that wasn't there, tearing her world apart. Her fears-- his capture--suddenly all too true, and her not knowing, never knowing, where he was. The sense of helplessness was becoming unbearable. It felt better to replace it with rage.
He spat out a mouthful of blood and saliva, aiming just to the right of her shoes. "'DSAs?'" he quoted thoughtfully, "'DSAs--what ARE DSAs? Let's see: Disturbed Sexual Appetites? Displaced Sexual Arousal? Or maybe Denial, Sadism and Arrogance. Or: Damned Sterile Androgyne? What about: Daddy's Special Angel? Or maybe, Dyke with a Sick Attitude?"
The anger just seemed to leap out of Parker's steely blue eyes at him, "What about Damned Smart Ass?" she sneered angrily. And in that instant he felt the guy who had his arms pinned loosen his grip just a bit, surprised and amused by her words. Enough so that when Jarod twisted abruptly and ducked downward he was free. He brought both his fists up together, satisfyingly, under the man's massive chin, feeling the snap of his jaw forced shut and the crunch of bone. Jarod ducked and twisted again, trying to faint to the left around Sam and Parker, the feeling of freedom overwhelmingly intense, the need to run more potent than any feeling he had ever experienced. But it only lasted for an instant--someone immediately hit him, sickeningly, on the top of his head with something unforgiving and hard.
As he fell backwards to the ground, through a red glaze of blood and rage Jarod saw the blue sky past the jagged tops of the dark green spruces, with a few puffy white clouds and a hawk of some kind, soaring, way, way up high above them. And then there was, blessedly, blackness.
She stood over him and nudged his limp body with the pointed, polished toe of her shoe. "Load him in my limo," she told the men. "And then you two go search Little Miss Pure and Simple's shack for the DSAs."
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She sat across from where Jarod, safely locked into shackles and belted into the seat, slumped unconscious. She leaned forward and placed her hand under his chin, lifting his head, appraising the cuts and bruises. He looked awful. She fumbled in the locker beneath the limo's wet bar, finding a pack of cheap paper towels, and dampened one in the sink, using it to sponge the blood off his face.
Sam, sitting beside her, watched impassively.
"Mustn't have my catch of the day show up at the Centre looking like so much raw hamburger," she explained, immediately regretting it: why should she explain anything to Sam? He was paid to do as he was told and not think or ask questions. She moved down to Jarod's throat, wetting more towels, surprised by how much blood there was. And delighted by the sensation of power and control the whole situation was giving her. She loved touching him while he was unconscious, there was an almost unbearable intimacy to it, something she's fantasized about but never actually experienced before.
The buttons on his shirt were almost painfully tempting--she wanted to touch his chest, to feel his heartbeat under her palm, the warmth and strength of his body completely in her control.
She shifted in the limo's soft leather seat, wishing she could get rid of Sam, but knowing it was simply too dangerous--until Jarod was even more securely restrained, he could very well still somehow break free. She understood his desperation and knew she couldn't take the risk, but she felt the familiar sense of pressure and wetness and heat between her legs, the slightly dizzying effect of her libido working at double speed, and the delightful expectation of the plane ride ahead, where Jarod would be completely, unequivocally in her power.
She sat back into her seat, literally salivating while she watched Jarod, deep into her fantasy, aroused beyond words.
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Somewhere over Idaho
He came to slowly, fighting back a blinding ache in his head and the pain of bruises all over his body, with the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembered the fight and Sam's blows to his stomach, but not whatever,--and whoever--had hit him over the head. Still groggy and disoriented, Jarod pulled against something that restrained his wrists and opened his eyes to discover the molded plastic overhead of the jet above him, the unmistakable muffled whine of jet engines. He was strapped into a deeply padded seat, half reclining--which would have been quite comfortable if he had been able to move either his arms or legs more than centimeters. He took a deep breath and shook his head briskly, trying to clear his thoughts, and looked around.
The corporate jet's cabin was small but plushly appointed: no more than twelve feet wide and about twenty in length, with wide, padded arm chairs like the one he was in, several small tables bolted to the floor, thick carpeting, all tastefully color-coordinated in mauves and dusty blue. The stiff folding curtain to the cockpit was firmly shut. Miss Parker sat across from him, leaning back in her chair, a delicate, fluted wine glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other, smiling at him smugly. He tested the restraints again--padded metal handcuffs and leg shackles, he guessed, although he couldn't see them, most likely built right into the chair. Special accommodations for transporting the Centre's less-than-willing flyers. Trust it to the Centre to think of everything.
"And I could have sworn I asked for non-smoking," he said, surprised at the strength in his voice. He felt a lot worse than he sounded.
"Very funny." Parker snapped. "Glad to see you're still alive, Jarod. I was getting worried I'd hit you just a bit too hard."
"You did this?" he asked. "I just assumed my skull had Sam's name written on it. Where is Sam, by the way? I don't see his familiar scowling face."
"I sent him up front to keep the pilot company."
"And the other two--I do remember two, right? It gets difficult to sort out all your friends, you know: they do tend to look alike."
"You broke one's hand--on your face, from the look of it. I sent them both to the hospital--the other one was whining and missing a tooth. "
"Umm--they just don't make goons the way they used to, do they? I seem to have cost the Centre quite a bit of time and money," he said with mock remorse. "What a shame. Gee--good thing I've been a lawyer so I can defend myself if I get sued for hitting his hand with my face. Over and over again." He craned his neck to look around the cabin better. "So: it's just you and me, then. How cozy. You know, it's not like I'm exactly going anywhere--you could take these cuffs off--"
"I like you just the way you are, Jarod," she answered, standing and walking over to him. She leaned over him, checking the cuffs one by one, and he drew an involuntary deep breath at her closeness, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. "What's wrong, Jarod?" she asked sarcastically, "isn't this as good for you? Now that you're the one tied up nice and tight it's just a little less fun, isn't it?"
She perched beside him on the edge of the chair and ran a fingertip possessively along the side of his face, over the bruises and around the edge of the painful-looking black eye, down to his split, swollen lip. He jerked his head back but of course could not successfully pull away from her touch. "Look what I've got," she continued, drawing the finger slowly down his throat and into the hair across his collar bones, slipping it inside his shirt collar. "I won myself a prime specimen rat boy--all wrapped up with a big ribbon on him, ready for Christmas morning. And won't everyone in the Tower be thrilled when they see you under their tree!"
"Stop gloating," he said. "You're talking about me spending the rest of my life in prison."
"What a pity," she hissed. "You're really breaking my heart."
"Just shut up," he demanded.
"You know how that is, don't you: smokers just always need to be doing something with their mouths. Smoking, talking, licking. Now maybe if you gave me something other than a cigarette to suck on the trip would go a lot faster for both of us."
He did a double take and then just looked at her for a moment. "You've got to be kidding," he said, trying again to pull away from her hand. She was starting to unbutton his shirt--lingeringly, taking her time with each button. "You must have missed the Human Sexuality class when they discussed the basic physiological differences between men and woman. Even you can't force me to screw you."
"Really?" she replied with raised eyebrows. "And who said anything about 'forcing' you, anyway? We know each other too well to play those games. The last time we did this you were so concerned that it was MY fantasy, weren't you? And didn't believe me when I said it wasn't. Well, this time it's going to be my way, believe me. And I know how to get just what I want. Don't you think I see the way you look at me, the way you've always looked at me--"
"Odd, but it always seemed YOU were the one looking at ME. Besides, you were the only girl--woman--I ever saw--"
"Well, you've 'seen' plenty of others by now, haven't you? And screwed your share, from what I understand. You just love 'em and leave 'em, don't you, Jarod? Everywhere I go there's some stupid, teary-eyed woman wondering whatever happened to her great big stud puppet. But you still want me." She'd finished on the buttons and pushed his shirt back off his chest and was moving her hands slowly, sensuously over his bruised body, then bending down over his face, keeping eye contact as she did. "Too bad my pretty trophy is damaged, " she whispered. She licked a drop of glistening fresh blood from the split in his upper lip. "Such a tasty morsel," she continued, licking his throat and downward to his chest. "I feel just like a cat," she said, licking and sucking a taut nipple even harder, "playing with my mouse before I just eat it right up."
"You'll have to do better than that," he said, coldly. "I'm afraid it just doesn't seem to be working."
She put a hand on his crotch and then drew back in anger.
"You're just so in control, aren't you?" she snapped. "You seem to forget you no longer have choices, you no longer make the rules. If you won't cooperate then I guess I'll just have to punish you. I might enjoy that even more."
She drew her hand back and slapped him, hard. He groaned despite his best efforts not to--his face ached to begin with, and the slap had hurt like hell. And yet that little extra bit of pain--the buzz he got off it--stirred something primitive inside him. Parker placed her hand back on his crotch and was shocked to feel him immediately stir beneath it as his penis stiffened in spite of himself. She slipped one hand inside his pants, working on his belt and zipper with the other, and applied a firm squeeze to his blossoming erection.
"What a surprise!" she said. "You like a little pain mixed in with the pleasure, don't you? Interesting what you've been getting off on, Jarod." She slipped one hand firmly up his by-now straining erection, running a fingertip appreciatively around it's tip. "If this is what I get for slapping you once, just imagine if I really let go on you. So much to think about! Pleasure, and pain: such a fine, fine line between the two. For both of us, evidently." She leaned down, then, and licked the length of his shaft, watching his face the whole while. "What else do you like, Jarod? Do you like this?" She wedged her face further between his legs, taking one of his balls completely into her mouth. He knew he should have been terrified. Instead he had to close his eyes and pant in pleasure at the sensation, all too aware that part of the intensity came from fear.
She stood up casually, kicking off her heels and rolling down her pantyhose, stepping out of her panties slowly, still watching his face. "You suddenly seem so silent," she said as she threw one leg over him, kneeing astride him and unbuttoning the tight jacket of her icy-blue suit. Her bra was the same pale shade of blue and he watched her unhook the clip between her small, firm breasts. She leaned forward, hiking her tight skirt higher up her thighs and positioning herself on his penis, rubbing slowly back and forth while he strained upwards to take a dark, hard nipple into his mouth.
"I want you to--" he began, then stopped himself, realizing he was asking her for something, and rephrased his request. "If I could use my hands--" he began.
"This is just fine, Jarod, this is just the way I've always wanted you. What was it you told me: 'it can be very pleasurable, just allow yourself to enjoy it?'" She held his erection upright and slowly lowered herself unto him, gasping and swallowing hard, remembering just how big and hard he got, just how good he felt inside her. She did want his hands on her body, then, everywhere, and desperately wanted him to hurt her, just a little, but knew it was too dangerous, that he was too dangerous. It wasn't just a game for him. She'd caught him and she meant to keep him. She rocked back and forth on him, loving the feeling of control, of using his body, and looking forward to having him safely back under lock and key at the Centre, available whenever she wanted him. All her chasing after him, all the frustration and irritation, might just be worth it, after all.
"Suppose Sam walked in right now?" he asked, a bit weakly--he was having tremendous trouble focusing on anything but her warmth and wetness and tightness, the incredible, deceptively fragile thinness of her body: she was actually as strong and lithe as a whip. As soon as he'd said it he knew it was a mistake--not that it bothered her in the least, she knew Sam would obey her orders and stay in the cockpit. But the thought of someone walking in on them excited him immensely, and he moved his pelvis up against her, setting a faster rhythm, trying to get even deeper inside her, wishing he could grab her hips and really take her hard. She arched backwards, reaching to rest her hands behind her back on his thighs, swinging her hair, her blue eyes finally closed in passion, cursing him--or perhaps all men--and literally slamming herself up and down against him. And when she came- -and he did as well, calling, he realized only later, Laura's name-- she didn't collapse against his chest, but instead coolly slid off him, standing up and picking up her hose and underwear and walking to the bathroom without a word. Leaving him half-lying there, exposed, gasping for breath, feeling immeasurably used and humiliated.
