Endless Night Page 6

  Jake tried to glance up toward the house, but water trickled into his eyes, thwarting his efforts. Through his squint, he could only glimpse a shadowed outline of the cursed structure. He felt compelled to shake his fist at it.

  Rounding the back of the vehicle, he splayed his palms across the rear bumper and hunkered down to heave it into motion. The Jeep bucked against the pressure, rolled an inch and then fell back into its rut.

  Son of a—

  Jake was soaked everywhere, making him more determined than ever to get out of this damned place. With renewed effort he leaned into the motion, shoulder and arm muscles screaming while his legs acted as anchors. Again the vehicle rolled forward, and again it staggered back into place.

  Jake looked up into a sinister sky and appealed to an unseen force for help. It came in the form of two pale hands that grabbed the bumper and a soft, throaty voice that called out.

  “Try it again.”

  For a moment he just stared at Megan.

  Only two seconds under the deluge and Megan’s dark hair was pasted to her cheeks, making her eyes even more solemn. Long, dark lashes blinked against the invasive drops as she nodded before bending down to the task at hand.

  Jake smothered a grin at her determined stance. The woman broadcasted conviction when it came to getting him out of the house. His grin faltered at the sight of Megan’s drenched jeans which sculpted her bottom way too intimately.

  More determined than ever, Jake shouted, “One, two, three!” and shoved with all his might.

  In his periphery he could see Megan’s strained expression, and he felt the vehicle start to pitch forward. Just as quickly, it rolled back into place and Jake instinctively reached for Megan to draw her out of its path.

  “One more time,” she shouted.

  Wow. She must really want him out of here.

  In unison they stooped and, on a silent command, thrust for all they were worth. Jake felt the strain down the length of his body as his toes sought a solid groove in the mucky surface. His thigh muscles panged with the effort, but miraculously the vehicle budged.

  Caught up in the momentum, Megan cried out, “It’s moving!”

  They doubled their efforts, their bodies stretched past the point of balance.

  Disaster happened fast.

  The Jeep found stability and rolled lazily forward, but the motion was so unexpected that Jake and Megan landed with an inelegant splat in the mud.

  Megan came up sputtering first, while Jake slumped in the puddle, watching in contempt as the vehicle rolled several feet and then halted, bogged down in the mire.

  Son of a—

  “Son of a bitch.” Megan dragged her fingers through her hair and snapped her wrist to shake off the mud. Narrowed eyes stared at the rear end of the Jeep, and from what he could read of her full lips, she was coming up with some nasty adjectives for his four-wheeler.

  “My sentiments too.” He got to his knees and tried to step up, but his boot slid, nearly tearing an Achilles. “Crap!”

  “Are you okay?” On all fours, Megan found more stability in a crawl.

  Rain beat down on them with uncanny precision—directly into their eyes. Jake could barely see past the veil of water, but he aimed toward Megan’s voice, feeling his hamstring ache when he budged his knee forward.

  Out of that murky pall he sensed her touch on his arm. “Are you alright?” she repeated, the wind stealing her voice.

  “Yeah, never been better.”

  He reached for Megan. Whether it was to support her or stabilize himself, he wasn’t sure. He gripped her upper arms and managed to blink away enough moisture to see her inquisitive eyes staring up at him.

  Megan’s hair was soaked. She watched him like a doe studying an intruder, drops clinging to the ends of her dark lashes.

  “Now don’t we just look ridiculous?” he said in a voice that was gruffer than usual.

  Megan cleared her throat, but didn’t let go of him. “It’s just hard to get a footing on this—”

  As if to validate her appeal, Megan used the leverage of her grip on him and tried to stand up. Even the slight pressure of her body made his knee slide. He grappled for control and started to list. The motion drew Megan with him. She fought against the tug, but the slick pool undermined all her efforts.

  In one graceless move, Jake landed on his back, deep in the muck. Still connected, Megan followed and sprawled awkwardly on top of him.

  Lifting his head enough to get his ears out of the mud, Jake forgot about the storm. He forgot about the debilitating mire. Misery was replaced with the heady sensation of Megan’s slim body molded to his.

  Slick and lubricated by mud, she slithered and slipped, vainly searching for a way to stand. Every effort ended with her splayed right back on top of him, each budge grinding her hips against his. Jake swallowed a rough groan, his hands sliding down Megan’s back to keep her still, but anxiety made her squirm all the more.

  This was the most exquisite rainfall, a sultry torrent that washed over him, every supple move making him impossibly harder.

  To still the maddening motion, his hands shot down to her fidgeting bottom. Azure eyes sprang open and stared at him. Shock and fear brightened her gaze. For a moment she didn’t move. She watched him until her gaze dropped to his mouth, where she lingered long enough to bring heat to this arctic rain.

  “Hold still,” she whispered. “I’m going to try and stand up.”

  Jake felt Megan’s legs scissor with his. He suffered as the length of her thigh nudged between his, and he could barely resist kneading his fingers into the fine swell of her bottom.

  “It doesn’t appear I’m going anywhere,” he replied.

  Megan planted her hands on either side of his shoulders and prodded her knee up for leverage. Water quickly pooled into the fresh indentation, and when she budged, she lost her balance and her chin smacked against Jake’s chest.

  “Ugh.” In a torrent of writhing limbs, she swayed first one way, then another, but ended up elbow-deep in the mire.

  Jake’s husky voice arrested her. “Megan.” His fingers splayed across her bottom, and the instinctive nudge of his hips was enough to halt her activity. “Please don’t move.”

  Megan froze. She heard the thick sound of Jake’s voice and felt the hard length of him between her legs. A strangled moan caught in her throat when his palms pressed her tighter against that sweet torture.

  Her limbs grew numb. Blood fled them to pool low in her body. Without even thinking, she joined in the pressure of his hands and rashly ground into him.

  “Megan,” Jake said thickly as he lifted his hands and surged his fingers into the muddy tangle of hair. His thumbs caressed her cheeks to quell her motion, and then he raised his head.

  Megan felt the warmth of Jake’s breath, the sweet sense of his mouth so near. Drugged by his aura, her eyelids dropped closed, awaiting something unknown—awaiting fire in this deluge of rain. But just before his lips could touch hers, just before she could feel that contact that she irrationally wanted so badly, she shoved off and rolled onto her side. She lay panting and stared up into the heart of the storm, wondering if the rain could erase what just happened. If the passion that boiled in her blood could seep into the puddles around her and drain away.

  Chapter Six

  She had to get inside. Any longer out here and they would die of hypothermia and mortification, although hypothermia seemed an illogical threat considering her face burned to the touch.

  Megan chanced a look at the man now rising from the ground. An image of Neptune using his rugged upper-body strength to drag himself from the sea passed before her. From this perspective, Jake looked taller than ever. He was a dark, drenched, handsome giant, and she could still feel every intimate texture of him, as if she had been branded. To her dismay he was holding a hand out. Megan needed the assistance, but couldn’t chance the lure of his touch again.

  What the hell had she been thinking?

  For one m
inute, she wanted more than anything in the world to kiss this dark stranger—in the middle of a god-awful nor’easter, nonetheless.

  Heck, not just kiss him. She didn’t want to stop until his naked, wet flesh wrapped around her and steam misted off the ground.

  Now Jake was looking down at her with an indolent grin and stormy shadows of desire in his eyes.

  “Give me your hand,” he commanded over the din of the rain.

  Dammit, she was a grown woman. She could handle this man. She had survived the past year. She had outwitted a murderer. Why couldn’t she take Jake Grogan’s hand?

  Because he was no less dangerous.

  Determined to get inside, Megan wrapped her fingers around Jake’s wrist and felt herself hoisted so fast she stumbled and reached out for balance. Her palms fell between the gap in Jake’s jacket and landed flat against his chest. A band of muscles covered the pounding of his heart, and again it occurred to her that she wasn’t the only one suffering the pangs of temptation. Jake watched her with an intensity that made her tremble, but he didn’t touch her. He stood with his arms at his sides, waiting to see what she would do. Megan kept her hands on his chest until the contact became too hot to handle and she snapped them back.

  “Get inside.” His husky whisper carried over the rain.

  Were it not for the suction of the mud, Jake thought Megan would have executed Olympic speed to sprint to the porch. Awkward steps brought her to the deck where she watched with apprehension as he climbed the stairs behind her.

  A rattle on the slanted roof alerted them that the precipitation had condensed into something more substantial. Ice bounced off the ground like a spilled gumball machine.

  “Wonderful.” He scowled.

  Used to the routine, Jake pulled off his mud-caked boots and set them next to the front door. He could hear the steady plop plop plop of drops leaking from his sleeves. Water dripped from his hair, and his pure state of filth and saturation was helping to abate some of the desire that had just ripped through him.

  My God, where did that come from? He had probably terrified Megan. She didn’t know him. She might have thought he was going to rape her out there—and there would be no one to call for help.

  “Megan, look—”

  “I think I’m going to send you down to the cellar.”

  “Hey,” he started, “I know I’ve been bad, but—”

  “The cellar,” she sighed, “is where the washer and dryer are.” Midnight eyes coursed his body, lingering enough to stir what he was trying so hard to ignore. “There’s absolutely no hope for those clothes. They have to go right in the wash.”

  Megan wrenched her eyes up from the mud-caked jeans and added, “You’ve been bad?”

  When she threw his declaration back in his face, Jake was suddenly uncertain.

  “Well—I mean, what happened out there—” He looked toward the door and saw through it, to the pool of mud and the image of her body splayed so intimately atop him. “I’m sorry.” He sobered. “I don’t normally act like that.”

  But how could he say that? When was the last time he was in an erotic pool of mud with a sexy woman squirming all over him?

  “Neither do I.” Megan’s voice broke his fantasy.

  Jake looked up and expected to see distrust and anxiety in her eyes, but something in that gaze had shifted. Some minute detail became mirthful, maybe even devilish. Whatever the look was, it suited her and did nothing to tame the effect she was having on his body.

  And now she expected him to go downstairs and take his clothes off?

  “Well, let’s just chalk that up to—”

  “Let’s just forget it, okay?” she rushed.

  Before he could offer more, Megan’s fingers caressed the discolored wallpaper and reached for a secreted doorknob obscured within the heart of a faded rose. She tugged and the panel swept open with a squeal.

  “You’re coming down there too?”

  Her profile revealed a quick jerk of her lip, as much a phantom as any other specter in this house.

  “No, I’ll wash up upstairs. I don’t have any clothes that you can change into, so you’re going to have to hang out down there till the dry cycle completes.”

  Jake didn’t mind that at all. He caught a hint of the icy draft wafting up the stairs. Perhaps standing naked in this tomb would finally make him forget how perfect the wet curves of Megan’s bottom felt in his hands.

  “No problem.” Two strides and he started down the stairs.

  “Jake.”

  “Huh?”

  Her silhouette was eclipsed by the dim glow of the foyer. “The light?”

  Jake turned so fast he nearly tumbled down into the abyss. “That would be helpful, wouldn’t it?” He reached for the switch, a chipped piece of plastic jutting out from a metal electrical box. The fact that he flipped it and there was a five-second delay before any radiance erupted did not sit well with him.

  “When was the last time you had an electrician here?”

  Megan cocked her head and actually smiled. “You’re the first.”

  He was still stunned by that smile as she turned around and called over her shoulder, “If you need anything, just call.”

  Jake stared at her receding back. The things he needed while standing naked in her cellar, he didn’t think she would come running to.

  “Likewise.”

  The dungeonlike atmosphere smothered any desire Jake still felt. Leaning his hip against the dryer, he watched the red digital numbers on the washer decrease. Bored, he shifted and looked at what was visible under the scope of the single bulb dangling from a wire that ran the length of the ceiling. The washer and dryer were appliances from this decade, but from what he could discern, everything else down here defied modern technology.

  A breeze originated from a source he couldn’t pinpoint, but it swayed the yellowed bulb so that the light hit both walls in a pendulum effect. He crossed his arms to ward off the chill and watched that wave of light till it lulled him into a trance.

  The final click on the washer snapped him back to attention, his sigh shuffling the dust in this desolate crypt. With the dry cycle under way, he tried to entice circulation by moving around the rim of the throw rug, a welcome barrier between his bare feet and cold stone. That’s what the floor was. Not cement, but rather a well-honed sheet of bedrock.

  At the edge of the rug, and the farthest extent of the scope of light, Jake found an old washbasin, its tub charred and tarnished black. Deeper into the shadows, he squinted at the wooden shelves bolted into the walls, some planks hanging askew, a pile of books lying in a dusty heap on the floor beneath them. Perhaps Megan never dared venture off the safe perimeter of the rug or out from the boundary of light, but he was always up for a challenge, and more importantly, here to learn more about the proprietors of Wakefield House.

  Megan set the silver-handled brush back down on her dresser. She looked up at her gaunt reflection in the mirror and thought surely she had imagined the incident outside. There was nothing Jake could have found appealing in this shell of a woman. She was a ghost—a person who had ceased to exist. Even her image in the mirror seemed to fade as if she had become sheer.

  Margaret Simmons. Now there was a woman who was full of life. When she was not at work, she was full of vitality, the one who wanted to catch a homerun at Fenway. The one jogging through the Commons and secreting a smile if she happened to get a passing whistle. At work she was fastidious to a fault, a pit bull with ambition to find the truth even if the truth did not suit their client’s needs.

  Margaret Simmons no longer existed and only this specter stood in her place.

  Ghosts weren’t supposed to be able to feel though. And right now Megan could feel. She could feel the muscular strength of Jake’s body beneath her, a power that could have so easily reared and possessed her.

  Her head snapped away from the reflection and caught sight of the roman numerals on the mantel clock. Nearly two hours had passed, yet she h
adn’t heard the cellar door open. In the past year, never once had she oiled any hinges in this house. They were warning bells to anyone who dared to get beyond her moat. But it had been two hours. Why didn’t she hear the screech of the cellar door?

  Thick wool socks muted her footfalls as she rounded the banister and stood before the unmarked door in the foyer. She flicked a glance at the antique cabinet, knowing the gun was nestled in one of its drawers. “Baby GLOCK” is what the dealer told her it was called. She didn’t care. He took cash and didn’t ask questions.

  It was her first foray into a subversive life.

  Megan’s anxious glance returned to the door. Just the thought of Jake standing down there naked had her trembling anew, but anxiety prompted her to yank the panel open.

  “Jake?”

  Nothing.

  “Jake? Are you okay?” Are you decent?

  First there was a muffled sound, like the slothful budge of a prehistoric animal, and then the deep timbre of Jake’s voice. “Megan, could you come down here?”

  “What’s wrong?” Cautious, she grabbed the splintered rail. “Don’t tell me the dryer is acting up again.”

  At the foot of the stairs, the last of which was loose, she stepped down and noticed that the dial on the dryer had completed its cycle.

  “Jake?” She executed a three-sixty, wary of the shadows that lurked beyond the throw rug. Harriet brought over the huge textile, as well as the oriental runner in the upstairs hallway, on a visit that was a barely concealed examination of the new tenant of Wakefield House.

  “Over here.” His voice was subdued.

  Megan followed that low rumble and found a new source of light, the flashlight she had lodged on one of the shelves. There were many of these hidden resources planted around Wakefield House, weapons and tools that might come in handy at an opportune moment.

  To her relief, Jake was fully clothed, but his clean jeans gained a new layer of dust as he sat on the floor with one leg stretched out, the other crooked to support the book in his hands.