Captive Lies Read online

  “Shit. Okay, hold on.”

  “My sister … why … why is there fire in the water?”

  No response. There was a rustle of clothes followed by a presence wrapping him in a shroud of comfort.

  “Shh …”

  “Save her.”

  “Grant, sleep.”

  “I can’t … need to save her.”

  “You’ll be okay.”

  “Drowning …” Darkness sucked him back into the abyss, but his thoughts had quieted, pacified by the warmth tightly wound around him and the fragrance of heaven in his nose.

  The next time he woke up, he was covered in sweat but no longer shivering. Grant could feel the heat of the fireplace on his right, and on his left, a warm body wrapped around him. A warm, soft body that cleaved to him in all the right places. If circumstances were different, he’d be sporting wood by now, but he was physically spent battling the fever. Contentment washed over him. His hand circled Blaire’s arm that was draped across his torso; he clung to it like a lifeline, a buoy that kept him anchored in tranquility. He let himself be drawn into slumber once again.

  Voices.

  Hushed whispers.

  Blaire was gone from his side and though his fever had abated, his whole damned body hurt as if he’d been run over by a freight train—from the almighty headache, sore throat, aching chest and ribs to the throbbing in his left leg. How much damage did he sustain? Then he remembered why he was in this predicament in the first place and concern for his foolish sister surged to the forefront of his mind. Val had taken off in a snowmobile after a fight with her boyfriend. As for that useless prick, he decided to disappear in the opposite direction, so it was left to Grant to make sure Val came back in one piece. Then he recalled his dream when he was delirious. It was a recurring nightmare from when Val almost drowned. Except in that dream, his sister always died. But something felt different this time and he hadn’t awakened to hopeless despair. Instead, his body recalled that moment of soothing calm as Blaire wrapped herself around him.

  Shadows moving by the open door pulled him out of his thoughts.

  “It was a mistake to bring him here,” a man’s voice growled.

  “Road conditions were treacherous,” Blaire replied. “We could have been stuck in a ditch. State Highway Nine was almost shut down by then, remember?”

  They must have moved further away because Grant couldn’t hear the man’s reply. Who the fuck was that guy? He hadn’t stopped to think that Blaire might belong to another man. A strange emotion pierced his chest.

  Grant didn’t know how long he’d been at the cabin, but it was time he found out. Every bone and sinew protested as he pushed himself from the bed. He managed to stand up, his surroundings spinning for a few seconds, and he stood still until he found his equilibrium. Taking a step forward and putting weight on his left leg was a mistake.

  “God fucking dammit!” he cursed as he crashed to his right knee. The only reason he didn’t fall flat on his face was because he managed to brace himself with his right arm. The jolt wasn’t pleasant either, but he swallowed back another curse.

  Blaire and a man he didn’t recognize appeared at the door.

  “Why did you get up?” she snapped. Blaire was about to walk up to him when the man she was with blocked her.

  Grant didn’t like that one bit and his face must have shown it.

  The man before him had a head of cropped salt and pepper hair. Weather-worn lines creased his forehead and the corners of his eyes. But the tight thermal he was wearing did nothing to hide the muscles bunched underneath. He was a fit man who looked to be in his late forties or fifties.

  “Who are you?” Grant demanded.

  The man snorted. “None of your goddamned business, Thorne.”

  Grant didn’t remember giving his last name to Blaire, neither had he taken identification on him when he took off after Val. He picked himself up from the floor just as Blaire shook off the newcomer’s grip. She attempted to guide him back to the bed, but Grant wasn’t about to display any form of weakness. He stood tall, his six-three height topping the other man by at least three inches.

  Blaire rolled her eyes at the blatant show of testosterone. “Liam and I found you,” she explained.

  “Yes, we know who you are,” her friend said. “It’s all over the local radio. Senator Thorne’s billionaire son missing. Search teams are organizing as we speak.”

  “How long since I was reported missing?”

  “It’s been thirty-six hours since we found you,” Blaire replied. “Look, as soon as the roads are passable, Liam here will take you to Summit County Hospital.”

  “Phones still out?”

  Blaire nodded. “Cell service has always been spotty up here and the landline is down.”

  “Valerie Thorne … my sister, is there any news about her too?”

  “No. There are other tourists missing, but I don’t think your sister was one of them,” Blaire said, laying her hand on his arm in a show of comfort. Her touch startled them both and she quickly stepped away seemingly flustered. “I’m…I’m going to check on dinner,” she muttered.

  That gesture of kindness tugged at an unfamiliar muscle in his chest, and he had an odd desire to make her stay when she turned to leave. His eyes followed her retreating form until Liam moved and obscured his view.

  “Hey,” the other man snapped his fingers in front of his face as if to break Grant out of a trance. “Don’t even think about it.”

  He narrowed his eyes at the older man. “Snap your fingers at me that way again and I’ll break them. You saved my life. I’m thankful. But don’t get between Blaire and me.”

  “What did you just say?” Liam growled, taking an intimidating step forward.

  Grant didn’t back down and, instead, stared down his nose into angry gray eyes. “You’re protective of her. I get that. But I’m not some psycho you guys rescued who’s gonna hurt her.”

  Liam snorted.

  “You have a problem with me, Liam?”

  “Only rich assholes.”

  “When have I wronged you?”

  “I know your type.”

  “I assure you,” Grant replied, gritting his teeth because he was in no shape for extended verbal sparring with this man. “You’ve never met my type.”

  “I haven’t gotten you to the hospital yet,” Liam threatened before he backed away, continuing to hold Grant’s gaze, until he reached the door before turning to leave the room.

  2

  Blaire

  A jolt of awareness shot through me when I touched Grant’s arm and, it was so unnerving, I had to leave the room. When his fever spiked, a desire to help him overwhelmed me. It was a simple act of caring—or so I told myself. But I realized I’d left myself open to feeling more. That was one complication I couldn’t afford. I had remained clinical when Liam helped me strip our guest out of his wet clothes, but seeing Grant on his feet, towering above me—and even Liam—I couldn’t help but recall the searing temperature of his tanned skin and how his corded muscles bunched under my palm.

  Chicken and dumplings was perfect comfort food and a cure-all for all illnesses including the temptation of making bad decisions—like getting attached to a stranger who was only passing through. So I turned my attention to the pot of simmering broth and lifted two whole chickens from its depths to let them cool before I pulled the meat off. I’d sautéed the vegetables earlier, so all that was left was to add the broth to the mixture. Drop biscuits were next. Scooping flour into a bowl, I cut in the butter, milk and other spices.

  As I shaped the dough, my friend stalked out from the hallway and, judging from his scowl, he and Grant must have had words. He was about to say something to me when the kitchen light flickered more than normal. We’d been on generator power since the night before. It had stopped snowing, but the roads wouldn’t be passable for another twenty-four hours. The county took snow removal seriously because businesses around here thrived on ski-resort tourism—
two feet of white powder was something they had to be prepared for.

  “I’m going to check on the generator,” Liam informed me. “If I weren’t worried about you freezing, I wouldn’t give a fuck if your guest turned into a popsicle.”

  “Liam.”

  “What?” he growled.

  “Our guest,” I reminded him.

  “Whatever,” he muttered. Cold air shot into the house as he opened and closed the door.

  I sighed. Liam was used to having his way. Even before I knew who Grant was, my instincts told me he wasn’t a pushover. And I was right. Battered, concussed, or fighting a fever, he wore his dominant personality like a second skin. And yet, I witnessed his vulnerability when he had that nightmare.

  Liam was gone less than ten minutes when I heard a shuffle on the wood floor and then, “Something smells good.”

  I jumped and spun around. Grant stood there, his hair curling in wet tendrils, looking ridiculous in Liam’s smaller clothes. His crooked grin did funny things to my heart.

  “You should lie down,” I told him.

  Ignoring my statement, he limped toward the stove. “Took a shower. Hope you don’t mind if I used your … uh, shampoo. I couldn’t stand myself anymore.”

  “Yes, you were smelling a bit ripe.” I leaned in and mocked a sniff to tease him further. “Lemon verbena sure smells good on you.”

  There was a quick hitch to his breathing and I berated myself for letting my guard down, but before I could take a step back, he caught my elbows and drew me close.

  Our faces were almost touching, and I felt a shiver run through me and a strange flutter low in my belly.

  “It sure smells good on you,” he murmured. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding. The scent of spicy citrus only enhanced his clean, masculine smell, a heady lure that made it difficult to pull back. I was sure he was going to kiss me and I wasn’t sure if I was going to stop him. So, I was baffled when he dropped his hands, moved away, and cocked a hip against the counter. A tremor ran through him as if someone had walked over his grave.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. He nodded to the pot. “What are you making?”

  “Chicken and dumplings.”

  His slow smile set my heart racing again.

  Jesus, Blaire, get a grip.

  “I haven’t had homemade chicken and dumplings since Miss Lynette passed.”

  “Miss Lynette?”

  “My mother’s housekeeper.”

  When I didn’t say anything, he continued. “Mom’s from Savannah.”

  “A Southern woman,” I quipped.

  “Born and raised,” Grant drawled. “Spent my summers on their family farm. Hot as hell, but the food Miss Lynette served up made the oppressive heat worth it. Best fried chicken and chocolate chess pie anywhere.”

  “Are you hungry, Grant?” I laughed.

  His nostalgic expression morphed into an aggrieved look. “Starving.”

  “Well, let’s get you fed then,” I said. With my clean hand not covered in biscuit dough, I reached up and touched his forehead. “Good, no fever. But you need to stay warm.” I motioned to the living room. “Why don’t you sit by the fireplace? Dinner will be another fifteen minutes.” My brows drew together and I looked at the door. “Liam should be back by then.”

  “Does he live here?” There was an edge to Grant’s voice as he made his way to the living room. Liam really rubbed him the wrong way.

  “No. He has a house a mile down the road.”

  A thoughtful look came over his face. He must be wondering why we didn’t take him there instead. The short of it was, Liam’s house wasn’t guest-ready. He had shit strewn about that would be a little hard to explain.

  I dropped the dough balls into the pot. That would take about twelve minutes. I pulled the meat off the chicken, making sure to leave big chunks and covered it with foil. I washed my hands and dried them on my apron and went to check on my patient.

  He wasn’t on the couch, but standing by my drawing board near the bank of glass doors that opened to the patio.

  “You’re an artist?” he asked, turning as I approached.

  “Yup.”

  I linked my hands behind my back as I stepped up to him, suddenly shy at having him perusing my work.

  “These are good,” he said, referring to the set of four panels of watercolors. “What do you call this type of art again? Three panels are called triptych, right?”

  I nodded, “That’s a quadriptych.”

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, but his eyes were not on the pieces but were unwaveringly trained on me. The spotlight on the paintings flickered, but no distraction could break the lock of our gazes.

  “Blaire …”

  I cleared my throat. “You should be resting.” Turning around to walk to the couch, I pointed to the furniture. “Sit.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There was a hint of a grin on his face that turned into a grimace as he lowered his body to the cushions. “Shit.”

  I held a lap blanket to my chest. “You okay?”

  He blew out a breath. “Yeah.”

  “It’s okay to admit you’re in pain, you know.” I handed him the blanket which he took but set aside.

  Men.

  My expression and long-suffering sigh must have given my thoughts away.

  “I’m comfortable,” he grumbled. “Don’t fuss.”

  I raised a brow. “Men who are sick are usually big babies.”

  Grant chuckled. “Is Liam?”

  “No, he just turns ornery,” I replied, remembering the time Liam was sidelined for a month because he hurt his back.

  His face sobered. “Can’t thank you both enough for rescuing my ass out there.”

  “Anyone in our place would have done the same.”

  “I doubt that.” He nodded at the space beside him. “Sit. Tell me about your art.”

  “I’m fine standing,” I replied too quickly that I blushed, feeling the heat steal up my cheeks.

  His mouth twitched. “You make it so goddamned hard …”

  “I don’t understand.” I totally understood if his heated gaze were anything to go by.

  He gave a shake of his head, his wry grin letting me know I knew exactly what he meant, but he was letting me off the hook with his eyes giving me an explicit “later.”

  “Do you sell your art?”

  I did, but this conversation could be tricky. “Yes.”

  He waited for me to say more. When I wasn’t volunteering additional information, he followed up with more questions. “Where? How?”

  “A gallery in Vail.” That was true, but I was an anonymous artist only known as Nyuki, which was Swahili for “bee.” I dropped off the paintings and I was paid by direct deposit. I never met with clients or did any special orders.

  “What’s the name of the gallery?”

  I was saved from answering when the door slammed open. Liam stomped his boots at the door to shake off the snow then dragged himself in. “Damn, it’s freezing.”

  He scowled at the sight of Grant on the couch before his eyes shifted to me. “Dinner?”

  “Two minutes.” I came unstuck and hurried to the kitchen. “You guys entertain each other,” I threw over my shoulder.

  Grant grunted a non-response and I was sure Liam maintained his glower. Dinner could be quite entertaining. Maybe I should have made popcorn instead.

  While chicken and dumplings was the cure to all illnesses, apparently it applied to grumpiness as well. The men followed me to the kitchen and hovered around the farm table which doubled as my center island. I had a bench along the long end of the table, and one chair at the short side. The other seats were scattered around the cabin.

  The moment I removed the lid of the dutch oven, the aroma of homey goodness filled the kitchen. The men’s expressions brightened as if the weight of the world had been lifted from their shoulders. I smiled inwardly as I transferred the chicken into the soup to heat it th
rough. One man was chilled to the bone from battling generator issues, while the other had not eaten for the past thirty-six hours. I couldn’t blame them for drooling.

  “Can I help?” Grant asked, coming so close to me, the heat of his body seared through my clothes. His eyes were not on me, though, but on the bubbling liquid. I was oddly envious of the food.

  “This will take another minute,” I told him and then, “You look famished.”

  “You have no idea,” he whispered, staring longingly at dinner.

  I laughed.

  Liam cleared his throat. “I’ll get the bowls.” Then without skipping a beat, he added, “Thorne, you might want to step back from Blaire, yeah?”

  Grant turned slowly to face Liam. “You’re starting to piss me off.” His voice was flat, but there was no question that his patience was at an end.

  So was mine. Liam needed to back off.

  I waved the cooking spoon between them. “You two, stop it. Anyone who says another word between now and dinner will not be getting any food. Clear?” I felt like a referee between two children but, unfortunately, my dear friend was the bully.

  Liam’s mouth flattened before he turned away to get the bowls. Grant still had his raptor stare on, following my friend’s movements, and making no move to step away from me.

  Returning with the bowls, Liam gave Grant a brief glance, before handing me the dishes. I scooped steaming chicken and dumplings into the first bowl and set it on the counter. I had an idea how two alpha males would behave if I gave one his food first. They’d both insist on waiting for me to eat. So, to avoid any awkwardness, I filled the three bowls without handing them out.

  I opened the utensil drawer and handed each man a soup spoon and fork, then I picked up my chicken and dumplings and headed to the table without a word. They stood back and I heard terse, whispered conversation, but I didn’t pay them any mind. I sat down on the lone chair at the table, took an exaggerated inhale of the ultimate comfort food, and dug in, blowing gently, before I took my first bite.

  The two men settled on the bench with their soup, but Grant managed to get to the edge closer to me.