maybe whoever had dumped her suitcase in the room had taken the purse. She wasn’t carrying a lot of cash, though her small supply of sleeping pills might appeal to some teenage druggie. And hell, what was Dillon but an overgrown teenage druggie? It had to be him.
She sat down on the mattress. She should go downstairs and confront him, demand that he return her purse. He’d deny taking it, of course. She was going to have a hell of a hard time getting out of here without her license and credit cards. No one would rent her a car, much less a room, without ID and credit. If he didn’t give it back to her she was stuck.
She stretched out on the thin mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. He didn’t want her here. Why the hell would he do something that would keep her trapped here? Why, when he’d never liked her? If he even remembered that night so long ago, all he’d remember was what an idiot she’d been. What an embarrassing, pathetic idiot.
Twelve years ago
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, and the soft breeze of early summer riffled through his too-long hair. “Come here.”
Jamie sat frozen in the front seat of the old Cadillac, practically wedged between the seat and the door. The beer bottle in her hands was empty, and in the gathering dusk Dillon Gaynor looked like every good girl’s worst nightmare. And secret, shameful dream.
She’d had her share of them. They all had, all the good girls of Marshfield, Rhode Island. He was wicked, he was sexy, he was as pretty as sin. Just the sort to daydream about. Just the sort to keep away from. And she was sitting in the front seat of an old Cadillac convertible with him, alone in the woods, and she’d been fool enough to bring up the subject of kissing.
She didn’t move. “I was just kidding,” she said, unable to keep the thread of nerves out of her voice.
“I wasn’t.” He took the empty beer bottle out of her hands and threw it into the woods. And then he reached for her, pulling her across the broad front seat. The old leather was so soft and smooth she slid easily, until she was touching him, thigh to thigh, and he was looking down into her breathless face. “So where do we start?”
“You drive me home, then come back and get Nate and his girlfriend?” she suggested in a nervous voice.
“I don’t think so.” He picked up her hand and looked at it for a long, contemplative moment. “Baby-pink nail polish. Did that match your prom dress?”
She’d chosen the shade just for that purpose, but she wasn’t about to admit it. He wasn’t expecting her to. He just held her delicate hand in his large, callused one, rubbing his thumb over her palm, slowly, sinuously. “Such an innocent hand,” he said. “What naughty things have you done with it?”
“Nothing.”
“I can believe it,” he murmured, pulling her hand to his mouth. He put his mouth against her palm, and she felt a shiver run through her body. And then he licked it, and the feel of his tongue against her skin shocked her. “Time you learned,” he said. And he put her hand against his chest.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been wearing the usual ratty T-shirt. But tonight he wore a faded Hawaiian-style shirt, and it was partly open, and her damp palm was pressed against his warm flesh without the safety of thin cotton between them.
He was hot. His skin burned beneath her cold hand, and she could feel the slow, steady pulse of his heart, beating against her palm, moving down her arm and into her body, so that her heart was beating with his, but faster, much faster, and she was cold where he was hot, and she stared up at him, paralyzed.
He kept her hand captured in his, pressed against his heart, as he leaned forward and flicked on the car radio. U2 was playing—Bono was singing about sex and love, just what she didn’t want to hear. He leaned back in the seat again, his fingers touching hers, caressing them, one by one, as he slowly unbuttoned the rest of his shirt with his other hand.
She felt like a small white rat facing a hungry python. Mesmerized, she sat in the front seat of the old convertible and waited for him to make the next move.
This was Dillon Gaynor, the object of her teenage fantasies since the first time he’d walked into her parents’ house, whether she’d wanted to admit it or not. It was his skin beneath her hand, and he was moving his head closer, and he was going to kiss her, he actually was, and she closed her eyes, holding her breath, waiting.
He tasted like beer. And cigarettes. And sin, sweet sin. The baddest of all bad boys, and he was kissing her, his mouth moving slowly over her closed lips, his hand pressing hers against his hot skin, holding it there. She closed her eyes, telling herself this wasn’t happening, and since it wasn’t, she wasn’t doing anything wrong or dangerous, and she could just lean back against the ratty leather seat and let him kiss her. He lifted his head.
“Is that the way you kiss your boyfriends?”
The nice dreamlike haze vanished, and she opened her eyes, trying to sit up. He held her down. “I know there’ve been boyfriends,” he continued, and she realized he was moving her hand across his stomach, in slow, erotic circles. “Nate’s told me all about them. Jimmy McCarty and Jay Thompson. You have lousy taste in boys.”
“Is that why I’m here with you?” she said.
“Kitten’s got claws,” he murmured. “Open your mouth when I kiss you.”
“I don’t like that.”
“Tough. You’re playing with grown-ups now. This is how we do it in the big leagues.” He pushed her back against the seat and forced her mouth open before she could come up with another protest. He kissed her, using his tongue, slowly, thoroughly, and she felt a heat begin to pool in her stomach, radiating outward. Dillon Gaynor definitely knew how to kiss. What had been wet and sloppy with Jimmy was slow and mesmerizing with Dillon. She hadn’t even realized he’d released her hand, and she was slowly caressing the warm skin of his stomach, until she felt his hand on the waist of her jeans, heard the rasp of her zipper as his hand slipped inside.
She panicked. It didn’t do her any good, he was too strong for her. His mouth silenced any protest, his body pressing against hers kept her from escaping, and his hands, his fingers, slid beneath her plain cotton panties to touch her.
She had the strength to wrench her mouth away from his. “Stop it,” she whispered. “Let me go.” She could have screamed, maybe. But she didn’t want to.
He pushed her face against his shoulder, his mouth by her ear, and he took a small, wicked bite of her earlobe. “Just relax,” he said. “Consider this a graduation present.”
“But I didn’t graduate,” she murmured in a dazed voice.
“You’re about to.”
One of her hands was trapped beneath their bodies, but she wrenched the other free to grab his shoulder and try to push him away. He didn’t budge.
“Close your eyes, baby girl,” he whispered. “I’m about to show you a very good time.”
There was nothing she could do to stop him—he was too strong, too determined, and he knew exactly what he was doing. He pushed his fingers inside her, and she wanted to die of shame. And he was rubbing her, using his thumb, and she knew what he was trying to do, but she couldn’t even do it on her own, much less with a stranger touching her, inside
