Page 37 of Blood Moon

“You’d have to kill me.”

“I’m afraid so.” He paused, then, low and suggestively, said, “Or I would consider a swap.”

“A swap? One friendlier than killing me?”

“A lot friendlier.” His gaze lowered to her mouth, then moved down to her breasts. God, did they entice. All but begging for the gentle squeeze of a man’s hands.

It took every ounce of willpower he had to look up from them into her eyes, which were wide and unblinking. Hesaw in them that she understood without his having to spell it out: He wanted her. Bad.

Of course, under the circumstances, his licentious thoughts were inappropriate. He got up and carried his bowl and utensils to the sink. Beth did the same, although the implication of the nature of his “swap” and the way he’d looked at her had left her uncharacteristically aflutter.

He turned on the faucets. “I’ll manage this.”

“Let me wash. It’s the least I can do by way of thanks.”

“I would have heated up the gumbo for myself anyway.”

“I need to thank you not only for the meal, but also for getting me to safety tonight. I shudder at the thought of someone nicknamed the ogre.”

He turned off the water and faced her. “I meant it when I said you held up well.”

“You said I’d done okay.”

“I understated.” He gave her one of his brief, crooked smiles, but it was half-hearted, and he seemed reluctant to continue. But he did. “You should never have come down here and meddled in this. You’re out of your element. I don’t mean to be condescending. I hope it didn’t sound like it.”

“It didn’t. It sounded like Max. Exactly like Max.”

“Smart guy.”

“Smart and, by now, I’m sure he’s frantic because I haven’t called him.”

John went over to the cupboard and opened a drawer beneath the shelving. Inside it were several cell phones. He chose one and checked the signal and battery capacity, then handed it to her. “Never been used. You can break it in for me. Go call your boss before he has a fatal coronary.”

He showed her into a bedroom, which was directly off the main room. It was furnished with an iron bed whose white paint was chipped in spots. The patchwork quilt was no doubt handmade. The room was spotlessly clean, but as cluttered as the rest of the cabin with memorabilia that represented generations of family history.

“Does this place belong to you now?”

“By default,” he said. “None of the cousins who are still in the area wanted to maintain it. It was deeded to me by a round of handshakes, nothing official. It’s still on the tax rolls in my grandpa’s name, which was Lamont, not Bowie. No one will find us here.”

“I couldn’t find my way back to the boat.”

“Which is the point and why I keep the place. Take your time.” As he left the room, he pulled the door closed.

She toed off her shoes and sat down on the bed with her bare feet tucked beneath her hips. After taking a bolstering breath, she tapped in Max’s number.

It rang only once before a growled, “Who’s this?”

“Me.”

“Whose phone?”

“John Bowie’s.”

“Says ‘Caller Unknown.’”

“It’s a spare.”

“Huh. If you’re using his phone, I guess you missed your flight.”

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