Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)(35)

He stopped at a shed and opened the door. Ducking inside, he emerged moments later with a fishing pole, tackle box, and net. He extended the net to her. “Carry this.”

Bristling at his bossy tone, she accepted the net and followed him through thick shrubs that snagged and grabbed at her legs.

She addressed his back. “We’re going fishing?”

“You ever fish for your dinner before, princess?”

She bristled at the nickname. “No.”

“First time for everything, then.”

She stared at his broad back, her eyes following the play of muscles working under the thin cotton of his shirt. She couldn’t see his face but she could hear the smirk in his voice. He thought he knew her. He thought he had her pegged. Her determination to beat him, to escape him, only intensified.

She heard the water before they reached the edge of a midnight blue pond. Her lips parted on a tiny gasp. It was the kind of thing photographed in nature magazines.

He squatted in front of the tackle box, flipping it open. She took the time to study him, scanning corded-tight muscles moving like fluid beneath his clothes. This guy had escaped from prison. That meant he was more than some ripped meathead. There were dimensions to him. He was intelligent. Cunning.

The mist had melted away and sunlight gilded his hair into dark gold as he baited the hook with a colorful bit of plastic tackle that reminded her of something her mother teased the cat with.

Satisfied, he stood and walked out on a ridge of rocks, sure-footed, his gait even. Balanced perfectly, he tossed out his line.

Unsure what to do but pretty certain it wasn’t stare at the way the denim hugged his amazing backside, she sank down onto the ground, still holding onto the net.

She drew her knees up to her chest and sat there for several minutes, intermittently watching him (not his backside) and scanning their surroundings.

He moved with quiet stealth as he fished. Even as strong and deadly looking as he was, there was a natural grace to him—a patience she hadn’t expected. Weren’t criminals supposed to be an impulsive sort? But then, he was a criminal who had successfully escaped prison. That probably put him outside the box of everyday criminals.

As the minutes slid by, the morning mist evaporated. The day was no longer so cold. Still chilly, though . . . a fact he was apparently indifferent to when he reached one hand behind his neck and pulled his gray T-shirt over his head in that move guys always did. Well, no guy she knew, but she watched plenty of guys do it on TV. Her mouth dried and she quickly looked away, her gaze resting on the discarded T-shirt he’d flung onto the bank, anywhere but at him—at the sight of his ripped up, tattooed body.

It was several moments before she looked back at him, and it was as though he felt her gaze. He looked sideways at her. Heat punched her chest and flared outward, but she didn’t look away. She held his ice gaze.

He finally spoke. “Bet you’ve never had fish as fresh as you’re going to get tonight.” Was he trying to make small talk?

She pulled a dried-up bit of root from the parched ground. “You know this place well,” she stated.

He nodded affirmation.

Her mind groped on some memory, some bit of knowledge about captives making a connection with their captor. It was to her benefit if they could forge a connection, a relationship. Ostensibly, it would be harder to harm a person you actually knew . . . you actually liked.

She winced. Time had proven that she was not very likable. The last poll had established that America was not a fan of First Daughter Grace Reeves.

Deciding she needed to try, she cleared her throat and asked, “So you came here a lot . . . before you were incarcerated?”

His lips pressed into a firm line and his hazel gaze hardened as he gazed out at the glasslike water. Well, that didn’t take long. She’d gone too far. Asked something that brought his walls crashing down.

Then, suddenly, he shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t matter. This place won’t be a secret for long. Not after you’re free.”

The breath eased out of her. Free. Just hearing him say that as a foregone conclusion made her shoulders relax and the air flow easier past her lips. “You think I’ll tell people about this place?”

“You won’t have to,” he said as though unaffected. “You’ll tell them about me. With the resources available to the FBI and Secret Service, it won’t take them long to close in on this place.”

After she told them about him: Reid. Escaped convict. That’s all she would need to say. They would figure out the rest. And of course, she would tell them. Why wouldn’t she? He was a dangerous criminal. Just because he wasn’t as dangerous as the rest of the men who took her didn’t mean he should get off scot-free. If he was really heroic, he would have taken her straight to the authorities. He needed to be brought to justice for his crimes.

“You know I can help you . . . put in a good word for you with the authorities.”

He smirked as he reeled in his line. “That so, princess?”

“If you let me go, sure. I would do that, of course.”

“Still angling for me to let you go?” He threw out his line again. It plopped cleanly in the water. “Already told you. I can’t do that just yet.”

“Should I stop trying, then?” she snapped.

“By all means, keep trying. No one likes a quitter.” His smirk was a full-fledged smile now and it did stupid things to her insides. She fought it, trying to quell the flip-flopping of her stomach.