had no idea when the police or the department of corrections would catch up with him. The way his luck was running, capture seemed imminent. He hated to waste time on sleep, but he hadn’t slept for two days. His brain was barely functioning. His body was operating on sheer will alone. He needed food and a few hours in a bed. He needed a clear head for his meeting with Chandler because it wasn’t going to be easy convincing his attorney to look the other way while his client became a fugitive from justice.
He switched off the water and opened the glass door. A fluffy pink towel hung neatly on the rack. Jack stared at it, realizing with mild amusement that he had nothing to wear while his clothes were being laundered. Cursing mildly, he stepped out of the tub and reached for the towel. The fabric felt soft against his fingers. Even before bringing it to his nose, he knew it smelled like Landis.
Pleasure jumped through him as her scent wrapped around his brain. Despite the fatigue, and the pain of his injury, his body responded. Closing his eyes against the hard tug of longing, he whispered her name. “Landis…”
Landis’s hands shook as she tossed sliced mushrooms into the omelet. Cooking usually calmed her, but tonight her battered nerves refused to cooperate. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. The way he’d looked at her when he’d proclaimed his innocence. The sound of his voice when he’d whispered her name. The way he’d touched her. Oh dear God, why had she allowed herself to get sucked into this maelstrom?
“Don’t tell me you finally learned to cook.”
She jolted at the sound of his voice. The slice of toast she’d been buttering slipped from her hand and landed butter-side down on the floor. She was about to utter a very unlady-like curse when the sight of him wearing nothing but a towel froze her in place.
Her eyes swept over him. Shock and a jolt of something that felt vaguely electrical ran the length of her body. Water from his shower glistened on broad shoulders. She saw a chest that was rounded with muscle and covered with thick black hair. The towel was wrapped snugly around an abdomen that was flat and rippled with muscle. Even as she told herself she wasn’t going to let the sight of all that hard male flesh get to her, she felt the burn of a blush on her cheeks.
Appalled by her reaction, she quickly turned away, telling herself it was stress that had her blushing and speechless when she should have been doling out ultimatums.
Plucking a paper towel from the roll, he stooped to retrieve the fallen toast. “The omelet’s singeing,” he said easily.
Landis reached for the spatula and proceeded to mangle the omelet.
With the self-assurance of a man who knew his way around the kitchen, Jack moved in beside her and usurped the spatula. “Let me do that.”
She watched him expertly fold the eggs and shovel them on to waiting plates. “Where did you learn to do that?” she asked, determined to get a grip before he got the wrong idea. Just because he’d flustered her didn’t mean she was going to change her mind and help him.
“I cooked for cellblock C six days a week,” he said. “Breakfast shift, mostly.”
When he looked at her she knew instinctively the smile was there only to hide something he didn’t want her to see. Sadness. Humiliation, perhaps. The thought put an uncomfortable twinge in her chest.
“I make a pretty mean beef stew, too,” he said. “Baby carrots. Turnips. You ever had turnips with beef stew?”
He was the only person she’d ever known who could make her smile when she didn’t want to. None of what had happened in the past year was even remotely funny. It was sad more than anything, she realized. So many lives ruined. Others irrevocably changed.
“Ian left a flannel shirt behind the last time he was here.” Unable to look at him, she dropped her gaze to the skillet in front of her. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Why won’t you look at
He switched off the water and opened the glass door. A fluffy pink towel hung neatly on the rack. Jack stared at it, realizing with mild amusement that he had nothing to wear while his clothes were being laundered. Cursing mildly, he stepped out of the tub and reached for the towel. The fabric felt soft against his fingers. Even before bringing it to his nose, he knew it smelled like Landis.
Pleasure jumped through him as her scent wrapped around his brain. Despite the fatigue, and the pain of his injury, his body responded. Closing his eyes against the hard tug of longing, he whispered her name. “Landis…”
Landis’s hands shook as she tossed sliced mushrooms into the omelet. Cooking usually calmed her, but tonight her battered nerves refused to cooperate. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. The way he’d looked at her when he’d proclaimed his innocence. The sound of his voice when he’d whispered her name. The way he’d touched her. Oh dear God, why had she allowed herself to get sucked into this maelstrom?
“Don’t tell me you finally learned to cook.”
She jolted at the sound of his voice. The slice of toast she’d been buttering slipped from her hand and landed butter-side down on the floor. She was about to utter a very unlady-like curse when the sight of him wearing nothing but a towel froze her in place.
Her eyes swept over him. Shock and a jolt of something that felt vaguely electrical ran the length of her body. Water from his shower glistened on broad shoulders. She saw a chest that was rounded with muscle and covered with thick black hair. The towel was wrapped snugly around an abdomen that was flat and rippled with muscle. Even as she told herself she wasn’t going to let the sight of all that hard male flesh get to her, she felt the burn of a blush on her cheeks.
Appalled by her reaction, she quickly turned away, telling herself it was stress that had her blushing and speechless when she should have been doling out ultimatums.
Plucking a paper towel from the roll, he stooped to retrieve the fallen toast. “The omelet’s singeing,” he said easily.
Landis reached for the spatula and proceeded to mangle the omelet.
With the self-assurance of a man who knew his way around the kitchen, Jack moved in beside her and usurped the spatula. “Let me do that.”
She watched him expertly fold the eggs and shovel them on to waiting plates. “Where did you learn to do that?” she asked, determined to get a grip before he got the wrong idea. Just because he’d flustered her didn’t mean she was going to change her mind and help him.
“I cooked for cellblock C six days a week,” he said. “Breakfast shift, mostly.”
When he looked at her she knew instinctively the smile was there only to hide something he didn’t want her to see. Sadness. Humiliation, perhaps. The thought put an uncomfortable twinge in her chest.
“I make a pretty mean beef stew, too,” he said. “Baby carrots. Turnips. You ever had turnips with beef stew?”
He was the only person she’d ever known who could make her smile when she didn’t want to. None of what had happened in the past year was even remotely funny. It was sad more than anything, she realized. So many lives ruined. Others irrevocably changed.
“Ian left a flannel shirt behind the last time he was here.” Unable to look at him, she dropped her gaze to the skillet in front of her. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Why won’t you look at
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