"If you ever want to talk about it," he said quietly, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere for a while."
She nodded.
"I have one more question for you," he said, pushing her hair back from her face so he could look into her eyes. "If you know I'm still hung up on my ex, why exactly are you here?"
She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heart beating. "I like that you need me," she told him. "And I really like that you don't need me too much."
"I should do it." Harry's voice broke through Alessandra's reverie. She turned away from the drops of rain that were beading on the window, glittering from the lights of the other cars on the road, and looked at him.
He'd slept some. Yesterday, while she was driving. He still looked awful, though. The bags under his eyes were dark and pronounced, his eyes themselves were bloodshot. And he was having a particularly bad hair day. His mouth was a grim line, surrounded by that more-than-stubble, not-quite-beard.
But, as if he felt her looking at him in the quiet darkness, he turned and gave her a very small, heartbreakingly rueful smile. "I mean, who am I kidding, you know? My kids need stability, and, well, if you read my personnel file, stability wouldn't be a word that comes up much."
He was talking about granting custody of his children to his stepsister. No, what was it he'd said? Marge wasn't even related to him by marriage. But sister or not, how could he even consider giving away his children?
"You probably shouldn't make any major decisions while you're so tired," Alessandra said diplomatically. "Why don't we just get there, get the bloody hell out of this car? That alone will make you feel better. You can hug your kids, and then you can sleep on it, see if you still feel the same way in the morning."
"Hell," Harry said. "You said hell. You said bloody hell." He laughed. "This is clearly another example of my bad influence."
"If it were an example of your bad influence," Alessandra informed him, "I would have suggested we arrive and get the fuck out of the car. Or perhaps, get out of the fucking car, which has a different meaning altogether, doesn't it?"
Harry shouted with laughter, just as she knew he would. "You know, when you say it, it sounds almost polite."
"You're going to have to watch your mouth around your kids."
"I will," he said. "I do. I know."
He was quiet again, his laughter fading far too quickly. The windshield wipers were moving with a rhythm that suddenly seemed too loud in the stillness.
"I'm scared to death," he said. They were approaching an exit, and he pulled across the highway, signaling to get off. "Allie, I'm sorry, but we have to stop. I can't show up at Marge's, looking like this, in the middle of the night. It'll be nearly one-thirty before we get to Hardy, and that's no good."
Hardy. The name of her new hometown was Hardy, Colorado.
The clock on the dash read a few minutes after twelve. They were close. Really close. God, she hoped Hardy was more sophisticated than some of the little clusters of mobile homes passing for towns that they'd driven past.
"I think it's a good idea to stop for the night," she agreed. "You'll feel better if you shave and change your clothes. If you want, I'll even cut your hair. I'm not really that good at it, but frankly, it can't get much worse."
Harry shot her a crooked smile. "When you put it like that, how could I turn you down?"
Chapter Thirteen
"Hey," Harry said. "You're supposed to cut my hair, not criticize my wardrobe."
Alessandra turned and gave him a look that was both disdainful and pitying. "What wardrobe? An extra pair of dirty jeans wadded into an unrecognizable mass, three wrinkled T-shirts, two pairs of socks—one with holes in the toes, one with holes in the heels—and two pairs of silk boxers do not form even the most basic foundation for a wardrobe."
Harry rubbed his head with his towel then carefully began rewrapping his ribs with the Ace bandage. "I'll bet you didn't know I was the silk boxer type."
She studiously ignored him, glaring down at his three clean T-shirts, all faded, all wrinkled, as if doing so would change them into something more presentable. "I think we should buy you something new to wear tomorrow morning. Something like khakis would be relaxed, but not as relaxed as jeans. And a polo shirt, casual, but with a collar. That would be a good look for you. Something in red would—"
"It's a good idea," he interrupted. "In theory."
She stopped ignoring him. "Why is it only good in theory?"
"I'm nearly all out of cash. We need gas and breakfast, and unless you're too tired, I'd love to have a beer or two tonight." Even with the door tightly closed, Harry could hear the music from the bar attached to the motel office. Somebody was playing Travis Tritt through a sound system that was set all the way up to ten. "Once we're in Hardy, I can get money from the bank—I have an account in Marge's name I can access. But until then we can't afford much of anything."
Alessandra wouldn't give up. "So we'll go to the bank first, buy the clothes after we get to town, and—"
"Marge has my bank card."
She was only temporarily stopped. "Okay, so we go to a laundromat. We can afford to spend a few bucks to wash your jeans, can't we? You can wear clean jeans and one of my new T-shirts. They're all men's extra large. You won't look perfect, but you'll look all right. Particularly after we cut your hair."
"We? I thought you were cutting my hair. If you expect any help from me…"
"You can help by sitting here." Alessandra pulled out the rickety chair that sat in front of a desk beneath a mirror. She patted it invitingly.
Harry sat.
Alessandra was examining him from all angles, her eyes narrowed and her lower lip caught between her teeth.
He grimaced as he faced himself in the mirror. He looked better having shaved, but not a whole lot better. "I look like shit."
Her eyes met his in the mirror. "You better practice using a cleaner vocabulary."
"I look like crap."
She smiled. "That's not a whole lot better."
She was touching him now, combing his still-wet hair, running her fingers through it, checking the length. It felt unbelievably good.
"I don't know how else to say it. I look like some kind of ghoul from Night of the Living Dead."
Alessandra attempted to center his head, frowning as she concentrated. She leaned forward from behind him, and he could feel the softness of her breasts against the back of his head. If he was lucky, she'd stay right there, just like that, forever.
"You don't look that bad," she said. "Just tired. A little Visine, some cucumbers on your eyes in the morning…"
"Cucumbers?"
"Don't move." She backed away.
"Did you say cucumbers? On my eyes?" He tried to hold his head perfectly still, watching her in the mirror as she picked up the scissors they'd bought at a twenty-four-hour pharmacy.
She began to cut his hair, slowly at first. "It's an old beauty trick. It helps reduce swelling and bags under your eyes. Preparation H also works very well."
"Oh, ho—no way am I putting hemorrhoid ointment on my face! Or cucumbers. Jesus."
"Maybe getting a good night's sleep will help."
"Chances of that are slim to none," he said. "I shouldn't've slept in the car. Now I'll never fall asleep."
Particularly not with her sleeping in the bed next to him. That, combined with knowing he was going to have to face his kids in the morning… There was no doubt about it, this was going to be one of the longest nights of his life.
"We can go have a drink after this." She brushed off some of the hair that had fallen on his bare shoulders, her long, elegant fingers cool against his skin. Her fingernails were starting to grow back; she had stopped biting them, as if her anxiety had lessened some with her decision to completely disguise herself. They were very short, but neatly filed. "I don't mind. Maybe that'll help you relax."
Harry knew exactly the way he wanted to try to relax tonight—and it involved her touching h
im just like that, but all over. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen. Allie wanted to keep sex out of their relationship. She had been surprisingly right about a lot of things, but in this case, she was dead wrong.
Theirs could be the perfect sexual relationship. They were close, but not too close. They knew each other well enough to see their faults and recognize their differences, to know that anything they started could never be permanent. There'd be no false expectations, no future disappointments.
But he wasn't even going to bring up the possibility again. He'd promised no pressure, promised to be good. Unless she was the one who changed her mind, he wasn't going to have sex with Allie tonight.
Tomorrow, however, he'd have the opportunity to get into her shirt. Too bad she wasn't going to be the one wearing it, though.
"What are you smiling about?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Don't move!" She leaned forward to position his head again.
Ah, yes. Harry closed his eyes.
Nobody noticed her.
As Alessandra followed Harry into the bar, slouching the way he'd taught her, a few people looked up, but they immediately looked away, dismissing her just like that. She was not worth a second look.
She tried to tell herself that was a good thing. She had achieved the anonymity necessary to stay alive.
Still, a part of her—a large part of her—felt like crying.
"You want a beer?" Harry shouted to be heard over the pounding music.
She hated beer. But plain Alice Plotkin wasn't the type to have a glass of white wine—if they even served such a thing at a place like this. She forced a smile and nodded.
Harry frowned at her and said something that she couldn't quite make out over the noise. She gave him a questioning look and he leaned closer.
"Don't smile," he said. He was so close, she could feel his breath warm against her ear.
"Why not?"
But he'd already moved away, toward the bar.
His haircut looked good. He looked good. A little tired, maybe, but very good. In fact, he'd caught the attention of more than one woman sitting at the bar. Now there was true irony.
She'd cut his hair short enough so that it didn't matter if it stood up straight. The new length gave an edge to his face. It made his eyes stand out, made him look a little bit dangerous.
The faded T-shirt he wore clung to his muscular back and shoulders, and his jeans… His jeans fit very nicely.
The woman next to him at the bar was a redhead who had obviously learned how to apply makeup at the Barnum and Bailey School for Clowns. She leaned toward Harry, smiling as she spoke to him.
He grinned back at her, and she glanced back at Alessandra as she spoke again, crossing two very unremarkable-looking legs, letting her short skirt ride up just a bit.
Alessandra turned away. She didn't want to watch Harry check out the redhead's legs.
Lord, this was harder than she'd anticipated.
It was much easier to be Alice Plotkin when she was alone with Harry. He didn't look at her differently now that she no longer wore nice clothes and makeup. In fact, she'd caught him watching her when he thought she wasn't looking more often now than before. And sitting in the car, talking about anything and everything, it didn't matter that she didn't look like a beauty-pageant winner. In the car, she'd often forgotten she had the haircut from hell. In the car, when Harry smiled at her as if he genuinely liked her, she didn't feel lost and afraid.
Something bumped her arm, and she turned around to see him standing behind her, holding two mugs of beer. She took one from him.
"Wanna find a table?" he shouted.
Alessandra nodded, miserably aware that the redhead's eyes followed them all the way across the room.
The floor was sticky. The decor consisted of rough wood and a few grimy mirrors here and there. The overall appearance was aided by the poor lighting. The tables were small and round, with uneven pedestals that made them tilt back and forth. Harry set his beer on one near the back exit, by the rest rooms, and pulled out a chair for her.
She sat down. "You shouldn't do that."
"What?" He pulled his own chair close to hers. Too close—but necessary if they were going to attempt to talk.
She shouted into his ear. "You shouldn't—"
He quickly pulled away, nearly knocking over his beer. Gesturing for her to move closer, he put his mouth next to her ear. "Don't shout," he told her. "If you get real close, you don't have to shout, okay?"
He was speaking in a quieter than normal voice, and it gave the illusion of intimacy. It was as if she were in his arms, as if he'd lifted his head from a kiss.
"Now what shouldn't I do?" he continued. He turned his head, giving her his ear.
He smelled incredibly good even though he wasn't wearing aftershave. Come to think of it, she couldn't remember Harry ever wearing aftershave. He smelled like the cheap soap that came with the motel room, like the bargain shampoo he'd picked up so as not to use up her more expensive brand. He smelled like Harry, clean and honest.
"You shouldn't pull out the chair for me, or even open doors for me," she told him.
He pulled back slightly to look at her, his face only inches from hers. Even in the dim light, she could see that his eyes were brown and only brown. There were no flecks of gold or green, just one single, deep shade of chocolate.
He studied her intensely then leaned toward her again, his breath warm against her neck as he spoke. "You don't think Alice Plotkin deserves that kind of respect?"
"She's supposed to be invisible."
"She's not invisible to me."
Again, he pulled back, and the warmth in his eyes seemed to heat her from within. His gaze flicked down to her mouth, and Alessandra knew with complete certainty that he was going to kiss her. In just a moment, he was going to pull her toward him and kiss her. She couldn't think of anything she wanted more.
Cutting his hair had been torture. He'd sat there, without a shirt on, Ace bandage around his ribs, obliviously sexy. She'd touched the hard muscles of his shoulders and back more than once, using the lame excuse of brushing cut hair off him.
Sometimes—okay, more than sometimes—the hair had been imaginary.
Touching Harry was like touching electricity. She hadn't wanted to stop. His hair was so soft and thick, his skin silk over steel.
Silk. Silk boxers. Dear Lord. The thought of Harry in his silk boxers was a dizzying one.
The fact that he wore silk boxers didn't really surprise her, though. It made sense that beneath his rumpled and rough exterior lay the delicate smoothness of silk.
She held his gaze for what seemed to be forever, remembering the way he'd kissed her before, nearly giddy with anticipation.
He moved then, but instead of moving toward her and catching her mouth with his own, he sat abruptly back in his chair.
He didn't kiss her.
And he didn't look at her. He looked around the room, looked at his beer, even drank some of it, tapping his fingers on the table in time to the blaring music.
What had just happened here?
Alessandra followed Harry's gaze, thinking something had distracted him and…
One of the mirrors on the wall was positioned just right—she stared into her own eyes, gazed into her own pale face. Oh God, her hair looked awful. Everything about her looked awful. No wonder he didn't want to kiss her.
But looking bad was a good thing, she reminded herself. Except, right now, it felt awful.
She had to remember Ivo. Remember that look in his eyes in the Stop and Shop. Remember the way he'd aimed his gun directly at her and fired. If it were up to Ivo, she'd be dead right now. He was out there, still, maybe looking for her right this very minute. Having him find her and kill her—now that was a bad thing. Looking awful was merely an inconvenience.
Harry knocked on the table, and she glanced at him, startled. He gestured to her untouched beer. "Aren't you going to drink that?"
He didn't move toward her—she read his lips across the table.
She shook her head, pushing the mug toward him. He took it by the handle, careful not to touch her hand.
Harry took a healthy slug of Alessandra's beer, cursing himself, cursing Allie, cursing the fact that he hadn't had enough money to get them separate motel rooms. They had been on the road long enough for him to relax. If Ivo had managed to follow them, he would have put in an appearance before this. And if he hadn't followed them, he wasn't going to find them now. Harry's car was as traceproof as possible. It was the most common make and model on the road. He'd switched plates from a collection he had in the trunk a number of times, even changed the color at a body shop when Alessandra had her hair done.
But it was all moot. He didn't have the money for separate motel rooms.
And Allie wasn't in danger from Ivo. The only person in danger here was Harry. He was in danger of making a complete fool of himself. Again.
The back door opened with a crash, and he spilled the beer down the front of his shirt as the rest-room lights glinted weakly off the barrel of not one, but three—no, four—rifles.
He'd been wrong. Allie wasn't out of danger. He'd made a mistake, and it was probably going to cost them their lives. He pushed her down onto the floor, thrusting himself in front of her as he drew his gun from the back waistband of his jeans.
Four to one, no six—shit, there were six gunmen! He might've been able to take four if he used up his life's allotment of miracles all at once, but six! He'd have to fire first and keep firing even after he was hit.
They were all heading directly for him, all carrying the same odd rifle and…
All carrying the rifle barrel down.
Harry hesitated, a heartbeat away from spraying the wall with the first man's brains, searching their faces for Ivo's pale eyes.
Ivo wasn't there. All of the men were young, in their early twenties. They weren't looking at him or Allie at all. They were laughing and…
They walked right past him, and he realized why the rifles seemed so odd.
They were the kind of rifles that fired paint balls.
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