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Chapter 2
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If Connor McQuade had been a less observant man, he might have missed that barely perceptible tightening of her mouth, that half second of shocked motionlessness. But even as ill as he was, his instinct for self-survival told him just how much depended on the next few minutes, and he watched her intently, silently.
She was looking at him reflectively, her expression unreadable now. Then, without saying a word to him, she picked up the phone and dialed. Her voice was calm and neutral as she cancelled the responding paramedics.
She hung up and turned back to him, and in the same careful voice said, "You'd better get back into bed."
Damn, he thought, Linc had said she was a cool customer, but this was incredible. "Just like that?"
"When did you eat last?"
Disconcerted, he tried to think. "Yesterday?"
"Thursday?"
He went a little paler under his tan. "It's … Friday?"
One arched, delicate brow lifted. "Yes. For another hour, anyway."
"Damn," he muttered, his head falling back against the bed. He felt her gaze on him and tried to shrug it off. "I … seem to have lost a day." He hadn't known he'd been that sick. Where had he been, what had he done, in that lost time?
"If you haven't eaten, that's probably half the problem. I'll fix something."
He watched her leave the room, amazement growing inside him. Where was the inquisition? The spate of questions he'd expected would follow the name he had so reluctantly used? He'd written off Linc's description as prejudiced at the time, but he couldn't deny now that his old friend had not exaggerated the nerve and cool-headedness of Shiloh Reese.
And he had greatly understated her looks. He'd described her as a feisty, skinny little redhead with freckles on her nose. The freckles were there, barely visible on the sassily tilted nose, but the red hair had deepened to a rich, warm auburn, cut just above her shoulders in a sleek, classic sweep, and if she had once been thin all over, she was certainly filled out in all the right places now.
In the picture he'd seen, she'd been a cute, bright-eyed fourteen-year-old; the woman ten years later was lovely, all female, but just as feisty. She hadn't even screamed when he'd pinned her. She'd just fought him with a strength that had startled him and stared him down without a trace of fear in those emerald eyes.
And walloped him a good one with that damned phone, he thought, rubbing his still sore knuckles. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, then died unexpressed as the truth of his own earlier words came to him. He should never have come here in the first place. He had no right to put her at risk, which he easily might already have done. Damn, if he could only remember what he'd done yesterday…
He nearly jumped when she was suddenly there, a steaming mug held on a tray along with a glass of milk. His brow furrowed. Either she moved like a cat or he was really out of it; he should have heard her.
She saw his frown and, setting the tray on the night-stand, said rather coolly, "You don't have much choice about the menu, so I'd suggest you make the best of it."
"No," he said quickly, "I didn't mean… It wasn't that." Boy, you are sick, McQuade. You're floundering around like a schoolboy trying to talk his way out of trouble with the teacher. Taking refuge in motion, he moved his knees to try to get up. He made it halfway before he had to lean against the bed once more.
"That didn't work real well the last time," she said, her voice studiously devoid of sarcasm. "Here." She held out a hand to him, and after a split second's hesitation he took it. She didn't try to pull him up, merely provided a steady leverage point for him to use what strength he had, then helped him balance as he dropped back down on the bed. Briskly she tugged at the covers, tucking them around him without fussing, and he thanked her silently.
She reached for the mug of soup. "Can you hold this?"
A vision of her having to feed him flashed through his mind, oddly disconcerting. "No." He heard how odd he'd sounded, and added quickly, "I mean yes, I can."
She looked at him quizzically but didn't speak as she handed him the steaming cup. His hands were a little unsteady, but he managed to take a swallow, then looked startled as his stomach growled in response.
"Whatever you did yesterday, I'd say it didn't include eating."
"No."
He took another swallow, his dark brows furrowing again. He remembered a place, a dark, damp place, the sound of footsteps and the burning in his lungs as he tried to smother the sound of his own breathing. And he remembered walking. Endlessly, it seemed. But what else?
"Maybe it will come back when you feel better."
He looked up sharply, startled at her perception. Now would come the questions, he thought. But they didn't; she merely picked up and folded the damp washcloth she had been using, he realized now, to cool him down. She'd helped him, nursed him, even before he'd reluctantly dropped that name. And still no questions.
It was beginning to bother him that she didn't ask. There was something almost abnormal about her calm. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Linc's name had been the first; she held the other.
The gaze of those vivid green eyes was unnerving, and he was not a man who was easily unnerved. He told himself it was because he had been expecting a skinny, freckle-faced tomboy and had instead been confronted with a lusciously curved, strikingly beautiful woman. The silence stretched.
He sipped the soup. Now, after the first hasty swallows, he savored the spicy, rich flavor.
"This is good."
He only said it because it was true, he assured himself, not because the silence and that steady gaze were wearing on him. And he said it because there was no other safe topic of conversation; he had a feeling she would see through any dissembling. There was no masking the lively intelligence in those remarkable eyes. He marveled once again at her cool composure. Any other woman would be frantic, pelting him with questions; she seemed content to wait.
Almost. Those steady emerald eyes were exerting a pressure that was almost tangible and somehow more effective than any of the various blunter and more physical methods of persuasion he'd encountered.
If he was uncomfortable under her unwavering regard, Shiloh couldn't see it. He seemed calm, inscrutable, cool to the point of chilly, but the way he was eating the soup, quietly but with quick, regular movements that spoke of his hunger, belied his exterior calm.
Any explanations, she realized, were going to have to wait until he had some food in him. If then, she thought suddenly, another image of her father, explaining patiently that he'd told her all he could for now, rising in her mind. How many times had she heard it? How many times had it taken before she'd finally quit asking, realizing that he would tell her what he could when he could, and not before?
She watched him eat, telling herself that she could wait; she'd learned her lessons well. He needed food and rest, and then… Well, then she would see what happened.
Con was all too aware of her gaze. But his hunger overcame his careful reserve, and when he had finished the soup, he accepted her offer and ate a half-mug more, then the milk. He took the two aspirin she gave him obediently; he was too aware of the feverish ache of his body to dispute his need of them.
He watched as she silently gathered up the tray and dishes, but before she returned, his fatigue overtook him and he slept.
He awoke to the wonderful absence of that dull, fevered ache and the cheerful presence of the morning sun streaming through the window beside the bed. He still felt weak, but so much better that he wasn't about to complain. He even thought he could get up without falling over this time.
He levered himself up on one elbow, then froze as his gaze fell on the wicker lounge a couple of feet away. Shiloh was curled up on it, asleep, her head pillowed on one slim hand, her hair burnished to a warm, living flame by the sunlight pouring across her.
She looked so touchingly young, so innocent, yet the flowing green silk o
f the robe she wore did little to conceal the slender, feminine contours beneath. His body clenched around a sudden, searing shaft of heat it took him a moment to recognize, so long had it been since he'd felt it. When he realized it was hot, unmitigated desire, his breath died in his throat in stunned shock and disbelief.
No. The word echoed in his head as if he'd spoken it. Oh, no, you don't. Not now, and not her. Especially not her. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. After years in an emotional deep freeze, one encounter with this little wildcat was threatening to thaw him out like a blowtorch, and at a time when he could least afford it.
Well, he wasn't going to let it happen. He was going to get out of here before the hell he'd been living in this last week somehow sucked her up, too. He never should have come here, he repeated for the third time.
With a slowness that arose as much from his weakness as from the need for silence, he got up. He swayed at first, a little light-headed, but steadied himself with a hand on the brass bedpost.
This room suited her, he thought as he waited for his head to clear: the gleaming brass bed, the thick, fluffy quilt the color of her eyes and the tailored plaid of the curtains at the window. The combination of feminine curves and functional lines was as intriguing as she was.
Knock it off. You're out of here. That annoying little voice of his was becoming more and more vocal this morning. Usually he trusted it implicitly, but it was beginning to irritate him now.
I'm moving already, he responded silently to it as he inched down to the foot of the bed and reached for his clothes. He carried them to the bathroom and eased the door shut before he began to pull them on. He glanced in the mirror, grimacing at the hollow-eyed, unshaven image that stared back at him. He wished he could take a shower, but he didn't want to take the chance of waking her. He wanted to be gone before that. Coward, he thought, even though he knew it was for the best.
He had his jeans pulled on and was about to zip them when an unsettling thought occurred to him. He strained to remember, but all was lost in that feverish haze. He tried to picture himself here, in her room, that night. It would have made sense, he thought; he'd been burning up. What else would he have done but pull off his too warm clothes?
He almost convinced himself, but a brief, searing image of her undressing him sent a surge of heat through him that made the first one seem like a mere spark. You bastard, he muttered silently, tugging up the jeans zipper and then yanking the blue cotton sweater over his head. A brief spell of dizziness warned him he wasn't yet ready for such quick motions, and he had to stop for a minute until it passed.
He tiptoed to the kitchen, battered leather running shoes in hand, finding his way with an ease that told him the well-trained part of his mind had been functioning and had marked the layout of the house even through the fog of illness.
He quickly checked the shelves and the refrigerator, grabbing a few things that seemed portable. He was under no illusion that he could keep going without food, but he knew he didn't dare risk a restaurant or even a supermarket, not yet. He would leave her some money for what he took, he thought; that, at least, was in good supply. He wished he could leave her a note to thank her, but he didn't dare.
He reached for his wallet, then stopped, hand poised over his hip pocket. Had she? He pulled it out slowly. It didn't matter if she had, he told himself. There was nothing that would tell her anything about who he really was. His fake ID was faultless. He always made sure of that.
It hadn't been touched. He knew that with a certainty born of natural instinct and years of training and experience. Everything was exactly as he'd arranged it. Every corner that was supposed to be bent was bent; every bill faced the way it was supposed to face. And the tiny bit of adhesive he'd applied to the flap that covered the ID portion of the wallet still held; she hadn't even looked to see who he was.
As straight as Linc, he thought, a vision of his old friend flashing through his mind. Although Linc had had to bend a few of his stiff principles over the years, the basic, decent and honorable core of the man had never been touched.
And you owe him, McQuade. So get the hell out of here and quit endangering the person he loves most.
"Checking to see if I stole anything before you leave?"
He spun around, then had to grab for the counter as his head whirled and grayness shadowed the edges of his vision. Damn, was he still that out of it, or was she really that quiet? The grayness retreated after a moment, allowing him an all-too-clear view of the trimly curved figure leaning against the refrigerator, clad in that vivid sweep of silky green that made her eyes glow like the gem they matched. The smooth sleekness of her hair was ruffled slightly from sleep, and the wish that his hands had done the tousling flashed through his mind before he could stop it.
Her expression was unreadable, but he knew those quick green eyes hadn't missed a thing, and her words told him she knew exactly what he'd been going to do. Despite his certainty that it had been the right idea, a feeling of guilt rose in him. It was a feeling he wasn't used to; he'd long ago had to batter that part of his conscience into insensibility or go crazy. He didn't know what to say.
"I thought about checking your wallet," she said, her tone flat. "But not for money. For something you guard much more closely. Like a clue to who you are and why you dropped into my life." She laughed, a harsh little chuckle. "At first I didn't look, because I felt embarrassed about probing into your life while you were so out of it. Can you believe that?"
His jaw tightened, and he looked away from her. He opened the wallet and pulled out a twenty. He was still going to pay her, then get the hell out of here.
"Leaving a tip?"
His gaze snapped back to her face. Her eyes flicked to the items on the counter, over the money in his hand, then back to his face. "Keep it. I'm not running a convenience store."
There was no inflection in her voice, but the words stung as if they'd been rife with sarcasm. He could read nothing in her face, but he felt the piercing gaze of those green eyes like a physical touch.
"Shiloh, I—" He lowered his eyes. "I have to get out of here," he said in a low voice, avoiding looking at her with a concentration so fierce that it made him uncomfortable.
"Don't let me stop you."
He moved to put the twenty on the counter.
"I said keep it."
"But—"
"But nothing. I don't take conscience money."
She saw too damned much, he thought, but he stuffed the bill in his pocket. "Look, I didn't want to… I mean, I didn't have any choice…" He let out a disgusted sigh at his own sudden inarticulateness. "It's just that I'm—"
"I know what you are. Or close enough. That's why I didn't bother to look in your wallet even when it became obvious you weren't going to tell me who you are. Anything I'd find in there would be fake, anyway, wouldn't it?"
He winced as her words hit home. "Shiloh—"
"Don't waste your energy denying it. I grew up with two men who've made a career out of this kind of thing. I know the signs."
"You don't understand."
"I don't? Well, let me give you my best guess, then, and you can tell me how wrong I am." She spoke evenly, as if reading things off a list. "You know Linc, well enough to find me. You get in here without leaving a trace, and you're ready to slip out the same way. Even sick, you react like a coiled rattlesnake, and judging from those scars, you've tangled with more than one of your own kind. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure things out."
He should have known she would guess, he thought. She was too smart not to recognize the signs, not to have picked something up from Linc through the years. Naval intelligence might be more restricted, more regimented than the free hand he usually had from his boss, but the basics were the same. He sagged wearily against the counter.
"I didn't want to come here. I tried not to." He rubbed at his eyes, which were still shadowed by dark circles of fatigue and illness. "Then I … lost track of things … and
wound up here, anyway." He met her eyes then. "I'm sorry. And thank you."
"Don't thank me. Not when you're going to walk out that door and make it all for nothing." She eyed the tired slump of his body. "If you make it to the street without collapsing, it will be a miracle."
"I have to."
"So you said."
"Damn it!" he snapped, wishing she would get angry, tell him to get out, threaten to call the cops, anything except look at him so calmly and act like they were discussing the weather.
You mean anything to make her the bad guy, that little voice piped up. Butt out, he ordered it silently. "Linc would kill me if anything happened to you!"
"Probably," she agreed mildly. "He's always been very protective."
"He loves you."
"I know."
He didn't speak for a moment as a pensive, reflective look came over his face. "He told me once that you were the only thing that kept him going in that cage—"
Shiloh straightened up, only the slow care of the movement betraying any sign of the effect those quiet words had on her. For Linc to have spoken of that time to this man told her all she needed to know about how close they were, and, in turn, all she needed to know about the man who had dropped into her life.
"When he told you that, what did he call you?"
He stared at her. Was she actually asking him his name? A question at last? He was so stunned he answered her without thinking. "Con."
She considered that for a moment. "Short for?"
"Connor."
She looked at him, taking in again the thick, near black hair and the clear blue eyes. "Irish?"
"Back a ways," he answered slowly.
She nodded. "Accounts for the stubborn," she said mildly.
One dark eyebrow shot up. "Stubborn?"
She lifted one slender shoulder in an eloquent shrug. "What else would you call it? You should be flat on your back, not—" she nodded at the food on the counter "—packing to run away."
Despite her level tone the words stung. "I'm not—"
"Oh, I forgot. You have to get out of here."
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