"Were you on your way home from work when they grabbed you?"
"No."
He looked at her. Her face had gone very pale, and he caught the glimmer of panic in her eyes. Disgusted with himself, he held her gaze, forcing an off-center smile. "Okay, then. How old are you? And are those teeth your own?"
The panic disappeared, replaced by a hint of laughter, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "Has anyone told you that you ask rude questions?"
He gave her an amused look, then reached for the last sandwich. "I don't get asked out much."
She grinned, pulling up the other leg so she was sitting cross-legged. "Pull the other one, Donovan." She took the last bite of sandwich, then pushed her empty bowl away.
Sitting back in her chair, she continued to watch him. "Tell you what. I'll give you a personal profile. How's that?"
He stared at her, and for some reason he wanted to push her a little off center. "How personal?"
She laughed, her eyes dancing. "Not that personal." She started ticking things off on her fingers. "I'm five foot nine, and won't tell you how much I weigh, and I'm twenty-eight years old. I love hockey, detest football, and I wear a size eight shoe. I like to watch old movies and I'm an ardent recycler. I read almost anything I can get my hands on, and would rather be skinned alive than go to a tea party. My favorite colors are green and yellow." The gleam in her eyes intensified, and she gave him a steady, pointed stare. "And nobody, nobody, calls me Red."
His elbows hooked on the edge of the table, Finn watched her, amused by her litany, wondering if she had any idea how much of herself she had let show. He held her gaze, allowing himself to smile. "So. Do you drink whiskey?"
She grinned at him. "With a name like Mallory O'Brien, and you ask me if I drink whiskey? I was weaned on whiskey. Neat and straight up."
Finn pushed his chair back, went to the cupboard and took out a full bottle, then reached in another cupboard and got out two glasses. As he fixed drinks Mallory cleared the table, placing the dirty dishes in the sink.
When he turned from the counter, she was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, and the towel was draped over the back of the sofa. Her hair like a corona of fire around her, she sat staring into the fire, her arms stacked on her upraised knees. She looked young, pensive and very alone. His own expression somber, Finn flicked off the light in the kitchen, then crossed the room, wondering why she didn't want anyone to know he had found her. He figured she must have a damned good reason—and he always tried to respect another person's fear. He handed her a drink, then kicked the ottoman closer to the big leather chair. Sprawling out in the soft comfort, he propped his feet on the ottoman, then took a swallow, his thoughts preoccupied as he watched the flames flicker and dance. Finally he spoke, his tone very quiet. "You're going to have to tell me sooner or later, Red."
She took a stiff drink, then rolled the remaining amber liquid around in the glass, her profile burnished by firelight. There was a long silence; then she spoke, her tone uneven. "I know."
Finally she looked up at him, her face drawn, a haunted look in her eyes. "Can we leave it until tomorrow?"
He considered her for a moment, then nodded. Not letting anything show on his face, he lifted his chin toward the bedrooms. "Your bedroom is the one on the right. There's an extra blanket in the closet."
She drained her glass, then set it on the table by the sofa. As if her whole body was stiff and sore, she got to her feet, casting him an odd little smile. "Then I think I'll turn in," she said softly.
Finn watched her go to her room, the familiar feeling of aloneness settling on him. He didn't know why, but the room seemed suddenly very cold and empty.
His expression set in rigid lines, Finn unplugged the phone and abruptly got up and went over to the east windows that overlooked the ravine. Bracing one arm on the window frame, he stood staring out, the faint illumination from the distant yard light casting long shadows in the blanket of whiteness.
His mood heavy, he watched the huge snowflakes pile up in the boughs of the fir trees, creating fragile canopies in the undergrowth. He knew he had accepted the little she'd told him at face value, but he believed her. And although he had no way of knowing for certain, he was damned sure the two planes he'd heard were part of an air search. Which meant that someone, somewhere knew the plane had gone down. And who that was, under the circumstances, could be anyone's guess. But if it was a search called out by the authorities, there was a damned good chance he'd get a call. Considering that possibility, he wondered if whoever she'd heard moving in the cockpit was still alive.
Deep in concentration, he rehashed what little he knew, and there was one question he'd give a lot to know the answer to—and that was the final destination of the flight. If they had grabbed her in Chicago, what in hell were they doing flying across the Rocky Mountains?
Yeah, he had accepted a whole lot at face value, all right. And under any other circumstances, he would have made camp, made sure she was safe and warm, then tracked her trail back to the crash site. But he had a sixth sense where danger was concerned—one honed to a razor's edge in prison—and those warning bells had all gone off like a five-alarm fire. She had been in danger—real danger—out there. And it was still there, just waiting to close in.
Realizing that he was starting to jump fences in the dark, Finn downed the remainder of his whiskey, then set the empty glass on the mantel above the fireplace.
All this speculation was getting him nowhere. And he was so damned tired he couldn't think straight. He was going to have a long hot shower, and hope like hell the heat would ease some of the stiffness in his body.
By the time Finn had his shower and entered his bedroom, he was practically staggering with exhaustion. Not wanting to have to deal with any calls concerning a possible search, he also unplugged the phone on his night table. Feeling as if his body wasn't really his own, he eased himself into bed, nearly groaning aloud with relief as he stretched out. Damn, but it felt good to finally lie down on something soft. After an entire night spent in a bone-breaking chair and over eight hard hours in the saddle, he felt as if he'd been mauled by a grizzly.
Stretching out on his back, he tucked his hands under his head and stared at the ceiling, thinking again about the woman asleep across the hall. There was something about her—something very disconcerting. He was by nature a wary person, and eight years in prison had compounded that wariness to basic mistrust. And there weren't that many people he was at ease with. But for some reason, it was different with her. It was as if the circumstances, as if the danger, had short-circuited his usual wariness and caution. And he wondered if she would be so at ease with him if she knew his history—knew the truth about the scar. That thought set off a heavy feeling inside him, and Finn closed his eyes, swallowing against the sudden thickness in his throat. Feeling suddenly raw, he dragged one arm across his eyes.
The wind moaned around the comer of the house, the sound low and mournful, and Finn locked his jaw against the sound.
Sometimes the emptiness in him was more than he could handle.
And sometimes there was not a damned thing he could do about it.
* * *
Chapter 4
«^»
The bedroom was cast in midnight darkness as Finn came sharply awake, his heart pounding, his subconscious pricked by something out of the ordinary. The only light in the room was coming from the snow outside, the whiteness creating an eerie, faint illumination that infiltrated his room.
His senses on full alert, Finn remained perfectly still, every muscle primed to make a sudden move. Keeping his breathing slow and even, he carefully turned his head and fixed his attention on the door. Catching the barely perceptible sound of fabric against wood, he redirected his focus, his gaze snagging on a gray shadow huddled against the wall. He let his breath go in a rush.
Bracing himself on one elbow, he wet his lips and spoke, his voice rough with sleep. "What in hell are you doing there? Why
aren't you in bed?"
The shadow shifted, and Mallory's head came up. "I couldn't sleep," she said, as if offended by his bluntness. "I keep hearing noises outside."
Recognizing the undercurrent of fear in her voice, Finn heaved a resigned sigh and spoke again, his tone a little less harsh. "You should be hearing noises—you're on the edge of the wilderness, for God's sake. This place is crawling with wildlife."
She challenged him. "Like what?"
Knowing he wasn't going to get a moment's rest until he answered her, he resigned himself to a detailed answer. "Deer, coyotes, bear, elk—hell, there's even a resident cougar.
He expected some lip; what he got was a soft chuckle. "Great. Are you trying to scare me senseless, or just give me something else to worry about?"
He scrubbed his hand down his face, trying to clear away the last vestiges of sleep; then he let go another sigh. "Whatever." He lay back down, too damned tired to stay propped up. "But there isn't a chance that anything will get near the house, not with Rooney sleeping in the porch. So go back to bed. Nothing is going to get you tonight."
Unwinding from her huddle, Mallory O'Brien rose, and before Finn had a chance to put it together, she moved around to the other side of the bed and crawled up beside him. Finn was so shocked he could only stare at her shadowed form, not quite believing she'd done what she had. Nobody in her right mind would crawl into bed with him. Nobody.
He heard her ease in a shaky breath; then she spoke, her voice very uneven. "Don't get the wrong idea, Donovan," she whispered. "I'm not up to anything. I just cannot stay in that room by myself—not when it's so dark. At least not tonight."
The little quiver in her voice got to him—really got to him, and Finn continued to stare at her, a strange, fuzzy feeling unfolding in his belly. He'd seen her sheer grit and courage, but it was understandable that her nerve had worn a little thin. He'd always had the utmost respect for anyone who could keep going, no matter what the odds. And he clearly remembered what it was like in prison, when hard, cold reality piled in during the middle of the night.
Feeling as if he had something thick wedged in his chest, he tucked the sheet around his nakedness, then pulled the comforter from underneath her and covered her up. "Here," he said, his own voice low and gruff. "You don't want to get cold."
She whispered something and caught his hand, and he could feel a terrible tension in her. He heard her swallow, her fingers tightening around his, her shaky voice just barely above a whisper. "If it weren't for you, I'd be dead now. God, I'd be so dead."
Vividly recalling the hundreds and hundreds of times he would have sold his soul for a little human warmth, Finn closed his eyes and swallowed hard, his chest suddenly jammed up tight. He laced his fingers through hers, palm against palm, and tightened his hold, the fullness of emotion getting worse. He couldn't remember the last time he'd held a woman's hand.
He heard her breathing falter, as if she were on the verge of tears and didn't want him to know it, and that silent struggle kicked off such a surge of protectiveness in him, he had no choice but to act. Letting go of her hand, he shoved his arm under her neck and gathered her up in a tight embrace. Grasping the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the long silk of her hair, he drew her head onto his shoulder. Tightening his hold, he began to rub her back.
She made a ragged sound and curled into him, locking her arm tightly around him. And Finn could feel how hard she was fighting to keep it together.
Needing to lighten her load however he could, he gave her shoulder a little squeeze, then spoke, a touch of amusement in his voice. "Nah. You wouldn't have been so dead, Red. You would have slugged him with a rock, taken his clothes, then hiked out. That's what you would have done."
He was awarded a shaky laugh, and she turned her face against his neck. "I just hate being scared, Finn. Hate it."
It was the first time she'd used his given name, and it gave him a sudden, heavy rush, and he locked his jaw against it. It had been a lifetime since honest human warmth had gone both ways. Experiencing a need to comfort and protect that he hadn't experienced for a very long time, he smoothed down her wild tumble of hair, pressing her head tighter against him. God, but it felt good to hold another human being—just to hold someone to give them warmth and comfort. He had forgotten how good that felt.
Resting his head against hers, he continued to slowly stroke her back, thinking about what to say to her. He knew he couldn't run a bluff by making assurances that everything was going to be all right—she was too savvy to buy that, but he could at least give her tonight.
Easing the cramp in his throat, he spoke, his voice husky. "I can't promise you much, but I can promise you that you're safe for at least tonight."
He felt her let her breath go, and her body softened against his, as if he had given her the exact assurance she needed. Resting her hand on his naked chest, she spoke, a different quality to her voice. "I didn't tell you how much I love your country, Donovan. It's so big and beautiful. I'd never want to leave it if I lived here. It makes you feel really free and unfettered somehow."
Finn found himself swamped with emotion, the kind that compressed his lungs and made his throat close up. She couldn't have said anything—not anything—that would have connected her more directly to him. This high country was like freedom to him, and it was the only place in the world where he could breathe, where he could survive.
Closing his eyes against an unexpected burn, he let his jaw go slack in an effort to ease the painful cramp in his throat. Then he spoke, his voice still roughened. "I feel the same way."
She shifted her head and pressed even closer, her hand warm and flat against his chest. "I know you do," she whispered. "That's why I could say it to you."
Her trust and closeness warmed him, and not just physically. It was as if her physical warmth and her confiding about freedom had touched something deep, giving him a burst of inner contentment he hadn't experienced for years. Wishing he could tell her what that blind trust meant to him, he clutched the back of her head, fighting the urge to turn to her, fighting the urge to crush her against him. Instead he eased a breath through the awful fullness in his chest and tightened his hold just a little, then turned his head so his mouth was against her forehead. God, maybe he was still human after all.
The last thing he remembered was listening to the sound of her breathing, acutely conscious of how good it felt to hold her, her softness and warmth making his heart labor.
Then the next shard of consciousness was coming awake, her head still on his shoulder, her weight still warm against him. And the clock on his bedside table indicated it was 6:23 a.m. Drugged by the effects of a very deep sleep, Finn shifted his head against hers and let his eyes drift shut again. He couldn't believe he had slept the way he had. He had turned into a very light sleeper in prison, and it was a pattern that had remained. It was as if, even in sleep, he remained on guard. And for him to fall so sound asleep was as foreign to him as waking up with a woman nestled against him. He'd never spent the entire night with any of the women he had associated with over the years. Never really wanted to.
Tightening his arm around her, Finn allowed a small, wry smile, amused that life still offered up a few surprises.
A series of barks snapped him back to reality, and he went absolutely still. Rooney didn't bark like that, not unless someone was approaching the house. Several sharp knocks sounded on the outer door, and Finn stared stiffly into the darkness, assessing the situation. It was about a half hour too early for Old Joe to be looking for a cup of coffee, and too damned early for anything else. He swore under his breath. Sure as hell this had something to do with the plane crash.
Easing his arm out from under her, he slid out of bed and covered her up, then pulled on his jeans, his expression tense. Damn, this was the last thing he needed.
Avoiding the squeak in the floor, he slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Able to see by the faint illumination of the yard light,
he swept up the extra clothing Mallory had left on the end of the sofa and dumped it in the wood box by the fireplace, then soundlessly closed the lid. Trying to recall any other possible traces of her, he moved across the room.
Fixing his expression, he flicked on the light, then opened the door to the porch, giving Rooney a command to stay.
The frigid air prickled against his bare skin and bit into his bare feet as he opened the outer door, his eyes narrowing when he recognized Constable Arnie Jeffery from the Bolton RCMP detachment. The cop was in full uniform, and Finn could see the white 4X4, the distinctive emblem plastered on the door, sitting just up the hill. Finn had worked with Arnie on two previous searches, and he'd had the constable on two vertical-rescue training exercises. He was as straight as an arrow, and one of the few men Finn trusted on the business end of a rescue line. Which meant if Arnie was here in full uniform, driving the 4X4, this was official business.
Keeping his expression neutral, he opened the door wide in a silent invitation to enter. "Arnie. You're out pretty early."
Pulling off his cap, Arnie stomped the snow off his feet, then entered the porch and followed Finn into the cabin. As Finn closed the door behind the other man, he gave the area another quick check, swearing under his breath when he saw one glass on the table and another on the mantel. Damn it. He'd forgotten about the glasses.
Turning so the constable's line of sight was blocked, Finn folded his arms and rested his weight on one leg, keeping his expression neutral. "So what's up?"
The other man pulled off his regulation gloves, giving Finn an apologetic look. "I'm sorry I had to drag you out of bed at such an ungodly hour. I tried to call you last night, but there was no answer. I gave Old Joe a call this morning, and he said you were home, that he'd checked the barn late last night, and both horses were there."
Finn forced himself to let go of the stiffness in his muscles. "Sorry about that. It was hard going yesterday, so I was pretty beat when I got home. I unplugged the phones when I went to bed."
THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS Page 7