Sam snorted. “Forget it. You can hold it until we’re on the bus. No way in hell I’m going through a repeat of yesterday.”
“Oh, get a grip, McKade. You spiked that ploy when you publicly announced your willingness to marry me and give baby Sammy a name, so it would be pretty damn lame for a repeat performance with the same people, now wouldn’t it? Just how stupid do you think I am, anyway?”
He didn’t answer beyond a cynically raised black eyebrow, and Catherine’s lips tightened. But damned if she was going to let him reduce her to childish sulks. She’d simply have to come up with a way to turn things around.
It truly was unfortunate that the only thing she could come up with on such short notice was to flaunt her body, but a woman had to work with the tools she was given. The minute Sam released her and bent down to grab their bags, she smoothed her dress over her hips, thrust her shoulders back, her chest out, and looked around until her gaze alighted on a young soldier who was staring at her thighs and hips with glazed eyes. She gave him an encouraging smile that she knew darn well he’d never see, since she simultaneously executed a little hip wiggle guaranteed to keep the young man’s gaze from ever climbing that high. The important thing was that Sam straightened in time to see it, and she had the satisfaction of hearing him say something truly obscene beneath his breath.
Turning to see who she was smiling at, he latched on to her arm and pulled her close. His mouth assumed its familiar sullen slant and his black brows snapped together as he glowered at the soldier until the young man took notice. Flushing a painful dull red, he turned away.
Catherine felt immensely better. Nothing like destroying a man’s complacency to cheer a girl up. And for one brief moment, at least, she hadn’t felt the least bit self-conscious. Rather, she’d experienced an unaccustomed flash of feminine power.
“Time to board, folks.”
Catherine and Sam passed by the women she’d watched conversing in sign. Catherine saw them hug; then observed as the nonpassenger gripped the other woman’s shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “I’m going to miss you, Mary,” she heard her say with the slightly atonal, foreign-accented-sounding intonations of the deaf.
The departing Mary reached out and brushed her fingertips along her friend’s cheek. “I’ll miss you, too. We are not going to let so much time pass before our next visit. I promise.”
The smallest of smiles curled Catherine’s lips. Perfect.
There was a slight commotion at the door of the bus. An elderly woman was frantically assuring the driver she’d had her ticket when she’d gotten off for breakfast. A bottleneck built as the other passengers slowed down to catch the driver’s eye, flashed their own tickets, and then edged with varying degrees of patience around the woman.
Sam stopped at the woman’s side. She was teary-eyed and frantic as she scrambled through her purse, and he took her elbow in a gentle grasp to move her out of the doorway. “Take a deep breath, ma’am,” he instructed when she looked up at him in panic. After she’d done so, he said, “Now. Your ticket is bound to be here somewhere. Where do you usually put it?”
“In my pocketbook, but it’s not there!” Her breathing started to accelerate again.
“Easy now, it’s okay. Would it be all right if my friend took a look through your bag? Sometimes it helps to have fresh eyes on a search.”
The purse quivered when the woman held it out, and Catherine gently removed it from her fingers. She unzipped the side compartment and checked the contents.
“Check your pockets, ma’am,” Sam advised, while Catherine methodically searched the handbag, and the woman calmed somewhat with something constructive to do. She chattered nervously as she went through the pockets of her cotton jacket. “I always keep it in my pocketbook so I’ll know right where to find it, but this time when I went to find it, it was gone…oh. Oh, my goodness!” She laughed in embarrassed relief as she withdrew the ticket from a pocket. “Here it is! Oh, my goodness gracious, I remember now—I was going to put it in my handbag but then that nice young soldier offered me a hand down the bus stairs and I stuck it away so I could take his arm. Oh, thank you, young man! Thank you so much.” She accepted her purse back from Catherine. “And you too, miss.”
Catherine climbed aboard the bus in the woman’s wake. “Don’t go thinking,” she muttered to Sam out of the side of her mouth, “that just because you did one nice thing, I’m gonna start believing you’re a decent guy.” But damn you, I prefer my villains one-dimensional. She certainly preferred them without this confusingly sweet soft spot for little old ladies in distress.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he agreed. “Anyway, I’m thinking I just might kick the next little ol’ granny I see.”
“Much more in keeping with the guy I’m used to dealing with.” She took a deep breath, expelled it, then straightened her shoulders. “I suppose even Hitler had his moments.”
“There you go. I knew you’d find a way to square it with your personal view of me if you just thought about it hard enough.”
The bus lurched into gear as they arrived at their seats and Catherine’s balance in her skyscraper heels was thrown off kilter. Arms windmilling, she toppled backwards.
Grabbing at the overhead rack with one hand, Sam snaked out his free arm and wrapped it around her waist, hauling her in with a yank. Catherine slammed up against him. Their position was a precarious one, with her bent backwards from the waist, tightly clutching at Sam, who loomed over her. Eyes locked, hearts suddenly kicked into overdrive, for one hot suspended moment neither one moved.
Then they straightened, shoved apart. Catherine spotted the woman who knew sign near the rear of the bus and didn’t slide into her seat when Sam stiffly stood aside and gestured for her to enter. She self-consciously straightened her dress. “I’ve got to use the rest room,” she said, and mortified by the breathlessness of her voice, cleared her throat and added with acerbity, “Since you so rudely denied it to me in the café.”
“Fine and dandy, Sister. Just hand over your purse.”
She tossed it at him. “We’ve really got to get you one of your own, McKade,” she said, and continued down the aisle, aware of those golden brown eyes boring a hole in her back.
Her pace was glacial because of the treacherous height of her sister’s heels, but that ultimately worked in her favor. Heads popped up row by row to watch her mincing, hip-swiveling progress down the aisle, and all that activity eventually caught the attention of the one woman whose attention Catherine desired.
The moment the woman looked up, Catherine discreetly placed her right fist on her left palm and lifted both hands together. She then pointed her right index finger at herself. Help me.
The woman’s eyes widened but she pressed the backs of her fingers together, fingertips pointed at her own chest, and rolled them over until they were facing Catherine, palms up, little fingers pressed together. How?
My name is Catherine MacPherson. Call police next stop. The man I’m with is holding me against my will. Please. Help me.
The woman nodded her fist. Yes.
With heartfelt gratitude, Catherine touched the fingertips of her right hand to her chin, then snapped the hand down. Thank you.
Catherine let herself into the tiny rest room and leaned back against the door while her heart rate settled. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she leaned in closer and grimaced. God, that makeup. It was much too much and would more likely hinder her cause rather than help it, if the afternoon went at all as she expected. She pumped water into the miniscule basin and, using dispenser soap and paper towels, managed to wash most of the cosmetics off. Next she climbed out of Kaylee’s heels with a sigh of relief. Carrying them with her, she let herself out of the rest room.
Back at their seats, she tossed the shoes in Sam’s lap. “I want my Keds.”
Sam’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Thank you, God,” he said fervently, and promptly rose to his feet to pull her suitcase off the overhead
rack. When he sat down again, he handed her the shoes, and said, “Hey, you washed off all the war paint.” His eyes narrowed. “And I have to ask myself why. Just what the hell are you up to now, Red?”
Ignoring him, Catherine plucked pins from her hair and bent forward to brush all the teasing from it. She gathered it into another French twist, but this one was smooth and conservative.
Sam poked a long finger in her side. “What are you cooking up in that busy little brain, lady?”
Blinking up at him with feigned innocence, she speared the pins into her hair to anchor it in place.
“Red?” he persisted.
Catherine turned her head and stared out the window.
“Back to the silent treatment again, are we?” Sam shrugged and settled back. “Okay. I can live with that. In fact it’s kinda peaceful. It’s the only time I can be halfway certain you aren’t lying through your pearly white teeth.”
8
THE BUS STOPPED in Pocatello for lunch. Continuing on its journey forty-five minutes later, it had barely hit the expressway on-ramp before sirens were heard wailing up the freeway. Passengers on the left side of the bus craned their necks to watch the Highway Patrol car that flashed by, blue lights swirling, siren shrieking. Then the siren abruptly moaned into silence and a voice that emanated from a speaker atop the vehicle ordered the bus to the shoulder of the road.
The pneumatic door whooshed open a moment later and a highway patrolman boarded the bus. He spoke to the driver, who in turn plucked a handheld mike from its hook on the dash. His magnified voice seemed to boom in the sudden hush. “Will Mary Sanders please come forward?”
Catherine’s contact made her way to the front of the bus and conferred with the state patrolman. They both turned to look at the passengers at one point and then turned back while the woman said something in a low, urgent voice. He replied at length. Then they started down the aisle, Mary in front, the patrolman resting a casual hand on the butt of his pistol as he brought up the rear.
Without sparing them so much as a glance, Mary passed the section where Catherine and Sam sat. The patrolman, however, stopped in front of their seats.
“Will you come with me, please, sir, ma’am?”
Sam’s gut clenched. Oh, son of a bitch. What had Red done now? And how the hell had she pulled it off? Resisting the impulse to shoot her a glance, he asked, “What’s this about, officer?” His tone was carefully neutral and sitting forward, he reached for his hip pocket to produce his ID.
His wallet had not yet cleared the pocket when he found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, sir!” The highway patrolman stepped back, putting himself beyond Sam’s reach. He was young and visibly tense. “Now, slowly, slide out of your seat.”
Sam complied.
“Turn around and put your hands on top of the overhead rack.” The officer patted Sam down, sliding Sam’s weapon into his own waistband when he came across it. Some of the tension left his posture.
Sam’s position left him facing Catherine. He paid no heed to the other passengers gawking at the drama being played out, for his attention was focused exclusively on her. If there truly was a God in heaven, Red would drop dead on the spot.
She was alive and well, however, as she returned his intense regard with a slow blink of her big green eyes. Continuing to drill her with his furious gaze, he watched for a response as his hands were pulled behind his back one at a time and secured with handcuffs. He kept expecting to catch a glimpse of triumph, at the very least. But her face remained blank right up until the moment he sensed the cop’s attention shift past him to her.
“You okay, ma’am?”
Sam watched her expression turn helpless as a toddler’s on a busy street corner as she gazed up at the young patrolman. “Yes,” she said faintly. “I’m just so glad you’re here.”
He was going to kill her.
Taking a deep breath, Sam expelled it in one harsh blow and turned to the Smokey. Clearly this was not a good time to allow rage to govern his actions. “Listen,” he said reasonably, “you’re making a mistake. Let me show you some identification; I’m a—”
“You can give me the whole sad story down at the station, bud.” The patrolman took Sam’s elbow and moved him out of Catherine’s way. “Ma’am,” he said politely. “After you.”
“Could we get our bags, at least?” Sam demanded, and glared at Catherine as she made a production out of hesitantly edging past him. She immediately turned to the patrolman, her behavior while she pointed out the luggage that of a survivor who’d almost given up hope to her avenging hero.
Sam grunted when the strap to his duffel bag was suddenly dropped over his manacled hands. Catherine’s suitcase, he noted sourly as the cop herded him along, was solicitously carried by the Smokey.
In the patrol car he once again attempted an explanation and was once again advised to save it. He shut his mouth and stared out the window.
By the time they reached the Highway Patrol barracks he had a brittle hold on his temper. When the Smokey ushered them into a large room crammed with desks and bade them sit, he took a seat as directed, but then demanded to speak to a senior officer. He half expected the young man to refuse, but after a brief hesitation the patrolman turned on his heel and walked away.
Sam immediately turned to Catherine, who awarded him with a little three-cornered smile that pumped his blood pressure right into the red zone. “I don’t know how the hell you pulled that off, Sister, but sooner or later they’re going to let us out of here. And when they do—”
“No talking!” barked an officer at a nearby desk, and Sam subsided back into his chair. His cuffed hands bumped against the molded plastic seat back. As he shifted in search of a more comfortable position, he breathed deeply through his nose, trying to get a grip on his emotions. Jesus. He’d always considered himself a fairly easygoing guy. Right now, however, he could happily do her bodily harm. In his own defense, he’d never met anyone quite like this woman. She could drive a Quaker to violence and seemed to have some instinctive knowledge of how to push his buttons in particular.
When the young patrolman returned to where they waited, he was accompanied by a man with a steel grey military brush cut and ramrod posture. Obviously the senior officer, he had a no-nonsense bearing and steady eyes. “My name is Major Baskin,” he said briskly. “Let’s get to the bottom of this situation, shall we?”
“Oh, Major,” Catherine immediately exclaimed before Sam could so much as open his mouth. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to be here. This man”—her tone suggested animal would perhaps be a more suitable word—“kidnapped me from my home in Seattle—”
“No, sir,” Sam interrupted. “I legally removed—”
“And has repeatedly molested me—”
Sam swung around to stare at her. “What?”
“He stripped me of my shorts and my underpants and touched my exposed bottom, and he publicly forced his attentions on me while telling people we’re to be married—”
“Now wait a damn minute! She’s twist—”
“And, oh, dear God, Major.” Catherine rode right over his protest. “Worst of all, last night he handcuffed me to a motel-room bed. And I was utterly, completely helpless to prevent him…Oh, dear God, to prevent him from—” She choked, as if too overcome with horror to continue.
Sam erupted out of his chair in a red rage. “You’re saying I raped you?” Jesus, those lips of hers looked so innocent, but every time she opened them, lies, lies, and more fucking lies came out. Blind to all reason, he lunged forward. He’d shut her up if it was the last thing he—
Hard hands slammed him back in his seat. The cuffs on his wrists, ramming against hard plastic, ground into his wristbones, and the resulting jolt of pain served to snap some sense back into his head. Chest heaving, he shook himself free of his consuming fury and blinked the major’s face into focus as the man bent over him.
&nb
sp; “Attacking a defenseless woman is not the best way to state your case, son,” the state patrolman informed him calmly. The three officers who’d jumped up to lend assistance holstered their guns once again—all except the junior Smokey who’d brought them in. He continued to point his at Sam’s head.
“Defenseless?” A sharp bark of laughter exploded out of Sam’s throat. “Oh, shit, that’s beautiful. You could throw her into a tank full of sharks, and I bet they’d clear a path for her out of professional courtesy! She’s about as defenseless as a mama barracuda.” Breathing heavily, his attention was suddenly pulled past the major to the young patrolman still pointing a gun at him, and Sam’s anger solidified on this new target. “Get that thing the hell out of my face,” he snarled. “Jesus, kid, if you’d just allowed me to say a few words back there on the bus, we could have avoided all this.”
“Just for the record, ma’am,” the major said briskly to Catherine without removing his steady gaze from Sam.. “Are you accusing this man of sexually assaulting you?” He turned his head to look at her.
“No, of course not,” Catherine replied, as if amazed they could have ever reached such a conclusion. “I merely said he handcuffed me to the bed, and I was helpless to prevent him from doing so.” She appealed sadly to the major. “But you must see how chancy his temper is, Major. The least little word just sets him right off.”
“Yes,” the major agreed drily. “And I’m sure it owes nothing at all to the inflection you gave your handcuffed-to-the-bed story.”
“It’s not a story, sir; it’s the truth! And God, it was about the most degrading moment in my life.” Her eyes held the senior officer’s gaze. “The only ones that have been worse can also be attributed to this man.”
Major Baskin didn’t know quite what to make of her. Years of dealing with people had given him excellent instincts, and those instincts led him to recognize manipulation when he saw it. She’d skillfully played on her alleged abductor’s emotions. The man had reached the exact conclusion she’d intended him to reach. At the same time, there was a ring of truth to her tone when she talked about the degradation she’d received at McKade’s hands. It was an interesting conundrum.
Baby, I'm Yours Page 9