He was scheduled to go on duty at ten o’clock tonight. He didn’t even have a day off until next week. He’d already used all his sick and vacation days. If he missed any more work, they’d fire him and he could not let that happen. He had nothing in savings. Not since Aimee stole his cash. He’d just have to wait until his next day off, in five days, to fly to Portland. Until then, he had to avoid Carlos at any cost.
Seven
It was two weeks after Lauren had arrived at Spanner Ranch when Mark took a break from cooking dinner and walked into her room to find her awake and petting May, who had jumped up on the bed.
“Do you want her off the bed?”
Lauren smiled wanly. “No, I like her.”
Mark pulled a chair up beside her bed. “How do you feel?”
“Better, I think,” she murmured. “I was thinking maybe I’ll eat downstairs instead of up here on a tray.”
He smiled, genuinely happy with her progress. “That would be great, as long as you’re up for it.”
“I think I am.”
“Wonderful. There are some clothes on the dresser… unless you prefer that fetching hospital gown.”
She smiled at his lame joke. For the first time, he noticed that she had two adorable dimples in her cheeks. Her cuts and bruises had also hidden the pretty shape of her cheekbones and her green eyes.
“Not my favorite fashion,” she said lightly.
Mark held her arm gently in his lap and slid the IV needle from her vein.
Aimee winced but didn’t complain. He helped her sit up, then asked her to stand. She was slow, and wobbled and winced, but it was good for her to start rebuilding her strength. When he worked in D.C., the nurses would encourage patients to get up within hours of appendectomies, gall bladder removals and broken legs.
She swayed on her feet and Mark grabbed her around the waist to steady her. “I’m just dazed from the painkillers, I think,” she said, leaning against him. “Um… Mark? Would it be possible to take a shower?”
“Sure. Why don’t you use my shower. It has a bench where you can sit down. The en suite one through there is smaller.”
“Sitting is good,” she said lightly.
He guided her down the long hallway to his bedroom and into the large master bath. The shower was enormous, with six showerheads and a curved bench. There was also a separate deep Jacuzzi tub big enough for two.
“I would suggest a soak, but considering your sutures, a shower is probably better for you.”
“A shower sounds nice.” She ogled the large, modern enclosure. It was one of his indulgences, a top of the line steam shower that, he had to admit, was pretty sweet.
He turned on the water for her then took a fresh towel from a cabinet and placed on the vanity. He indicated the electronic read-out. “This button is for the steam,” he said. “And use this one if you want acupressure for your back. I wouldn’t recommend that in your condition, but a minute or two won’t hurt. And, as you can see, the water is ninety-nine degrees. These are the hot and cold buttons.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you need help with your gown?” He asked. Her left shoulder was still bruised and he knew she couldn’t easily raise her arm.
She nodded.
“Turn around,” he said. She did. Bad idea. Her slender, straight back tucked to a narrow waist, then flared into a perfect Valentine-shaped butt, barely covered in red panties. Pure petite loveliness. The vision momentarily knocked him for a loop. He gently untied the hospital gown, then brought the fabric over her shoulder, while keeping her chest covered so all she had to do was let the flimsy material fall off her left arm. She turned to him, her slender arm covering her full, luscious-looking breasts, and said, “Thank you.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” he said. He walked out and shut the door behind him.
As soon as he was alone in the hallway, he paused, waiting for his face to cool down and his heartbeat to get under control. What the hell was that? He was not treating her like a patient at all. A body is a body is a body. Or it had been until he’d gotten an eye-full of her sweet, scrupulous shape. Trying to shake off the feeling he had done something wrong, he went downstairs to check on dinner.
He threw together a salad that he called the Kitchen Sink because it contained every ingredient he had on hand: arugula and iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, blue cheese, crumbled bacon, black olives, green olives, and pieces of jamica, topped with his own homemade vinaigrette. He slid a loaf of garlic bread in the oven to cook for the last five minutes with the lasagna, then set the table. Practical work. It kept his hands and mind busy, at least.
Aimee stood under the hot spray and billowing clouds of steam in Mark Spanner’s shower, letting the water from six shower heads pound into the tortured muscles of her back and shoulders. The intensity was painful at first, like a good Swedish massage, but soon the knots in her began to crumble and melt. The gauzy steam felt wonderful too.
She experimentally touched some of the buttons on the digital display, playing with the intensity of the flow and the temperature. The shower began to fill with a most pleasant eucalyptus scent. She wasn’t sure which button had made that happen. It was lovely.
She picked up the only bottle of hair product available – a shampoo/conditioner combo for men – and drizzled some in her hand. A man who must have spent ten thousand dollars on a shower only used some rather crappy shampoo? She smiled at the contraction. As she lifted her arms, a stab of pain shot through her left shoulder and forced a surprised cry from her lips. Her left side seemed to have taken the biggest hit. She still felt tender pain in her rips, her hip and her legs, especially her knee. Her upper left leg was black and purple with a patchwork of contusions. She still had two small band-aids just below her navel where the surgeons had used laparoscopy to mend her spleen, but the bandages were peeling, and with a little relief she let them wash off.
She did not remember much about the crash. She remembered checking in her bags of money and then boarding the flight, eager to put as much distance between herself and Seth as possible. Then nothing until she came to, still buckled into her seat, with the entire front of the plane missing.
From behind her, red-orange flames roared and hissed, yet nobody was running from it. Because, she supposed, they were all dead. She understood, with some alien intelligence, that it was important to keep her mind empty, because she would never be able to handle what she was experiencing if she actually had to think about it.
From her huddled position, she unfastened her seatbelt and stood up on legs that felt weak as water. A giant hole in the fuselage opened to the vault of night, where before there had been two hundred passengers. Sounds churned through the curling black smoke, which might have been the crackling of the fire, or might have been people coughing, But looking around, she didn’t see anyone else alive. Nobody was moving.
As if in a dream, she stepped over a bloody, slumped woman in the aisle who appeared to be missing the entire left side of her body. Don’t think. Focusing on just making it to the opening in the fuselage in front of her, she stumbled forward over the debris. The air was full of thick black smoke and poison and violence. Seats, some empty and some with people in them, were jumbled through-out the cabin, heaped together, blown apart, like some giant had picked it up and shaken the plane, then smashed it to the ground in a fit of pique. Rubble and ruins obstructed her path: soda cans, burst suitcases with contents spilling out, baby carriers, shoes, a serving cart, random pieces of twisted metal, a large steel thing she had to climb over, which she recognized, with a calm scientific part of her mind, as part of the landing gear.
Wires, so many wires, she thought distractedly. They were spilling from the ruptured airplane skin, tangled in what looked like fiberglass foam and jagged pieces of twisted metal. She stepped through it all, cutting her leg on some sharp edge, then stumbled into the open darkness.
She hauled in a breath of pure silver air so pure and cold it
hurt her lungs. Heaving, shaking, she couldn’t believe that she would ever feel normal again.
Help would be coming. She began to walk on legs as fragile as a newborn colt’s.
After two days of walking, she’d found Mark’s barn. Cold, hungry, and hurting, she was sure she was going to die there.
Many others had died from their injuries. She shut her eyes, trying to clear the horrible images.
Why did she live? Why was she able to breathe, and stand up and walk away? Her injuries had been minor when so many other’s had been fatal. It made no sense. It was too random to make any sense. Guilt clawed at her, merciless.
The irony was that she was officially one of them now. Dead to the world.
She had to focus on her new life, this miracle of a second chance. For reasons she could not fathom, the benevolent universe had spared her. She leaned against the warm shower wall, tired and dizzy, letting the hot water soothe her shattered body.
Only one thing was very clear. She had to figure out a new life quickly, and get as far away from this house as she could. No way would she invite trouble to this serene place. If Seth had any inkling that she was alive, he would come for her, and the stolen money. That goal had to remain the same; it was the fixed North Star, the one thing she could rely on even when her whole life had imploded. The circumstances had changed, but she still needed a new identity.
She hoped that Seth would assume she was dead. Her sister Kimberly was going to be devastated when she heard about Aimee’s death. It was only temporary, she consoled herself. In a few months, she would contact Kimberly from Mexico or the Caribbean or Europe. By then, Seth would have given up on her. She would be able to live the rest of her days in peace.
Aimee stepped out of the shower and dried off with the fluffy white towel that had been left on the counter for her. She tied it around her body and opened the vanity drawers, looking for a comb. She found it, right beside a box of Trojan condoms. She stared at the box for a moment, knowing it was none of her business. But that feeling she had when she was looking at Seth’s box of money came over her – that huge curiosity – and it just wouldn’t be denied. She picked it up, noting the Extra Large size with amusement, and peeked inside. There was one left.
Even in her pain-and-drug haze, she recognized that Mark Spanner was an attractive man. He probably had women throwing themselves at him constantly. She could see – academically speaking – how a woman might easily be taken in by his charming, low-key manner and - okay she’d admit it - that gorgeous face. She had been surprised by the concentrated kindness in his eyes when he was tending to her – and the touch of his strong, tanned hands that felt supremely competent and comforting as they worked on her.
No surprise that he’d have an almost empty box of condoms. She tossed them back into the drawer and shut it.
Heavens, she was rude. What was wrong with her that she’d repay his kindness by violating his privacy like that? Thanks to that space-age shower, and the size of the room, the bathroom wasn’t steamed up. Her red, shamed face reflected back in the clear mirror, inescapable. She de-tangled her hair and returned the comb to a different drawer.
Holding the towel around her body and careful of her sore rib, she walked slowly down the hall to her bedroom where she found new clothes on the dresser. A six-pack of plain white panties, a bra with the tag still on, surprisingly the right size. Some exercise pants, also the right size, and a plain white shirt. A chocolate brown cable knit sweater was placed beside the shirt, but it wasn’t new, and it wasn’t her size. Mark’s sweater, she realized. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled faintly of sunshine and mountain air.
She struggled with her clothes, trying to baby her sore midsection and her left arm. She worked the black yoga pants on, then an incredibly soft cotton t-shirt. She then pulled the sweater on. She looked in the antique-full sized mirror and sighed. Her hair looked kind of goofy being wet and combed back, and the sweater hung nearly to her knees. But she felt better than she had in days. Clean, at least.
The aroma of tomatoes and garlic lured her out of her room. Her stomach growled in response. At the top of the stairs, however, she paused. She heard Mark’s low, rich voice, and for one horrible moment she wondered if Seth had already found her, but that twinge of fear was relieved when she realized Mark was speaking calmly and rationally. If Seth had found her, shouting and threats would be clanging through the house, not calm discussion.
Actually, that wasn’t right. It was strange to realize there were people who probably would not let Seth run roughshod over them. One of those people was Mark Spanner. With his calm, easy style he’d subdue Seth verbally or physically. Mark was a little taller than Seth and in pristine shape. She thought appreciatively of his square shoulders and slim hips. A flash of the tight knot of tanned bicep against his short-sleeved shirts flickered in her mind. Oh yes, Mark would put Seth in his place quite easily.
Very gingerly, Aimee took a step downstairs. She winced at the bruising in her lung and took in a steadying breath.
She slowly made her way down, gripping the banister for support. She emerged into a room of such fascinating beauty she was momentarily dazzled and speechless. Under a pitched, wood-beam roof was a large living room that appeared to be ripped from the pages of a posh architectural magazine. The entire out-of-doors swung into view behind a mitered wall made of glass. She took in the dusky purple sky and broad craggy dark mountains in the distance.
The house looked like a sumptuous, luxurious ski lodge.
She padded past a fire roaring in the natural stone wall grate into a modern, fragrant kitchen, which was also filled with massive amounts of glass and stone and wood.
Mark was on the phone. He looked at her with a smile. “Okay, yeah. We can discuss it but I don’t want to do that…. I don’t know.”
None of your business, Aimee Baxter, she told herself.
Mark said, “Okay, let’s discuss it later. I’ve got to go. Okay. Bye.”
He hung up and spun around to her with a big smile.
“Is everything okay?” Aimee asked.
“Fine. Long story, I’ll tell you over dinner if you want to hear it. Hope this okay,” he said, indicating an island table that was already set. “I didn’t see any real reason to use the formal dining room.”
She shook her head, overwhelmed. “No, this is perfect.”
And it was. She had a view of another range of mountains, one peak of which was bright orange from the last flare of a dying sun.
Aimee sat at the table, her tummy rumbling when she smelled the big earthenware pan of lasagna fragrant with bubbling cheese, garlic and tomato.
Mark set down a fresh-from-the-oven loaf of garlic bread and then placed a salad in front of her as well. “Your body need some good food,” he said and took a seat across from her. “So eat up.”
The nibble of the salad surprised her with its bright flavor. “What is that dressing?”
“Mint raspberry,” he said.
“It’s very good.”
The first bite of hot, fragrant lasagna told her more about Mark Spanner than she’d gleaned so far in the days she had been a guest in his home. He was an amazing cook. A thoughtful, careful cook, who actually enjoyed cooking for others – he was a man who took care of others.
“You should be a professional,” she swooned.
“A bachelor either has to learn to cook or make do with take-out. And in Spanner, Montana the take-out selection is pretty skimpy, I’m afraid.”
He took a sip of wine, then set down the glass and looked at her with a long, appraising stare. A schoolgirl giddiness skittered around inside her. She didn’t even resist letting her starved eyes feast on his total maleness. How had a man so drop-dead sexy stayed a bachelor?
With him no more than three feet away, she let herself take in his sandy blondish hair, a few weeks past due for a haircut, and calm grey eyes set into an angular face bronzed by the Montana sun. And his lips were… S
he looked away; she didn’t usually stare at men’s lips.
He put down his fork. “Now that you’re feeling better, why don’t you tell me how you ended up here?”
She chewed her food then took a sip of the cucumber-flavored water as she tried to decide how much to tell him. The whole truth was out of the question. But her mind had been so hazy for the past few days she’d not even tried to construct a solid story for herself.
“Don’t try to lie to me,” he said evenly, even playfully. “You’re stalling so you can think of something that won’t be mortifying.”
“How did you know that?” she blurted.
He shrugged modestly. “I can tell. Where are you from, Lauren?”
She looked down at the unfinished lasagna. Another wave of shame came over her; she’d lied about her name, the most basic unit of information. It was too late to back out now.
“Idaho.” She hesitated, despising the bitterness of her lies. Still, she plunged in. “Boise, actually. I was leaving my ex-boyfriend. He was a controlling jerk, and I’d had enough. I’ve left before, but every time, he would find me. He’d tell me he could find my phone records from the phone company, my emails from my ISP. I believed him. He gave me a lot of reasons to believe him, actually. He would have some of the uniformed cops sit outside by the curb while he was at work. Supposedly to make sure I was safe, but it was really to report back if I had a boyfriend, which I did not. There were a lot of stupid incidents like that. He controlled the household finances, which meant that I had no money to leave. But I saved for months. I had a secret account.” She was surprised how easily the lies were coming now. Maybe it really would be possible to tell him most of the truth. She’d just obscure the embarrassing parts.
Crash Into You Page 6