Midnight Runaway

by JoAnn Ross

  The furniture had been slashed; the white stuffing strewn over the oak floor resembled fallen snow. Paintings had been ripped from their frames, the canvases torn. Claren reached down and picked up one small canvas depicting the towering rock stacks along the windswept Washington coast.

  “I remember when Darcy painted this,” she murmured, running her fingers over the storm-tossed sea. “It was my birthday, and Aunt Winifred had planned a sweet-sixteen party at the country club. But then Darcy showed up, nearly kidnapped me—which didn’t take much convincing—and took me clamming.” Her sad smile was softly reminiscent.

  It sounded like Darcy, Dash decided. Hell-bent for breaking society’s rules. Including one as sacrosanct in certain circles as a sweet-sixteen party. “Aunt Winnie must have loved that.”

  “I was grounded for a week.” Claren carefully put the painting down on the top of the nearby pigeonhole desk. All the drawers were missing. Looking around, she located two of them in the fireplace. “It was worth it.”

  A sob escaped her lips when she viewed the books that had been pulled from the library shelves. Dropping to her knees on the rag rug, she picked up one particular text and ran her fingers over the embossed leather cover. The binding had been broken; pages had been torn and scattered everywhere.

  “Uncle Darcy loved these books,” she said on something close to a whisper. “He spent his entire life collecting them.” Sighing, she picked up another and began leafing through the remaining pages. “A lot of them are first editions.”

  Dash felt he understood Darcy’s obvious passion for collecting. His wife had shared the same obsession; dealers in London, Milan, Rome and New York always lit up like Christmas trees whenever she walked into their shops. Afterward, however, once she had the object in question back home, her interest seemed to dwindle. Dash had realized early in their marriage that what excited Julia was the buying, not the having.

  Growing up as the daughter of one of New York’s earliest settlers, Julia Van Pelt had enough money to buy whatever she wanted. And for a time she’d wanted Dash. Unfortunately, although he hated to admit it even to himself, Dash knew that he’d made it easy for her. Because at the time he’d definitely been for sale.

  “First editions are too valuable to leave hanging around a house that’s vacant most of the year. He should have kept them in a safe-deposit box.”

  “Darcy didn’t collect the books for their financial value,” she said stiffly, needing to defend her uncle, who wasn’t here to stand up for himself. “He searched for first editions the same way he searched for lost treasure.”

  She picked up a leather-bound copy of Huckleberry Finn and remembered the first time he’d read the story to her and how she’d wanted to run away just like Huck. “He believed that since first editions were printed right after they were written, they still carried the energy of the author.”

  She caught sight of Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop, the pages ripped from their bindings. “And he didn’t keep them locked away, because he wanted to be able to read them whenever he felt like it.” By chance she picked up the very page where Little Nell died just as Kit Nubbles arrived to save her.

  Dash saw her eyes well with tears. “You look pale.” For the first time, he could view a light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, along the slant of her cheekbones. “I’d better get you some water before you faint.”

  Claren looked up at Dash, as if she was surprised to see him standing there. Immersed in her distress, she’d almost forgotten his presence. “I told you I never faint.”

  She’d straightened her back, but Dash could still see the lingering shadow of shock in her wide green eyes, and her milkmaid complexion was the color of old parchment. He could accept and appreciate her obstinacy; after all, he had always possessed that personality trait himself.

  He could handle her temper; in fact, he found her occasional displays of anger exciting. But as he looked down at her sitting there, looking so very vulnerable, so defenseless, he felt a deep pull of unfamiliar tenderness.

  “And I told you that there’s always a first time,” he said gruffly, fighting the unwelcome emotion. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  He wasn’t surprised to find the kitchen in the same condition. The pantry had been torn apart; the food had been taken out of the refrigerator, dumped into the sink and left to rot. Dishes, glasses and cutlery had been swept from open shelves.

  Broken pieces of earthenware crunched like ice-crusted snow beneath his feet as Dash made his way to the sink. A plastic cup lay abandoned on the expansive white ceramic counter; after running the discarded food down the garbage disposal, he rinsed out the glass and filled it with cold water.

  Before returning to the library, he picked up the ivory wall phone, surprised to find it working. Someone, he considered, had been careless. With a long, weary sigh, he dialed the familiar number.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he said when the phone was answered on the first ring. “Yeah, she’s with me. But someone was at the house today…. The place looks like London after the blitz. From the appearance of the stuff they left in the sink, we’re only a few hours behind them, so I’m taking her to a hotel in case they come back.”

  Dash listened to the heated protest he’d known was coming. “Look, St. John,” he ground out, “she’s innocent…I just know it,” he insisted when the voice on the other end of the line demanded proof. “There was a time when you trusted my intuition,” he reminded the man who’d once been his mentor and his superior. But that had been a long time ago, and Dash wasn’t accustomed to taking orders any more now than he had been then.

  “Look, I’m not going to use her as a sitting duck.” His voice rose to a shout. Worried that Claren might hear him, he quickly lowered it again. “I can crack this case some other way, so just get off my back and let me get back to work.”

  That said, he hung up without waiting for an answer.

  She was just where he’d left her, sitting on the rag rug in the middle of the room, bits and pieces of what was left of Darcy’s beloved book collection on her lap. Seeing her like that, looking so small and lost, Dash experienced a surge of emotion stronger than the suspicion, the irritation or even the desire that Claren had instilled in him from the beginning.

  As he crossed the room to her, Dash considered how ironic it was that this woman’s vulnerability could ultimately bring about his downfall.

  “Here.” He shoved the glass into her hands and curled her fingers around it. “Drink up. It’ll make you feel better.”

  He needed a drink himself. Something a lot stiffer than water. As if reading his mind again, Claren said, “There’s a trick cupboard in the middle of the bookcase. Darcy used it as a bar.”

  “Trust Darcy not to keep anything simple.” As he ran his hands over the wood, searching for the control, Dash both marveled at Darcy’s ingenuity and wondered what other little tricks the old man had had up his sleeve. The back of the bookcase suddenly gave way, revealing a liquor cabinet. While well stocked, it was definitely limited in selection.

  “Didn’t Darcy drink anything but Irish whiskey?” In Jamaica the elderly man had enjoyed his Irish, but had also displayed a liking for Mai Tais and rum punches. “Wait a minute,” he said before Claren could answer. “I may have found something.”

  The bottle was still in its Christmas wrapping. “The card was signed by someone named Maxine,” Dash said.

  “Maxine runs the dress shop. She’s been trying to seduce Darcy for ages. Ever since her husband died.”

  Dash thought about the barmaid who’d tumbled ever so willingly into bed with Darcy back in Jamaica. For a man pushing seventy, Darcy O’Neill certainly hadn’t been one to let age slow him down.

  “Candy’s dandy,” Dash murmured, pouring the brandy into one of the balloon glasses.

  “But liquor’s quicker,” Claren finished up. “You should do that more often.”

  “Do what? Would you like a drink?”r />
  She answered his second question first. “I think I would. Smile,” she said, responding to his first question. “You have a very attractive smile,” she told him with her newfound frankness. “It’s incredibly sexy. If you used it more often, you’d undoubtedly have women throwing themselves at your feet. Not that you probably don’t already,” she mused, thinking of the way the waitress last night had practically worn a neon Available sign around her neck. “But even so, it’s quite effective.”

  “Thank you. I guess.” Dash was amused in spite of himself. In spite of their situation. He splashed some of Darcy’s brandy into a second snifter. “Do you always talk off the top of your head?”

  “No. Actually I’m usually quite circumspect.” She waited for him to laugh.

  He didn’t. “I have trouble believing that.” The color was returning to her cheeks. Deciding to get her out of here as soon as he finished his drink, Dash sat down beside Claren on the rug.

  “It’s true,” she insisted. “I’m also incredibly boring.”

  “Now, that is impossible to believe.” Knowing that he was treading on quicksand, but unable to resist, he ran his knuckles in a slow, warm sweep up her cheek. “You are many things, Irish. But boring is definitely not one of them.”

  Dash read the sensual appeal in the swirling dark green depths of her eyes. There was desire there. And temptation. But most of all, he saw danger.

  She took a sip of brandy and tried to tell herself that it was the liquor creating the slow warmth spreading through her body. Lifting her hand, Claren ran her own fingers over the strong bones of his face, over the taut skin darkened to the hue of mahogany by the bright Caribbean sun. The ebony shadow of a day’s growth of beard felt like the finest-grade sandpaper against her fingertips.

  “I’ve been wondering about something.”

  Dash’s eyes brushed over her mouth, lingering there for a long, suspended moment before returning to her eyes. Against his will, he was fascinated by the wealth of emotions that came and went in those remarkable green eyes.

  “What?” His voice was harsh and rough.

  “What it would be like to have you kiss me.” There. She’d said it.

  “I already know.”

  Even as he told himself he should back away now while he still could, Dash found himself drawn to the pale pink softness of her mouth. A mouth that soft, that full, was designed to tempt a man. Throwing back his head, he tossed off the brandy and put the empty glass down on the floor beside him.

  He took hold of her shoulders, whether to pull her close or push her away he could not decide. “Kissing you, Irish, would be pure trouble.”

  Claren looked into his gray eyes and saw a storm brewing. His irises darkened until they were nearly as dark as the pupils. Her lips parted. She put her own glass down beside his, then drew in a deep breath and held it, waiting.

  They only had to move. A slight shifting of their heads, and their lips would meet. Dash told himself all the reasons why this would be a mistake.

  And then he covered her mouth with his.

  The intensity rocked them both. This was no gentle first kiss. There was no slow, smoldering warmth. The passion ignited instantly, causing a hot, urgent flow of desire. Dash’s mouth craved passion; in response, sweet passion flowed from Claren into him. His hands, running up and down her arms, sought submission; she melted quickly into the heated kiss, her body following her reckless heart, offering herself unconditionally.

  His mind demanded strength; her hands were in his hair, clenching, refusing to let him take without giving. Of all the women Dash had ever known, he’d never been with one who matched him so perfectly. Hunger answered hunger; need answered need.

  The more he took, the more he gave, the more Dash craved. His teeth nipped, his tongue plunged, his hands aroused. He’d never known a woman who let her emotions flow so freely; they crested higher and higher until he was drowning in them.

  Dash was no stranger to danger, to risk. He’d lived with it, and for a time had even enjoyed it. But this woman, and the feelings she stirred in him, represented more risk than he’d ever known. He’d always recognized his own strengths, his own weaknesses.

  But now, even as he fought to remember that he damn well didn’t want Claren O’Neill Wainwright in his life, Dash was forced to admit that she represented a major weakness. At the very time he could least afford one.

  Her lips were even softer than he’d imagined. And smooth. A low moan flowed from between those lips into him; Dash was rocked more by that soft sound than by any other sexual encounter he’d experienced.

  As his mouth ravaged her, as his hands stoked hidden fires burning deep within her, Claren knew that nothing would ever be the same again. Needs welled up inside her, years of emptiness waiting to be filled. She hungered, starved, for more.

  He hadn’t meant to touch her. And he damn well hadn’t meant to kiss her. But now that he had, Dash promised himself that the memory of the heated kiss would have to last a lifetime. Because it had been a mistake. One he didn’t intend to make again.

  Dash drew back, denying the clamoring demands of his mutinous body. His breath was fast and shallow, and he felt as if he’d just come to a screeching stop at the edge of a towering granite cliff. “We’d better get going.”

  Breathless herself, and aching, Claren stared at him. “Go? Where?” Her head was spinning; coherent thought had deserted her. “Why?”

  Her cheeks were flushed, her lips dark, her eyes clouded with desire. Looking at her this way, Dash imagined he could see the jagged, deadly rocks of the steep drop below.

  “I’m taking you back to town.” The hell with orders—he wouldn’t relax until she was somewhere safe.

  Her mind was gone, Claren realized. Dash had stolen it, along with her heart and her soul during that frightening, exhilarating kiss. “Why?”

  “Look around you. The reason should be quite obvious.”

  She blinked, trying to force her whirling mind into focus. “I know it’s a mess,” she admitted. “But surely we can find a room upstairs that’s not too bad.”

  “Dammit, I don’t care that it’s a mess.” He stood up and glared down at her. Fear for her safety, and frustration at the situation he found himself in, made his own temper flare.

  “You don’t have to yell,” Claren said. As she looked up at him, it crossed her mind once again that it was a good thing she enjoyed puzzles. Because Dash MacKenzie was by far the most baffling man she’d ever met.

  “Don’t you understand?” he ground out, his hands curled into fists at his side. “Whoever trashed this place could come back.”

  “They won’t.”

  “Now she’s an expert on the criminal mind,” he muttered.

  For the sake of peace, Claren opted to ignore his sarcastic statement. She stood up, as well, and put her hand on his arm, feeling the muscle tense beneath her light touch.

  “They were vandals, Dash. If they’d been thieves, they would have stolen Darcy’s things—they wouldn’t have left everything strewn around. They’ve gotten their kicks, now they’ve moved on. We’ll call the police, they’ll come take a statement, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  She was right about their not being thieves. At least, not in the conventional sense. Dash wondered what she’d say if he told her the truth and decided he couldn’t risk it. Not until he got all the players in this deadly little melodrama straightened out.

  “You may have a valid point. But I’m not taking any chances.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Fine. Then you go back to town alone.”

  Dash folded his own arms. “I’m not leaving here without you.” The back-and-forth movement of his jaw suggested he was grinding his teeth.

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Claren retorted.

  That was it. Dash’s thinly reigned patience tore. “That’s what you think.”

  Scooping her up, he threw her over his shoulder, fireman’s style, and began marchi
ng toward the front door.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Furious, Claren beat her fists against his back, but for all the good it did her, she might as well have been hitting a brick wall.

  “I’m taking you back to town.”

  “You’ll never find a room,” she warned. “I told you there’s a jazz festival in town this weekend. People come from all over the country. Every place is booked weeks—months—in advance.”

  “There you go, underestimating me again,” Dash said with a calm reassurance that Claren found infuriating. “Don’t worry, Irish, you won’t end up on the street. I’ll find us a place to spend the night.”

  “You can’t just drag me wherever you want,” she insisted. “That’s kidnapping.”

  “Probably is.” He shifted her in his arms as he locked the front door behind them and reactivated the burglar alarm. He doubted if St. John’s forensic guys would find anything, but he wanted to keep the place as clean as he could until they had a chance to go over it. “You can call all the cops you want and press all the charges you want when we get to Port Vancouver.”

  CHAPTER 7

  ONCE AGAIN she surprised him.

  Since Port Vancouver served as the county seat, it was the home of the county sheriff’s department. The office was located up the strait from the ferry wharf and across the street from the city hall and museum. From the size of the building, which also housed the jail, Dash decided that crime was not yet rampant in the area.

  The sheriff, an attractive woman in her thirties, took the report of the break-in with unofficial-like sympathy. She also shared Claren’s surprise; vandalism was an uncommon occurrence in a town where everyone knew his neighbor.

  Dash wondered what else Claren was going to say. That she was furious was obvious; she’d fumed the entire drive to town, her anger surrounding her like a threatening thunderhead. He suspected that in a case of his word against hers, he’d land in one of the three jail cells. But not for long. Even if Claren did have him arrested for abduction, one phone call from St. John would spring him before she could blink those incredible green eyes.