Harlequin Intrigue, Box Set 2 of 2

by Julie Miller

  He had a big gray T-shirt in his hand. Suddenly, he was rubbing her face, her arms, brushing snow off. It was piling up on the floor, by her feet. He flipped the heater on high and more of the delicious heat poured from the vents.

  His hands stilled suddenly. She looked down. He was staring at her left wrist. Saw his gaze move swiftly to her right arm. She looked, too. They matched. Both wrists sported a wide reddish band of skin.

  And she remembered pulling, pulling with all her might. And being so angry.

  “What happened here?” he asked, his words sharp.

  She didn’t answer. Just stared at him.

  He hesitated, then reached into the backseat again. Pulled out another T-shirt, this one white and long-sleeved, and some gray sweatpants. “We’ve got to get you out of that wet dress,” he said.

  What?

  She looked down. Saw what she was wearing and felt her heart start to race in her cold body.

  How had this happened?

  “Are you injured?” he asked.

  Huh? He had evidently easily gotten past that she was wearing a wedding gown but she was having trouble moving on.

  A wedding gown. She lifted her hand, touched the satin fabric, noting, rather dispassionately, that it was dirty in several places. Her hand started to tremble.

  The man reached his own hand out, caught her fingers. “You’re shaking,” he said.

  “Cold,” she said. She had been. For sure. But that wasn’t why she was shaking. Her body felt odd. As if she was on edge, just this close to spiraling out of control. At the same time, she felt nauseous, as if maybe she’d drunk too much and gotten too little sleep.

  She turned her head to look at him. To try to offer up some sort of explanation.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said, his cadence quick. “I didn’t see that earlier.” He leaned toward her and, with surprisingly gentle hands, prodded the right side of her head, just above her ear, with the tips of his fingers. She heard him hiss.

  “You’ve got a hell of a knot here,” he said. “But just a small slice in the skin. It’s already stopped bleeding.”

  She reached up. Their hands connected and she could feel his barely contained energy. His skin was warm. Vibrant.

  He pulled his hand away. She continued to press and realized there was something on her head. A veil. Pinned tight into her hair.

  She started yanking bobby pins and tossing them onto the floor. One bounced off the dash. She pulled and pulled. When the veil was loose, she ripped it off her head.

  The man was staring at her, his hazel eyes assessing.

  She reached up, pulled down the visor and stared into the mirror. Terror seized her, making her want to throw up.

  Think. You need to think.

  But it was as if all coherent thoughts had deserted her.

  She started to shake. Badly. Not just her fingers or her hands. Her whole body.

  And the man moved suddenly. Using both hands, he pulled the dry T-shirt over her head, stuffed both arms in. Pushed her forward in the seat, so that he could reach around her back. She felt him release the zipper of the dress. Felt him unclasp her bra.

  Then he was pulling down her dress, her strapless bra, and lowering the T-shirt at the same time, preserving her modesty. His touch was quick, impersonal, but she felt the intimacy of it. She shook his hands off.

  If she didn’t do this, he would.

  She pulled the T-shirt down. It came to her thighs. Then she yanked on the wet, heavy wedding dress. When she had it off, she handed it to him. He tossed it into the backseat. She pulled on the sweatpants, cinching the tie strings as tight as she could. When he handed her thick white socks, she put those on, too. She was drowning in his clothes but it felt absolutely wonderful to be warm and dry.

  “I’m not sure where the nearest hospital is,” he said, “but I think our safest bet is to head back to the Interstate.”

  Hospital? She grabbed his arm. “No.”

  He stared at her. “What the hell is going on here?”

  She had no idea. All she knew was that she couldn’t go to a hospital. Couldn’t go anywhere.

  They would find her.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. Couldn’t trust this man with the truth.

  He waited.

  “What’s your name?” he asked again.

  “Mary. Mary Smith.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t think so.”

  She said nothing.

  “How about I just call you...” He paused. Then looked forward, into the blowing snow. “Stormy,” he finished. “That’ll do.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked quickly, desperately trying to shift his focus.

  He seemed to hesitate for just a moment. “Cal. Cal Hollister.” He put the car in gear, pulled back onto the highway and started driving.

  “Where are we going?”

  He didn’t answer her.

  He was taking her to the hospital. She just knew it. She had to get away. She reached for the door latch.

  He was faster, stretching his arm across her body, blocking her hand. “Please. I would like to help you. I just came from a diner where there were two cops. I think they may be your best bet.”

  The police. Again, she could feel her heart start to race. Why? She searched her mind, her terrifyingly empty mind, and tried to reason it out. Was she in trouble with the police? Was she running from the police?

  “I just need a place to stay. To get some sleep,” she said. “Can you just drop me off at a hotel?”

  He waved his hand in a semicircle. “We’re sort of in the middle of nowhere.”

  She could see that. Everywhere she looked there was snow. And it was getting dark.

  “Will you drive me as far as the nearest town?” she asked. “I’ll pay you. I promise. I mean, I don’t have any money with me, but I’ll send it. Just give me your address.”

  He stared at her, his eyes showing absolutely nothing. Was he about to kick her out of his car, thinking that she was going to be more trouble than she was worth?

  “I won’t be any inconvenience,” she promised.

  “There have to be people looking for you, worried about you. At the risk of stating the obvious, I think today might have been a big day for you.”

  Had she gotten married today?

  She didn’t think so. She’d know that. Deep down she would know. Right?

  “I’ll contact people once I get to the hotel,” she said.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Handed it to her.

  Her arm felt as if it weighed eighty pounds when she reached to take it. Her fingers brushed against his.

  Warm skin.

  So different.

  And a flash of a memory, jagged at the edges, in grays and blacks, like an old movie, jumped into her empty head. Cold hands. Wrapped around her upper arms. Pushing her. Cold, cold hands.

  She closed her eyes. Willed it to come. But that was it.

  “Please just take me to the nearest hotel.” She put his phone down on the gearshift console. Maybe rest would help.

  If it didn’t, she didn’t know what she was going to do.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Under normal conditions, having a beautiful woman beg him to take her to a hotel was not an invitation that he needed to give much consideration to.

  Hell, yes.

  And if all went well, a half hour after they’d checked in, neither one of them would even remember it was snowing.

  But there was nothing normal about this. The woman had been lying in the snow in a wedding dress. As he’d approached, he’d seen a slight movement in her arms and legs and had reached out to check for a pu
lse. She’d responded like a mad dog, throwing a punch and kicking her leg. Her movements had been uncoordinated, as if hypothermia was setting in.

  While he had no formal medical training, every SEAL had the basics. He’d quickly sorted through the options. Moving someone before a full assessment was always a risk. But her extremities all seemed to be in working order, maybe a little jerky, a little awkward. He’d identified the cold as his biggest challenge, decided there was no time to waste and flipped her over to her back.

  Then, even though her arm and leg hadn’t connected with anything vital, he’d been knocked back and just a little breathless.

  She had a stunningly beautiful face. Dark hair. Very dark eyes, almost black. Rich, almond skin that hinted at an ethnicity that was more exotic than his own common German-Irish mix. Maybe from one of the Pacific Islands.

  When she’d screamed, he’d gathered his lust-spiked wits and moved into action. He didn’t think she’d been there long. Dressed as she was, it would have taken less than twenty minutes in these conditions—twenty-degree temps with a thirty-mile-an-hour wind—for her to be in real serious trouble.

  He hadn’t been confident that she could walk, so he’d carried her to the car. Once inside the vehicle, he’d been processing what to do next when he’d seen the marks around her wrists that looked suspiciously as if she’d been tied up.

  It was possible that it had been consensual. What people did behind bedroom doors was nobody’s business. But he’d spent the better part of the past decade in countries where men routinely mistreated women and he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind. But when he’d asked, she’d stared at her wrists, as if it was the first time that she’d seen them, seen the damage.

  Then he’d seen the small trickle of blood on the side of her face. He’d been very concerned when he’d felt the lump on her head, which he suspected she’d gotten from connecting with the fence post, and had been relieved when he’d seen that the cut itself was just a slice that would heal quickly.

  He’d pushed aside his concern over her possible mistreatment and dealt with the immediate need of getting her out of her wet clothes.

  When he’d pulled the T-shirt over her head and lowered her dress, he’d done a quick inspection of the rest of her to assess for injuries. Had caught a glimpse of pretty breasts and smooth skin but no other significant bruises or red marks.

  The wedding dress had been wet and heavy and, quite frankly, had knocked him off his stride.

  And oddly enough, it had seemed to have a similar effect on her. She’d ripped the pins out of her veil as if she was attacking a nest of snakes with a garden hoe. Her wet dark hair, free of constraints, had fallen around her shoulders.

  How had a bride ended up in the snowdrift? Where the hell was her husband?

  When he’d picked her up, he’d made a visual inspection of the surrounding area. No footprints besides the ones he’d left. No sign of a vehicle, with the exception of the wide tire tracks on the road, but he was fairly confident that the truck hadn’t stopped. There was no sign of heavy exhaust in the fresh snow that would have been there if a big truck had idled for any amount of time.

  Was it possible that she’d fallen out of the truck while it was moving? That someone had pushed her out?

  None of it made sense and she wasn’t helping. She’d lied about her name. He was pretty sure about that. Had tried to let her know that he knew in a nice way by calling her Stormy instead. When she’d asked his name, he could have reciprocated and lied. He had a half-dozen different aliases that he’d gone by in the past years. Instead, he’d offered up the truth.

  It might have been a mistake but he’d felt the need that one of them should be honest. Why it was important, he wasn’t sure. They were ships passing in a storm. He was offering a helping hand until she could reach out to someone else.

  Which she didn’t seem inclined to do. He’d expected her to look upon his cell phone as an unexpected lifeline but there didn’t seem to be anybody she was interested in calling.

  Odd. To say the least.

  There were probably a couple choices. He could keep driving toward Ravesville and take her to the old house. But given that he didn’t know her story, he wasn’t inclined to want to do that. It was too great of a risk that he might be bringing trouble to his family, to Chase especially, and he was done with that.

  He had enough guilt already.

  He could disregard her instructions that she didn’t need either a hospital or the police and drop her off at whichever he encountered first.

  Or he could turn around, take her back to the Interstate, find the hotel that the waitress had said was just miles down the road and send her on her way.

  That was probably the best option. Now that he’d gotten a closer look at her, he could see the fatigue that shadowed her eyes. He supposed it was a busy time leading up to a wedding.

  Had she gotten cold feet? Was there a groom pacing the aisle in some church, at a loss to understand where his bride might be?

  But it was a Tuesday. Cal didn’t know much about weddings but he was fairly confident that they were usually on a Saturday. Maybe she was simply unconventional. Maybe she and/or the groom worked on the weekends. Maybe they got a better price on the reception if the event was on a weekday. Could be a hundred explanations.

  She did not, however, look interested in offering up any of them. She was staring straight ahead, her arms wrapped around herself.

  In all likelihood, he’d saved her life. It would be nice to know her name but not necessary. He wasn’t the type to brag or dwell on past accomplishments and this, quite frankly, wasn’t the first time he’d saved an unknown person’s life. That was what SEALs did best. Save the good guys. Kill the bad guys.

  He was going with the assumption that she was on the side of right and that he wasn’t assisting the wrong person. That was what his gut told him and he’d learned to listen to it.

  “Buckle your seat belt,” he said. He checked his mirrors, slowed down and then made a narrow U-turn on the snow-covered highway.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, her voice small.

  “Back to the Interstate. There’s a hotel a couple miles east. I’ll drop you off there.”

  He turned on the radio. Maybe he’d try to get some information on the weather after all. It seemed as if the storm was picking up in intensity. It dawned on him that he hadn’t cared as much when he’d only had himself to worry about. Now he was responsible for her.

  It should have felt suffocating to a man who’d recently deliberately shed all his formal responsibilities. At least irritating that he’d been sucked back in so quickly.

  But oddly enough, it felt okay.

  “Don’t worry,” he said.

  She said nothing for a long minute. Over the sound of the radio, he could hear the tires working hard to grab pavement.

  Finally she turned to him. “Thank you,” she said. “I owe you.”

  * * *

  IT WAS TRUE. She owed this man her life. But as soon as she could, she was getting away from him. He was young, maybe not even thirty, but his hazel eyes seemed to hold knowledge beyond that. He had short dark brown hair in a buzz cut and his skin was very tanned.

  The only time he’d really pushed for information had been when he’d asked her name. She’d had to tell him something. And he’d called her on the fact that he didn’t think it was legitimate. Yet he was still willing to help her.

  She wished she could accept that it was as simple as one human being extending a kindness to another. But something told her that she should trust no one. No one.

  He was a good driver. His hands were relaxed on the steering wheel. She’d have been a nervous wreck.

  She didn’t like to drive in bad weather.

  Didn’t know how she knew this. Just knew it.
>
  In less than five minutes, they were on the Interstate that he’d mentioned. She saw a sign. St. Louis, 194 miles.

  St. Louis. She let that dance around in her head for a minute. “Joe Medwick. Ducky Medwick,” she corrected.

  He turned to stare at her. “What?”

  “St. Louis Cardinals. He holds the record for most runs batted in during a single season. Late 1930s.”

  “Thirty-seven,” he said, “1937.” He paused, then added, “How the hell did you know that?”

  She’d surprised him. Oddly enough, that made her want to smile. Nothing else that had happened up to this point had seemed to faze him but he looked absolutely flabbergasted that she knew baseball. “Sports trivia is not reserved for the male species,” she said.

  “Right,” he said. He was silent for a long minute. “Motel should be just up the road.” He paused again. “Have you eaten lately?”

  She didn’t feel hungry. “A little while ago,” she said.

  He nodded and kept driving. The SUV churned through the snow on the road, its tires slipping occasionally as they encountered patches of ice. They stayed on the road, however, which was more than she could say for the three cars they passed that were in the ditch.

  It took them fifteen minutes to get to the hotel. He pulled into the lot and she stared at the building, trying to catch some feel for whether she’d ever been here before. She didn’t think so.

  It was a two-story wood building, painted mostly red with some white trim, with each room having an exterior door. She counted them. Eight up, eight down, with a small office at the front of the building. The parking lot was full of cars and had already been plowed at least once. There was a big white sign with blue lettering and a red border. The Daly American Inn. There was a flagpole and a flag near the front door. She wondered if someone had braved the elements that morning or perhaps they simply never took it down.

  She stared at the flag, watched it flap in the wind, partially obscured by the flying snow. Something fluttered in her chest. “Oh,” she said, putting a hand to her heart.