by Dee Holmes
A deep, thick resolve formed within her. She had to make her move before he called Jock and Brewer.
In a brisk voice, she said, “I’ve told you what I know. You don’t believe me, so that’s your problem. I’ve had quite enough.” She paused, taking a small sip of the brandy. “I want to leave.”
He laughed. “First lies and now bravado. You are an amusing broad.”
She poured the brandy on the plush carpet, then broke the snifter, grinding the toe of her shoe on the glass.
For a few seconds Pascale stared at the mess, slack-jawed. Then his face turned red with fury. “You bitch! You ruined my carpet!”
He leaned forward to examine the floor, and Molly lifted the album and brought it down with all her strength on Pascale’s head. He slumped forward instantly, and for a horrified moment she wondered if she’d killed him. For a few seconds she literally couldn’t move. But then she took a deep breath, gathered her purse and the album and worked her way over Pascale’s sprawled form to the door.
She eased it open, expecting one of the men to be standing there, but both were at the front of the car, leaning against the grill, their backs to her. They were laughing and smoking, listening to a ball game on the radio, and Molly sent up a prayer they wouldn’t turn around.
Slipping through the door, she closed it so that it made no noise and eased her way to the back of the vehicle, where she crouched to get her bearings. She didn’t want to run flat out; if one of them turned and saw her, they’d shoot her. She’d have to do this in short bursts.
Molly spotted a huge rock across the road. If she could get to that…
She took deep breaths, peeked around to see if they still had their backs turned, then moved in quick silent strides to the rock. She snuggled behind it, almost wanting to hug it for its size and presence. Step one completed.
She searched for the next stopping place and spotted a bush. Molly was headed west, and the black sedan was heading east. The car would have to turn completely around before it gave chase. If the two men took after her on foot, the farther away she was, the bigger the advantage. Once again she checked on Jock and Brewer before moving. She ran silently, then dropped into a crouch behind a bush the shape of an open fan. She was nearly giddy with her progress.
About to try for a third shelter, she saw a convertible approaching with a woman and a child buckled into a car seat. The vehicle was moving toward the black sedan. Molly’s instinct to stand and cry for help nearly overwhelmed her, but she made herself stay hidden and let the car pass her. To flag them down would risk innocent lives if Jock and Brewer spotted Molly.
But the car did attract Brewer’s attention. He flung his cigarette away and turned toward the passenger side of the black sedan, walking toward the door Molly had just escaped through.
Molly’s mouth went dry. If he knocked on the glass or opened the door…
She shrank lower, feeling exposed and vulnerable despite the camouflage of the bush. She wasn’t far enough away yet. Brewer stopped, turned to say something to Jock, then made an obscene gesture. Jock laughed, the sound carrying in the light wind. The convertible had disappeared and still Molly didn’t move.
Then Brewer twisted around, standing near the door, staring at the handle. Then, as if empowered by rocket fuel, he flung the door open, yelled for Jock, who raced to his side, and both men burrowed inside.
Molly shoved her purse and the album under the bush; she couldn’t afford to have anything slow her down now. She stood, and ran faster and harder than she ever had in her life. The road curved to the left. If she could get around the corner, they’d never see her. Legs pumping, she sprinted.
A shot exploded, shattering the summer innocence of birds twittering and leaves rustling. Then came another shot, followed by a ping as the bullet struck a stone to her right.
Instinctively she ducked.
Her heart leapt so fast it felt as if it had jammed into her throat. She didn’t stop; a moving target was harder to hit. Besides, if she stopped, she’d surely be dead.
Another shot, this one whizzing past her.
Still she ran. Patchy asphalt twisted out ahead of her in an unending strip.
Tires squealed behind her.
Oh God, they were turning around. No way could she outrun a car. Her legs ached, her lungs burned. She didn’t know where she was going, or even if there was a place to get to.
She darted sideways, intent on flinging herself into the culvert and rolling down the embankment. Then, to her horror, another car appeared, and it was headed right at her!
Frantically, she sprang to the road’s shoulder, literally throwing herself into the scruffy grass. The driver must have seen her, for the car braked, swerved and spun in a half circle as if out of control before coming to an abrupt stop.
It blocked the road sideways so that Molly was looking at the entire length of the passenger side. Horrified, she heard the black vehicle coming; her vision was blocked by her position on the ground and by the other car, but she braced herself for the collision.
Tires squealed like a thousand pigs. Engine roaring, the black car reversed as fast as it had come forward, then, spinning around again, it raced away, heading east.
Molly lay in the grass, her hands digging into the dirty tufts as if they were handfuls of safety. Dust and perspiration coated her face. Her body was numbed from exhaustion and fear. The silence roared in her ears, but slowly, and with agonizing effort, she got to her knees, then to her feet. Somewhere she’d lost a shoe, her hat was long gone, too. A stone was digging into the heel of her stockinged foot.
No one emerged from the stopped car, and she slowly made her way forward. Whoever was inside had inadvertently saved her life twice. First by braking in time, and then by preventing the black vehicle from getting to her.
Molly cautiously approached, looking into the rolled-up passenger window. The vehicle was empty. She stared in puzzlement. Where was the driver? She started to round the car and then stopped, backing away. Was this a trick? Was it all a backup plan by Pascale on the off chance she escaped?
Molly stumbled backward, her body shaking, her weariness now so pervasive she could barely put one foot in front of the other.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She whirled around, a scream catapulting from her throat.
“It’s me, babe, it’s me.”
“Hunt! My God….my God, it really is you…”
And in the next second she was in his arms; she would have climbed into his clothes if that had been possible.
“It’s really me. Molly, Molly…” His hands roamed over her as if feeling for anything broken. Her hands were so tight around his waist, he had to literally tug them away.
“Oh, Hunt.” She looked up at him, and if ever she’d had any doubts about his being the most wonderful man in the entire world, those doubts were now gone. “H-how did you f-find me?”
“Shhh. Plenty of time for questions. Let’s get you back to the cottage.” He opened the passenger door. Suddenly she felt weak as a kitten, and she gratefully sank into the seat. Hunt climbed in, started the car and headed back in the direction he’d come, when Molly said, “My purse…I left it and an album under a bush.”
“What bush?”
They all looked alike, and she was so tired and hot and thirsty, she didn’t have the energy to concentrate. But Hunt would want the pictures. “A bush shaped like a fan just beyond that big rock.”
He pulled to the side of the road and got out. After ten minutes of searching under a number of bushes, Hunt found the items.
Molly sagged back in the seat and closed her eyes. By the time Hunt pulled into the funeral home parking lot, she was asleep. Hunt touched her cheek and allowed his fingers to rest against the beating pulse in her neck. Life had never felt so good to him. “We’ll be back at the cottage in a few minutes, sweetheart.”
Hunt got out of the car and walked over to a pudgy man with a receding hairline. He was pacing back and forth where Hunt had
left him after borrowing his car.
When Hunt had seen the black vehicle disappear and one of the funeral attendees had mentioned Olaf Pascale’s name, Hunt had raced for his own car, only to find it blocked in by two others. Desperate, he was about to hot-wire a foreign-made car that was in the clear when a late arrival pulled in. Hunt had waved the car down and asked the owner if he could borrow it, saying that it was an emergency. The man, who must have noted the panic in Hunt’s eyes, agreed, and in a few seconds, Hunt had rounded the corner where the black sedan had disappeared.
Now Hunt offered his hand and the man shook it.
“Thanks for letting me use your car, Mr…. uh…?”
“Sanderson. Norman Sanderson. What was that all about, anyway?”
“I’m not sure yet. I haven’t had a chance to talk to my wife,” Hunt said vaguely. Sanderson looked harmless, but Hunt knew that didn’t mean anything. Obviously Pascale had looked harmless to Molly or she wouldn’t have gone with him.
He unlocked his own car and rolled down the windows to let out some of the heat.
Sanderson peered at his vehicle. “You didn’t dent or scratch it, did you?”
“Good as when I borrowed it.” Hunt gave him a quick smile, took some bills from his wallet and said, “But it could do with a car wash, and your gas gauge is low. Here. It’s on me. Uh, my wife is asleep in the front seat. I want to get her home, where she’ll be more comfortable.”
“Your wife? That’s who you went after?”
Hunt nodded, reaching into Sanderson’s car and lifting Molly into his arms.
“My God, what happened to her?” Sanderson’s eyes widened, and he rushed over to help Hunt. “She should see a doctor.”
For the first time, Sanderson scowled. “Say, who did this to her? You beat her up or something?”
Hunt couldn’t blame the guy for being suspicious; to be honest, he would be, too, given the circumstances. Just then Molly stirred, her arms going around Hunt’s neck. “Oh Hunt,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I wasn’t dreaming. You really did find me…. You really did.”
Hunt brushed his mouth across her forehead. “Yes, sweetheart, I really did find you.”
She settled against him, content. Sanderson looked confused.
Hunt said, “I know this all looks weird, but I promise you I didn’t hurt her and I never would.”
“Well, she sure doesn’t seem to be trying to get away….”
Hunt carefully put Molly into the front seat of his own car, buckled her seat belt, returned to Sanderson’s car for her purse and the album, then got behind the wheel. “Thanks again,” Hunt said, and drove away, leaving Sanderson gawking.
Moments later, Molly stirred, her eyes slowly opening.
“Are we home yet?”
“In a few minutes.”
She nodded, closed her eyes and then opened them again. “I’m sorry I did such a stupid thing, going off with Pascale.”
“Shhh. It wasn’t stupid.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“No, sweetheart, I’m not mad. I’m just grateful you’re alive and here with me.”
She tried a smile. “I love…you.”
Hunt felt a jolt deep in his gut. He knew she meant it in a grateful way—it wasn’t an uncommon reaction toward a rescuer, even though Hunt had to admit that Molly’s rescue had been mostly her doing. She’d acted with incredible daring, given the dangerous circumstances.
At the cottage, he carried her into the house and directly into the bathroom. The room was tiny, and Hunt had little space in which to get her undressed and into the shower.
“I can do it,” Molly mumbled, wincing as she removed her shredded hose. Hunt lowered his eyes as she stripped off rose-patterned panties and bra. She stepped into the shower, and he heard her sigh as the hot water sluiced over her.
“I’ll wait outside.”
“No!” She flung the curtain back, unmindful of her nudity. “Don’t leave me. Please.”
Startled by her intensity and the terror in her eyes, he nodded. “Okay. I’m right here.”
By the time she emerged, the steam in the bathroom was so thick it made her a blur. Hunt handed her a towel for her hair and one for her body. She wrapped herself in them and then stood as if paralyzed.
“Molly? What is it?”
She sniffled and Hunt stepped closer, seeing the tears rolling down her cheeks.
He brushed a thumb across the dampness. “It’s okay. You’re just having a delayed reaction.”
“I was so scared.”
“I know.”
“I was afraid I’d never see you again, that you’d never find me….”
“I was afraid of that, too,”
“I need you close to me, Hunt. I don’t ever want to be away from you again.”
“I promise,” he told her, without giving much thought to what he was saying. “Come on. Let’s get your hair dry and get you into bed.”
Her hands slid around him, and she sealed herself against him. Hunt was struck by the combination of desperation and desire he felt in her body. It had to be delayed reaction; she’d been in danger and now she was safe. She was grateful, nothing else.
But Hunt couldn’t deny his own need to bond her to him, and that thought unsettled him. He, too, must be experiencing a delayed relief that she was all right.
Then she blew a million holes in that theory when she tipped her head back and pulled his mouth down to hers.
In a whisper as delicate as the steam around them, she said, “I want to love you, Hunt. I want to love you tonight.”
CHAPTER TEN
HUNT KISSED HER, allowing her to press against him, not objecting when her arms clung like warm silk.
He wanted her, and yet he feared that intimacy with her would take their relationship to a plane that was irreversible. If this were any woman but Molly, he’d dismiss such silly thoughts. Men and women didn’t bond for life on the basis of a romp in the sack.
But Molly wasn’t any woman, which was exactly why he wanted no intimate involvement. The fact that he knew what he didn’t want, and yet responded to her with a desperate hunger…that scared the hell out of him. Her body felt sweet and innocent, and she was too vulnerable for a man jaded by life and little belief in hope and happiness.
No involvement. He’d told her that, tried to practice it. But here, with her clinging and wanting, he was plunging in with a desire that bordered on recklessness.
“Easy,” he murmured, unsure if he meant her or himself. He wanted to slow her down, wanted to think beyond the soft feel of her breasts and belly and thighs and what she was offering him.
“I can’t be easy. You’ll r-run away.” Her lashes were dewy, her eyes wide like lavender lilacs and filled with a headstrong insistence.
She was right. He would run; he’d run like hell. The least hesitation on her part and he’d be history. But here he was, at a loss as to how to fight this volatility, the inevitability that had been building between them for days.
Hunt slipped the towel from her head and ran his fingers through the damp strands. “You smell like wildflowers,” he whispered, kissing her eyes, her nose, then once again her mouth.
Her mouth wouldn’t release him, her tongue smooth and a little desperate, as if she couldn’t get enough, as if no matter how deep and how long the kiss, she’d want more. Not just tonight, not just while they were together, but forever. And the thought of another forever kind of woman paralyzed him anew.
One more try, he reminded himself, pulling at the last threads of his weakened resistance. Hunt gently tugged her away, holding her so that she had to look at him. “Molly, listen to me.”
She shook her head, the damp strands of her hair brushing his jaw, clinging to his shirt collar. “No…no. If I listen, you’ll say we can’t, and tonight, I don’t want you to say that.”
Hunt swore. He didn’t want to say it, either, but he had to. He sighed and put his arm around her. “Let’s start by gett
ing out of the bathroom.”
She let him lead her out, but when he turned toward the living room, planning to distract her, to talk about what had happened this afternoon with Olaf Pascale, she balked.
Then Hunt glanced at the sofa, where he’d slept the previous night, and hesitated. Truthfully, sleeping there had been a joke; he’d tossed and turned and cursed feelings for Molly he didn’t want to have.
Molly saw his hesitation and believed his resistance was real; she had little doubt he truly didn’t want to make love. Tomorrow, she’d make their relationship the one he wanted—two people brought together by arrangement.
Tomorrow she’d be businesslike and distant.
Tonight she wanted to make love to him.
Tonight she would die without him.
Molly tugged him toward the bedroom. “I want to go to bed with you.”
His body instantly reacted, and he shuddered “I know you do.”
“And you want me,” she said with the same assurance that the sun would rise in the morning. “Maybe you don’t want to want me, but you do.” She touched the front of his pants, and it took all his resolve not to press her hand around the hardness.
“Ah, hell,” he muttered with a sigh. “You’re beautiful and desirable, and having you practically beg me to make love to you is…” He let his voice trail off, wishing he had answers. Making love to her was what? More than he deserved? More precarious than with another woman because he feared he’d want Molly again and again?
“Tell me.” She kissed his jaw, his neck, blew into his ear, and he didn’t have to see the delight in her eyes to know she realized she would win.
He pulled away, arched a brow and asked, “You love seeing me in turmoil, don’t you?”
“Mmm. I’m going to love having you.” The sudden husky vampishness in her voice was deliciously seductive.
Hunt was fighting a losing battle. Despite the complications that “afterward” would create, he wanted her. His body pounded with his need like an overworked bass drum.
Then, as if she knew exactly how to push him over the edge, she released the towel she had wrapped around herself. It dropped in a damp pool around her legs.