True Lies

by Ingrid Weaver

  But there couldn’t be more. No, not with him. They had both agreed that there couldn’t be more. Tipping her head forward, she felt a tear slip down her cheek. Impatiently, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  “Are you thirsty?” he asked as he unfastened the rope that held the tarp together and drew out a canteen. He walked to a boulder, sat down, and patted the rock beside him in invitation.

  Forcing herself not to limp, she moved over to join him. “Thanks.” She unscrewed the top and took a quick swallow, then handed the canteen back to him.

  “I think we might as well stop for the day. This looks like a good spot to make camp.”

  “Now?” She ignored her throbbing ankle and checked her watch. “We still have a few hours of daylight left. We haven’t come as far as we’d planned.”

  “I estimate that we'll be out of the bush by tomorrow night at the latest, so we're doing all right.” He put the canteen to his lips, took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Actually, we're doing better than anyone could expect. The weather’s cooperating, and you managed to land us reasonably close to help.”

  “The landing was pure luck.”

  “Hardly. You're one awesome pilot, Emma.” He propped his ankle on his knee and looked around the clearing. The outcrop was smaller and not as flat as the one by the lake where they’d spent the previous night. “Seeing as we've got some time before sunset, I think I'll gather some spruce boughs to sleep on.”

  “Good idea.”

  “There’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a fire tonight, since nobody’s going to be looking for you.”

  “I'll scrounge up some firewood.”

  “I can top off the canteen at the stream we passed near the alder grove. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather reconstitute the dried food we've got with us than go out and snare a rabbit.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” She pushed herself to her feet. “I'll get the water while I'm picking up firewood.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Without another word, she took the canteen from his hand and headed back the way they had come. The stream wasn’t much more than a trickle, the smooth, rounded rocks in the center lumping high above the surface in the late summer dryness. Emma knelt at the edge of the water and scooped out a hollow in the gritty streambed, then wedged in the canteen so that the flow was directed into the opening. When it was full, she ducked into the underbrush to look for firewood. Within a few minutes she loaded her arms with dry sticks and returned to the clearing.

  Judging by the thrashing noises coming from the trees, Bruce hadn’t finished cutting their mattress yet. Emma dumped her firewood and sat down on a cushion of moss to unlace her boot. Carefully, she wiggled it off, then looked at the patch of blood on her sock with dismay. Gritting her teeth, she peeled back the sock and assessed the damage. The blister had broken, all right. More than two layers of skin had been worn away and hung in limp tatters around an oozing red center that was the size of a quarter.

  The tart aroma of fresh-cut evergreen wafted around her as Bruce walked past and stacked a load of spruce boughs beside the sleeping bag. Whistling a snatch of an old Duke Ellington tune, he knelt down to open the white enamel first aid kit and rummaged through it briefly. “Well, what’s your choice, sort of beef stew or noodle surprise?”

  “What’s the surprise?”

  “I don’t know.” He tilted his head to look at her, a twinkle in his eyes. “The label came off.”

  Another Prendergast comment. She tossed her boot to the ground and frowned. “Are you going to do the cooking?”

  “Sure, if I can find something to use for a stew pot. Have you got any ideas?”

  She pointed at the first aid kit. “Unhinge the lid and empty it out. It’s enamel, and it’s waterproof.”

  He emptied out the box and went over to where she had dropped the firewood. Using a flat rock, he scraped the moss and dry grass away from a circle and ringed it with stones. Emma leaned sideways to reach the pile of first aid supplies and picked up the bottle of disinfectant. She sorted through the bandages until she found the size she wanted, then pulled her foot onto her lap.

  “What’s wrong?” Bruce asked. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, it’s just a blister.”

  He was at her side before she could blink. His blond curls fell over his forehead as he leaned down for a closer look. “That must have been hell to walk with. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “We still have a long way to go. It’s not that bad.”

  “There you go again, not worrying about yourself.” He sat down in front of her and took her foot between his hands. “Let me do this.”

  “You're making a fuss over nothing. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I know. That doesn’t stop me from wanting to help.” He propped her heel on his thigh and took the disinfectant from her hands. “This is going to sting.”

  It did sting, but Emma didn’t flinch. She handed Bruce the bandage and watched as he peeled off the wrapper and positioned it. “Thanks.”

  He smoothed his thumbs along the adhesive strip. When he was finished, he didn’t release her foot. “Give me the other one.”

  “Why?”

  “I'm going to check it for blisters and then give you a massage,” he said matter-of-factly. He lifted her foot and took off her boot and sock, then moved back so that she could stretch out her legs. Cradling her heels on his lap, he did a quick inspection, nodded, and began squeezing her toes. “How’s that?”

  It was bliss. It was exactly what she needed. She braced her arms behind her and sighed. “Why are you doing this, Bruce?”

  “Because I'm a nice guy.”

  She shook her head. “No, your alter ego with the beard and the weight problem was a nice guy. You're a cop.”

  “Okay. I'm doing this to be sure you'll be in shape to hike out of here tomorrow so that I can contact Xavier and get back on the case as soon as possible. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He flexed her foot up and down a few times and rubbed her instep.

  “Won’t Xavier be starting a search for you? I mean, don’t you need to check in regularly or something?”

  “Not when I'm playing out a deep cover like Primeau. He'll know something went wrong with the plan when he doesn’t hear from me today, but he won’t risk the operation by launching an all-out search. Not yet, anyway. I've been in tougher spots before, and he knows I always manage to land on my feet.”

  “At the moment, you don’t look very much like Primeau to me.”

  The hint of a smile flitted across his face. For a minute he hesitated, then he leaned forward, tightened his jaw, lowered his eyelids and let his voice deepen. “Don’t I, sweet thing?”

  Her fingers dug into a patch of crunchy moss behind her as her mouth dropped open. The transformation had been instantaneous. “Bruce?”

  “Mmm?” Slowly, seductively, he slid his hand to her good ankle, pushed up the hem of her jeans, and wrapped his fingers firmly around the bottom of her calf. His touch was no longer soothing, it was sensual.

  Awareness tingled through every inch of her weary body. She looked at his arm, at the hard, cording muscle below his sleeve, the tension in his broad shoulders and the arrogant tilt of his head. Everything about him radiated raw, animal energy. Beneath the lazily lowered lids his eyes gleamed. Her pulse accelerated as she responded helplessly to his blatant masculinity. “Good God,” she whispered. “How do you do that?”

  He moved his thumb. That was all, just a subtle, almost imperceptible motion against her skin, but it sent heat racing up her leg. “Do what? This?”

  She tried to inch backward, but his grip was deceptively firm. “Let go of me.”

  “I only did your feet. What about the rest of you?” Wind sighed through the pines around them, denim whispered against his palms as he slowly stroked his way to her knee. “You could take off these jeans.”

  Instantly, the heat flared higher. To
o vividly she remembered how it had felt the last time, how her bare thighs had rubbed over the folds of his jeans, how his strong hands had held her against him. Raw need throbbed insistently, stealing her breath, her caution, her sense...

  No. Not again. This wasn’t last night. She was in control of herself, there was no excuse. This game they were playing was too dangerous. It couldn’t continue. She had to... “Stop. We can’t.”

  His hand curved around the back of her knee. “I watched you walking in front of me all morning, saw the way your hips swayed, memorized the shift and flex of your—”

  “Bruce, stop it!”

  His expression lost Primeau’s cocky smirk, his face eased back into the one she was familiar with. Yet the sexual awareness was still there. He moved his hands to her thighs and rose to his knees, straddling her legs. “Are your feet better now?”

  “What?”

  His gaze focused on her mouth. “I was touching you only so that you’d be able to walk tomorrow.”

  “Of course. I know that.”

  The breeze pulled at the front of his shirt, exposing a palm-size patch of bronzed skin. She had done that, had ripped those buttons off, had been too far gone to care. She had felt the texture of the short, crisp curls on his chest and had learned the rippling strength that lay beneath. He was breathing hard. Tension, shared memory, shared restraint vibrated between them as neither one of them moved. No excuse, she told herself, her fingers clutching painfully at the rock and the moss. It was broad daylight, they were both completely rational; this time there would be no excuse.

  Bruce clenched his jaw and lifted his hands from her thighs. With a low curse he pushed himself to his feet and turned away. His movements stiff, he walked to the pile of firewood and bent down to select the thinnest sticks. The dry wood snapped harshly as he broke it into short lengths. “Did you ever go hunting with Turner?”

  Emma exhaled shakily. “What?”

  “Turner. The man you were engaged to once.”

  “I know who he is. I'm surprised at your question, that’s all.”

  “You said you enjoyed those vacations with your father. Did your fiancé like the outdoors as well?”

  “Not really. Unless you counted the two acres of manicured lawns and formal flower beds around his parents' house.”

  “He took you to a lot of those society events, didn’t he?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you like all of that? Are you sorry you gave it up when you moved away?”

  “No. Why are you asking me this?”

  He propped the sticks against each other in the center of the circle he’d cleared. “I'm curious. Ever since you told me why he broke the engagement, I've been wondering why you would have wanted to marry him.”

  “It was all part of the life I’d thought I would have had.”

  “And what would that have been? Tennis lessons, bridge clubs, charity work?”

  “Probably.”

  “Did he like to fly? Did he share your interest in books? Did he like chocolate?”

  She pulled her feet toward her and wrapped her arms around her legs. No, Turner hadn’t liked her plane, or her reading habit. She couldn’t remember whether or not he liked chocolate. The subject probably hadn’t come up. He had told her that he loved her, he had been her first lover, yet there had been some things they had never shared. She watched Bruce as he struck a match and coaxed a curl of smoke from the twigs. Her thighs still tingled from the touch of his hands, her pulse still sped from the look in his eyes. The current of awareness that flowed between them was something else that she’d never shared with Turner. And her fiancé had never made her scream.

  “No,” she said softly. “He didn’t like to fly.”

  Bruce blew on the tiny flame. It crackled and grew, licking along the wood greedily. He fed the fire until it was burning strongly, then tipped back his head to look at the row of pines at the side of the hill. “I like it out here. If we had a tent and maybe a few more supplies, it would be a nice place to camp, don’t you think?”

  Instead of looking at their surroundings, she continued to watch Bruce. When he had been Prendergast, she had found him fascinating. He still was. There were so many aspects to his personality, such a keen intelligence behind his unique blue eyes, it was too bad that... No, she wouldn’t let herself think that way. Last night was over. It was over. “Under other circumstances it might be.”

  Sparks flew as he jabbed a stick into the fire. “Can’t forget those circumstances, can we?” he muttered.

  The tightness in her throat had nothing to do with the puffs of smoke that blew her way. “No.”

  He prepared their food in silence.

  * * *

  The dying fire sent long shadows flickering outward across the bare rock and low bushes. Emma inched closer and tossed another thick branch onto the embers. It seemed colder tonight. It probably wasn’t, but without the adrenaline of the night before, she had no defense against the creeping chill that accompanied the darkness. She hugged her arms around herself for warmth and looked at the place where they would sleep. Shortly before sunset they had trimmed the spruce boughs and had layered them into a springy pad on the other side of the fire. The tarp was spread on top, an extra layer of protection from the cold. Bruce sat cross-legged in the center of it, his elbows on his knees, his chin propped in his hands. He’d been quietly studying the flames for the past hour.

  “Do you want to use the sleeping bag tonight?” she asked.

  “No, you should have it.”

  “I had it last night. It would be only fair if you had a turn.”

  “Keep it, Emma. I'll be okay.”

  There was another solution, of course. They could share it. Considering his size, it would be a tight fit, but not if they wrapped their arms around each other and pressed themselves together. She hid her eyes against her arm, but the image of their bodies entwined wouldn’t go away.

  He cleared his throat. “I’d like to get an early start tomorrow. When I was cleaning up our stew pot I thought I heard a truck in the distance.”

  She looked up. “Where?”

  “Toward the north. It was several miles away, but it could have been on that logging road we're heading for.” He pulled the sleeping bag from its nylon sack and spread it out on the side of the tarp closest to the fire. “Come on, we’d better get some sleep.”

  In the glow of the flames, she saw a patch of charred fabric on the back of his shirt. She’d noticed it earlier, during the afternoon, but she hadn’t mentioned it—she’d been too busy watching him move. “What happened to your back? Your shirt’s burned.”

  He twisted his neck to look over his shoulder. “That’s from last night.”

  A quiver tickled through her stomach. “You mean I did that?”

  He chuckled. “No. I mean the explosion did that. A piece of debris hit me.”

  “Oh.” She pushed to her feet and walked around the fire. “Better let me take a look at it.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t want it to get infected.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You don’t know that.” She picked up the disinfectant that he’d used on her ankle. “Take your shirt off and I'll see how bad it is.”

  Reflections from the fire danced in his eyes as he looked up at her. For almost a minute he didn’t move. Then he slowly undid what remained of his buttons. The plaid flannel slid from his shoulders, re vealing firm, rangy muscles. Taut skin gleamed in the flickering orange light, shadows played over the crisp hair that covered his chest. He dropped the shirt beside him and waited.

  Emma knew she was staring and tried to stop, but it was no use. The sun was down. The isolation of the firelit clearing, the slow embrace of the deepening darkness only strengthened her already heightened awareness. He didn’t need to put on his Primeau persona to make her pulse trip. His masculine aura wasn’t part of an act. Drawing a slow, steadying breath, she sank down to her knees beside him. �
��Turn away from the fire. I'll be able to see your back better.”

  Still cross-legged, he swiveled around and braced his hands on his thighs. The position tensed his spine, sending a subtle ripple across his shoulders. “We were pretty lucky. Those rocks blocked out most of the big stuff.”

  She saw the fresh burn immediately. The skin was red and shiny in a mark about the length of her finger. It hadn’t broken, though. “It doesn’t look too bad.”

  “I told you it was okay.”

  Her gaze moved up gradually. “You've got a nasty bruise on your left shoulder.”

  “A crate fell on it when we landed. It doesn’t bother me.”

  She continued her scrutiny, even though he clearly didn’t need her help. She simply didn’t want to move away from him so soon. “What happened to your neck? Was that from the debris?”

  He reached behind him and touched one of the long, thin scratches that arced over his skin. “You mean here?”

  “There’s dried blood on it.” She opened the bottle of disinfectant and dabbed it over the scratches. “Maybe something from that bundle you made out of the tarp was rubbing against it today.”

  “I got those last night, too.”

  “It all happened so fast, I think I hadn’t realized how bad that explosion was.” She rested her fingertips on the curve of his shoulder blade. “I should thank you for sheltering me the way you did. You got these from trying to protect me.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Bruce, I know I said some awful things to you, but I do appreciate the way you used your body to...” She felt a tremor go through the skin beneath her fingers. “What’s so funny?”

  “Those scratches weren’t from the explosion, Emma.”

  “Then what...” Her question trailed off as sudden heat came to her face. It was so obvious now. She looked at the regular spacing, the curve, the width, then focused on her broken nails. “I did that, didn’t I?”

  He turned his head and caught her gaze. A smile crinkled the skin beside his eyes. “I didn’t notice it at the time.”

  “I'm sorry, Bruce.”

  “There are plenty of things between us that probably could use an apology, but believe me, Emma, that’s not one of them.”