Fugitive Father

by Jean Barrett

  “Please,” she whispered, “you’re hurting me.”

  His mouth under the dark beard curled in a cynical little smile. “I’ll do worse than that if you’re lying to me.” But the hand wound in her hair relaxed its hold, as if he were suddenly aware of the pain he was causing her. Surely, though, she was dreaming if she thought he was capable of any sympathy. In any case, he still kept the revolver trained on her.

  Ellie had already made a decision. Whatever he threatened or did to her, she was never going to help this brute to get his hands on Joel. Whether he was his father or not, the thought of his getting to the boy sickened her. She would do whatever was necessary to prevent that.

  There was another tense silence. She watched him warily. She could see by the fierce glow in those black eyes that he was attacking the problem of reaching his son.

  The pronounced aroma of wood smoke shifted her attention to the fireplace again. The fallen log continued to smolder against the screen. Though most of its smoke was still drawn up the flue, wisps of it escaped into the room. But there was no danger from the fireplace. The only danger here was—

  Oh, dear Lord!

  She’d suddenly remembered. The fireplace mantel! The address Brett Buchanan had given her was there on the fireplace mantel where she had placed it earlier! That revealing scrap of paper was in plain sight, and if her intruder happened to—

  “Okay,” he abruptly decided, “we’re going to make a phone call.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Just be quiet and listen to me. I’m going to dial the house in Ladue myself, just in case you try to reach a number I wouldn’t like. Then you’ll do the talking. Whoever answers, you tell them that Joel left something behind and could you run it over to him? We’ll see if that’s where my kid is. All right, come around here.”

  He gave her no chance to object. She found herself turned and pulled up against his hard length. He was so tightly pressed to her back that she felt seared by the heat of his body. There was something else, something she hadn’t noticed before. A distinctly unpleasant odor. Not surprising. His clothing was smeared all over with a filth that didn’t bear thinking about, probably in an effort to hide the blaze-orange coverall.

  The warmth of his breath in her ear had her trembling again. “I’m going to be listening to every word of this exchange,” he warned her softly, “so don’t get any ideas.”

  The gun in his hand caressed her hip, reminding her of its grim presence.

  “Now pick up the phone and hold it where I can reach it”

  She obeyed him. His free hand reached around her, brushing like fire against the side of her breast as he punched in the number.

  “Buchanan residence.”

  It was a woman’s voice. She turned out to be the housekeeper. Ellie explained her call exactly as she had been instructed.

  No, Joel wasn’t there, the housekeeper informed her. No one was there except for her and another servant. Mr. Buchanan had taken the boy and gone away. She insisted she didn’t know where or for how long. Possibly for many weeks. If Ellie wanted further information, she must contact Brett’s lawyer.

  Ellie was weak with relief when she finally lowered the receiver, and Rhyder released her. She couldn’t have borne another moment of his body hugged to hers, of his breath intimately mingling with her own as he’d leaned down to hear the conversation.

  But he was far from through with her.

  “Turn around,” he commanded, “so I can see your face.”

  Sick with fear, she obeyed him.

  “I’m going to ask you again. Where did Buchanan take my kid?”

  “I’ve already told you—”

  “I know what you told me, and I know what my lawyer told me. He said Buchanan visited your place while Joel was here, that the two of you were on friendly terms. How friendly, Ellie?”

  “We discussed Joel’s welfare, nothing else.”

  His gazed narrowed suspiciously. “Why do I keep feeling you’re not giving me the truth? That the two of you were cozier than that? Maybe cozy enough to exchange confidences. With his looks and money, you wouldn’t be the first woman to fall for Brett Buchanan. That what happened, Ellie? You fall for him?”

  She kept thinking about the slip of paper on the mantel. She had to find some way to reach it and destroy that address.

  “That’s crazy, and if you don’t let me do something about that log, we’re going to be choking on the smoke in here.”

  The fallen log was her ally. The smoke from it had drifted across the room by now and was strong enough in the air that even he had to acknowledge it was a problem.

  “Fix it then,” he agreed. “Only don’t touch the poker. Shove it back into the fireplace with your foot.”

  She nodded and slipped away from him, crossing the parlor on unsteady legs. He had the gun, and he was watching her every move. There was no way she could get rid of the address without his knowing it. But she was prepared to act and suffer the consequences.

  “Hurry up,” he ordered impatiently as she reached the fireplace and carefully removed the screen in order to prevent the log from rolling from the hearth onto the wooden floor.

  Setting the screen to one side, she used her toe to nudge the log safely back against the grate while her hands rested casually on the mantel to support herself. Then, before he could stop her, her fingers flashed to the paper, snatched it from the mantel, and dropped it onto the hot grate.

  There was a roar of realization behind her. Ellie flung herself out of his path, hitting a table as he launched himself toward the fireplace. By the time she had recovered and righted herself, he had managed to rescue the lower portion of the page, heedless of the heat into which he had thrust his hand.

  The fluttering sheet had failed to land directly in the flames, had not been entirely consumed. She prayed that none of the address remained on that bottom half.

  Before she could get away, he was on his feet and in front of her, his bulk squeezing her against the table.

  “You little sneak! I ought to make you eat what’s left of this!”

  He waved the charred bit in her face. Ellie’s heart sank. Though the rest had burned, nearly all of two words were still there, scorched but legible.

  —orth Carolina

  “North Carolina,” he muttered, glancing at both sides of the scrap before crushing it into a ball and tossing it back into the fire. Still wielding the gun, he reached out with his free hand and seized her wrist. His fingers were like steel. “Where in North Carolina?”

  “I don’t know,” she boldly lied, although she remembered the address clearly. “He only gave it to me as a kind of courtesy. I didn’t even look at it. I just stuck it up there on the mantel and forgot about it until—”

  She bit off the rest as his hand tightened forcefully on her wrist.

  “I don’t think we’re understanding each other, Ellie. I mean to disappear. That’s just what I’m going to do, only not without my kid. Whatever it takes,” he promised her fiercely, “I’ll get him back. Nothing’s going to prevent that, and right now you’re the only thing standing in my way. So I’m going to ask you again. Where in North Carolina?”

  Even though frightened by what he might do to her, she shook her head, refusing to answer him.

  “You stubborn—” He stopped suddenly, his eyes gleaming with understanding. “You have the van out there loaded with your things, all that stuff I was hiding under. You’re going somewhere. North Carolina. You’re joining Buchanan in North Carolina.”

  “No,” she insisted. Desperate to convince him that this time she was telling the truth, she went on, “I’m leaving in the morning for a painting holiday in the Ozarks.”

  The words were out of her mouth before she realized her mistake. He smiled at her grimly.

  “Looks like your plans are about to be spoiled.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “Take you with me to North Carolina? I think so, Ellie. Hell, it’s just t
oo convenient to pass up. Easy transportation for me, a good place to hide. And, best of all, nobody to ask questions about your absence. Vacation, remember? Just the two of us alone together out on the road. And maybe along the way, I’ll persuade you to share that address.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Sure I can. This tells me I can.” He passed the gun under her nose, then brought his face close to her own. “I guarantee you something, Ellie. Before I’m through with you, you’ll be begging to tell me exactly where Buchanan took my boy and why.”

  She shuddered over the implication of his slow, soft promise.

  “Let’s go,” he said, dragging at her arm.

  She was horrified when she realized that he was pulling her, not toward the garage, but in the direction of the stairway. No one would know she was up there with him. No one could see in. The shades at all the windows were lowered. She had lowered them herself.

  He jerked at her when she struggled furiously against his grip. “What is it now?” he demanded. Then he suddenly understood. “Oh, I get it. You can stop worrying, Ellie. I’m not interested in playing any games with you. I’ve got other business upstairs.”

  She gazed at him with uncertainty.

  “Look,” he said, “let’s not make this any harder on each other. Just move.”

  He had released her arm, as if to prove she was in no serious danger from him as long as she obeyed him. She couldn’t count on that, of course, but she could not go on physically resisting him, either. He was too strong for her. She would have to wait for an opportunity to—

  “Come on,” he urged.

  He stayed close behind her as she preceded him up the stairs. He stopped her when they reached the top, taking a moment to check out the three bedrooms and single bathroom that opened off the tiny hallway.

  “That one yours?” he asked, indicating the largest bedroom.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  “Inside.” When she failed to move, he scowled at her. “What are you waiting for now?”

  Hands clenched at her sides, Ellie entered the bedroom.

  “Over there by the bed where I can keep an eye on you.”

  She gladly put space between them. But when she reached the four-poster and turned around to face him, her heart dropped like a stone. He had placed the revolver on a chair within easy reach, freeing his hands in order to remove his clothes.

  Kicking off his shoes and lowering the zipper on the blackened coverall, he began to twist his way out of the garment, baring sleek muscle and a chest matted with dark hair.

  Dear God, maybe he actually intended, after all, to—

  “Don’t just stand there. Strip off your own things.”

  He was out of the coverall by now and naked except for a pair of briefs that left little to the imagination. Clinging to the four-poster, she searched for a means to defend herself.

  “What are you—” He stopped when he saw the expression on her face. “Didn’t I tell you this isn’t about that? I’m not a monster, Ellie, even if I look like one in this getup.” He tossed the coverall to the floor. “We’re going to find me a new outfit, that’s all. Something that doesn’t shout fugitive or stink of industrial gook. There was a vat of the stuff in an enclosure behind a warehouse. For all I know, I was helping myself to toxic waste.” His mouth behind the dark beard split in a self-mocking grin. “Pretty ironic, huh?”

  Ellie found nothing to smile about. “I didn’t swim in a vat of industrial waste.”

  “No, not that bad,” he agreed, eyeing her floral tunic top and matching leggings, “but bad enough. Hell, that thing screams ‘artist on the run.’ I want you wearing plain, dark clothes when we leave here. You must have something that isn’t left-bank. Get busy.”

  The insufferable lout was insulting her life-style, her love and need for color.

  “Unless,” he added softly, “you want me to do it for you.”

  It was more than her hands that were clenched now. Her jaw was equally tight with frustration as she turned her back and began to undress. Her rigidness must have been obvious.

  “Don’t give yourself a stroke, Ellie. I’m not planning to watch.”

  But since she didn’t trust him, she lost no time in clothing herself in navy slacks and a matching cotton sweater. She’d started to shiver, both from nerves and the coolness of the house. The warmth of the sweater was welcome, lending her a measure of courage when she turned around to face him again.

  “And just what kind of outfit did you imagine I could provide for you? There isn’t any man living in this house.”

  “No, but there was one, and not all that long ago either.”

  David. He knew about David and her divorce. He must have demanded every detail about her that his lawyer could supply, probably needing complete assurance that Joel was in good hands. That much, anyway, was in his favor.

  “Guys have a way of leaving things behind, especially if they pull out in a hurry. Let’s see if I’m right.”

  He was already at the closet she’d shared with David, flinging open the double doors, motioning with the hateful gun for her to find him something.

  He was right. David had abandoned a pair of old jeans and a gray sweatshirt in a far corner of the closet. They were garments he’d worn when doing repairs around the house. He had intentionally left them behind with some snide comment about being through with old houses and their needs. Ellie had meant to throw them out, but it was one of those things she’d never gotten around to doing.

  Noah Rhyder accepted the clothing from her, holding the jeans up against himself to test them for size. “They’ll do. I’ll have that, too.”

  He indicated a forgotten Cardinals baseball cap to one side of the closet shelf. Ellie handed him the cap, hoping he wouldn’t delay getting into the jeans and the sweatshirt. The sight of him parading around in those briefs, his masculinity much too evident, was disarming.

  But, to her dismay, he tossed the clothing onto the bed with a brusque, “Into the bathroom, Ellie.”

  What now? she wondered.

  They crossed the hallway, entered the bathroom.

  “Get into the tub,” he instructed her.

  She gazed at him, startled by his demand. “Why? What is this—”

  “I’ve got my reasons, and you’ve had enough questions. Just do it.”

  She climbed apprehensively into the bathtub, willing herself to stop shaking. She hated for him to see how scared she was.

  “Now sit.”

  Mystified and on her guard, she reluctantly lowered herself down into the tub. Giving her no explanation, he turned away to the sink.

  Her toilet case, already packed with essentials, was there on the marble surround. Watching him as he rummaged through its contents, she understood his purpose. With her tucked down in the tub, leaving a comfortable distance between them, he could risk separating himself from the revolver. It was placed to one side of the sink while he helped himself to her scissors, safety razor, and shaving cream.

  The transformation that followed amazed her. His black hair, which he wore on the long side, was snipped off until nothing remained but short spikes. Then he set to work on his beard, clipping away its heaviest growth with the scissors before reaching for the razor and cream.

  His cleanly shaven face that emerged from the lather was no longer recognizable. It was a lean face on which no flesh had been wasted. A face whose craggy features she found strangely unsettling.

  There was something else she could see in the mirror as he busied himself altering his appearance. Something she hadn’t noticed before. On the sinewy hardness of his upper arm was a small tattoo of a sword wrapped in flames. She wondered if it was a souvenir of his youth. She knew from the coverage of his trial that he’d run with a tough crowd in his late teens and early twenties. There had been something about a motorcycle gang and several arrests, leaving him with a previous record when he was charged with murder. Though long ago and no more than misdemeanors, those prio
rs hadn’t helped his defense.

  The tattoo reminded her that Noah Rhyder must be dangerous, a man not to be crossed. There was an intensity about him that was more than just desperation. He was…well, she didn’t know. Maybe all twisted inside. He would have to be if he had killed twice, wouldn’t he?

  She needed to get away from him. But how? The gun. It was there on the sink, no longer within his grasp. Concentrating on his metamorphosis, he appeared to have momentarily forgotten its existence. What were her chances of getting her hands on that weapon?

  “Don’t even think about it,” he warned her softly.

  Hopeless. He must have been eyeing her in the mirror the whole time, sensing with a survivor’s instinct the focus of her gaze. Her situation was as dismal as ever.

  Noah went on watching her as he rinsed away the lather and toweled himself dry. Her anxiety was evident to him in the way she huddled in the tub, her shoulders all hunched up. She must be scared out of her mind. He was sorry about that. He hated having to play the part of the insensitive brute, to intimidate her like this. But what choice did he have when she was his only hope of recovering Joel? And forget trying to tell her the truth, because she’d never believe him.

  But he didn’t like the guilt he felt whenever he looked into her worried eyes. Unusual amber-colored eyes that bothered him on another level. A lot about Ellie Matheson was beginning to bother him, like that appealing mouth and her robust figure.

  A woman like that could get to a man, start to make him regret he was anything but gentle with her. And he couldn’t afford such a weakness, Noah told himself sharply, hardening himself against any further sympathy for her. Hell, she had lied to him, hadn’t she? No, he couldn’t trust her. Whatever her denial, there was still the chance that she and Brett Buchanan were more than just acquaintances, and he knew he didn’t trust Buchanan. His former brother-in-law had been elsewhere when the old man was murdered. A solid alibi. But alibis could be bought when you had Brett Buchanan’s kind of money.