Special Gifts

by Anne Stuart

  For a moment he couldn’t believe her words. “What?”

  “I asked if you were doing all right,” she repeated patiently.

  “No.”

  There was nothing she could say to that, no platitude she could come up with, but then Sam didn’t really expect platitudes from her, or clichés. He expected the unexpected, like this sudden concern for a man she hated.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice low and soothing.

  He didn’t want to be soothed. “I’ve seen it too often,” he said, draining his Scotch. “Too many good men have died. Too many bad men have gotten away with it. I’ve lost too many friends. I didn’t think I’d have to lose Phil, too.”

  “I know,” she said.

  She probably did. She knew too much, in that crystal ball of a brain she had. He didn’t know whether Phil had told her anything about him, or whether she just closed her eyes and dreamed up stuff, but he had little doubt that he held very few secrets from her. He just wished he could return the favor.

  “Go to sleep, swami,” he muttered, flicking off the overhead light. “We’ll be in Washington in another couple of hours, and we’re going to have a lot to keep us busy. Better rest while you can.”

  She said nothing, and he could hear her even breathing in the dimly lit cabin. But he wasn’t fooled. She wasn’t going to sleep any more than he was. The moment he closed his eyes he’d see Phil’s body, and he knew that was one vision they were doomed to share. Forever.

  Chapter 8

  WASHINGTON SMELLED different. The moment Elizabeth stepped out of the terminal she was assailed by the different scents, the different kind of cold. From the snowy cocoon of Denver she’d emerged, feeling like a battered moth, into the pollution and damp chill of the mid-Atlantic states, the East Coast that she’d grown to hate. She stood there on the sidewalk for a moment, swaying slightly, the crib quilt still clutched in her hands, her down coat hanging loosely around her. Her hair had come undone, and she was too bone tired to do anything about it, letting it hang down her back like a tangled curtain. If she had any sense at all she’d hack it all off. Alan had loved her hair, and she’d kept it long as some sort of memorial, or as expiation of her sin. But Alan was dead.

  And so was Phil. She allowed herself a brief glance at the man standing beside her. An indomitable man, an emotionless, implacable, invulnerable man. No one could kill him, could they? No visions would come, haunting her, warning her too late. Life couldn’t be that cruel.

  She didn’t stop to consider why she would care. Why Sam Oliver’s death would be any crueler than Phil’s, than Alan’s. There were answers to that question, answers she wasn’t ready to face. For the time being she wanted a shower and a bed, and oblivion for as long as she could grasp it. When she awoke she might be ready to face the unfaceable.

  “Come on,” Sam muttered, bundling her into a taxi. “I don’t want anyone getting more of a chance to see us than they need to.” He got in beside her, sitting close, and gave the address to the driver before sliding the glass divider closed and leaning back.

  “Why should it matter? He couldn’t have followed us, could he? And even if he did, this is your home territory. You have backup, you have—”

  “I have a hell of a lot of people I don’t trust,” he said flatly.

  “Tell me something new.”

  His eyes narrowed for a moment as he surveyed her, almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. “I’m still alive,” he said. “And all my friends are dead. Maybe there’s something to be said for not trusting.”

  “And maybe there are some kinds of lives that aren’t worth living. A life devoid of trust and caring is no life at all.”

  He stared down at her as the city of Washington whizzed by. The driver was safely cocooned in the front seat, humming along with the radio, and the two of them seemed isolated, apart.

  “I haven’t noticed you filling your life with trust and love,” he said.

  They were both too tired for this conversation, she thought wearily. Too much had happened; too many defenses had begun to crumble. “And who says my life is worth living?”

  He considered that for a moment dispassionately. “I do,” he said finally. “And, for that matter, I trust you.”

  It was grudgingly given, but nonetheless magnanimous. She knew he trusted her. He wouldn’t be taking her to his apartment, he wouldn’t be keeping her with him, if he didn’t—at least to some extent. It was just hard for him to admit it. And she wasn’t making things any easier.

  “You don’t mean to tell me that you actually believe in my gifts?” she said, too tired to resist bugging him.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s just say I think you believe in them. And I don’t think you’re lying.”

  Elizabeth thought of Alan, and her vision of his death. And she thought of Sam, and his hand running up her red-clad thigh, she who never wore anything but neutral colors.

  “Generous of you,” she muttered cynically, because she was afraid to tell him how scared and grateful she really was.

  “Hey, I’m a great guy,” Sam drawled, sliding back in the seat and closing his eyes. The taxi smelled of cigarette smoke and sweat, and Sam’s thigh brushed hers, resting against her absently. The faded quilt overlapped, its muted color echoing the aging blue denim of his jeans. She wondered whether he would wear a uniform now that he was back in the city, and how she, lackadaisical pacifist that she was, would feel about that. Would he get his hair cut even shorter? Would he become even more distant? More rigid?

  What was she worrying about? She needed protection, safety, and she needed the military to provide it. If Sam Oliver started going by the book it would only be to her benefit. Wouldn’t it?

  An oddly comfortable silence filled the taxi, and she was just beginning to drift when it stopped, slamming her against Sam’s strong body. She might just as well have run into a brick wall, she thought, pushing herself away and wondering briefly if she was bruised. She barely had time to look around her as Sam hustled her out of the taxi, down a flight of steps and through an elaborate security system, and it wasn’t until he’d bundled her into the building that she managed to get her bearings.

  “Where are we?” she demanded, moving away from him with her customary diligence. She couldn’t afford to be too close; she couldn’t afford to touch him, either accidentally or on purpose. It set off too many disturbing reactions.

  “My place,” he said, hustling her down a wide hallway and into an elevator. They rode up in silence, then walked down another anonymous hallway until he stopped and unlocked a door, ushering her in and triple locking the door behind them.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered, stepping away from her, stalking through the apartment with the same air of distrust and menace as when he’d checked out that deserted cabin in the mountains of Colorado. She allowed herself a brief moment to mourn the fact that he couldn’t even trust his own home, and then he was back, tucking the gun that had appeared from nowhere into his waistband and shrugging off his parka. “We’re okay. No one’s been here.”

  “Why would they have?” she questioned, fascinated.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I just have a funny feeling about this whole mess, and until I get some answers I’m going to be damn careful.” He reached for the quilt, and for a moment she clung to it, unwilling to relinquish it. But his hands brushed hers, setting off a swirling storm of reaction that frightened her, and she released it, stepping back, ignoring the question in his dark blue eyes. Ignoring the moment.

  She looked around her, at the plain white walls unadorned by pictures, at the L-shaped modular sofa covered with white cotton. The only concessions to decorating were the heavy curtains and blinds on the wall of windows, now open to the bright morning sunlight, and Elizabeth knew perfectly well that those were in place for security reasons and nothing more. The only signs of human weakness were the TV and stereo and books piled haphazardly around. “And you mocked the way I li
ve,” she said, shaking her head.

  “What’s wrong with my apartment?”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Five years.”

  “It looks as if you moved in last week.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk—your house looks like a nun’s cell. Anyway, I’m not a believer in acquiring possessions. Life’s too short and uncertain to put your faith in things.”

  She sank down tentatively on the sofa. At least it was comfortable enough, if undecorative. “If you don’t put your faith in things,” she said, “and you clearly don’t put your faith in your fellow man, where does it go? What do you believe in?”

  He thought about it for a moment, standing there in the stark-white room, the early-morning sunlight streaming through the windows.

  He needed a shave, she thought. He needed sleep. He needed . . . She wasn’t going to make any more guesses as to what he needed. It was probably wishful thinking on her part, and dangerous to boot. Touching him was like touching an electric fence—you never knew when the current was going through, and whether you’d be knocked flat on your rear end when you least expected it.

  He took the gun from his jeans and set it down on one of the white tables. “I believe in truth,” he said. “And honor. Cold beer on a hot night. Strong whiskey on a cold one. I believe in trying your damnedest, even if you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. And I believe in love.”

  She stared at him, mesmerized for a moment, wanting to touch him, wanting to hold him, daring to risk the consequences. And then the name Amy Lee rose up between them like an unspoken curse, and she told herself he wasn’t thinking of her at all. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all.” She managed to sound cool and distant, staring out the window, away from his thoughtful gaze.

  “You’ll have to check your crystal ball, swami,” he drawled. “Find out if there’s a happy ending for either of us.”

  “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. What if the answer is no?” she said.

  “It would be nothing more than I’d expect.” He turned away, heading toward one of the open doors. “I’m going to go out after I take a shower.”

  She squashed down her sudden panic. “Can I come with you?”

  “No. You’re safe here. This building has excellent security, and if anyone’s interested in us they’ll follow me, not come after you. I don’t think anyone knows we’re here yet. You might as well get some sleep.”

  It wouldn’t do her any good to beg. She had no choice but to trust him, to do as he said. If she did otherwise she’d be lost.

  He left half an hour later, the rough stubble scraped from his incongruously handsome face, his eyes dark and wary, his uniform sitting far too comfortably on his tall, lean frame. Before he left he came over and put the gun in her hand.

  She tried to drop it, but his fingers wrapped around hers, forcing her to hold the weapon. “Do you know how to fire this thing?”

  “I don’t want to know,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  He ignored the protest, turning her hand over and forcing her to hold the weapon properly. “You pull this,” he said. “And then you pull this. That fires it.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” His hands hurt her, pressing her small, softer hands against the cruel steel. “I need you too much to let someone kill you.”

  She stared up at him in sudden shock, misunderstanding him for a moment. As quickly as that absurd happiness flooded her it vanished into a dark cloud of common sense. “I won’t let anyone kill me until you don’t need my help,” she said. “Now let go of me.”

  He didn’t release her. “Will you use the gun?”

  “If I have to.” It was a lie, and they both knew it, and he cursed beneath his breath.

  He moved away, and she dropped it on the sofa beside her, having every intention of hiding it under the cushion the moment he left. He was at the door when she spoke. “I’m going to need some clothes,” she said. “We left everything behind.”

  “I’ll pick something up for you. Don’t answer the door, don’t answer the phone, keep the curtains closed.”

  “When are you coming back?” She hated the plaintive note in her voice, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.

  “I’m not sure. Your best bet is to get some sleep. Take a long, hot shower, help yourself to the Scotch and go to bed.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said. “I don’t want to dream.”

  “Honey,” he said, opening the door, “sometimes we don’t have any choice.” And without another word he was gone.

  She didn’t know how long she sat on that stark-white sofa, unmoving. Long enough for the sun to rise and fill the barren room with blinding light. And then she finally stirred, tucking the gun under the cushion and climbing wearily to her feet. She moved slowly, following his instructions, shutting out the daylight and inquisitive eyes. And then she went in search of a bathroom and a bed.

  The apartment was small, the right size for a man living alone. The kitchen was off to the left, stocked with beer, butter and Johnny Walker. A few tins of soup sat in a cupboard, along with a box of soft, stale crackers, but Elizabeth didn’t want to eat. She wasn’t going to touch the whiskey, either. Phil and Sam shared their affection for Scotch, and she didn’t think she’d ever see Johnny Walker again without thinking of old friend.

  The bathroom and bedroom were small and white. The bathroom even had a white shower curtain, and Elizabeth wouldn’t have been surprised if the towels were white, too. Instead they were a surprise, a rich maroon, deep black and vivid turquoise—the only splash of color in the place. At least none were vibrant red.

  The bed was huge. Elizabeth had never seen such a large bed in her life, and she couldn’t resist smiling when she thought of Sam trying to cram his oversize body onto her sofa, particularly after he was used to sleeping in a room-size bed. The sheets were striped, and she breathed a small, illogical sigh of relief. That brief, erotic vision had no basis in reality, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. She never wore red. And the bed she’d envisioned had smooth gray sheets. Not stripes.

  She took a shower in Sam’s bathroom, washing herself with his soap, using his shampoo, drying herself with his thick maroon towels, wrapping herself in his essence. She’d never considered asking him to take her to a hotel, and she regretted it as she rummaged through his closets looking for something to wear. Of course he wouldn’t have listened, so it was just as well she hadn’t wasted her breath asking. Still, it would have helped assert her independence.

  There was no way she was going to put on her own clothes again. She’d been in them for more than twenty-four hours—in those clothes she’d found Mary Nelson’s death spot, gazed on Phil’s murdered face. In those clothes she’d knelt amidst the ruins of Granny Mellon’s quilts, and in those clothes she’d run away, with Sam Oliver at her back, guarding her. There was blood on her clothes, Phil’s blood, and she wanted to burn them.

  In the end she settled for a plain black T-shirt, so big it reached halfway down her thighs, and a pair of black sweatpants that threatened to trip her up. She put them on warily, remembering the vision that had engulfed her when she put her hands in Sam’s gloves, but no horrible pictures forced themselves behind her eyes.

  Climbing into the center of the huge bed, she took the comb she’d pilfered from the bathroom shelf and began trying to force some control on her waist-length hair. She fell asleep in the middle of trying to braid it, and for the next eight hours she didn’t dream at all.

  IT WAS GETTING dark when Sam let himself back into the apartment. There were no lights, no noise, and he felt a sudden panic sweep over him. She wouldn’t have been fool enough to leave, would she? No one could have come and taken her—they would have left some sign of their presence. Unless she was in the other room, her throat cut, her body butchered, as the other Colorado victims had been. He’d seen the police photographs, and they’d made little impression. He’d seen too many bodies to
get worked up, but suddenly, vividly, he remembered the photos, the wounds, the pitiful ending of a human life.

  His heart was racing when he stormed into the bedroom. In the darkness he could see the huddled bundle of humanity in the middle of his bed, and for a moment he, who didn’t know the meaning of fear, was terrified to move. She was covered with the quilt from head to toe, and he knew that if he pulled that cover aside he’d be looking into her lifeless brown eyes, her cut throat a second red smile beneath her mouth.

  He moved slowly, kneeling on the bed, and began to pull at the quilt. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, as he uncovered her still, pale, lifeless face. And then her eyes fluttered open, focusing on his face, and she smiled at him.

  He couldn’t figure out why she smiled. He’d always been a complete bastard to her, out of self-preservation as much as anything, and if she had any sense at all she’d ask what the hell he was doing, instead of smiling sleepily at him, so that instead of pulling away he wanted to wrap his arms around her, quilt and all, and drown in those sleepy brown eyes.

  “How’d it go?” Her voice was husky, endearing, and he wondered what the hell had happened to him. How all his better judgment and defenses had flown out the window, so that all he thought about was touching her. But she didn’t like to be touched, he knew that. Particularly by him. He just wished he knew why.

  He sat back, moving away from her on the big bed, and turned on the light, flooding the twilit room with light. “Lousy,” he said. “They lied to me.”

  “What did you say to them?” She sat up, brushing at her tangled hair with a desultory hand. He found himself staring at her hair, staring at her eyes without their customary shield of wire-rimmed glasses, and thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking.

  “I lied,” he said.

  She sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the same side?”

  “Ostensibly. When you grow up you’ll find that governments aren’t to be trusted, even your own.”

  He’d hoped to provoke a reaction from her, and he’d managed. “Go to hell,” she said, sliding off the bed, away from him.