by Anne Stuart
He came out moments later, keys in his hand. The wrong keys. Yanking open her door, he beckoned her out. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, grabbing the suitcase from the back seat and slamming the door behind him. “Changing cars,” he said. “I traded with Marcy Lou.”
“Marcy Lou?” Elizabeth echoed, not caring if she sounded like a jealous witch. “You know her?”
“I do now. She’s the proud owner of a 2018 Audi. While we are blessed with her boyfriend’s aging Ford pickup.” He gestured to a rusting orange monstrosity parked halfway behind the store.
“The boyfriend won’t mind?”
“Would you?”
“I guess not. What if there is a homing device? Won’t she be in some danger?”
“I know you think I’m completely conscienceless, but I do draw the line at risking innocent teenage girls. I explained the situation and suggested she leave the car there till morning. If no one bothers it, she’ll be safe.”
“And you’re really going to give her your car?”
“I’m not into material possessions.”
“So I noticed,” she said, thinking of his apartment as she climbed onto the high seat of the truck. It sagged beneath her, and the cab of the truck smelled of stale beer, diesel fuel and marijuana. “You think this thing will get us there?”
“We don’t have far to go.”
“To go where?” she prodded again, but he simply shook his head, starting the engine. It was a far cry from the gentle purr of the Audi. It was more a dyspeptic cough and splutter, but it started, then ran bumpily. They pulled out onto the two-lane highway. Elizabeth turned to watch the Audi with a trace of nostalgic affection, wondering whether the teenager inside would appreciate it. She was still watching when the car exploded, bursting into a sheet of flame.
Chapter 14
SAM DIDN’T TURN, didn’t slow down, didn’t stop the rattling old Ford. He kept his face turned to the front, not even bothering to find out whether Marcy Lou had been outside checking on her new luxury car.
Elizabeth watched in relief as the astounded, bleached-blond figure raced out of the store, clearly unharmed. The car was burning steadily, but there didn’t seem to be any other explosion, and apart from the shattered storefront windows, nothing else seemed in imminent danger.
She slid around in the bench seat and stared at her companion. “No one was hurt,” she said. “Not that you seem to give a damn one way or the other. Did you set that bomb?”
That got a reaction out of him, if only brief disgust. “No.”
“What if that girl had gotten killed?”
“If she had, there wouldn’t have been anything I could do. I didn’t know the car was rigged. Kempton’s associates were even more professional than I expected. I wouldn’t have made the trade if I’d thought it would kill an innocent bystander. But the bottom line is that it didn’t, and I’m not going to waste time and energy bewailing the close call. It almost got us, Elizabeth. I’m spending my time being damn glad we dumped it in time.”
“You’re absolutely heartless, aren’t you?”
He didn’t even bother to glance at her this time. A fire engine was racing back toward the convenience store, sirens blaring and lights flashing, but he kept his eyes straight ahead. “Maybe,” he said. “I try to be.”
There was nothing she could say to that. When she’d first met him she’d been convinced he was as ruthless and stonyhearted as his cold eyes. She’d learned she was wrong about that, wrong about him. Despite the layers of protective toughness wrapped around his lean body, inside there was a heart that hadn’t withered and died at all. It beat, strongly, warmly. Maybe it even beat for her.
She leaned her head back, sliding down in the seat and wincing as her unpadded backside hit a spring. The old Ford was quite a comedown from the Audi. The late Audi, she thought with a trace of nostalgia.
The sound of the sirens faded in the distance, and before long Sam turned off onto a back road. She opened her mouth to ask him where they were going, then shut it again. She’d asked him several times already, and he hadn’t answered. There was no reason to think he’d be any more forthcoming now.
“Won’t the police be looking for this truck?”
“Yup.”
“Won’t they find it?”
“No.”
She gave up. She couldn’t force him to distract her with aimless chatter, so she had no choice but relive the afternoon in her brain. She wished she had any alternative, but her mind kept replaying it, looking for a way out, looking for a reprieve or a justification. She had no doubt at all that Kempton had been planning to kill her. No doubt that he’d planned to hurt her very badly before he did so. It still didn’t make what she’d done all right.
She shivered slightly, closing her eyes. It had started to rain, a steady, soaking drizzle that matched her mood. In Colorado it would be snowing. In Colorado her only friend was dead, and her home was no longer her haven. As far as she could see, she had no place to run to. The memory of too many bodies would follow her, tormenting her dreams.
She’d lived with tormenting dreams all her life. It was nothing new; she would learn to cope. But for now, just for a little while, she would have given anything for a little oblivion.
SHE’D FALLEN ASLEEP. Sam hadn’t thought she would. Her entire body had been strung so tightly that he’d been afraid she would shatter at the slightest sound or touch. As usual, he’d underestimated her toughness. She’d survived his own rough handling of her, and she’d survived the explosion without going into the hysterics he would have expected of a lesser woman. She was angry at him, furious at his endangering that silly, gum-chewing teenager. What she didn’t realize was that they were endangering anyone they came near. Her very existence was a major threat to certain people, those who knew her abilities and those who only suspected. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her. She was already carrying burdens enough on those slender shoulders.
Damn Kempton! Sam could have killed him easily enough, could even have enjoyed wrapping his hands around the man’s thick throat and watching his piggy little eyes bulge out. He’d killed often enough that he could do it—when it needed doing.
But Elizabeth was a different matter. To have forced her to commit a bloody act of violence was beyond cruel, it was the sort of thing that could destroy someone as quiet and gentle as she was.
Except that she wasn’t as quiet and gentle as she seemed. Beneath that nunlike demeanor was the heart of a lion, one who could kill if her life was threatened and not be destroyed by the act. She was going to have a hard time of it tonight, though; he knew that. And he knew what he was going to do to distract her from the memory of Kempton’s blood-soaked body. Whether she liked it or not, he had every intention of finally making love to her, finally staking his claim on her slight, deceptively fragile-looking body. And he was going to make sure she like it very much, once she got used to the idea.
She didn’t wake up when he reached the east gate and punched in the proper security sequence. The rain was beating down steadily, a comforting reminder that the icy-cold ground was going to give way to spring flowers before long. He wanted to see her in spring, with warm sunlight beaming down on her long curtain of hair. He’d spent too much time in the cold and darkness with her.
It took another fifteen minutes, driving along rutted, rain-soaked roads before he pulled up in front of the tiny house. Years ago it had served as a gate house for a grand estate. The main house had burned down in the forties, and the new one had been built at the opposite end of the four-hundred-acre parcel of land. This place was inviolate, out of the way of prying eyes and nosy neighbors. No one would be able to find them—even the few people he trusted didn’t know where he was, and they didn’t know about Elizabeth’s existence. For the next few days they’d be quiet, and safe, while they figured out what their next move should be.
The place was locked up ti
ght, dark and unwelcoming. He considered leaving her sleeping in the truck while he went and opened it up, but he thought better of it. She’d been through enough in the past few hours, the past few days. She didn’t need to wake up, abandoned, in a strange place.
“We’re here.” He reached out a hand to shake her, planning only a brief touch, but her skin seemed to call out to him. He grasped her arm gently, his fingers caressing her through the thick cotton sweater.
She lifted her head, her eyes dazed and unfocused for a moment, and he was sorry he had to bring her back to reality and remembrance. He knew the moment it came back from the way her brown eyes darkened, her vulnerable mouth trembled slightly, and a stricken look passed over her face. Then it was gone, and she was sitting up briskly, rubbing her arms against the chill in the air.
“Are we here?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me where ‘here’ is yet, or do I have to guess?” The asperity came into her voice quickly, and he almost smiled. She was still fighting. He liked that.
“‘Here’ is a remote gate house on a secure estate in Virginia,” he said. “No one followed us, and no one can find us here. For the time being we can catch our breath and see what we’re going to do next.”
She nodded, accepting his words at face value. “Will I be charged with Kempton’s death?” she inquired in a deceptively casual tone of voice; her face hidden as she reached for the raincoat at her feet.
“No. I don’t expect Kempton’s body will be found, and there’s such a thing as habeas corpus. If he is found, it’ll be a completely convincing case of accidental death. There’s no way you’d be implicated.” The rigidity had come back to her shoulders, and he knew what was going through her mind with a sudden clarity that was no longer surprising to him. “You don’t like that, do you? You want to pay for your imaginary sins.”
“Killing a man isn’t an imaginary sin,” she said, sitting up and meeting his wrathful gaze.
“Self-defense isn’t a real one. I don’t want to sit in a cold truck and argue about it. You need something to eat, I need something to drink and we both need a warm fire and a good night’s sleep. Come on.” He didn’t look back as he climbed out of the truck and hoisted the suitcase with him.
She could sit in the truck and freeze for all he cared at that point. If she was recapturing her death wish, far be it for him to talk her out of it.
She was right behind him, shivering slightly in the rain, as he went through the complex convolutions that guaranteed the tiny house’s security. If she thought the safety code a bit excessive for a country retreat she didn’t say anything. Maybe she needed a drink, too.
The place smelled musty and closed up, and it was too damn cold. The first thing he did was crank up the electric heat, at least for the time being, and turn on lights. The gate house was surrounded by tall, enshrouding trees, and the warm yellow light would penetrate only a few yards into the rain-soaked darkness. For now they were safe.
Elizabeth was standing in the middle of the one large room, taking in the comfortable furnishings, the old quilts and honey-pine furniture, the American primitives on the wall and the threadbare Oriental carpet on the polished oak floor. The walls were whitewashed plaster, and the narrow flight of stairs leading to the sleeping balcony and the bathroom was edged with a wrought-iron railing lifted from the ruins of the burned-out manor house. She’d be wondering who lived here, he thought, heading for the galley kitchen and dumping the food down on the counter. She’d be wondering who had put the loving care into the woodwork, painstakingly stripping all those layers of paint to reveal the glowing wood beneath. Who had patched and plastered the old walls, who had bought the old, comfortable furnishings, who had hung the austere primitive paintings and the one surprisingly lighthearted Chagall print. And she’d be wondering who he knew who’d be willing to lend him this place.
She stood in the doorway, watching him. Her long hair was still hanging loose, and she was paler than he’d ever seen her. But her eyes were bright with curiosity. “This is yours, isn’t it?”
He didn’t know why he was surprised. He hadn’t managed to fool her yet. “How’d you know?”
She shrugged. “Just a sense. I knew this place, and yet I’d never been here before. And then I realized I knew you, and this place is you. Not that barren apartment in the District.”
“That’s a nice, sentimental thought, but it’s not true.” He made her a drink, weaker than his own, and handed it to her, expecting her to demur. She took it, her fingers touching his without flinching this time. “The apartment in D.C. is as much a part of me as this place is. I just developed the habit of keeping parts of me compartmentalized.”
“Convenient,” Elizabeth murmured, sipping her whiskey and grimacing. “I don’t want to eat anything.”
“You’re going to.” He handed her a jar of macadamia nuts, then turned back, rummaging through the bag. “They didn’t have any ice-cream bars. You’ll have to make do with Popsicles.”
“I’ll survive,” she said, wandering back into the main room.
“I know you will,” he murmured, staring after her for a long moment.
He managed to get her to eat a slice and a half of pizza, two handfuls of macadamia nuts, and to drink another, milder glass of Johnny Walker. She needed the slightly numbing effects of the alcohol, needed to dull the memory that flashed in the back of her brown eyes. But he didn’t want to get her drunk. Even he had his standards, and those didn’t include taking a reluctant, drunken woman to bed. He’d take a drunken woman, or a reluctant one, but he wouldn’t attempt the combination. Besides, Elizabeth needed a kind of comfort even good Scotch couldn’t provide. So, for that matter, did he.
He let her wander around exploring the place while he built a supplemental fire in the wood stove. Electric heat was too damn expensive, and this country retreat was a luxury he really couldn’t afford. He also couldn’t afford to live without it.
He knew she’d found the bathroom. He knew she’d found the only bed the place boasted, smaller than the king-size bed in his apartment, cozier. He’d never shared that bed with anyone. He wondered if he’d feel cramped. Somehow he didn’t think so.
“Sam.” She was leaning over the loft balcony, and her long brown hair was hanging down. He thought of Juliet; he thought of Rapunzel. He thought he must be going out of his mind.
“Yeah?” he said, his voice neutral.
“I’m going to take a shower and then go to bed. All right?”
“Fine,” he said evenly.
“Where do you want me to sleep?”
Silly question, he thought. “In the bed.”
She didn’t even argue. Maybe she thought he was too much of a gentleman to make a pass at her tonight of all nights. Or maybe she already knew what was coming. Either way, it didn’t matter.
He washed up in the kitchen sink. He was on the phone when she came out of the shower, and he knew she could hear him. He wanted her to.
“Danny? We’re safe. It doesn’t matter where, but if you put your mind to it you could probably guess. Did you take care of our little problem?” He looked up and met Elizabeth’s haunted brown eyes staring down at him. “Thanks, pal. I owe you one. You sure no one saw you? I don’t want you taking the fall for this, either. Of course I have faith in your abilities. I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t. There aren’t too many people I’d trust. Yeah, you too. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He set the phone down on the cradle. Her long hair was damp, curling around her pale, scrubbed face. She was wearing the nightgown he’d bought her, and for a moment he wondered why he’d chosen virginal white cotton.
He started up the stairs. She backed skittishly away toward the bedroom, and he stifled his momentary pang of guilt. “Danny took care of Kempton. A nice blazing car wreck in Silver Springs. It should be damn near impossible to pin anything suspicious on anyone. The fire should take care of most of the evidence, and there wasn’t anything
embarrassing like a bullet hole.”
“Don’t,” she said faintly. “I don’t want to think about it.”
Her feet were bare. That was one of the first things that had attracted him to her. Her small, defenseless bare feet, and he still couldn’t figure out why. She was nothing like the usual sort of woman he was attracted to. He liked her fragility; he liked her toughness; he liked her sweetness, and her bitchy side, too. For some reason he was drawn to her with an intensity that he could no longer fight.
“You can’t stop thinking about it,” he said, reaching the top step and walking past the bathroom toward her. “You’re not going to be able to stop thinking about it until you face it squarely and accept it. You killed a man. The man deserved to die, and he was going to kill you. Case closed.”
“Go away, Sam,” she said.
“Look in your crystal ball, swami,” he murmured, his voice a soft, wicked taunt. “Tonight’s the night. You’re not going to spend the next twelve hours wrapped up in a tight cocoon of misery while you replay the events of this afternoon. You’re going to spend the night wrapped up around me.
“Sam,” she said, and there was no missing the note of panic in her voice as she stumbled backward, away from him. “You don’t understand.” Her voice was breathless, terrified, and he put out his hands to catch her arms, to keep her from falling, to hold her.
“Why are you looking so frightened, Elizabeth?” he murmured, genuinely mystified. “I’m not going to hurt you. You know that. And you want me. You want me as much as I want you. I know you do. You know it, too.”
“I don’t . . .” she began, her voice shaking.
“Say no,” he suggested affably, his fingers caressing her bare upper arms, soothing her. “All you have to do is tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll go back downstairs and sleep on the couch.”
“I . . .” The words were stuck in her throat, and he pressed his advantage, leaning down and brushing her pale, frightened mouth with his.