Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  “It was the middle of winter, Spense. It’s okay. Forget I brought it up. It’s just that I was remembering how handsome you looked that night at the Belvedere.”

  “I wish you would’ve let your hair down.”

  “I had my hair up?” She hated to admit she didn’t remember. Or was he speaking figuratively?

  “You wore a navy blue blazer with a tailored gray blouse, and a gold locket around your neck. Your hair was up, in one those French twisty things. I wanted to pull it down. I couldn’t help picturing how beautiful your long hair would look, falling across your bare breasts while we made love.”

  “You do remember.” She suddenly wanted to kiss him, so she did.

  When they came up for air, he said, “How could I forget the first time I laid eyes on you? It was one of those moments when . . . I knew something big was going to happen. And I was right. It’s taken awhile, but you’ve changed me, Caity, and now there’s no going back.”

  He’d changed her, too, and she wanted to tell him so, but part of her was still mad about the way he’d teased her. “Swiss polka dots? Peter Pan collar?” She punched him in the chest. “You’re cruel for making me think you’d forgotten.”

  “Then now we’re square. Oh, and by the way, I wasn’t really staying at the Belvedere. I just said that to get into the cab with you.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead before moving on to her eyes and cheeks. “I’m glad we’re even, and I can finally forgive you.”

  “Gosh, thanks.” She did her best to stay annoyed, but it was no use. He pressed his hand to the small of her back, urging her closer still. Her heart began to hunt and peck out a rhythm like a child who’d gotten hold of an old typewriter.

  “I forgive you, too,” she said.

  “How’s that?” He swept rough fingers across her collarbone, dipping one into her cleavage.

  “That’s good.” She gulped. “Very good.”

  As he kissed her neck, she could feel his lips curving into a smile against her skin. “No. I meant what exactly did I do that requires your forgiveness?”

  “I’m forgiving you in advance because I’m about to break my one steadfast rule, and it’s all your fault.”

  “What rule’s that?” His erection ground against her, unmistakable, demanding.

  “Never go down on a special agent.”

  His eyes darkened. “If you ask me, I did you a favor. That rule is begging to be broken . . . eventually. But I wouldn’t count on taking the lead, sweetheart. Tonight, I’m in charge.”

  His commanding tone made her knees wobble, and she forgot all about . . . everything. He cupped her bottom, lifting her slightly off her feet, then walked her backward on her heels until the backs of her knees bumped against the bed. She collapsed onto the tired mattress, and the springs gave way beneath her. Then the creak of the bed disappeared into the thump of her own heartbeat, and the urgent rush of their breathing; the tantalizing words he whispered to her over and over making her crazy and ready.

  So. Very. Ready.

  “Spense . . .” she raised herself up and tugged his T-­shirt over his head, exposing a beautiful expanse of muscled chest. He made short work of getting her top off, and it flew through the air and landed with a soft thud, somewhere across the room. He reared back, admiring her.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, and sank his mouth onto her nipple. Sucking and teasing, he headed lower. With his hands, he yanked away whatever pieces of clothing stood between them—­her panties, his boxers. With his forbidden, sexy words, he stripped away the deeper barriers between them, taking her someplace secret, and intimate—­a place meant only for the two of them. He used his mouth in other ways, too, and by the time he nudged himself between her legs, she was already so close she could have soared to climax just from the pressure of his entering her.

  But she wanted more.

  More time, more touching, more Spense. She wanted to tease and taste—­to put her mouth on him as he’d done with her.

  She flipped on top and heard a satisfying moan below her. Reaching for him, she stroked him, kissed him, whispered in his ear what she wanted to do to him. Her world tunneled down until there was nothing left but the two of them, and the pleasure they brought each other. Her head was light, and she tried to force herself to focus. She wanted to remember every sensation, so that she could detail it all later in her fantasies. But each thrilling touch made her forget the one that came before, until she heard a soft curse and the sound of a wrapper tearing. He must’ve had the condom at the bedside, but in her haze she hadn’t noticed until he was already slipping it on. Now he grabbed her by the hips, pulled her up, and guided her onto him. This time, she surrendered to his urgent need. No more thinking. No more talking. She became impossibly lost in this journey she was taking with him. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the moment. There was no longer any past, and the future would have to wait.

  CAITLIN KNEW SHE was dreaming because no way can little girls roll uphill—­and because of her sweet, thick brain fog that made it impossible to lift her head off the deliciously warm object lying beneath her cheek.

  A guttural moan floated in on the haze. Spense. Her face was buried in his chest, and the wiry hairs tickling her nose made her want to sneeze. Again, she tried to lift her heavy head, with no success. A spring from the worn-­out mattress that had made its way up and out poked her butt. Which just might explain her dream: She was a young girl rolling up and down soft, fragrant green hills when suddenly, her old pediatrician, Dr. Dan, ran up behind her and stabbed her with a shot in her gluteus maximus. It’s for your own good, Dr. Dan said, with an unholy gleam in his eye.

  Ugh. With great effort, she pulled away from Spense and the offending mattress spring that had so rudely awakened her. But her brain fog remained inexplicably heavy, and that rolling sensation hung around, too. She was going to be sick. As predicted, nausea attacked in full force, driving her into a sitting position. She heaved only air—­nothing in her stomach, thank goodness.

  “Spense.” Bending forward, she put her throbbing head between her knees and literally fell off of the bed. The thump of her head against the carpet knocked her fully awake, but still the weird cloudiness in her thoughts, the heaviness in her body continued. She crawled over the carpet to Spense’s side of the bed. She shook him and noticed she’d somehow snagged her sleeve—­luckily they’d slipped their nightclothes back on after making love. When Spense didn’t respond, she shook him harder, panic stopping her breath.

  Something was off. Her crippling grogginess made no sense. She hadn’t had a drop to drink last night, but she felt far worse than she had the morning after her bender. She swatted hair off her forehead and noticed it was damp with sweat. It was hot as the devil in here, yet the room had been cold enough to make her reach for her pajamas before she fell asleep.

  She didn’t remember turning on the heat.

  “Spense!” she croaked, through a scratchy throat. “Wake up! We have to get out of here now!”

  No response. Summoning her strength, she slapped him hard on the face. “Get up!”

  Finally, his lids crept open. He frowned at her, “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “I’m sorry, but we have to hurry. I think there’s something wrong with the ventilation system.” An idea was winding its way through her brain. She could taste terrible words on her tongue. She spit them out. “Carbon monoxide.” She rubbed her pounding temples. “Maybe.” Whatever it was, they needed fresh air.

  Spense shoved himself up on his elbows, then he, too, fell out of bed.

  Dammit.

  “Can you stand up?” No way could she physically drag him out of there. Then she slapped her own cheeks, trying to get oriented, and it hit her. All she had to do was open the door and let the lifesaving oxygen flow into the room. With adrenaline reviving both her body and mind, she wobbled to her feet a
nd made her way to the door.

  Jammed.

  She turned the dead bolt and tried again with no luck. “It won’t open,” she shouted.

  To her relief, Spense got to his feet and made it to the door.

  He tried the knob. No luck.

  Together they went to the window. Spense jerked the curtains aside. Nailed shut. Fighting the urge to scream, she took his hand.

  He turned to her, shaking his head. “I thought I could break it, and we could crawl through, but it’s completely blocked by that damn refrigerator.”

  Could it be coincidence? Someone just happened to push a full-­sized refrigerator in front of their window? Maybe. But . . . then the door to their room accidentally got jammed from the outside? Not a chance.

  She found her cell, lying on the floor and dialed 911. “Bargain Bayou. Carbon Monoxide. Send help.” No voice answered back, not even a dial tone. She was talking into a dead phone. No bars. No ser­vice.

  “Call the front desk.” Spense shattered the glass in the window with the butt of the fire extinguisher. He pressed his face up against the sill, sucking in the air leaking in between the back of the refrigerator and the broken pane. Coughing, he doubled over.

  The phone on the nightstand was dead, too. The receiver fell from her hands. Her knees gave way, but Spense dragged her to the window, lifted her to the source of the oxygen. It might be enough to restore her fading consciousness, but she knew it wasn’t enough to keep them alive.

  Spense had his arms around her, holding her tight. “Hang on, Caity. Stay with me.”

  They were going to die.

  Eyeing the old air-­conditioning vent in the ceiling, they both said, in unison, “We’re not going to die.” She was grateful for the fresh burst of energy, and the way the small bit of oxygen had revived their brains. And she was even more grateful for that old mattress, whose sharp, broken spring had saved their lives—­she hoped.

  The next thing she knew, Spense had hoisted her onto his shoulders. His height allowed her to grab hold of the grate, and her will to live enabled her to squeeze herself into the grimy vent. “Window!” she called back down. “Go back for air. Stay there until I open the door.”

  The musty vent was too shallow and narrow to get up on her knees. With darkness all around, she combat-­crawled ahead. Her pajama top climbed toward her neck, offering little protection from the smooth metal beneath her that chilled her aching chest. She stopped a time or two for more dry heaves. Her lungs burned, and her muscles gave way, but the thought of Spense, still locked in that room, wouldn’t let her give up. Each time she collapsed, she willed herself to plant her elbows out front and drag herself another foot forward.

  Keep going.

  But where? Who was waiting for her on the other side? The stale air in the vent gagged her with its rotten-­egg smell, but she desperately needed to keep breathing. Her thoughts jumbled into a confused mass of images. She became a worm, burrowing deeper and deeper into the earth. Her fingers went cold and numb. She could barely see through the darkness.

  Keep going.

  There. Up ahead.

  A light!

  Crisscross shadows in the form of a grate.

  She’d made it to another room.

  “Help!” she screamed, then “Look out below!”

  With her bare foot, she kicked out the grate, then stuck her legs through before dropping like a crash dummy into the room below. She didn’t know what she’d find waiting for her there—­a monster or a savior.

  She thudded onto the carpet. Her back popped and one leg turned beneath her. A cigarette dropped from the mouth of a rail-­thin woman, who leapt out of her bed, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Caitlin smiled.

  A savior.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Friday, October 18

  7:30 A.M.

  Jefferson, Texas

  DR. BORDEN KEPT his eyes down, and his brows formed a deep V, as he flipped through the papers on his clipboard. Spense didn’t know if that meant bad news, or if the Jefferson ER doc’s face always looked like he’d just dripped spaghetti sauce onto his favorite necktie. When he looked up, finally, he managed a half smile. “The blood work confirms the presence of carbon monoxide, but the levels are low. You two are very lucky.”

  “I wouldn’t say lucky, exactly.” Not in Spense’s view. Someone had tampered with the ventilation system at the Bargain Bayou in order to poison Caity and him with carbon monoxide. The window, blocked by an old refrigerator, and the jammed door lock left no doubt in his mind—­someone was trying to kill them.

  “The nearest hyperbaric oxygen chamber is over one hundred miles from here. You’re lucky you don’t need to be air-­evaced for treatment. You’re lucky you didn’t succumb to the gas.”

  In other words, they were lucky to be alive. Spense reached for Caity’s hand. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and cobwebs in her hair, acquired during her crawl through the inn’s air vents, triggered a sneeze.

  She ran her fingers through her messy hair. “Sorry. Guess I need a shower.”

  He shot her a no-­worries smile.

  “So we’re good to go?” Caity pulled her oxygen mask away from her face to speak. Red marks appeared from where the elastic band had cut into her cheeks, then the mask snapped back into place.

  Dr. Borden shook his head. “I’d prefer to keep you overnight to monitor your breathing and your carbon monoxide levels.”

  He’d said prefer, and to Spense that meant there were other options. Like getting the hell out of here. But Caity looked pale. It was one thing for him to go against the doctor’s advice on his own, but quite another to tow Caity away from needed medical care. And he didn’t dare leave her here alone. Being in a hospital was no guarantee she’d be safe from whoever had done this.

  Caity reached over to a gadget on the wall and shut off the flow of oxygen to her mask, then jumped to her feet.

  On the other hand, Caity liked to call her own shots.

  If she thought it was safe for them to leave . . . he tended to trust her judgment. Sure, she was a psychiatrist, but she had a medical degree, just like the guy standing in front of them.

  “There’s no reason to expect our carbon monoxide levels to rise from here,” she said to Borden. “We’re away from the source of the gas, and we’ve been breathing supplemental oxygen for nearly an hour. Aside from a bit of a headache, I feel fine. You said yourself that we’re lucky. The levels are low—­so we don’t need a hyperbaric chamber. Looks like we got out pretty quickly after the gas leak started.” She tugged her mask over her head, then dropped it onto the bed.

  “I’m surprised you woke up. Most ­people who are exposed in their sleep . . .” He left the rest unspoken.

  “I’ll have to send the Bargain Bayou a thank-­you note. A spring poking out of the mattress woke me up.” Caity drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “You filed some kind of report, right?”

  “It’s taken care of. The inn will be shut down until the source of the leak is found.”

  “Good,” Spense said tersely, jerking his own mask off. As long the hotel was going to be shut down for inspection, to ensure the safety of other guests, he wasn’t about to go into the details with the doc or anyone else. He suspected the phone lines had been cut, and the maintenance man who’d gotten Spense out of the room would probably get around to telling someone, sooner or later, that the door lock had been jammed from the outside with a small nail. But with all the chaos surrounding the EMTs’ arrival, no one had called the police.

  Everyone seemed to be operating under the assumption this was a freak accident, and he and Caity were happy to leave it at that for the moment. The last thing they needed was to have to bring the Jefferson cops in on this. Sheridan had a BOLO out on Dutch, and they’d gone against Jim’s direct order not to interfere with the case.
The situation was getting more complicated by the minute—­and nothing seemed to add up. His hands clenched at his sides as the unpleasant, but inescapable, thought came to him that Dutch himself just might be behind this.

  Dr. Borden plopped down on a gurney facing them, as if they were about to have a heart-­to-­heart. “You really should stay twenty-­four hours. It won’t hurt to get a little extra oxygen in your systems, and if everything looks good, we’ll get you out of here first thing in the morning. What’s the hurry?”

  The concern on the doc’s face was genuine. Spense looked to Caity—­this was one call he was going to leave to her. But if it was medically safe to go, they should. Someone was out to get them, and at a small-­town hospital . . . they’d be sitting ducks.

  “You were locked in the room longer, and had the greater exposure . . .” Caity sent him a questioning look.

  He held out his hand, and Borden gave him the clipboard. Spense passed it to Caity. “I feel fine. I can’t read this gibberish, though.”

  She leafed through the labs. “Your carbon monoxide levels are even lower than mine. I guess it pays to be a big guy.”

  He grinned. “So you’re giving me the thumbs-­up to get us out of here, Dr. Cassidy?”

  She nodded. “We’ll sign out AMA—­against medical advice,” she reassured Borden. “That way you won’t be liable if we croak.”

  The doc’s face went white as his coat.

  “I’m joking about croaking.” She offered him a broad smile. “Really, it’s okay. I promise if our symptoms return, we’ll get help.”

  Back at the inn, a jittery, apologetic clerk had their things packed and waiting for them. After loading the car, Spense pulled out his GPS and mapped a new route to Yolanda Langhorne’s cabin near Caddo Lake State Park. They were no longer just looking for a fugitive. They were now on the run from a cold-­blooded killer.

  Best to keep off the main roads as much as possible.

  They’d likely been followed to Jefferson, and they didn’t want that to happen again, both for their own safety, and for Mrs. Langhorne’s—­ assuming, of course, Dutch himself wasn’t the would-­be assassin. One thing was sure—­Spense would be on high alert for a tail from here on out.