"You know my name."
"A person can't live within fifty miles ofCatlin and not know who you are." Softly she added, "Especially a person with money in the First American Bank and Trust."
"And didyou have money in the First American Bank and Trust?"
"I don't have money, period. So if you're planning to rob me…"
He made an impatient gesture that caused him to sway unsteadily. Taking a few steps forward, he leaned against the table for support, the gun hitting the wood with a hollowthunk . The exertion made his voice thinner, his breathing raspier. "I don't want your money or your van or anything else. I just need a place to rest. As soon as I can, I'll be on my way."
She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he would stay, get warm, get dry, maybe eat and sleep a little and then be gone. She wanted to believe that he wasn't going to stealanything, that he wasn't going to hurt her. But Dillon Boone was a bank robber, a fugitive on the run from the law for nearly a year, living in the shadows, desperate to avoid jail. He was a criminal who had forced his way into her house and was now holding her hostage. How could she believeanything he said?
His gaze moved past her to the fireplace behind her. The ashes were cold. The morning had held such promise that she hadn't bothered with the fire when she awoke; she had let the embers from last night's fire burn themselves out. It wouldn't take much to coax a flame from the kindling stored in the rough-woven basket on the hearth, wouldn't take long for the well-seasoned hickory logs to blaze into the bone-warming sort of heat that he obviously needed—that she was starting to need. Still, she didn't offer to build a fire. She remained silent, watching him warily.
After a moment he redirected his glance toward the kitchen, where a pot of stew was simmering on the back burner. He was cold, but he didn't ask her to build a fire. He was hungry, but he didn't ask to share her food. Instead, he said, "Your clothes are wet. Go change."
With a shiver, she realized that he was right. The rain had been blowing with enough force that those brief moments she'd spent in it had been enough to turn her faded jeans dark, enough to streak her shirt and to dampen her canvas shoes.
She made her way around the foot of the bed to the small armoire that served as her closet. There she pulled out a heavy chambray skirt and a navy blue sweater, then, eyeing him cautiously, she started toward the bathroom. He was still standing next to the table, his head bowed, his hands spread wide to support him. He looked miserable and just barely able to stay on his feet. If she could make it into the bathroom, she could lock the door; she could open the window, pry the screen off and climb out in no time. Before he even realized that she was taking too long, she would have retrieved the jacket she kept in the workshop and would be halfway down the driveway to the road. She would be cold and wet, but she was in good shape. She could easily make it to theParmenters '.
Ifshe could make it into the bathroom.
She was halfway there when a creaking board brought his head up. He shoved himself away from the table and once more brought the gun up. "Out here," he commanded, closing the distance between them more quickly than she would have thought him capable of. "You change right here."
Seeing her chance to escape slipping away, she faced him, only inches between them, intending to inform him that there was no way she was changing clothes in front of him. But when she opened her mouth, no words came out. Her voice failed to materialize; her brain failed to give the command.
Dillon Boone, so the talk went in town, was a dangerous man, but Ashley had never quite believed it. He had worked inCatlin for several weeks before the robbery, and the people who had met him had liked him well enough. Seth had met him and hadn't found him worthy of suspicion or scrutiny. His crime hadn't been violent; no one had been hurt. The bank's money had been insured. He had used his brains instead of brutality, had used his inside knowledge of the bank's security system—which he had helped install—rather than a weapon, hostages or threats.
But now, in an instant of eye contact, she had become a believer. Standing there, face-to-face, looking into those empty eyes that were colder than the iciest winter wind, sheknew he was dangerous. Just that look made her heart rate increase, made her breathing grow quick and unsteady, made her muscles quiver. Just that look made her realize what a precarious position she was in. Just that look put the fear of God into her.
A sensation feeling distastefully like defeat—acceptance, resignation—swept over her. It was Boone's lucky day. She was a reasonable woman. She wasn't going to fight him. She wasn't going to anger him. She wasn't going to give him a reason to hurt her. She intended to follow his every order, to see to his every need, to fulfill his every wish. She intended to be the best little hostage any fugitive could wish for.
And she intended to come out of this alive.
* * *
How quickly the woman could change, Dillon thought bitterly. Her expression when she had faced him had been mutinous. She hadn't liked the idea that he was giving orders, hadn't liked that he was going to make her undress in front of him. Most of all, she hadn't liked that she wasn't going to be allowed to lock herself in the bathroom, with its two big windows offering a chance to escape.
But she had taken one look at him, one really good face-to-face, up-close-and-personal look at him, and it had scared her in a way that his sudden appearance outside, his barging into her cabin and his gun hadn't. What was it she'd seen that had frightened her? What was it that made him capable of terrorizing an innocent woman with no more than a look?
Tearing her gaze away, she turned and laid the clothes she carried on the hearth. He retreated once more to the table, giving her plenty of room. He'd told the truth when he'd said that he didn't want anything from her. If he'd had his way, the cabin would have been empty and he wouldn't have been forced to take a hostage. The less contact he had with anyone, the better.
The less contact he had with awoman, the better, he amended as she turned her back to him and began removing her T-shirt. Her skin, as it was revealed, was smooth, pale, probably soft, probably sweet smelling. She was naked underneath the shirt, he realized as she drew it over her shoulders, then up over her head. That long expanse of bare skin somehow seemed vulnerable, madeher seem vulnerable … which, of course, she was. She was his prisoner, his hostage. She had to respond to his whims, had to do whatever he commanded.
He wished he could command her to disappear. He wished he could remove her from this place and time, wished he could remove himself from her life. Of course, he couldn't. For now they were stuck with each other.
Raising her arms over her head, she pulled the sweater on. The movement gave him just a glimpse of the soft swell of her breast, fuller than a man might have imagined, swaying unrestrained as she tugged the sweater down. When the ribbed hem was in place somewhere high on her thigh and she began working her jeans off, he swallowed hard and looked away, muttering a silent curse.
He had never known such misery as he'd felt today. His clothing had been soaked within minutes of leaving the wrecked patrol car, and the temperature had gone into a steady downhill slide. Aroundmidafternoon he had considered making a shelter of some sort, but he knew that, without heat and dry clothes, he would never survive the night. Sheer desperation had kept him moving, and sheer luck had brought him here. He had been stumbling through the woods for hours, thinking numbly that death couldn't be worse than what he was already enduring, when he had smelled thewoodsmoke coming from her workshop. He had forced his way through thick undergrowth to the clearing, praying that he would find no more than a place to get out of the rain, a place to recuperate just a little,a place where he could be alone, as he'd been his entire life. He hadn't asked for this. He didn'twant this. God help him, he couldn't deal with this.
Forcing himself to concentrate, he gave the cabin another slow, searching look. It was one big room divided into distinct areas. There was a kitchen in one corner with appliances older than their owner. Through an open door just be
yond the kitchen, he could see the bathroom with its windows and a big claw-foot tub, the absence of a shower curtain indicating the absence of a shower. In the opposite corner was the sleeping area with a bed, dresser and night table. The center of the cabin was her living room, with a sofa, two chairs and the big stone fireplace. Thecold stone fireplace.
There was no television. No telephone. No stereo. No microwave. No dishwasher. No washer and dryer. Who lived out in the middle of nowhere like this without any conveniences beyond electricity and running water, a refrigerator and a stove? What kind of person—what kind of woman—thought that was a sensible way to live? Hadn't she ever realized that her isolation placed her in danger? Hadn't she known there were people in this world who would take advantage of it? Mean people, desperate people. People likehim.
The acknowledgment made him feel sick. So this was how low he had sunk. This was what his old friend Russell had brought him to. As of today, he deserved undeniably every derisive and scornful insult he'd ever been given.
"I—I havea pair sweatpants…"
Slowly he shifted his attention back to her. She was dressed now in a pale blue skirt that reached practically to her ankles and that sweater, its sleeves long enough to warm her hands, its weave heavy andnubby , its fit big and loose … but not loose enough to make him forget that she was naked underneath.
"Th-they belong to Seth, my ex-husband." Her voice was softer, less steady, more frightened. "H-he left them when he did some work out here. You can wear them while your clothes dry."
Dry clothes. Damned if that didn't sound good … and damned if even the idea wasn't enough to make him feel weak. With the hand that still clutched the gun, he gave her silent permission to return to the armoire. "Hecome out here often?"
"Usually every Saturday."
Today was Tuesday. He would be long gone before Saturday rolled around. He intended to get some rest, spend a night—maybe two—and then he was going to head west. Last time he had stopped running in his hometown of Atlanta, but this time, he vowed, he wouldn't stop until he was hell and gone fromCatlin , North Carolina. Maybe he would head forMexico, or maybeCanada. At least he spoke their language.
Whatever his final destination, he was never coming back toNorth Carolina. He was never going to let them take him to trial.
God help him, he was never going to spend another night in jail.
After a moment she returned with a pair of gray sweatpants. Loath to approach him, she laid them across the armof the sofa,then took a few steps safely away. Hiding a grimace of pain, he crossed to the sofa and picked them up. They were soft and well-worn, the fleece incredibly warm around his frozen fingers as he measured their waist against his own. It was a pretty good fit, maybe an inch or two looser than he preferred, but the drawstring that ran through the elastic waist would take care of that. They were going to feel good …ifhe could manage to get them on.If he could bully her into helping him undress.If he could frighten her into coming that close.
Gripping the sweats as if someone might try to rip them from him, he raised his head to look at her. "I—I can't…"His face grew warm with embarrassment. He was thirty-four years old, on the run and trying to hold a hostage, and he was so helpless that he couldn't undress himself. He couldn't even kick off his shoes.
She stared back, her blue eyes rounded, her blond hair frizzing a little as it dried. She was afraid to help him, afraid to come close enough to touch him. No matter how much he might hate it, heneeded her fear. He was in no condition to stop her if she tried to escape. Except for its ability to frighten her, the pistol was worthless; it was for damned sure he would never use it. He hadn't been in the greatest shape when the deputy had picked him up at theSylvanCountyJail this morning for transfer toCatlin , and the gunshot wound, the car crash, the new injuries and seven hours in the cold and rain had left him pretty useless. If she decided to walk away from him right now, to turn her back and leave, he couldn't stop her. He couldn't go after her. He couldn't make her stay.
Part of him wished shewould go. All he wanted was a fire, some food and a night's rest, wrapped in one of her quilts and huddled on the stone hearth, as close to the flames as he could get without being singed. Hedidn't want a hostage. He didn't want any more regrets, any more guilt,any more complications.
He smiled grimly. His life, from the moment of his conception, had been nothingbut complications. There had been the mother who had never wanted him and the father who had always denied him, the kids who had made fun of him and the adults who had looked down on him. And his failures… He'd failed at everything he'd ever tried—his jobs, his relationships, his affairs. It was a failed relationship that had brought him here. Nearly eleven months ago the best friend he'd ever had had set him up. Just this morning the same friend had tried to have him killed.
He wondered how much it cost to buy such a betrayal. How much ofthat four hundred fifty thousand dollars had Russell required to ease his conscience?
The woman took a reluctant step toward him. "Sit down," she requested, her voice little more than awhisper, and he did, sinking heavily onto the nearest chair. The muscles in his legs, relieved of his weight for the first time all day, cramped, then eased and grew warm. He hadn't realized how exhausted he was, hadn't let himself feel the fatigue that now coursed through him.
The woman.Ashley. He silently tried her name and liked it—liked its softness, its gentleness—and because hedid like it, he didn't use it.
She knelt in front of him and reached for his foot. The muddy laces were soaked and didn't want to release their loops. He watched as, with trembling hands, she tugged the laces free, removed one shoe and dripping sock and then repeated the process with the other.
Setting the shoes aside, she reached for the hem of his T-shirt. She had to lean closer to him, close enough that her trembling increased, close enough that he could identify the faint fragrances—roses and sweet honeysuckle—that clung to her hair and skin. Closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch, he gritted his teeth as she began tugging, sending agonizing little waves of pain through his entire body, until finally he groaned aloud and she stopped.
Her fingers, soft and warm, gently probed his rib cage. "I think you've cracked some ribs."
Feeling queasy from the pain, he didn't respond.
"I can tape them for you, but most people find it doesn't help."
"Don't bother."
"I'll have to cut your shirt off. I don't have any of Seth's shirts here."
"Fine." If worse came to wont, when he was finally able to leave, he could take that sweater she was wearing. It was big enough to make, at worst, a snug fit on him, and it would keep him warm and, until the scent of her faded from its fibers, it would remind him of her, standingin front of the fireplace, arms upraised, naked to the waist, pulling it over her head. It was safe to indulge in such thoughts, since nothing would ever come of them. Right now he hurt too badly to even contemplate intimacy ever again, and when he left here, when he was trying to make it out of the South, staying alive and uncaught would require all his energies.
Using scissors from a nearby lidded basket, she began cutting away his shirt. When she was finished, she dropped the tattered pieces on the floor with his shoes, then, witha reluctance he could feel deep in his bones, she reached for the button at the waistband of his jeans. Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he lifted her hand away. "Build a fire, would you?" he asked, his voice shakier than he would have liked. "I'll do this."
Relief easing the tautness of her features, she got to her feet, placed a pile of kindling on the grate over a small waxy glob, then set a match to the starter. The pieces caught fire almost immediately, as did the narrow lengths of old, seasoned wood she laid over them. She gave them a minute or two to burn before adding longer, thicker cuts. When the sap was crackling and the flames were curling over and around the top log, she dusted her hands and sat back on her heels. She didn't look over her shoulder at him. She didn't check to see what progres
s he'd made. She simply sat there and stared into the flames.
Dillon wasn't sure he could finish the job she'd started. Every breath was agony, and moving, bending, tugging and wriggling were all going to hurt like hell. But what were his alternatives? Spending the night in clammy, wet jeans? He would never get warm enough to rest. Letting her undress him? He would never getrelaxed enough to rest.
Sliding the gun deep between the seat cushion and the side of the chair, he forced himself to his feet. He unfastened his jeans,then began working the tight, wet fabric down his hips, his body protesting every movement. His breathing grew heavy and labored as pain swept over him, bringing with it fiery heat. By the time he'd stripped, then stepped into the sweats she'd given him, his face was flushed and damp, his stomach was churning and his muscles were quivering uncontrollably.
Taking breaths too deep to be painless but too shallow to fill his lungs, he removed an item from his jeans pocket,then made his way carefully to the bed. It was neatly made and turned back, a pink blanket sandwiched between white sheets and a pastel-hued quilt. He stacked the pillows against the headboard, then lowered himself to the mattress, groaning aloud as he settled in. "Do you have a first-aid kit?"
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