Survive the Night

by Marilyn Pappano

  His voice was as gentle as hers was caustic, and it fed the anger she needed to remain in control of the fear seeping through her. "Not even in my worst nightmare."

  "Iam your worst nightmare, aren't I?" There was a moment of silence before he spoke again—or, at least, she thought he did. The words were so soft, so hesitant,so insubstantial that they might have been nothing more than the whisper of the wind. "I'm sorry."

  * * *

  Dillon awakened Wednesday morning, feeling cold, stiff and worse than half-dead. The pink blanket was heavy, but not heavy enough to combat the early-morning chill by itself, and he'd given up its accompanying quilt right after the fire had gone out sometime during the night.

  Rubbing his hand over his face, then over his hair, he felt the stubble of beard and hair standing on end. Ignoring that, he closed his eyes and did a rather uncomfortable assessment of his condition. Breathing still hurt like hell, but he thought he detected a slight improvement—or was that merely wishful thinking? His legs were stiff, his muscles taut,his joints sore. His shoulder was hot and so tender to the touch that he didn't bother trying to move it. He wondered if it was infected, or if some of that herbal stuff Ashley had used on it had caused further damage. Last night it had been sore; after her ministrations, this morning it was soreand his right arm felt unusually heavy, his hand unusually numb.

  Then he looked down and saw the reason for the discomfort: sometime in the past few hours, Ashley had fallen asleep deeply enough to seek whatever comfort she could find. What she hadfound—all she had found—was the slight pillow of his hand. Her cheek was pressed against his palm, her chin tucked into the curve of his fingers. His arm felt as if he'd held a bowling ball all night, deadening the nerves, stiffening the joints. But he had never touched a bowling ball so soft, so smooth. Even with his hand half-numbed, he could feel every place her skin touched his, could feel the differences between his own callus-roughened skin and hers, as delicate and fine as anything he'd ever touched.

  Moving cautiously so he wouldn't disturb her, he flexed his fingers, touching the tips to her jaw. Squared off, it gave her a stubborn look and kept her just barely from crossing over from mere attractiveness into prettiness. Better than pretty, though, her face was interesting. It showed character. Personality. She was strong. Generous. Kind—and he had known so little kindness in his life that he recognized it instinctively when he saw it. Her eyes were bright, clear, probably filled with trust for everyone in the world but him, and her mouth seemed to want to curve into a smile as naturally ashis didn't. Altogether it was a good face, one that would age with great grace. When she was eighty years old and her blonde hair had turned white, when fine wrinkles had replaced the smoothness of youth, she would surpass prettiness with uncommon beauty.

  With a heavy, suddenly almost forlorn sigh, he fixed his gaze on the kitchen window and wished he had the keys that were in his jeans pocket halfway across the room. She was sleeping so soundly that he was sure he could unfasten the cuff from his wrist and secure it for safety to the bed frame. Then he could get up, build a fire,see about breakfast. He could make rather urgent use of her bathroom, could wash his face, brush his teeth,maybe even shave. All that would go a long way toward making him feel human again.

  Setting her free would go even further.

  Who was he kidding? He was still weak, still feeling some serious pain. He would be lucky if he could even get to his feet without help. Building a fire, fixing breakfast, finding a steady hand for a razor? Not likely. And setting her free? Letting her go, when he knew the first thing she would do was turn him in, when she hadn't even bothered last night to deny that she would? Letting the only thing that stood between him and a jail cell walk out of his reach? Not a chance in hell.

  Not even if refusing did make him feel like the lowest of bastards.

  Outside, the sky was dreary and dark, although it looked as if the rain had stopped, at least for a while. Had the weather slowed the search party yesterday as much as it had hindered him? Had they continued through the night, or had they taken a break so they would be well rested this morning? How long would it take them to follow his trail here? He didn't kid himself that they wouldn't. There were men up in these mountains who could track a sparrow flying too close to the ground. There was no way they could possibly miss the tracks he'd left for them—the footprints in the mossy ground, the scarred places where he'd slid down hills, the broken foliage, the overturned stones, the unmistakable signs of passage. He might as well have painted signs pointing to Ashley's cabin and proclaiming Here I Am.

  He had to get out of here today, even if he did feel like death warmed over. Even if another day or two in this bed wouldgo a long way toward physical healing. Even if another day or two in this place—with this woman?—might go a long way toward spiritual healing.

  He could use some spiritual healing.

  No doubt theNorth Carolinaprison system would be happy to provide him with many long months where he could concentrate on just that.

  So what were his options? There was no way he could leave here on foot. Hadn't he just admitted that he probably couldn't even make it twenty feet to the bathroom without help? He could steal her van, but the piece of junk was a stick shift, and he was pretty sure that, with this shoulder, shifting gears was out of the question. He was also pretty sure that there was no way he could drive that van through the town ofCatlinwithout being noticed, and that was a risk he couldn't take. Besides, taking the junk heap—Whathad she called it? Bessie? Taking Bessie would leave her stranded up here all alone. If something happened to her… That was another risk he couldn't take.

  That left only one choice. He would ask her to take him outside the county, maybe even outside the state. They weren't far from the state line; maybe theTennesseecops weren't looking for him yet. He would have her let him off somewhere outside the immediate area, and he would do something to temporarily disable the van—let the air out of the tires, maybe—so that she couldn't notify the authorities right away. He would get a head start, and she would be rid of him. They would both be happy.

  He could actually remember the last time he would have described himself as happy. It had been nearly a year ago, and his good friend Russell had sent him toCatlin to install an alarm system in the local bank. He had liked the town, had liked the people. He had thought it must be a nice little place to live, and he had enjoyed the few weeks he had lived there.

  Then everything had gone more wrong than it had ever been in his entire life, and it wasn't ever going to be right again.

  On the floor beside the bed, Ashley stirred, drawing his attention back to her. A shiver rippled through her, and she huddled deeper into the quilt he'd wrapped around her during the night. Its warmth wasn't enough to reverse the waking process, though; gradually her sleep lightened. Her eyes moved restlessly behind closed lids. Her breathing changed, becoming more measured, and her jaw tightened against his hand.

  At last she opened her eyes. Dillon looked down at her, and she gazed up at him. Already there was wariness in her expression. There was no moment of confusion, no drowsy bewilderment, no lack of awareness. One moment she was asleep, and the next she was looking at him with such distrust and resentment that for a second he thought it actually hurt. But it was just his ribs, he told himself, and a breath taken the wrong way.

  She raised her head from his hand and used her free hand to rub her face. Her hair stood high on top, was crushed flat on the side that had rested in his palm and curled in wayward wisps all over. She looked about ten years old, innocent and defenseless.

  But she was closer to thirty. She was no child, but a woman. Very much a woman.

  It had been a long time since he'd felt like much of a man.

  "I need the key."

  He knew exactly what she needed; it had been a long night. "You'll have to help me get it."

  Shrugging off the quilt, she awkwardly got to her feet. She rolled her head to ease the kinks in her neck,then star
ted to stretch her arms over her head. The handcuffs stopped her. "Can you stand up?"

  He pushed the covers back,then swung his feet to the floor. The rug where she had spent the night was warm beneath his toes, but that was the only warmth he found. The room was cold, and Ashley's gaze was even colder. Holding his arm to his ribs and taking the deepest breath he could manage, he pushed himself to his feet. His vision dimming, his knees threatening to buckle, he muttered a savage curse that ended in a sound too close for comfort to tears.

  Cool hands closed around his upper arms, lending support. "Try to relax and breathe evenly. It'll pass."

  Not before it killed him. How was he ever going to get out of here today if he couldn't even manage standing on his own feet without assistance?

  With more will than he'd known he possessed, he forced the pain to the back of his mind, forced it under control. When he thought he just might survive, he carefully moved her out of his way and, one awkward, agonizing step at atime, he made his way, Ashley trailing at his side, to where his jeans lay on the rug. She bent and picked them up, patted the pockets and found the keys, then offered them to him.

  For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he unlocked the handcuffs, removing them from his own wrist, then hers. "You can go first."

  She started toward the bathroom.

  "But you have to take your clothes off."

  That stopped her in her tracks. For a long moment she stood motionless, then, very slowly, she turned to face him. Her voice was as unforgiving as the wintry mountains outside. "Excuse me?"

  He shifted uncomfortably. "You have to take your clothes off out here first. I can't let you climb out the window, and I'll be damned if I'm going to keep you company in there, so taking your clothes seems to be the only choice."

  "But I'm not wearing anything under—" She broke off, and he briefly squeezed his eyes shut. He knew. As if by magic, the image from last night popped into his mind: Ashley, standing in front of the fireplace, all soft, bare skin backed by rugged stone, arms raised to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of breast. Sweet damnation, heknew.

  As she realized that he was serious in his demand, expressionless ice turned to mutiny. "I won't."

  "It's the only way you're getting out of my sight," he said, hearing the regret in his voice. "If you're worried about your modesty, don't be. I'll look the other way. If you're worried about your virtue… Hell, even if I could get hard, which I seriously doubt, it's for damned sure I couldn't do anything about it."

  In an instant her face flushed from pale shock to the fiery heat of… What was it?he wondered. Embarrassment over his crudity? Anger that he wasn't going to give in? Revulsion at even the mere idea of being intimate with him? Probably a combination of all three, he admitted, the acknowledgment accompanied by a stinging bitterness.

  "Take your clothes off," he ordered, his words sharp, his tone defensive, "or sit down so I can cuff you to the leg of the sofa soI can go in there."

  She stared at him for a moment, pure hatred contaminating the blue of her eyes,then she walked to the bathroom door, where she stopped and faced him once again. With slow, deliberate, precise movements, she reached beneath her sweater to the waistband of her skirt. She unfastened the top three or four buttons, opening the skirt enough that she could slide it down her hips and step out of it. Next she grasped the ribbed bottom of the sweater in both hands and peeled it up and over her head, and the whole time, except when the fabric covered her face, she never took her eyes off him.

  Wearing nothing but lacy little panties—he wasn't looking; he swore he wasn't—she bent to pick up the skirt, bundled it together with the sweater and flung both pieces at him. An instant later the bathroom door slammed shut, followed by the unmistakable click of a lock.

  Wondering how he could suddenly feel so feverishly warm when only minutes ago he'd been close to freezing, Dillon clutched the clothing he'd caught. The sweater was warm with her body heat and fragrant with her scent. Simply holding it made his fingers itch to holdher. Simply smelling it made him wonder how much sweeter, how much more enticing those scents were onher.

  Muttering a curse, this one no less desperate but far more vicious than the earlier one, he threw the garments away from him, sending them sailing across the room, bouncing off the closed, locked door. He was a fool. He should have taken one look at her yesterday through the workshop window and known that this was no place for him. He should have listened to the first sound of her voice—CanI help you?—andkept right on going. He never should have come inside here. Never should have made her undress in front of him. Never should have made her touch him. Never should have looked at her just now.

  He was such a liar. He wouldn't look, he'd said. He wouldn't threaten her virtue, he'd promised. He couldn't even get hard, he'd assured her. But hehad looked, and if he thought there was any chance he could sweet-talk anything at all out of her, he would damn well try. And, as if he didn't have enough problems, as if he weren't already suffering enough, hewas hard. As a rock.

  He'd made it a habit over the years to avoid exercises in futility. Trying to change people's opinion of him, trying to prove that he wasn't a total failure, trying to convince anyone at all that he wasn't guilty of the crime he'd been accused of—those were all lost causes. They weren't worth the breath he would expend arguing.

  Wanting this…

  That was the biggest lost cause of all.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  Ashley was so damned cold that her teeth were chattering and goose bumps had popped out all over very private parts of her body. Mouthing silent curses, she tried wrapping up in the only bath towel that hung on the bar, but it was too small to provide decent coverage, and the robe that usually hung on the back of the door was gone—tossed into the washing machine three days before. She had never bothered, she remembered, to transfer the load to the dryer, which meant it was still wet and quite possibly growing all sorts of nasty mildew.

  For the first few minutes after she'd taken care of business, she had been smug. Maybe she was practically naked and cold, but at least she'd gotten to use the facilities.He was half-naked and cold, too—although he did have the option of wrapping up in one of her quilts—and he had the added misery of being unable to heed Mother Nature's call. But about five minutes ago, she had smelledwoodsmoke , and her smugness had disappeared. He'd built a fire, and she wanted to be in front of it, absorbing its heat until she sizzled. Sheneeded that warmth, almost as much as she needed her clothing and the false sense of security it gave her.

  She had to admit that he'd made the best choice. If she were in his position, she would have made the same decision. She certainly couldn't escape this way, and being naked was a sight better than having his company in here.

  But she was still angry. Andcold. She didn't tolerate cold well. Hot, muggy summers didn't faze her, and the mountains' frigid winters were fine, too, as long as she was prepared.Coats, scarves, gloves, fires, blankets, quilts . She believed in staying warm.

  Reaching out, she laid one hand flat against the door. Was the wood warm? Could there be such a tremendous difference between the room temperature out there and the chill inside, or was she simply so cold that even the slightest warmth felt like a heat wave to her blue fingers?

  This was ridiculous. She couldn't stay in an unheated bathroom all day. So she was naked and there was a man on the other side of the door. It wasn't the first time, and—she fervently hoped—it wouldn't be the last.

  But itwas the first time with a man like Dillon Boone. The other men in her past—Seth and one other—had been lovers; they had been a part of her life, invited in,cared for. Boone had simply barged in, pointed a gun at her and made threats. He had chained her like an animal, had forced her to sleep on the floor at his side,had demanded not once but twice that she strip in front of him.

  But once he'd gained her cooperation, she felt compelled to admit, he had put the gun away and she hadn't
seen it since. He had offered to share the bed with her, and when it had gotten cold during the night, although he'd needed all the warm covers for himself, he had given up the warmest of them all to tuck around her. And although hehad made her undress, he had been as uncomfortable with her nudity asshe was.

  She simply had to gather whatever dignity she could find, open the door, walk out and find her clothes and put them on. Then she would huddle on the hearth until the fire's heat had seeped into every bone in her body.

  Discarding the skimpy towel, she walked to the door, drew a deep breath,then stepped into the outer room. Before she'd taken more than a few steps, she reached her clothes. Hastily, gratefully she pulled them on, burying her hands in the sweater's long sleeves, padding barefoot to the fireplace, where Boone was standing. He gave her another of those oddly regretful looks, this one not quite reaching her face, and gestured toward the couch. Biting her tongue on the protest that bubbled up, she sat down where he indicated, on a rug in front of the old sofa. One end of the handcuffs was already attached to the left sofa foot; bending cautiously, he fastened the other around her wrist.