“It’s not the clothes I mind so much, or the things I bought for the house,” she said after several minutes passed in silence. “All that can be replaced. But my work—” Breaking off, she took several deep breaths. “I took a course in jewelry making once at the community college. I wanted to make a pair of earrings, only when I got the first one done, I couldn’t bring myself to make the other one. Been there, done that—you know what they say. I should’ve started out with a pin or a ring.” She tried to laugh at her own shortcomings. Pinch-pleating her skirt between thumb and fingers, she said, “What I’m trying to explain is why I can’t just pull a full-blown story out of my mind, even one I’ve already written. It’s like my brain has lots of little doors and if I try to open the same door twice, it says, you’ve already been there, and it won’t open and let me in again. Does that make any sense at all? And the drawings…”
For a long time Carson didn’t say anything, and she thought, men couldn’t understand. Then she changed it to people who aren’t writers couldn’t understand. Actually, Carson had been surprisingly understanding. Surprisingly supportive. She wasn’t used to that—to having someone other than herself to depend on.
“I don’t even know where we’re going,” she said with the closest thing to a smile she could manage. “If you’re planning to take me to my grandparents’ home again, I’d just as soon you let me out here. I’ll call someone. There’s a phone booth right over there.”
“Call who, Matlock?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t. Jeff would come for her in a minute, but she didn’t want to be beholden to him. Didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, including Carson Beckett. Independence was too hard to establish, too tough to maintain, to risk blowing it on account of a single setback.
So then, why was she here?
Because. It was the only answer she could come up with that didn’t scare the bejabbers out of her, and she’d been scared enough for one day.
She yawned, and then did it again. “Is that clock right?”
“Two minutes fast.” His voice sounded gruff, but it was a good kind of gruff. Not angry. She couldn’t have handled anger, not now. “I’m so sleepy I feel like I could hibernate for a solid year. Could we maybe just stay here and doze for—” she yawned “—half an hour?”
“I’ve got a better idea.” Carson laid aside his unfinished sub and started the engine. He didn’t feel sorry for her, he told himself. Well, he did, but that wasn’t what bothered him most. Kit—no, damn it, Kit Dixon! Why did he keep thinking of her as Kit Carson? And what was the implication of pairing their two first names? Just because once upon a time there was a cowboy…
The woman easily fit the description of a walking disaster. With a layer of makeup and about a yard whacked off that skirt, she could pass for a streetwalker. Give her a turban and a few more pounds of jewelry and she could pass for a gypsy fortune-teller.
Funny thing, though, in spite of what that guy at Nags Head had said about living with her—in spite of everything—he had a feeling she was pretty inexperienced. Which was one more reason to take her somewhere safe, hand over the money and leave her the hell alone.
Because he was entirely too interested, and for all the wrong reasons.
He cleared his throat and said, “We both need a good night’s sleep. We can figure out the next step tomorrow with clearer heads.”
His next step would be toward Charleston. Hers would be…up to her. He might suggest that she go back to her grandfather and let him help her get copies of whatever papers she’d lost in the fire. Then she could cash the check and head out again. Start a new story—do whatever it was that writers of children’s books did.
But jeez, it had to be rough, losing her books like that. Even worse than losing her social security card and whatever records she kept, because records could be duplicated. He knew how he’d felt when some creep had stolen his favorite spinning rod and a lifetime collection of tackle, including at least fifty hand-tied flies his father had made back before his arthritis had gotten too bad.
Carson pulled back out onto the highway, leaving the brightly lit, all-but-deserted station behind. What he needed more than anything was to put a few miles between them so that he could regain his perspective.
Yeah, like that was even a remote possibility.
Kit opened her eyes when they stopped again. They were parked outside a neat roadside motel. She couldn’t recall ever seeing it before, which meant they weren’t anywhere near her grandfather’s house.
Carson said, “Wait here, I’ll get us a couple of rooms.”
“I don’t have any luggage.”
“Neither do I,” he said dryly, reminding her that his overnight bag had been in the house when it had burned.
Oh, great. Just what she needed—one more layer of guilt stacked up on top of everything else. Not only had she knocked him into a ditch and then embroiled him in her messy life, now she’d gone and destroyed his clothes.
“Honey, these people aren’t exactly morality police.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she said quickly, but of course, she had. Just that morning she had woken up with the comforting feeling of not being alone. For a moment it had felt so good. So right.
“Be back in a minute.”
When he turned to leave, she called him back. Closing her eyes, she blurted, “Carson—could you ask if they have, uh—rooms with two beds?”
After a long silence during which she wanted to tie herself to a railroad track or something equally melodramatic, he said, “That would be called a double room, right? I’ll ask.”
She watched him walk away—limp away, actually, although even with a slight limp, he had a macho walk. Not a swagger, they were both far too exhausted to swagger, but more like a jaguar than a bunny rabbit. That was the closest she could come, picturing him in one of her stories as a big, ferocious-looking cat. With a heart of gold, of course.
Oh, God, woman, you are so pathetic!
She looked grungy. She smelled like smoke. Everything smelled like smoke, like one of those underground peat fires that burned for years in the Dismal Swamp area. Her beautiful dress that she’d never even worn before tonight smelled like smoke with a hint of vinegar from the sub that had leaked in her lap. She didn’t even know if the fabric was washable. Not that it mattered now. After tonight she never wanted to see the thing again.
The fact that he was still limping only added to her burden of guilt. Watching through the plate-glass window as he crossed the lobby, she had to remind herself that he was a stranger. A stranger dressed in western-style boots all mucked up now with wet ashes and mud, his khakis stained with soot and his blue shirt, several shades paler than his cobalt eyes, rumpled and probably soot-stained, too. His hair needed combing, his jaw needed shaving, and he walked as if it hurt to move.
Darn it, a man like that had no business being so blasted sexy!
And she had no business noticing. Her whole world was falling apart, and all she could think of was what it would be like to lie in the arms of a certain stranger and forget everything that had happened. Forget the argument, the gunshot and that poor man they’d brought in from Martha’s Creek.
Forget her grandfather, who was determined to draw her back in the fold, not because he loved her but because he wanted to control her. Or at least to control the money her father had left her in the will he’d never gotten around to changing before he died. Even now the power struggle between the two men continued.
Dear Lord, Grandmother, couldn’t you for once in your life stand up for me?
But then, why wish for miracles? Flavia Dixon was as much under that cast-iron thumb as her son and daughter-in-law had ever been. As Randolph Hart, her grandfather’s handpicked candidate for the Katherine stakes, was now.
As Kit herself never had been and never would be.
“You’re sure about the double room? They’ve got several singles. I can easily change it.” Carson slid in under
the steering wheel, but didn’t shut the door.
She was tempted to change her mind, but didn’t, because she’d already put him to so much trouble. But for her, he’d already be on his way back to Charleston.
But for her, he would never have left there.
“Do you mind? I don’t snore—at least, I don’t think I do.”
“Snore away, I’m too bushed to notice anything short of a freight train passing through the room.”
Inside the pleasant, impersonal room, Kit looked at the pair of queen-sized beds, then at the open bathroom door. She’d give her next royalty check for a toothbrush and a clean nightgown, or at least an oversized T-shirt.
As if reading her mind, Carson spoke up. “If you don’t mind a T-shirt that that’s been worn a few hours, you can have mine. Might be more comfortable than sleeping in your, um—skivvies.
“How about you?”
He shot her one of the quirky grins she’d seen too few of lately. As tired as she was, it was still powerful enough to register in places no smile was supposed to register.
“Boxers,” he said. “D’you mind?”
“I’m the one who asked you to share, remember? Rooms, I mean—not underwear. I always hated being alone in the dark.” Especially the times she’d been confined for some real or imagined offense to a dark closet for hours on end. “I always leave a small light on somewhere in the house. At least I did,” she added, the afterthought bringing a sharp stab of regret.
“We’ll leave the bathroom light on with the door partly closed. Go grab the first shower, I’ll reach in and hang my T-shirt on the inside doorknob.”
Carson listened for the sound of the shower, then peeled off his shirt, stripped off his undershirt and hung it where she could reach it, just inside the bathroom. Then he shrugged on his blue Brooks Brothers shirt again, leaving it unbuttoned, and stretched out across one of the two beds.
No way was he going to undress until she was sawing logs. The thought of spending the next few hours only a few feet apart, sharing a set of his underwear between them, was enough to short-circuit any common sense he had ever possessed.
His thoughts moved restlessly between Gilbert’s Point and Charleston. First thing in the morning he needed to check in and see how things stood at home. Then he might call in a favor and see what he could find out about the local sheriff’s office. And Margaret. Dammit, he needed her to be home, not gallivanting off to New York. He might even be able to park Kit with her for a few days, just until she got her life back on track.
Kit’s life, not Margaret’s. Margaret’s life had been on track ever since she’d decorated his tree house with curtains made from dust rags, pictures torn out of Good Housekeeping, and replaced his Keep Out sign with a worn-out welcome mat.
Carson was dozing when Kit tiptoed into the room. Standing over him, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, she studied the man who had become such an important part of her life in less than a week. Less than half a week.
Good Lord, had it been only two-and-a-half-going-on-three days?
She dealt in fiction, not fantasy, but if she ever wanted to try her hand at fairy tales, she knew who her Prince Charming would be. And with a bit of role reversal, just how she would awaken him.
His eyes opened suddenly. Kit stepped back, tripped over the shoe she’d stepped out of before going into the bathroom, and flailed her arms. “Dad-blast it—darned shoe! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Sitting up, he flexed his shoulders, and she realized that as rocky as she still felt, he looked as if he felt even worse. He must think she was crazy, the way she’d been hovering over him, staring down while he slept as if she were trying to put a curse on him or something.
What was the feminine version of voyeur? Voyeuress?
“There’s a row of machines down at the other end,” he said, his voice verging on raw. “While I’m still dressed, I could check it out if you’re interested.”
She shook her head. Her stomach was fidgeting after only a few bites of that sub. Not queasy, just tense. “I’m fine, but thanks. There’s plenty of hot water left, but not much soap. I used almost a whole bar on my hair. There wasn’t any shampoo, just two measly bars of soap, but I had to get rid of the smoke smell.”
“No problem. We’ll go shopping first thing in the morning.”
“I might not wake up real early. Can we get a wakeup call?”
“Why bother? First one up wakes the other, and we’ll go from there.”
He stood, stretched and massaged his temples. Kit had stepped back, but the room was small. Smoke, clean male sweat and red hot peppers. Bottle it, and you’d have the world’s most effective aphrodisiac.
Quickly, before she could blurt out anything embarrassing, she turned and folded down the covers. Kicking her shoes aside, she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up around her ears. If she pretended to be asleep when he came back, she might be able to stay out of trouble.
His shirt was off before he closed the bathroom door behind him, revealing a tanned, wedge-shaped back with a few intriguing scars, which she did her best to ignore. Yawning, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on recreating the story of Gretchen’s Ghost from the first line.
It was a lost cause. The picture that emerged on her mental screen resembled an X-rated video—one that left her feeling flushed and restless.
Eleven
Sometime during the night another line of thunderstorms came through. Hard rain pelted the window. Lightning flashed, and a loud blast of thunder brought Kit instantly wide-awake. Carson was beside her in an instant. “Shh, hush, honey, it’s only thunder.”
Carson had been awake for the past hour, sorting through the mess they’d left back at Gilbert’s Point. Trying to keep his mind off the woman in the next bed—a woman who was becoming far too important to him on the basis of a two-and-a-half day acquaintance.
Trying to keep from doing what he was doing now, which was climbing into her bed. Maybe not in it, but close enough.
“I know that,” she shot back in a breathless whisper, but her pulse was going a mile a minute. “I’m not afraid of storms, I was dreaming—something about an explosion…I think.”
Holding her against him, he rocked back and forth. All he could think of to say was, “There, there,” and it wasn’t enough. With everything that had happened to her—happened around her, at least—it was no wonder she had nightmares.
He’d had the occasional nightmare, himself. But then, he was a cop. He’d seen far worse things than drug-related shootings. He’d been out of the picture for several weeks during which time family matters had become increasingly important. He might have lost his edge.
Then again, he might simply have lost his mind.
Minutes passed, minutes during which Carson became increasingly aware of the heat of her body, the delicacy of her bones—aware of other things he tried hard to ignore. Like the heat rising from her skin, the scent of motel soap and warm, sleepy woman, and that subtle fruity-spicy fragrance that was hers alone. He could’ve sworn there was nothing that smelled like that among the amenities provided by the establishment.
She was wearing his T-shirt. He didn’t know what she was wearing underneath—didn’t want to know.
God, talk about an imagination! Maybe he should try his hand at writing fiction. The kind of fiction that was passed around and snickered over by adolescent males.
Down, boy! Wrong time, wrong woman, wrong circumstances.
Her cold hands were moving up and down his sides. They did little to cool the rising heat of his body. Neither did the fact that he was sitting on the side of her bed, twisted into an awkward position that was going to put a crick in his back if he didn’t shift pretty soon—preferably to a horizontal position. Kit had somehow managed to come up on her knees, the covers trailing around her hips, her head, shoulders and hands touching him while her tidy little rear end was aimed in the opposite direction.
“Aren’t you, uh, unco
mfortable?” he ventured.
“Just cold. I can’t seem to stop shivering.” He was still working on an excuse to hand over some money and make a run for the border when she said, “Please? Bad things always make me cold. When the police came to tell me about Mama and Father, I thought I’d never be warm again.”
Yeah, talk about her family, he thought desperately. Talk about the weather—about anything to get his mind off his rampaging hormones. She called her folks Mama and Father? That said something about their relationship.
Her hair tickled his face. In brushing it away, he encountered an ear, minus the usual hardware. Tonight it had been a couple of miniature chandeliers, which she’d removed before heading for the shower.
Talk, man, talk! As long as you’re talking you can’t get into too much trouble. “Why did the police come to tell you? Why not inform your grandparents and let them break the news?”
“They were on a cruise. They flew back from Cozumel and—and…”
Yeah, he could imagine. They’d probably been about as comforting as an empty ice tray. He ran his hands over her hair—soft, warm, alive—and made soothing noises, realizing as he did so that he had somehow shifted position until he was more or less horizontal.
And so was she.
Good thing he was still outside the covers.
But then, so was she. And she was no longer shivering.
Ah, jeez, he needed some kind of a fire wall here. A few thin layers of cotton weren’t going to do it. His T-shirt, his boxers, plus whatever she was wearing underneath. Which wasn’t much. She wasn’t wearing a bra, that much was obvious. When he went to ease her away so that he could think clearly, the back of his hand brushed across her small, soft breast. The nipple stood up like a ripe cherry, begging to be plucked.
Okay, this is not personal, parts of his brain that were still functioning insisted. The woman woke up in a nightmare and he just happened to be the closest thing at hand, right?
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