Diamond Bay (11 page)

One level black brow lifted at her sarcasm. "It could
be."

"All right, forget it. Play your little games. You don't
answer my questions and I won't answer yours. Deal?"

He watched her for a little longer, and Rachel kept her gaze
level, not backing down an inch.
"My name is Sabin," he finally said, the words slowly drawn
out of him, as if he begrudged every syllable.

She absorbed the name's sound, her mind lingering over the feel
and form of it. "And the rest of it?"

"Is it important?"

"No. But I'd like to know, anyway."

He paused only a fraction of a second. "Kell Sabin."

She held out her hand. "Glad to meet you, Kell Sabin."

Slowly he took her hand, his callused palm sliding against her
softer one and his hard, warm fingers wrapping around hers. "Thank you for
taking care of me. I've been here four days?"

"This is the fourth day."

"Fill me in on what's happened."

He had the manner of a man accustomed to command; rather than
requesting, he ordered, and it was clear that he expected his orders to be
obeyed. Rachel pulled her hand from his, disturbed by his warm touch and the
shivery way it affected her. Clasping her fingers together to dispel the
tingling in them, she rested her hands on the table. "I pulled you out of
the water and brought you here. I think you hit your head on one of the rocks
that line the mouth of the bay. You had a concussion and were in shock. The
bullet was still in your shoulder."

He frowned. "I know. Did you take it out?"

"Not me. I called the vet."

At least something could startle him, though the expression was
quickly gone. "A veterinarian?"

"I had to do something, and a doctor has to report all
gunshot wounds."

He eyed her thoughtfully. "You didn't want it reported?"

"I thought
you
might not want it reported."

"You thought right. What happened then?"

"I took care of you. You were out of it for two days. Then
you started waking up, but the fever had you out of your head. You didn't know
what was going on."

"And the FBI agents?"

"They weren't FBI. I checked."

"What did they look like?"

Rachel began to feel as if she were being interrogated. "The
one who calls himself Lowell is thin, dark, about five foot ten, early forties.
The other one, Ellis, is tall, good-looking in a toothpaste-ad sort of way,
sandy-brown hair, blue eyes."

"Ellis," he said, as if to himself.

"I played dumb. It seemed the safest thing to do until you
woke up. Are they friends of yours?"

"No."

Silence fell between them. Rachel studied her hands, waiting for
another question. When none came she tried one of her own. "Should I have
called the police?"

"It would have been safer for you if you had."

"I took a calculated risk. I figured the odds were more in my
favor than yours." She took a deep breath. "I'm a civilian, but I
used to be an investigative reporter. I saw some things in those days that
didn't add up, and I did a little digging, found out some things before I was
warned not to go any deeper. You could have been a drug runner or an escaped
convict, but there wasn't any hint of anything like that on the scanner. You
could also have been an agent. You had been shot twice. You were unconscious
and couldn't protect yourself or tell me anything. If… people…were hunting you,
you wouldn't have had a chance in a hospital."

His lashes had dropped, shielding his expression. "You've got
quite an imagination."

"Haven't I," she agreed mildly.

He leaned back in his chair, wincing a little as he tried to get
his shoulder comfortable. "Who else knows I'm here, other than the
vet?"

"No one."

"Then how did you get me up here? Or did the vet help you?
You're not Superwoman."

"I put you on a quilt and dragged you up here, with help from
the dog. Maybe he thought it was a game." Her gray eyes darkened as she
thought of the Herculean effort she had made to get him inside the house.
"When Honey got here, we lifted you onto the bed."

"Honey?"

"The vet. Honey Mayfield."

Sabin watched her quiet face, wondering at what she wasn't saying.
How far had she dragged him? How had she gotten him up the steps to the porch?
He had carried wounded men out of battle, so he knew how difficult it was, even
with his strength and training. He outweighed her by at least eighty pounds;
there was no way she could have lifted him. She could be lying about not having
anyone else help her, but there wasn't any reason for her to do so; all he
could do was read between the lines. Almost anyone would have called the police
immediately on finding a man unconscious on their beach, but she hadn't. Few
people would ever have considered the options and circumstances that had
occurred to her. People just didn't think about such things. It wasn't a part
of their normal lives; it only happened in movies and books and therefore
wasn't real. What life had she led that would make her so cautious, so aware of
something that should have been beyond her experience?

They both heard the approaching car at the same time. Instantly
she was out of her chair, her hand on his shoulder. "Go to the bedroom and
close the door," she said evenly, not noticing the way his eyebrows lifted
at her order. She went to the window and looked out; then the tension visibly
left her body.

"It's Honey. Everything's okay. I guess she stayed away as
long as her curiosity would let her."

"How's the headache?"
the veterinarian asked, peering into his eyes.
She was a big, strong-boned woman with a friendly, freckled face
and a light touch. Sabin decided that he liked her; she had a good bedside
manner.

"Hanging in there," he grunted.

"Help me get his shirt off," she said to Rachel, and the
two women gently and efficiently stripped him. He was glad that he'd chosen to
wear the cutoffs, or they would have had his pants off, too. He didn't have any
modesty to worry about, but it still disconcerted him to be handled like a
Barbie doll. He dispassionately observed the purpled, puckered skin around the
stitches in his leg, wondering about the extent of the muscle damage. It was
essential that he be able to do more than hobble, and soon. The damage to his
shoulder, with its complex system of muscle and tendons, was likely to be more
permanent, but mobility was his greatest concern at the moment. Once he had
decided what course of action to take he would need to move fast.

Fresh bandages were applied, and he was put back inside his shirt.
"I'll be back in a couple of days to take out the stitches," Honey
said, repacking her bag. It struck Sabin that not once had she asked his name
or any other question that didn't deal with his physical well-being. Either she
was remarkably incurious or she had decided that the less she knew, the better.
It was a view that he wished Rachel shared.
Sabin had always made it a rule not to
involve
innocent citizens; his work was too
dangerous, and though he knew the risks of his job and accepted them, there was
really no way Rachel could comprehend the extent of the risk she was taking in
helping him.

Rachel went out with Honey, and Sabin hobbled to the door to watch
as they stood by Honey's car, talking in low voices. The dog, Joe, took up a
position at the foot of the steps, a low growl working in his throat as he
turned first to watch Sabin at the door, then back to Rachel, as if he couldn't
decide where to place his attention.
His foremost instinct was to guard Rachel, but those same instincts
couldn't allow him to ignore Sabin's alien presence at the
door.

Honey got in the car and drove off, and after a final wave Rachel
walked back to the porch.
"Calm down," she admonished the dog softly, daring to give him
a swift touch on the neck.
His growl
intensified, and she looked up to see Sabin coming out on the porch.

"Don't come too close to him," she warned. "He
doesn't like men."

Sabin regarded the dog with remote curiosity. "Where did you
get him? He's a trained attack dog."

Astonished, Rachel looked down at Joe, standing so close by her
leg. "He just wandered up one day, all skinny and beat-up. We reached an
understanding. I feed him, and he stays around. He's not an attack dog."

"Joe," Sabin said sharply. "Heel."

She felt the animal quiver as if he'd been struck, and
blood-chilling snarls worked up from his throat as he stared at the man, every
muscle in his big body quivering as if he longed to launch himself at his enemy
but was chained to Rachel's side.
Before she thought of the danger she went down on one knee and put her
arm around his neck, talking
softly to him in reassurance.
"It's allright," she crooned. "He won't hurt you, I
promise. Everything's all right."

When Joe was calmer Rachel went up on the porch and deliberately
stroked Sabin's arm, letting the dog see her. Sabin watched Joe, unafraid of
the dog, but not pushing him, either. He needed to have Joe accept him, at
least enough to let him leave the house without attacking.

"He was probably abused by his owner," he said.
"You're lucky he didn't have you for breakfast the first time you walked
out of the house."

"I think you're wrong. It's a possibility that he was a guard
dog, but I don't think he was trained to attack. You owe him a lot. If it
hadn't been for him, I couldn't have gotten you up from the beach."
Suddenly she realized that her hand was still on his arm, slowly moving up and
down, and she let her arm fall to her side. "Are you ready to go back
inside? You must be tired by now."

"In a minute." He slowly surveyed the pine thicket to
the right and the road that curved away to the left, committing distances and
details to memory for future use. "How far are we from a main road?"

"About five or six miles, I guess. This is a private road. It
joins the road from Rafferty's ranch before it runs into U.S. 19."

"Which way is the beach?"

She pointed to the pine thicket. "Down through the
pines."

"Do you have a boat?"

Rachel looked at him, her gray eyes very clear. "No. The only
means of escape are on foot or driving."

The faintest smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "I wasn't
going to steal your car."

"Weren't you? I still don't know what's going on, why you
were shot, or even if you're a good guy."

"With those doubts, why haven't you called the police?"
he returned, his voice cool. "I obviously wasn't wearing a white hat when
you found me."

He was going to stonewall it to the end, the ultimate
professional, alone and unemotional. Rachel accepted that she wasn't entitled
to full knowledge of his situation, even though she had saved his life, but she
would very much like to know that she had done the right thing. Though she had
acted on her instincts, the uncertainty was gnawing at her. Had she saved a
rogue agent? An enemy of her country? What would she do if it turned out to be
that way?
The worst
part of it was the undeniable and growing attraction she felt for him, even
against her own better judgment.

He didn't say anything else, and she didn't respond to his
provoking mention of his lack of clothing when she'd found him. She glanced at
Joe and turned to open the screen door. "I'm getting out of this heat. You
can take your chances with Joe if you want to stay out here."

Sabin followed her inside, measuring the unyielding straightness
of her back. She was angry, but she was also disturbed. He would have liked to
reassure her, but the hard truth was that the less she knew, the safer she was.
He had no way of protecting her in his present condition and circumstances.
The fact that she was protecting
him, willingly endangering herself even though her guesses ranged uncomfortably
close to the truth, did something unwanted to his insides.
Hell, he thought in disgust at himself, everything about her did
something to his insides. He was already familiar with the scent of her flesh
and the tender, startlingly intimate touch of her hands. His body still felt
the press of hers against him, making him want to reach out and pull her back.
He had never needed another human
being's closeness, except for the physical closeness required for sex.
He eyed her bare, slender legs and softly rounded buttocks; the
sexual urge was there, all right, and damned strong, considering his general
physical condition. The dangerous part of it was that the thought of lying in
the darkness with her and simply holding her was at least as attractive as the
thought of taking her.

He leaned in the doorway and watched as she efficiently finished
cleaning the dishes. There was a brisk, economical grace to her movements, even
while she was doing such a mundane task. Everything was organized and logical.
She wasn't a fussy woman. Even her clothing was plain and unadorned, though her
beige shorts and simple blue cotton shirt didn't need any adornment other than
the soft feminine curves beneath them. Again he was aware of the tantalizing
image of those curves, just as if he knew how she looked naked, had already had
his hands on her.

"Why are you staring?" she asked without looking at him.
She had been as aware of his gaze as she would have been of his touch.

"Sorry." He didn't explain, but, then, he doubted that
she would really want to know. "I'm going back to bed. Will you help me
with the shirt?"

"Of course." She wiped her hands on a towel and went
ahead of him to the bedroom. "Let me change the sheets first."

Fatigue pulled at him as he leaned against the dresser to ease the
strain of his weight on his left leg. His shoulder and leg throbbed, but the
pain was to be expected, so he ignored it. The real problem was his lack of
strength; he wouldn't be able to protect Rachel or himself if anything
happened. Did he dare remain here while he healed? His brooding gaze remained
fixed on her as she put fresh linens on the bed, his available options running
through his mind. Those options were severely limited.
He had no money, no
identification, and he didn't dare call to be picked up, because he had
no idea of the extent to which the agency had been compromised, or who he could
trust.
He wasn't in any shape to do anything
anyway; he had to recuperate, so it might as well be here. The small house had
its advantages: the dog outside was a damned good defense; the locks were
strong; he had food and medical care.

There was also Rachel.

Looking at her was easy; it could become an uncontrollable habit.
She was slim and healthy-looking,
with a honeyed tan that made her skin look luscious.
Her hair was thick and straight and shiny, a dark ash-brown so
completely lacking in any warm highlights that it almost had a silvery sheen.
It went well with her wide, clear, lake-gray eyes. She wasn't tall, less than
medium height, but she carried herself so straight that she gave the impression
of being a tall woman. And she was soft, with rounded breasts that nestled into
his palms….

Damn! The image was so real, so strong, that it kept creeping
back. If it was only a fever-induced dream, it was the most realistic he had
ever known. But if it had really happened, when and how? He had been
unconscious most of the time, and out of his head with fever even when he'd
been awake. Yet he kept reliving the sensation of her hands on him, stroking
gently, with the open intimacy of lovers, and he had either had his hands on
her or his imagination had lurched into overdrive.

She plumped the pillows and turned to him. "Do you want to
sleep in your shorts?"

For an answer he unsnapped the cutoffs and let them drop, then sat
down on the bed so she could work the shirt off his shoulder.
The warm, faintly floral scent of
her enveloped him as she leaned close, and he instinctively turned his head
toward it, his mouth and nose pressing into her
shoulder.
She hesitated, then quickly freed him
from the shirt and moved away from his touch. The moist warmth of his breath
had heated her skin through the fabric of her shirt and played havoc with the
even rhythm of her heartbeat. Trying not to let him see how his nearness had
affected her, she neatly folded the shirt and placed it on a chair, then picked
up his cutoffs and placed them on top of the shirt. When she looked at him
again he was lying on his back, his right leg bent at the knee and raised, his
right arm resting across his stomach.
His white briefs contrasted sharply with his bronzed skin, reminding her
that he didn't have any tan lines on his body.
She groaned inwardly. Why did she have to think about that now?

"Do you want the sheet over you?"

"No, the fan feels good." He lifted his right hand from
his stomach and held it out to her. "Sit here for a minute."

Her mind told her that it wasn't a good idea. She sat down,
anyway, just as she had done so many times since he'd been in her bed, her body
angled to face him and her hip against his side. He draped his arm over her
thighs, his hand cradling the curve of her hip as if to keep her nestled
against him. His fingers, curving around to her buttock, began to move
caressingly, and her heart started pounding again. She looked up to meet his
eyes and was unable to look away, caught by the mesmerizing black fire.

"I can't give you all the answers you want," he
murmured. "I don't know them myself. Even if I tell you I'm a good guy, you'd
still only have my word for it, and why would I cut my own throat by telling
you anything else?"

"Don't play devil's advocate," she said sharply, wishing
she could find the will to break away from the seductive power of his gaze and
touch. "Let's deal in facts. You were shot. Who shot you?"

"I was ambushed, set up by one of my own men – Tod
Ellis."

"Bogus-FBI-agent Ellis?"

"The same, from the description you gave."

"Then make a call and turn him in."

"It isn't as simple as that. I'm on a month's vacation from
the agency. Only two men knew my location, both of them my superiors."

Rachel sat very still. "One of them betrayed you, but you
don't know which one."

"Perhaps both of them."

"Can't you contact someone higher up?"

Something cold and furious flashed in his eyes.
"Sweetheart, you can't get
much higher.
I'm not even certain I can get
through.
Either one of
them has the power to declare me an outlaw, and calling from here would
endanger you."