Avenging Angel (12 page)

“You could do anything,” he said.

“Not that,” she said, giving him a surprised glance. For the last fourteen hours he’d dragged her around pretty much at will, making her doubt if she could do anything for herself. She couldn’t imagine what made him think otherwise.

She sighed and ran her hands back through her hair, pushing it off her face. She didn’t understand him. Of course, she didn’t need to understand him. At the next stop she would call Henry at the club, and her life would be her own again—unless Austin got a hold of her first.

Damn, what a mess.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, putting out the effort to be gracious. “I think there’s something left from breakfast . . . if you can call what we ate ‘breakfast.’ ” Her graciousness slipped a little at the end, but given the food, she didn’t blame herself.

She picked up the fast-food bag between them and dug through the contents. He made a request if she did find anything, and she murmured a reply. She’d had to give up her anger, she told herself. She was stuck with him for a while yet, and anger only wore away at their nerves. At this point neither of them could afford to have their nerves worn away. She felt like warmed-over death, and he was starting to look like it.

She found what he’d requested and delicately picked up the cold french fry with her fingertips. “You’ll eat anything.”

“No, I won’t,” he said, popping the fry in his mouth. “I won’t eat stuffed zucchini.”

“Stuffed zucchini, mmm” The thought made her mouth water. “Crab and Monterey Jack cheese, seasoned bread crumbs, a fresh salad on the side with mandarin oranges.” She picked up another french fry and gave it a dubious look. “I wish you hadn’t mentioned it.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You make it almost sound good.”

He shifted in his seat, and she gave him a surreptitious look. Lines of strain were etched into the angular contours of his face. A sheen of sweat dampened his brow. She wanted to tell him to pull over so she could check his bandage, but something in his face told her she wouldn’t get far with that line. He was on a mission, and they were on the run. Life-threatening infections and wounds had to get in line and wait their turn. Still, she was concerned. More so than was smart.

“Who cut you?” she asked.

He slanted her a wary look. “A Chicago man,” he finally said. “We worked together.”

“You mean one of Austin’s other bodyguards?”

He nodded.

“Why?” she asked.

“We had a difference of opinion.”

“Over what?”

He took his eyes off the road for another moment to look at her. “Is this Twenty Questions, counselor?”

She shrugged and looked back out the window, evading his probing gaze. “You’re going to need a good lawyer before this is over. I was just doing a little background work.”

He snorted. “When this is over, all I’m going to need is a priest.”

Johanna didn’t know where in the hell her offer had come from. She really had no intention of becoming his attorney. The idea was ludicrous. But she knew his mention of a priest wasn’t as flippant as it sounded, and she was surprised at how awful that made her feel.

“Maybe not, if you have a good lawyer,” she found herself saying.

From somewhere he found the strength to grin at her. “Who’s saving who here?”

“I’m just offering to help you, that’s all. It’s no big deal.”

“Right.” His grin broadened and turned wry.

“It’s the least I can do,” she said, piqued by his casual refusal of her offer.

“No,” he said. His grin faded and his expression grew serious. “The least you can do is stay put when I tell you to stay put and run like hell when I ask you to walk away.”

She knew what he meant—for her to run if Austin caught up with them, and leave him to face the enemy alone. The awfulness inside her heart welled up and threatened to spill over into tears of frustration. Damn him for making her feel. Damn him for kissing her. Even damn him for saving her life. Whatever had drawn them together that night in Austin’s office was supposed to have disappeared, vanished into a past best forgotten. And it would have if she’d never seen him again. He was a bodyguard and she was an attorney, and she didn’t need a rocket scientist to tell her the two wouldn’t mix.

She didn’t believe his FBI story for a minute. If he was FBI, he wouldn’t be out here on his own, fighting the biggest scandal to hit the nation in three months all by himself. There would be help, somebody somewhere he could count on besides her.

Dammit.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, until her frustration got the better of her.

“Well,” she started in, her tone none too conciliatory, her concern well concealed in anger. “Did you kill him? Are we talking murder?”

Dylan kept his eyes glued to the road and breathed with the pain—in and out, deep and slow. His chest was throbbing. He wanted to ignore her question. He wanted it to slip away unnoticed.

She was looking at him hard, though, burning holes in him with her hazel eyes. He changed his position in the seat again, trying in vain to get comfortable.

“We can probably prove self-defense,” she continued in her damn lawyer’s voice. “Your body is a mess.”

If she thought she was making him feel better, she needed to think again.

“It
was
self-defense,” he said curtly.

“Then you did kill him.”

His jaw tightened. He hated her a little for making him admit to that. What did she think? That he liked killing people? That there wasn’t anything more to him than what she’d seen? A kidnapping, car-stealing ex-bodyguard with no place to go but down?

Maybe she was right.

The possibility made him distinctly uncomfortable. How long had it been since he’d heard from the good guys? Two months? Three? It had been before his last contact had been found floating in Lake Michigan. He knew that much.

He also knew he hadn’t been on stable ground since his partner, Charlie Holter, had decided to get out of the federal-cops-and-robbers business. Charlie had retired and gone to Seattle. He’d told Dylan to get out too. They could set up a fishing boat together, he’d said, rent it out to high-paying customers, and spend their days angling for salmon out in the ocean. They could have the good life, and didn’t they deserve it? They had both put their lives on the line for Uncle Sam, God, and the unwashed masses too many times to count. It was payback time.

Charlie had been right. Dylan should have gotten out. Payback time had come, and he was probably going to end up paying Austin with his life. What a bitch.

“Did I know him? The man you killed?” she asked out of the blue.

“I don’t think so,” he said, tight-lipped, hoping she would let the subject drop.

“What was his name?”

Dylan silently groaned. Now what in the hell did she want to know that for?

“It will come out in the investigation,” she continued. “You might as well tell me.”

He tightened his hold on the steering wheel.

“I’m not telling you another damn thing,” he muttered, shooting her a narrowed glance. “So if you’re smart, you’ll stop asking.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer in silent warning. She was trespassing, and he wanted to make it damn clear to her that he didn’t like being treaded on.

“It’s my job to ask—”

He cut her off with a succinctly spoken curse and jerked the steering wheel to the right, simultaneously pulling off the road and slamming on the brakes. A cloud of yellow dust billowed up behind the sedan and was blown forward by the wind, encasing the car.

Johanna’s heart lodged in her throat.

“Lady,” he began, turning on her with a grim expression tightening his face.

“Don’t call me lady,” she shot back, edging as close to the rigged passenger door as she dared.

“Okay,
Miss Lane
.” His tone was snide, his attitude one of pure belligerence.

“And don’t call me Miss Lane. You know my name.” She didn’t need to see the flash of anger in his eyes to know she was pushing him past the safety zone.

Dylan knew her name, all right. He’d sighed it in his sleep and awakened with it on his tongue. It had been an invocation to salvation. He’d engraved it on his heart and mind across a thousand miles of prairie.
Johanna
.

“I don’t need your help,
Miss Lane
,” he said, throwing the car back in gear.

Her hand reached out to stop him. “You’re lying, Dylan. From here on out you probably need my help more than I need yours, and you know it.”

She had used his name. Her tone was quiet, intense, and her words were disturbingly valid.

Dylan swore under his breath and checked the rearview mirror before pulling back onto the highway. Damn her for being right, even if she was only half-right. She shouldn’t have been able to see him so clearly. Dylan Jones was buried deep. His survival depended on the murkiness of his life, the shifting qualities of his values. He didn’t like her knowing he needed her, even if she didn’t understand how deep his need went—even if she didn’t realize just how much of her he wanted.

Johanna woke up to quiet darkness and an ache all across her shoulders. The air around her was cool, but she was warm. It took a minute of vague disorientation before she realized she was curled up in the front seat of the sedan, covered with Dylan’s long coat.

Closing her eyes again, she let out a tired sigh and moved her head. Her muscles rebelled. A low moan escaped her, echoing in the stillness of the car and making her forget her aches and pains.

It was so quiet, too quiet. Where was he?

As if she’d asked the question aloud, he spoke to her.

“That’s a good girl. Come on. Wake up, Miss Lane. It’s suppertime.”

His voice was soft and gravelly, and reassuring. In her sleep-dazed state, it seemed the perfect sound to wake up to, an invitation to warmth and intimacy.

She instinctively turned her head to find him. He was hunkered down in the open doorway on the driver’s side of the car, his face at her eye level. The collar of his shirt was flipped up in a haphazard fashion, making him look years younger than he had when he’d kidnapped her. It also made him look in need of a woman’s straightening touch—a touch she quickly realized she didn’t dare provide.

A wave of sadness came with that realization. Slowly she roused herself to a sitting position, yawning in spite of trying not to, and feeling guilt along with her emptiness. She was the one who had fallen asleep, who had been given the luxury of rest. Yet he was the one who was hurt. He needed something, someone, but it was ridiculous to think for even an instant that it could be her.

“I’ve already filled the car with gas,” he continued, standing up with a stiff, pained movement. “I figured as long as we had to stop, we might as well get a hot meal.”

She agreed with a nod, not trusting her voice enough to use it. They had stopped. They were at a new location. It was time for her to leave him.

Fifteen minutes later the waitress in the Elk Café settled two heaping plates of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, green beans, and biscuits with honey down on their table. Johanna inhaled the savory steam rising from the food and sent up a prayer of thanks. They had eaten drive-through hamburgers again for lunch, and she didn’t think she could have faced the same for dinner. She’d never felt so junked out in her life.

“Where are we?” she asked, shrugging out of his coat and handing it over to him in what she hoped was a perfectly casual gesture. She’d seen him shiver on the walk inside. The underlying paleness of his skin made her doubt he was capable of warming up by himself, but she had to try.

“Pace, Montana,” he said, accepting the coat and putting it on. “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” she said, lowering her gaze to take a sip of coffee. She knew the coat hadn’t been around her when she’d fallen asleep. To Dylan, she’d thought, the coat was not an article of clothing so much as it was a slipcover for a shotgun, whether he was wearing both coat and shotgun on his body or had them bundled next to the driver’s-side door. She was relieved to see him wearing the coat for its intended purpose. She was also relieved on another score.

For the first time since he’d kidnapped her—or saved her life, she conceded—he didn’t have the shotgun with him. He was still armed, though. Before they’d left the car, he had pulled the tails of his shirt out of his pants and stuck a handgun in his waistband. Whether it made sense or not, the handgun didn’t seem as menacing. She didn’t hold a personal grudge against it the way she did with the shotgun, which he’d used to threaten her.

“And where are we going?” she asked, digging into the hot food and making idle conversation. She wouldn’t be going any farther with him. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want her help, and the Elk Café in Pace, Montana, seemed as good a place as any to end their relationship—if what they had could be termed a relationship. Regardless, Henry was waiting for her call.

“Seattle,” he said.

She made a noncommittal reply and continued eating, all the while trying to disregard the image of him caring for her by tucking his coat around her sleeping form. It was an act of gentleness, something she had trouble attributing to him. Violence came more naturally to mind.