Blank Slate (7 page)

Although
she would have liked to turn her back to him, too, she didn’t dare. The windows
were watching her. Clarissa shivered as she glanced at the window above
Langston’s head. It loomed over her like a faceless wraith, staring in silence
at the occupants inside the car.

With
a chill, Clarissa tore her eyes away, instead focusing on the center of
Langston’s back. She slowly inched her way closer to him until his body
obscured the window. He was very near now, so close she could feel a bit of his
body heat through the layers. His hair was thick and looked soft to the touch. Her
hands itched to touch the russet locks, to run her fingers through them.

She
was quite sure he would not appreciate that.

Clarissa
couldn’t help but smile as she imagined what he’d say, Mr. Oh-So-Serious FBI Man.
Then she began to wonder what he would say, and do, if he weren’t quite so
proper and determined to follow the rules. Would he turn over? Kiss her? Put
his arms around her?

These
thoughts led to delicious fantasies, ones that would no doubt shock and horrify
Langston, but which lulled Clarissa into slumber, still wearing a grin.

It
was still dark when she opened her eyes, only this time the dark was absolute.

Clarissa
blinked, but everything looked the same whether her eyes were open or closed.

Where
was she? Her sleep-fogged mind struggled to clear before she remembered — the
storm. They were in the car waiting it out.

But
the knowledge didn’t bring calm. Her eyes swiveled frantically, and her pulse
jumped, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. Air. She couldn’t breathe. The
darkness was a smothering blanket, pressing the air from her lungs. Clarissa
gasped, the noise loud in the oppressive silence. She tried to suck in air but
couldn’t.

Blindly,
her hand struck out, landing on cold glass. Panic clawed at her as she
continued to gasp for air. She had to get out, had to breathe.

 “What—”

Langston’s
voice didn’t even penetrate as her frenzied grasp fell on the door handle. With
a jerk, she pulled, nearly falling out the door as it swung open.

“O’Connell!
What the hell are you doing?”

Erik
watched, stunned, as O’Connell scrambled to get out of the car. She was trying
to escape? Now? Was she insane?

“Are
you out of your mind?” he bit out, grabbing her arm and hauling her back inside
before she could get her feet out the door. Feeling around with his free hand,
he found another glow stick and cracked it. The light threw her face into stark
relief, and Erik froze when he saw her.

O’Connell
was stark white, her eyes like bruises in her face. She clawed at her sweater,
as though it were binding her, and terror leaked from her eyes.

“Air,
please,” she choked. “Can’t…breathe.”

She
was having a full-blown panic attack, right here, right now.

Shit.

Throwing
open the hatchback door, Erik hauled her bodily through it. Once her feet hit
the ground, she tore her arms from his grip, stumbling away from him and
sucking in greedy gulps of air before falling. She struggled to her knees.

Erik
winced at the sight of her bare hands buried in the bitterly cold snow. He
hurried to her, wrapped his hands around her waist, and set her on her feet. Shit!
She had no shoes on either. If he didn’t do something, she was going to be in
danger of frostbite.

Without
asking permission, though he wasn’t sure she was in any condition to answer, he
scooped her in his arms. Going back to the SUV, he set her gently inside,
letting her face the open air.

O’Connell
was still breathing too hard and too fast. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut
and were wet, though Erik couldn’t tell if it was because she was crying or if
it was from the snow.

Erik
felt powerless to help her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were claustrophobic?”
he asked, the words coming out sharper than he had intended.

Her
eyes shot open, pinning him with an emerald glare. “Because I didn’t know,” she
said. “I can’t remember!” O’Connell’s frustrated shout echoed in the woods
around them. When she angrily dashed the back of her hand across her eyes, Erik
realized it wasn’t from the snow.

Ignoring
a stab of guilt, Erik’s gaze shifted around uncomfortably before again coming
to rest on O’Connell. She was still glaring at him, but thankfully, her
breathing had regulated and her cheeks were no longer the stark white they’d
been previously.

“We
need to get back inside,” Erik said gruffly. “We can’t survive out here.”

Her
face fell, but she recovered quickly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Just
give me a minute, Okay?” she asked, her tone grim.

Erik
nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Minutes
passed. It had stopped snowing for the moment, leaving the woods hushed and
quiet. The occasional tree branch creaking under the weight of the snow was the
only sound.

The
storm had left a few inches of snow covering the windows of the SUV. Erik
figured that probably wouldn’t help her claustrophobia. Digging under the front
seat of the car, he produced a scraper and cleared the snow from the windshield
and the four windows.

Dusting
the snow off his clothes, he stored the scraper again and rounded the car.

“Any
better?” he asked. He didn’t want to rush her, but damn, he was freezing. And
she had to be, too. Taking a good look at her, he saw the unmistakable sign of
shivering.

“I
think so,” O’Connell said, her teeth rattling. She slowly backed farther into
the car, leaving room for Erik to haul himself inside.

Her
eyes were glued to the hatchback as he went to pull it closed, and he could
almost see the panic start again in the widening of her eyes and the
shallowness of her breath.

“Hey,”
he said. When she didn’t respond, he repeated himself louder. “Hey!”

O’Connell
jerked her gaze to his.

“Don’t
look at it,” he said, pulling the door closed. “Just…look at me instead.”

She
nodded but didn’t speak, her body wracked with shivers.

“Your
clothes are wet,” Erik said, taking stock of the fabric with a few swipes of
his hands. “You need to change or you’ll get hypothermia.”

Leaning
over the front seat, Erik started the car. They shouldn’t use the fuel for
this, but he had to get her warm. He’d leave it running for just a few minutes,
just enough to take the chill out of the air. Digging in her duffel, he pulled
out one of the few changes of clothing she had.

“Put
this on,” he said, handing the items to her.

O’Connell
pulled the sweater over her head, and Erik averted his eyes, not that there
were many other places to look. He couldn’t really blame her for getting
claustrophobic in here.

“Can
you help me?” she asked, her voice shaky.

Erik
turned, chagrined to see her still in just her jeans and bra, a feminine combination
he’d always appreciated. Tearing his gaze from the black lace cupping her
breasts, he saw the problem. Her hands were shaking too badly to undo her
jeans, though she was fumbling in a fruitless attempt to release the button. O’Connell
looked up at him, a pained expression on her face.

“I
can’t get it. Can you?”

Erik
cleared his suddenly dry throat. “Ah, yeah, sure,” he said. Undress her again? Yes,
please.

Erik
brushed her ice-cold hands aside as he leaned over her. She fell back to rest
on her elbows, allowing him better access.

His
fingers brushed the skin of her abdomen as he worked the button free. He
tried not to take longer than he should, but he couldn’t pretend that his pulse
hadn’t leaped, the blood heating in his veins as the button sprang free and he
slowly lowered the zipper.

O’Connell
didn’t protest when he began to peel the wet denim off her. She lifted her hips
slightly, allowing him to push the stiff fabric down her thighs. Erik tried not
to think of what immediately sprang to mind when she lifted her body that way.

He
worked assiduously, pulling the jeans off one leg, then the other, her sodden
socks going as well. O’Connell’s skin was cold and clammy. After a moment’s
hesitation, he began rubbing her legs, knowing his hands were warm.

“Need
to get the blood circulating,” he said in a voice much too rough for his
liking. Yes, that was the reason he was touching her. Absolutely. It wasn’t at
all because he couldn’t resist the temptation her body was to him.

Erik
didn’t dare look up at her, didn’t want to see if she was looking at him with
anger, or worse, amusement. She didn’t speak, and she didn’t pull away, so he
continued.

Soft
was too inadequate a word to describe her skin. Erik’s hands massaged her
calves, easing the tight muscles there. Shivering made the entire body tight as
a bowstring, and while her shivers had subsided, the muscles were still in
knots.

The
backs of her knees were silken to the touch, and he lingered there, the
delicate curve of her bones fitting into his palms while his thumbs stroked the
area behind the joints. The pressure he exerted nudged her thighs, and they
parted easily under his hands.

Erik’s
gaze lifted. O’Connell was watching him touch her. Her eyes were bright, her
lips slightly parted as she breathed. He could see the pulse beating under her
jaw. The smooth column of her throat moved as she swallowed. Her chest rose and
fell, her breathing more rapid than it should have been, and Erik’s gaze fell
to her breasts. Their plump fullness seemed to strain against their confines. What
he wouldn’t give at this moment to see her bared to him.

Abruptly,
Erik jerked his hands away from her skin. “It’s warm enough. I better turn the
engine off,” he mumbled, climbing into the front seat. “You should probably get
those dry clothes on,” he said, fiddling with the keys once the engine was off.

“Yeah,”
he thought he heard her say, but her voice was too low to be sure.

O’Connell
moved around, the sound of fabric and rustling in the back telling him she was
doing as she’d been told. Erik squirmed in his seat, his jeans suddenly much
too tight.

“I’m
dressed now,” O’Connell said.

Erik
told himself he was glad of that as he climbed into the back again.

Bullshit,
his body argued. He ignored it. Now was not the time to be thinking with his
dick.

Clarissa
nervously brushed her hair back from her face. She had no idea what had just
happened. One minute she’d been shivering uncontrollably, trying not to let the
panic of being closed in again consume her. The next, she was being undressed
by Langston, the look on his face as though she were torturing him.

Then
he’d touched her.

Clarissa
hadn’t been able to tear her gaze away from his face. His intense concentration
as he’d massaged her legs mesmerized her. As did the feel of his hands on her,
the rough calluses abrading her skin in a way that had made her heart pound and
completely distracted her from the claustrophobia.

There
was something between them, no matter what he did for a living or who she was. And
Clarissa didn’t think she was the only one who felt it, not by a long shot.

The
tension was still high when Langston climbed back over the seats, and he seemed
to deliberately avoid looking at her as he pulled his sleeping bag up around
him.

“You
should get inside your bag,” he said gruffly, glancing at her before quickly
looking away. He began rearranging her bag, since it had gotten tangled in her
mad scramble to get out.

Clarissa
obeyed, though the inside of her bag was icy cold. She’d had on her warmest
clothes, so the long-sleeved shirt and cotton pants she’d put on weren’t much
help against the chill. And her feet were freezing.

As
she hunkered down in the bag, she turned on her side to face Langston. He was
flat on his back again, eyes on the ceiling.

Should
she say something?  Thank him for helping her?  Tell him she hadn’t minded his
touch, had rather liked it in fact.

Instinctively,
she knew he wouldn’t welcome that, so she said nothing, and neither did he.

God,
she was cold. Had she been this cold before? It seemed being temporarily warm
from the heater only made it feel worse when it was shut off. A shiver wracked
her. Clarissa huddled deeper in the bag.

Having
already slept, she now found she couldn’t turn off her brain enough to find
slumber again. Worry ate at her. What was she going to do when Langston turned
her over to the Feds? Would they put someone in prison who was suffering from
amnesia? Or, like Langston, would they not believe her? Was there any way to
escape before he turned her over? Any way to convince Langston to let her go? And
if by some miracle he did release her, where would she go? The only thing she
knew about herself was the name he’d told her, Clarissa O’Connell. She had no
idea even where she lived.

Her
stomach twisted at her thoughts until she felt nauseated. Despair beckoned. She
had nothing and no one. Her only family was in prison and she was wanted by the
cops. The future seemed bleak indeed.

The
shivering began again in earnest. Clarissa clenched her teeth to keep them from
rattling. If they got out of this, she swore that somehow she’d find a way to
live someplace where it was always warm. A place with a beach, next to a warm
ocean, where she could lie in the hot sand and feel the sun’s rays against her
skin…

“Come
here.”

Langston’s
voice interrupted Clarissa’s fantasy, and her eyes popped open in time to see
him reaching for her. He’d unzipped his bag and was now unzipping hers. With a
quick tug, he pulled her close, leaned down, and zipped the two bags together.

“What
are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m
keeping you from freezing to death,” he replied curtly. “You’re shaking the
whole car with your shivering.”