Hide and Seek (5 page)

Later, she set a mug in a high cupboard over the stove when her fingers grazed the pistol’s metal barrel. She jumped back and bumped against Holt.

His hands settled on her arms. "You're trembling."

"I touched your gun." She stepped away, putting distance between them. "Guns are dangerous."

“It’s for protection, Caprice."

"Or intimidation."

"You're one prickly broad.”

"Just keep it away from Shawn.” Aware she had spoken sharply, she added, "I need a broom."

"Contemplating an evening flight?"

Humor tugged at his lips and softened his voice but she bristled. "Are you implying that I’m a witch?”

“It must be the green eyes and the pointed nose.”

“Was that an attempt at a compliment?”

He shrugged. “You’re divorced, but is your last name Montero too?"

"No. It’s O'Brien. My family immigrated to West Virginia during the Potato Famine."

"Ahh. Then you’re an Irish witch. A spell caster of sorts."

“Are you superstitious?”

“I never used to be.” He stared as if trying to discern her thoughts. "Montero wants something from you besides a family image, Caprice. What I don’t understand is why you left Charleston in the first place?”

"Alan had my townhome ransacked.”

"He’s after something. What about those plans?" he asked but Caprice wanted to avoid his questions.

"The broom," she said.

"There’s one in the closet. Just don’t cast any more curses in my direction. I’ve got enough on my plate."

Later, Holt handed her a set of folded sheets. "These are for the bunk." When their hands brushed in the exchange, she stiffened, drawing away.

He took her elbow and lowered his voice. "Despite what you may think, I’m not the big, bad wolf. There’s no need to be afraid of me."

Her gaze dropped to the cotton that stretched over his shoulders and clung to bulging biceps. "You're big like Alan and as motivated too."

He pointed to her forearm. "Is he responsible for the bruises?"

She flushed, mortified. Before she could respond, a loud knock sounded at the door. Armor barked and a sudden sweat dampened her back.

"Mom." His eyes filled with wonder, Shawn pointed to the dog. "I hear."

"Who is it?" Holt demanded.

Caprice pressed a finger to her lips, signaling Shawn to be quiet.

"Ted Ackershaw, campground manager. We met when you registered."

Holt unlocked the door. A balding man wearing a white polo shirt and a pair of red and blue checked Bermuda shorts stepped half-way in the door. "Hi, I'm welcoming new guests. I hope you plan to stay with us for a few days or more.”

Holt shot Caprice a quick look before answering him. "We're just here for the night."

"That's a shame because there’s a pot luck supper at the club house. We play music and dance the hokey-pokey.” His eyes lit with enthusiasm as Armor sniffed his shoes. “We’ve arranged for representatives from the Red Cross to be here tomorrow afternoon to accept any donations for the hurricane-relief effort."

"That’s mighty nice,” Holt said and Caprice sensed he was impressed by the man’s generous spirit. “But we’re in for the night.”

“My son needs to sleep,” Caprice added.

"Well, you people seem like the neat kind, but I have to remind everyone to take their trash bags to the Dumpster. If you leave garbage on the site, the raccoons and deer will make a mess."

Holt nodded. "No problem."

Ted smiled at Shawn. "We sell seed at the registration desk. Your son might like to feed the squirrels. Why, those little devils will steal the food right from your hands." Ted relaxed, leaned on the threshold and crossed his arms, his expression friendly and welcoming. "So, where're you folks headed?"

"West to the Skyline Drive. My wife wants to visit Luray Caverns."

Caprice found her voice. "Yes. It's all I've talked about after seeing those beautiful brochures."

"My sister-in-law's brother got married next to the Great Stalacpipe Organ." Ted winked at her. "People say it's romantic."

"Really?" She covered her mouth to yawn and met Holt's gaze. "Our vacation has been exhausting and exciting, hasn't it, dear?"

Holt shifted and looked at Ted. "We want to get an early start."

"Well, you can't take I-95. It's closed thirty miles south of Richmond. Too many trees down. Disaster relief teams are trying to aid in the cleanup of the highways, but my guess is progress will be slow. You'll need to cut under and head west on I-64."

"Thanks. I'll remember that."

Ted tousled Shawn's head. "I sure do like to chat with nice families such as yourselves, but I can see you’re getting ready for bed." He pointed to Holt. "Better do something for that eye."

Once he left, Caprice slumped against the refrigerator and Holt chuckled. "We handled that rather well...dear."

“I'm curious,” she said, relaxing. “Other than your father, your sister, and her girls, you haven't mentioned a girlfriend, or a wife.”

"There’s no time for a girlfriend, and I’m happily divorced.”

“Children?”

His lids veiled his eyes as he turned. “Nope. None.”

They became busy with nighttime rituals that became awkward and polite. Caprice bathed Shawn then rested beside him in the bunk. She squeezed her eyes, fighting the image of Holt showering, while he, in a Trace Atkins baritone, sang a melancholy tune so low it vibrated through the thin walls and plucked at her heartstrings.

Eventually the bathroom door opened. She froze, staring into the darkness.

"Your turn," he grunted and his bedroom pocket door slid shut.

The shower’s warm water sluiced her body, removing tension. The rough washcloth scrubbed away traveling grime and Lugo’s touch at the airport. As steam shrouded her, she froze, gripping the washcloth between her breasts. Like Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
, her imagination swirled.

If Holt chose to invade her privacy right now, how would she defend herself? Could she maim his other eye with a slippery soap bar?
Saints protect her!

She was traveling with a man who kept a pistol handy. In her desperation to find a safe haven for Shawn, had she placed them in even more jeopardy?

Chapter Three

Except for a muted light over the stove, the camper was dark when Caprice slid between the bunk’s cool sheets. Holt’s steady snoring, signaled her to relax and she cursed her runaway imagination. Her dark thoughts concerning Holt had been unfair. She closed her eyes, but an image of him showering...of soap rolling in bubbling clouds down his chest and stomach made her breath hitch.

Furious with the thread of her thinking, she repositioned Shawn so she could have room and make plans. Once they arrived in Richmond, she would find transportation to Georgia then contact Agent Lyons. She blinked. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep. Her plans should have been so easy, but nothing had gone right.

****

It was dawn when Holt awoke to a blackbird's low clucking. The sound was reminiscent of cool March weekends spent camping and fishing for striped bass, and bluegill on the Yellow River where he still knew every bump and turn in Okaloosa County’s maze of forgotten logging roads and abandoned train beds. He reached for his pants in a heap on the floor when sleep's gentle fog cleared with punishing reality.

Oh, hell.
This was no fishing trip. He was hauling trouble. Granted, Shawn was cute but Caprice was blood-boiling sexy. How had he let her persuade him into taking her to Virginia? Once they arrived in Richmond, he would find someone to drive her clear out of his solitary life before his thoughts turned to more than just surface curiosity.

He rubbed his aching shoulder and made plans. After helping his father secure his Virginia home, they would spend a few days casting their cares in a trout-filled, mountain stream then he would talk Jack LeBerger into returning to Florida.

Stepping from his room, Holt inhaled coffee’s waking scent. He had to give her credit. Caprice looked like an edible breakfast pastry in jean shorts and a green top that clung to all the right parts. The stove light cast a soft glow, creating fiery glints in the red-gold hair that cascaded over her shoulders. There was no getting around it though. The woman was a beguiling distraction and had to go.
Pronto
!

"Good morning." Her cool, yet polite tone reminded Holt that he had gazed longer than was politically correct. On the other hand, this was his home-on-wheels, and he had no use for manners, or protocol. "Shawn's exhausted," she said. "He’s still re-cooperating from a bad strep infection that nearly put him in the hospital. He may sleep for hours."

“How severe is his deafness?”

“He hears at ninety decibels,” she said. “Noises such as a door slamming or metal clanging at a construction site are audible to him. His doctors want to begin tests, so he can be fitted with cochlear implants.”

“He’s young.”

“Yes, but implants will help tremendously with his pronunciation. In this way, Shawn will have the best of both the deaf and hearing cultures.” She gestured to the carafe. "Now, how do you take your coffee?"

"Black as the Terminator."

"Pardon?"

"A fifteen-hundred pound bull with a thirty-three inch spread between his horns. I drew him in a rodeo last year. Six seconds out of the chute, he threw me, then skewered my shoulder and sliced my chest. If I’d had the sense to release the bull rope, and let the clowns do their job, I might not be so torn up.”

"Why do men ride bulls?"

"For money...for women."

Her brow arched. "Did you need both?"

"Just the money. It was a charity event. Kids in Crisis."

“I’m curious,” she said, but it was her open admiration that made him uncomfortable. “Does anything scare you?”

“Sure. I’ve been trampled, bitten, and thrown dozens of feet by bulls and horses alike. I’ve been crushed against barn walls, but I’ve never…”

She blinked. “What?”

An uncustomary flush drove itself right up his neck. “Truth is…I’ve never been kicked.”

“That’s it? That’s your fear?”

“Yep.” Holt found his favorite mug and she filled it with what appeared like a weak tea. Disappointment jarred him like a sour note. “This isn't coffee.” When Caprice looked as if she would argue, he pointed to the voluptuous nude at the mug’s bottom. "If this was real coffee, I wouldn't see Fifi until the mug was empty."

She remained deadpan, unaffected. "You consume copious amounts of soda and coffee.”

"Consume what amounts?"

“You know what I meant. It’s apparent that you're addicted to caffeine. Cut back."

He considered her pointed, chiseled nose and delicate cheek bones. Caprice was tongue-twisting pretty. Granted, she didn't talk much, but when she did, she was too damned opinionated. That was another excellent reason to send her packing once they reached Richmond.

Holt plunked the mug on the counter.
Hell’s bells!
He would not, could not attempt to drink her heinous brew. Why, he counted on coffee every morning like the rising sun. Fortunately for Caprice’s sake, he was the generous sort and would ignore this infraction at least once. Later, he would stop for something stronger.

When she moved, he once again saw the bruises on her arm. His suspicions rose along with his blood pressure. A willowy package, Caprice was tall and fine-boned and had been created for a man's loving touch.

Unable to resist, he drew his hand down a forearm misted in hundreds of tiny freckles, then reached to lightly grip her chin. "The skin above your wrists is bruised, and that beautiful nose was once fractured.” When she paled, he released her, hating the fear in her eyes. “How long ago was your divorce?"

"Two years."

Her eyes flashed green fire, a warning. He had breached her privacy. The vein at her throat throbbed beneath skin as creamy as the spring blossoms on the pawpaw shrubs that dotted his pastures. Her story about Montero needing a family man image to acquire more votes held some merit. However, if her ex had caused those bruises, then he wanted more than to paint a lie of domestic tranquility.

So, why had Montero ransacked her townhome? For some plans? Plans for what? Yet, retrieving information from Caprice was like trying to inoculate and castrate a bawling, wriggling calf. "In the meantime you're safe,” he said. “Montero won't expect you to head into hurricane sacked Richmond."

Holt called Armor and stepped into the cool morning air. Unhooking the electricity, dumping the septic tank, and coiling water hoses took under fifteen minutes. When he turned onto the highway, dawn was breaking.

On this occasion, Caprice sat up front with him, and Holt suspected that he had received a shred of her trust. He glanced sideways, appreciating her slender, endless legs. They were the kind a man could worship with his hands, better yet his lips.

They stopped at a McDonald's. As Holt ordered breakfast, Caprice used his cell phone to call her sister. Holding the phone between her ear and shoulder, she jotted notes onto a piece of a paper. Ever vigilant, her gaze often darted to the restaurant’s busy doors.

Caprice kept calm for Shawn’s sake, but she was always mindful of her circumstances. As if by their own volition, Holt’s lips compressed. This life on the run was no good for a beautiful woman, or a woeful boy.

She set the phone down and furrows grooved her patrician forehead as she absently lifted and dropped the fine strands of Shawn’s hair. Holt returned and sat in the booth across from them. Caprice straightened, pressing against the cushions despite the table between them. Holt’s grip on his coffee cup tightened. It rankled that she had passed judgment sure he would harm her too. Granted, they would go their separate ways once they reached Richmond, but he wanted Caprice to know he had never raised his hand to a woman.

"I was sure Alan wouldn’t find Grace’s new home,” she said, “but my sister claims a black Yukon was parked across the street yesterday for a few hours. The driver was watching the house."