Keeping Watch: Heart of the Night\Accidental Bodyguard (45 page)

Faith held on to her side of the door when he tried to leave. For one long, shaky breath, she stared into those ice-blue eyes and begged for some sort of promise that he would return, that he would be safe, that they would beat this thing together. A wink, a smile, that brush of his finger across her forehead again—that was all she needed. Some tiny reassurance.

But there was none. For a man who was just now learning the finer points of holding hands, there was no reassurance he knew how to give. “Lock the door and bolt it,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

After pushing the door shut, she did as she’d been told. He waited until she’d twisted the dead bolt into place. Then she heard him drive out of the parking lot in a spin of speed and gravel. Faith leaned her back against the steel door and hugged her arms across her stomach, feeling as alone and unsure of herself as she ever had in the past forty-eight hours.

She’d come to rely on Jonas so quickly, looking beyond his grizzled appearance and gruff manner to see the fiercely protective hero he was inside. When he was with her, she felt safe. And though her quiet upbringing hadn’t prepared her for a man who was so much, well…man, she felt a kinship to him she hadn’t found anywhere else.

One chair at his table. Jonas Beck understood what it was to be alone. Maybe that’s what made her reach out to him again and again. He understood the loneliness of her quest, of having nowhere to go and no one to turn to. And though her heart ached with pity for his solitary life—shunned, feared, forgotten—it was the thing that made her believe he understood her as well.

He’d come back. He’d keep her safe.

And she’d do everything within her power to help him, and thus, help herself.

Resolved to carry out even his simplest requests, she pushed away from the door, stripped off the rest of her clothes and headed for the shower.

“Yum.” The reviving spray beat down upon her weary muscles, washing away the tensions of the past two days—stolen cars, runaway trucks, nosy deputies—and Jonas’s certainty that Copperhead was every bit the threat to her life she’d imagined him to be.

Faith pulled her comb through her towel-dried hair and relished the gentle massage across her scalp. Though she had new, clean clothes to wear tomorrow, she’d opted to slip back into Jonas’s flannel shirt and a pair of clean panties to sleep in.

She was comfortable, she was warm, she was clean. But she didn’t want to think about falling into bed until she knew for sure that Jonas had safely returned. She eyed the clock. There were still a few minutes left before the time he said he’d be back.

In normal circumstances, she’d curl up with a book until sleep claimed her. But she had no book, and there was nothing normal about hiding out in a motel room, waiting for her unofficial bodyguard to return. She turned on the television for some background noise, and set about packing her things inside her sack for tomorrow’s departure. She turned the NT-6 disk over in her hand. It was just a small, shiny piece of plastic. But three people had died for it already.

Four.

Faith slowly turned toward the television and focused her attention on the words that had registered in her subconscious mind. “Elk Point’s county sheriff, Hamilton Prince, was found stabbed to death inside the cabin of a local man, Jonas Beck. The cabin is located approximately fifteen minutes outside of town. According to FBI spokesman, Sheriff Prince was assisting federal authorities with an investigation involving three deaths in the Saint Louis area. Anyone with information regarding—”

“Oh, my God. Not again.” There was her picture, staring back at her from the TV screen just as clearly as her reflection had stared back from the mirror only moments ago. “No.” She was shaking her head and moving away from the set, gripped in a new horror that made her feel as if the concrete wall she’d pressed her back against was caving in on her. “Not again.”

She watched the story play out as if she was witnessing it in person. “…wanted for questioning, along with Mr. Beck.” The photograph of her finally left the screen and was replaced by a shot of Jonas’s cabin, its rustic seclusion hidden behind a crowd of official vehicles and yellow crime scene tape. The reporter turned while the camera shot panned up the steps behind him to the porch where county paramedics were carrying out a large body in a black bag strapped onto a gurney.

If her family was seeing this… If they were part of this… Faith swallowed hard and tried to keep it together.

The reporter had a grim face as he turned back to the camera. “Special Agent Rory Carmichael is joining me to make an official statement to the press.” Tears stung Faith’s eyes as she riveted her focus on the television across the room. The reporter stepped to one side and Agent Carmichael moved into the picture.

Faith squinted, trying to align the man’s image with a hazy memory. “I know you,” she whispered.

It was the same man she’d seen on the television in Kansas City. The man talking about Liza’s murder. Tall, thin. Reddish-brown hair slicked back from his forehead. He wore a gray suit with his badge hanging from the front pocket of his jacket. “…circumstantial evidence places her at the scene of each crime…”

“But I wasn’t.” Faith’s knees wobbled and she sank to the floor, the disk clenched in her shaking fist. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I tried to help.”

A knock at door the door startled her. She stifled a scream on a gulp of air. Goose bumps tingled across her skin.

Jonas wouldn’t knock. Had they found her? Copperhead? The FBI? The police?

She huddled against the wall beside the bed, staring at the metal door. What to do? What to do?

“Mrs. Jones?” The person outside knocked again, urgent this time, demanding. “Mrs. Jones? It’s Alice from the front desk. I brought some extra towels. Figured there weren’t enough for that big hubby of yours.”

Faith breathed hard, in through her nose, out through her mouth, forcing herself to stay calm and in the moment.
She
was Mrs. Jones. And Alice, she’d seen Alice through the window when they’d checked in.

Towels seemed safe enough.

Don’t open the door for anyone but me.

She slipped the disk into her purse and slid it under the bed. She had to wait for Jonas. But the light was on. The TV. Alice knew she was in here.

Alice was a woman. The night clerk. Not Copperhead. Not the FBI. She wouldn’t hurt her. She could just answer the door and send her on her way.

Agent Carmichael was staring at her from the TV. Telling anyone who would listen about the young blond woman he was searching for.

She jumped at the next knock. “Mrs. Jones? Are you in there? I have a key. I can just set the towels inside the door.”

“No.” She breathed the word, too softly for anyone to hear.

Run.

She scanned the thick block walls. Not an option.

She could fight. She could take another woman. But if the other woman had a knife… Faith scanned the room for anything resembling a weapon. The lamp. Blunt object. She scurried across the room on her hands and knees and pulled out the plug, plunging the room into instant darkness. She froze.

“Mrs. Jones?” The voice hesitated. Sounded concerned.

Faith pulled the shade off the lamp and turned it around in her fists, arming herself with a club. A crunch of gravel and squeal of brakes drew her attention back to the door.

“Mrs. Jones?” One more knock.

A car door slammed. Faith heard a garble of voices. Then one became more distinct. “I’ll take them.”

Jonas.

Her relief was so intense, Faith felt light-headed. She pushed to her feet and stumbled toward the door, flipping aside the dead bolt as she heard the key slide into the outer lock. “Faith?” She dropped the lamp at her feet and the bulb shattered. “Faith!”

She twisted the knob and the door swung open. “Jonas!”

She flew into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and climbed right up the front of him, burrowing against him. He looped one arm around her hips as he shut and bolted the door behind him with the other.

“Faith, honey. What is it? Tell me what’s wrong.” He tossed the towels and a sack onto the chair and gathered her up in both arms. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, fearing tears would burst out if she tried to speak. He was strong and he was solid. He was warm and she was safe. And it was all she could do to press her cheek against his neck and hold on.

He carried her with him as he checked the bathroom and closet to ascertain that no one else was there. “Honey, what happened?”

She moved her lips against the warm, musky smell of his collar. “He’s dead, Jonas. He’s dead. And they think we—that I—killed him.”

He tossed aside his cap and sank onto the edge of the bed with her in his lap. “Who’s dead?”

Chapter Six

The woman was shaking. And cold. Plastered to him like a second skin. She was spooked.

“Dammit, Faith, what’s wrong?”

“Jonas!”

She wanted to worry about his vocabulary now? “You need to talk to me.”

When he’d first driven up, his senses had buzzed with caution. Something wasn’t right. The room was dark through the curtain cracks and he could read the concern in the desk clerk’s posture. Her
No one’s answering. Is your wife a sound sleeper?
had shifted him into full alert. He was damn sure they hadn’t been followed to Lander. But Frye had connections even he might not know about. Maybe she’d picked up a phone call when he’d warned her not to. Or a tracking device was somehow planted on her, or hidden in the disk itself. And then he’d heard the crashing sound inside the room.

If Faith hadn’t opened that door, he’d have kicked it in himself.

But the room was clear. The lamp had fallen to the floor beside the door, but he’d seen no signs of forced entry. She wasn’t crying, but she sure was holding on as if he was the prize of the century. Which he knew he wasn’t. He sensed the danger, whatever it had been, had passed. But, hell, he could have handled an intruder. What was he supposed to do with her?

He shrugged out of his jacket. In the instant he had to let go of her, her fingers clamped around his neck and she tried to find a footing to keep herself pressed against him. “No, don’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” The effect of all her struggling was that her long, creamy thighs, exposed all the way up to the elastic strap of some pale-blue panties, kept rubbing against his lap. She was scared and craving comfort, but his body had gotten the fool notion that this was the time to perk up and respond to the press of breasts and bottom against him.

“Be still,” he ordered. He draped his suede jacket around her back and shoulders and wrapped his arms around her again. She settled against him, her rump nestled squarely against his groin. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through the flooding rush of heat, praying she wouldn’t notice his rigid response. Probably not the kind of comfort she wanted from him.

Jonas concentrated on an image that had always cleared his mind of distracting thoughts—his stepmother’s damning eyes and his father’s back turned on him, letting him take the blame for something he hadn’t done. Letting him become the monster.

Better.
He could feel himself filling with anger and hurt—emotions that sharpened his senses instead of handicapping them. But it was hard to keep the image and maintain the resentment. Not when he held this soft bundle of woman in his arms. Not when she smelled so clean and sweet. And scared. He needed to do his job, and move past the warm, peaceful feeling that tried to take root inside him. “What happened?” he prodded. “Tell me who’s dead.”

“I was watching the news on TV,” she began in a halting voice. “Sheriff Prince was stabbed. They found him in your cabin.”

He could feel her fingers toying with the front of his shirt, tracing buttons, smoothing the material. Each tiny caress was an unexpected torture. But he could stand it. He could sit still and hold her if that was what she needed from him.

No one had ever needed him for this kind of thing before. They called on him for strength, protection, expertise, knowledge, experience. No one had ever demanded comfort before. He wasn’t sure what to do. He’d provided the basics—warmth, security. But what next? Pat her back? Say something nice?

“The FBI was there.” The tiny touches continued, but she’d stopped shaking. “The same agent who was investigating Liza’s murder was on the news. Every place I go, Copperhead finds me. But the police, the FBI, they think I’m doing this.”

“And you thought the lady with the towels at your door meant Copperhead had found you here?”

“Yes. No.” Her teasing fingers curled into a fist and she pushed away, tilting her face up to his. “I’m such an idiot. He couldn’t have found us here. Not so soon. Alice must think your Mrs. Jones is crazy. Being afraid of a few towels.” Though she tried to find some humor amidst the irrational confines of fear, she didn’t smile. “Why is this happening to me? I mean, why
me?
”

“First, you’re not an idiot. Most people never have to learn how to handle this kind of thing.” He found it hard to look into her earnest green eyes without thinking things he shouldn’t, without wanting things that weren’t his to take. He palmed the back of her head and pulled her face back to his chest. But that wasn’t much better. Now the dark gold strands of her freshly washed hair clung to his fingers like strands of damp silk. He’d never touched anything so soft.

But he ignored the desires that were stirring despite his best intentions and focused on reasoning with her. “Second, if you didn’t care about your boss, you wouldn’t have helped him. If you didn’t care about your friend, you wouldn’t feel guilty. And as for Prince? Hell, even I didn’t want him dead. He’s nosy enough that he either saw something he shouldn’t, or he made someone very unhappy. You’re just young, and you care about things. You see the good in people, and then it surprises you when you learn how mean some of them can be.”

Damn, what was he talking about? Why was he rambling so much? She pushed against his hand and leaned back into his arms. He caught his breath halfway down his throat. He was doing something right. She was smiling. Actually, it was more of a crooked smirk, but her eyes were bright again. “So you’re saying I’m young and foolish?”