Maggie's Man (4 page)

Cain looked at her silently. "My brother
Abraham cut his teeth on a Remington 12-gauge shotgun, Maggie. With a crossbow,
he can shoot a hole through the middle of a quarter from forty yards. He also
believes the numbers on the back of the road signs are to help the Zionist
Occupational Government—ZOG—someday herd all dissidents into forty-three
concentration camps and that Gurkha troops are being secretly trained in
Montana to attack and disarm God-fearing Americans such as himself. If he finds
us, Maggie, he'll kill us both." His lips twisted, but the expression
couldn't be called a smile.

"Concentration camps?" she whispered
sickly.

"Welcome to Paranoia-R-Us. Or in Idaho,
another name for the militias. Up you go." He slid his hands beneath her
arms, intent on hefting her up into the cab and hearing her drag in another
sharp hiss of outrage. She shifted to get away from him, but only succeeded in
pressing one small breast against his palm. Firm breast, apple shaped. Soft.
Beautifully, delicately soft. Definitely the breast of a woman and not a child.

His breath held. Her breath held. Her eyes
widened in terror and very slowly, she edged back. His breath came out hard and
low.

"Maggie," he said in a low, measured
tone, "I haven't had sex in six years. Don't do that again unless you mean
it."

"Okay," she squeaked.

He smiled, cursing his body, her shyness and
the whole situation. Next time he escaped from prison, he was kidnapping a
prostitute or a very eager widow.

With a sudden, deft movement, he tossed Maggie
up into the truck, away from his hand and the swelling that was becoming almost
painful against his jeans. The binding link of the chain, however, forced him
to follow her up awkwardly.

He grabbed the gun and vented his frustration
by using the handle to break open the ignition. Sixty seconds later, the truck
roared to life with the sleek growl of an expensive lion.

Thank God for misspent youths. The tension
began to dissolve. He was going to do this. He was going to get away. It would
all work out if he just kept thinking.

"Sit next to me, Maggie."

"No."

He smiled and with a negligent yank of his
sinew-roped forearm, dragged her against him. "Sit here, sweetheart,"
he murmured. "Look at me affectionately, place your hand on my thigh. And
when the police look over at us to check for an escaped con in a prison guard's
uniform, smile at them sweetly and say you have no idea but you'll certainly
keep your eyes open. It'll be very easy, very simple. And in no time at all,
I'll return you unharmed and untouched to your three-legged cat."

She stared at him, her eyes unexpectedly
mutinous, her cheeks flushed. Her red hair tangled wildly around her pale
features, and her full, petal-pink lips parted with stubborn defiance.

She looked suddenly vital and stunning.

He figured six years was definitely too long to
go without a woman if he thought a thin scrap of female like her was stunning.

"What are you thinking, Maggie?" he
whispered. "What can you really do against someone like me?"

Her mouth abruptly shut. The light died in her
eyes. She slumped beside him, and that quickly she was the mousy clerk again.
It was as if a switch had been thrown and the woman simply turned off.

"Okay," she said.

He gazed at her a minute longer. She didn't
look up, and there were no more signs of life in her face. He nodded finally. It
was better this way.

He shifted the truck into gear and backed out
of the lot. Casual and easy, that was the ticket. If they appeared calm, no one
would ever guess they had something to hide.

"Where are we going?" she asked at
last, her blue eyes fastened on the dash.

"To Idaho," he said lightly.
"We're going to find my brother, Ham. Then, I'm probably going to have to
kill him."

Chapter 2

«
^
»

"
T
icket, please."

"Ticket?" her esteemed colleague
repeated absently. He was peering up three blocks to the mass of blue and red
flashing lights and dark-uniformed police officers. His eyes were narrowed
intently and his fingers drummed rhythmically against the wheel as if he was lost
in great thought.

Maggie risked a look over his shoulder at the
parking lot attendant. Because of the considerable height of the truck, she
gazed down at him. He appeared amazingly small next to
Attila
the Hun's broad
shoulder, and his face was covered with pimples. Probably barely a day older
than eighteen and his width hadn't caught up with his height.

Not exactly Superman material. She sent him
desperate thought waves anyway.
Hey! Hey you! Look at me. Just look
underneath Godzilla's arm and spot me for one moment.

"Your
parking
ticket, sir."
The young man's voice cracked with the impatience. He stared at them both
glumly as if to say, I spent four years in high school and all I got was a
lousy parking-attendant job.

"Parking ticket?" her captor repeated,
focusing on the attendant for the first time. He gazed around the cab then
straight at her. "Do you see a parking ticket?"

"No," she whispered. She looked up
the street. She could see blinking lights and the blue-clad police officers
scurrying around like ants. She counted eight of them. Eight cops. So close.

Honk the horn, Maggie. Hit him in the ribs.
Do something bold and courageous. This man is planning to commit another
murder!

But she couldn't move. She'd never liked loud
noises, she lived in fear of making a scene. She still vividly remembered her
mother throwing Waterford crystal across the parlor and screaming at her father
that he was nothing but a philandering rat. And she remembered the very late
nights, when the house was finally dark and quiet—sometimes not until 4:00
a.m.—when she would creep downstairs just to sit in the parlor and listen to
the silence. Once, she'd found her father there, sitting in the dark, still and
brooding. Then he'd finally reached over and picked up the phone, speaking in a
hushed, murmuring voice. She'd remained in the hallway, curled up on the
Persian runner, listening to his deep, velvety baritone wash over her like a
soothing wave.

She had loved him so much and then he was just
gone, off to visit one of his other families where Maggie was sure the mother
didn't scream or throw crystal across the room. Then he was more than gone—his
plane crashed—and all Maggie had left was the locket he'd once given her, and
memories of a midnight phone conversation she'd never told anyone about. That
secret was the only piece of her father, the infamous Maxmillian the Chameleon,
that was solely hers.

Abruptly, her captor leaned over, violating her
small space and interrupting her thoughts. His lips halted right next to the
corner of her mouth, the way a lover's might, while his keen eyes fired to
life. Maggie's whole body went rigid. She stopped breathing and curled up
inside of herself while the masculine scent of soap and sweat washed over her
cheeks and flared her nostrils.

"Wh-what?" she asked unsteadily,
unable to breathe, unable to move. Should a felon's eyes be so green? And so …
intelligent, steady, composed? She thought murderers had beady eyes, black
beady eyes that were always darting to and fro. That way you knew they were
trouble.

He said, "Ten dollars."

"Huh?"

"The attendant claims we have to pay ten
dollars," he repeated. He leaned back, his fingers drumming against the
wheel as his gaze returned to the police lights blinking up the street.
"Expensive," he murmured absently.

She could only stare at him, then belatedly at
the purse beside her. The car behind them impatiently honked its horn.

The Terminator's attention pivoted back to her
immediately. "Come on, Maggie," he said tersely, his voice so low only
she could hear it. "No games now. There are a lot of people who could get
hurt."

"I know," she whispered. "I
know." Frustration and humiliation thickened her throat, but she still
couldn't think of anything to do. If she tried to raise a fuss, she'd probably
get everyone killed. Maybe if she just humored him for now. She would
cooperate, they could get beyond the city limits where no one else would suffer
if she did anything rash… She took a deep breath. Okay, she'd get through this.
Just one moment at a time.

She grabbed her purse and managed to retrieve a
ten-dollar bill with trembling fingers.

Mr. Escaped Con promptly handed over the money
to the impatient, thin-shouldered attendant. "Sorry about that," he
said politely and beamed a perfectly charming smile.

Maggie's teeth set painfully as she watched the
black-and-white-striped gate swing up. In front of the police, the pedestrians
and God, the truck pulled out into traffic.

She peered back. Two cops had stopped to watch
them, no doubt watching all vehicles. If she could just raise her left hand a
little, enough for them to see the handcuffs. Or maybe a sign. Didn't those
cardboard shades people placed behind their windshields during the summer say
Help! Call the Police on one side? She gazed around the cab, easing away from
her captor.

"Good idea," he said so abruptly that
she flinched. "Look and see what we have to work with."

"Work with?"

"What's in the glove compartment? Any
maps, spare change, anything?"

"Wasn't stealing the truck enough?"
she muttered, then glanced at him nervously to see how he'd handle that remark.
His hands were tight on the steering wheel, and for the first time she noticed
the beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks. So he wasn't as calm and cool as
he pretended. Even as she watched, his gaze darted to the rearview mirror, then
his hands tightened on the wheel.

As if sensing her gaze upon him, he turned to
her tersely. "Look in the glove compartment, Maggie.
Now!"

She hastily opened the glove compartment. She
had a feeling not too many people argued with him when he used that tone of
voice. She certainly couldn't.

"One map of the northwestern states, one
map of Portland, the vehicle registration, a flashlight, four packets of
ketchup, two straws and six unpaid parking tickets," she rattled off.
"Why is it nobody ever pays their parking tickets? It really is a
shame." She glanced outside. They were at the waterfront now. Traffic was
still sluggish with morning commuters. She spotted one cop parked on the
driveway of the Alexis Restaurant, scrutinizing all traffic through mirrored
sunglasses.

Look over here,
she begged him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.
For God's sake, look over here.

"Maggie," Attila's voice said
quietly. "Fasten your seat belt."

She looked at him abruptly, then the rearview
mirror. A cop had pulled in behind them. Even as she watched, he picked up his
radio and spoke into it.

"He heard me. Finally, somebody heard
me," she whispered triumphantly.

"Don't break out the champagne yet," the
Terminator muttered. He downshifted the truck as if preparing for a mighty leap
forward.

"You can't outrace an entire city full of
cops!" she cried instantly.

"Watch me."

"No!" Before she could stop to think
about it, she reached over and latched her hands on to the wheel. She stared up
at him as fiercely as she could, though her body was trembling again.
"There are pedestrians out there. Innocent people crossing the streets and
strolling down sidewalks. They could be killed! Don't you understand that? Don't
you care just a little bit?"

His green gaze slid over her, dark and
glittering, his square jaw set so rigidly she could see a muscle flinch.
"Let go, Maggie. Now."

She gritted her teeth, prayed her knees would
stop knocking together and kept her fingers wrapped stubbornly around the
wheel. Behind them, the police officer made no moves. He didn't speed up, he
didn't turn on his lights, nor did he change lanes. Did he understand this was
a dangerous area for high-speed pursuit? Or did he think they were simply
lovers snuggling up on the bench seat of the pickup truck?

She took a deep breath. "I'm not letting
go. I can't. Too many people could get hurt."

"Starting with you."

"Trying to evade the police here is stupid
and you know it!" she exclaimed desperately. He appeared an intelligent
man.

He frowned abruptly, and she had the faint
satisfaction of knowing that she'd reached him. The light in front of them
turned red. The cop was still driving patiently behind them.

"Damn!" Attila swore. He looked at her
darkly, but his foot finally pressed on the brake and the truck slowed to an
easy stop.

Okay, Maggie. You got him calm. Point one
for the good guys.
What was she supposed
to do now? It had been a long time since her abnormal psych days. Okay, keep
the psychotic from dehumanizing things. That's right. Remind him everyone's a
person, she's a person, he's a person, the cops are people, too.