Still Waters (29 page)

Elizabeth didn't seem to notice the endearment. She was still too shaken. She told him the story in fits and starts, as her breath allowed, ending with her frantic search through her purse for the gun.

Scowling, Dane picked up the Desert Eagle from the floor and ordered her to stay put while he searched outside for any sign of the intruder.

Whoever had been there was long gone. The only signs of life in the old outbuildings were vermin. In the shed where the Cadillac was parked, a possum had come out of hiding to inspect the mess around the car. It sat up on its haunches among the scattered files and stared at Dane with bright little eyes, then turned and shambled away into the mountainous stacks of junk at the front of the building.

If the uninvited guest had been Jarvis's killer, he'd just lost a plum chance to nail the bastard, Dane thought as he walked across the yard to catch his horse. Killer or no, the assailant had been looking for something. Jarvis's book? The idea brought an even grimmer look to Dane's face as he tied the gelding to the utility pole and loosened the girth on his saddle.

When he went back into the house, the kitchen light was on and Elizabeth was trying to clean up some of the mess. She looked swallowed up in a man's dress shirt that hung nearly to her knees. She picked up a stray sneaker and shook the crumbled plaster off it, fighting back tears. Dane took the tennis shoe and tossed it onto the pile by the refrigerator. He turned her by the shoulders and herded her to a chair at the table.

“There's nobody out there.”

“There was!” Elizabeth cried. She started to bolt out of the chair, but Dane kept her seated with a hand on her shoulder.

“I believe you,” he said. “But he's gone now. I'll call it in, but he could be anywhere by now. We'll dust the car for prints—”

“He was wearing gloves,” she said flatly, leaning an elbow on the table and cradling her forehead in her hand.

Dane heaved a sigh. If he'd been a few minutes quicker . . . If he'd been a few minutes later . . . Anger in one of its more impotent and frustrating forms burned through him. He reined it back and went to the phone to make his call. When he finished talking to the dispatcher, he turned back toward Elizabeth. She was still sitting at the table, looking pale and frightened under the glare of the fluorescent light.

“Where did you get this gun?” he asked, pulling the Desert Eagle out of the waistband of his jeans and laying it on the table amid the junk she'd spilled from her handbag.

“Brock.”

Dane arched a brow. This wasn't the kind of toy gun a millionaire gave to his lady to keep in her purse. This was no two-shot Derringer or .25-caliber pop gun. This was a cannon, a .357 Magnum automatic, ten inches long, and nearly five pounds, loaded. “He gave you this? As a present?”

“Not exactly,” Elizabeth hedged, nibbling her lip. She sniffed and combed back a lock of plaster-powdered hair. “It
was
a present. Some Israeli commando leader gave it to Brock for his collection.
I
stole it.”

“Stole—?” The word was choked off. Dane took a step back from the table, ran a hand over his hair, and rubbed his neck. That she had stolen this prize from Brock Stuart shouldn't have been amusing, but he liked the idea of the bastard's frustration over losing his toys.

“Then I suppose it's ridiculous to ask if you have a permit to own a handgun in the state of Minnesota,” he said calmly.

Elizabeth sniffed again and wiped a hand across her nose. “I suppose.”

“And it's too much to hope that you've had some kind of training in the use and handling of this weapon?”

“I know how to shoot a gun,” she said petulantly, insulted.

“This isn't just a gun, Elizabeth,” he said. “This is a fucking bazooka. You could shoot a hole in the side of an elephant big enough to drive a Mack truck through with this thing. I'm confiscating it.”

“You can't!” Elizabeth cried, grabbing for the Desert Eagle as he picked it up and held it out of her reach.

“Watch me,” he threatened softly. “I'm sheriff of this county. You're illegally in possession of a firearm. I could toss your pretty ass in jail if I wanted to.”

“Oh, isn't that rich?” Elizabeth sassed, falling back in her chair. “Killers running around loose all over the damn place and you're after me for having one little stolen gun.”

Dane's temper boiled up. “Jesus, you could have killed me!”

“Or saved my own life,” she argued. “What if that hadn't been you coming in the door?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “What if it hadn't been me? What if it had been Trace? Where the hell is he anyway?”

“Out.”

“Great.”

Gun still dangling from his right hand, he did a slow turn around the kitchen as he blew out a long breath. This whole mess was smelling worse and worse. And right smack in the middle of the pile was Elizabeth. Elizabeth the near-witness, Elizabeth the stranger in town, Elizabeth the would-be investigative reporter. The only solid suspect they had had Elizabeth's son for an alibi.

Elizabeth watched him pace, growing more weary with every step he took. The aftershocks of what had happened were beginning to set in with a vengeance. Her shoulder ached abominably, the throbbing running all the way to her fingertips. She leaned over on the chair, holding her arm against her middle, wishing it would go numb again. For the first time she noticed the bloody tear in the knee of her jeans. She absently picked at the torn fabric. The cut hurt, but she was too tired to tend to it.

“Elizabeth?” Dane hitched his jeans and squatted down in front of her. He'd been talking for five minutes, lecturing her about the damn gun, and she hadn't heard a word.

“Hey.” He reached a hand up and touched her cheeks. Her skin was cold, and what color had come back to her during their argument about the Desert Eagle was gone again. “Are you okay?”

“I hurt,” she whispered. “I'm bleeding.”

She sounded almost amazed, Dane thought. He thought she might be going into some kind of shock, but he hesitated to go to the phone and call for an ambulance. He wanted to take care of her himself. He didn't want anyone else coming near her. The feeling was strong and instinctive and Dane ignored its implications with the ease of a man accustomed to denying his own feelings.

Gently, he peeled the torn, sodden denim back from her knee and examined the wound under the glare of the kitchen light. There was a gash about an inch long just below the kneecap. It wasn't deep enough to need stitches, but it was bloody and dirty with bits of glass clinging in the sticky mess. It needed cleaning. Her hands and face were streaked with dirt and she was favoring her left shoulder more with every passing second, bending over her arm and rocking herself slowly.

“Come on, honey.” He stood slowly, drawing her up with him by her good arm. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

“I can do it myself,” Elizabeth mumbled. It was a lie, but she felt as if she had to try to preserve at least one small kernel of her dignity.

“Yeah, well, you aren't going to.”

“I don't need a nursemaid.”

“No,” Dane said, pressing a hand against the small of her back. “What you need is a keeper. Which way is the bathroom?”

The room was so small they barely fit in it together. Elizabeth suspected someone had taken the term “water closet” too much to heart when plumbing had been added to the house. The toilet had been wedged in between the wall and the shower stall with the sink directly across from it. Pepto-Bismol-pink paint, so bright it seemed to leap off the walls, added to the sense of being closed in.

“Welcome to my luxurious master bath,” she said sarcastically as Dane frowned at the tin shower stall with its cheap plastic curtain and angelfish decals stuck on the side. “I'm fixin' to put in a Jacuzzi real soon.”

“It's not exactly what you're used to, I guess,” he mumbled.

She shrugged with her good shoulder and glanced away. “I've had more that were this bad or worse than I've had better, Cinderella was a princess for only a little while before the shoe came off, you know.”

Before the prince yanked it off her, Dane amended. The thought made him angry. Angry that Brock Stuart had been such a bastard, angry that
he
had been a bastard, angry that he cared one way or the other. He would have preferred indifference.

“Let's get these jeans off,” he muttered, reaching for the button at the waist.

Their fingers collided, then their gazes, and the room seemed suddenly even smaller than it was. Dane tried to back up a step, but bumped into the sink. Elizabeth tried to move, but hit the toilet. Dane conceded the round, lifting his hands away and letting her do the job.

He gritted his teeth and told himself there was nothing sexual about this as she popped the button and ran the zipper down. He was only taking care of her, showing a little compassion. But as the denim skimmed down her hips, revealing glimpses of a pair of French-cut coffee-brown lace panties, he was hard-pressed not to think of how it had felt to be inside her. Then the ugly cut on her knee came into view, the sight of it zapping him with the cattle prod of guilt. She was hurt and he was getting horny. What a prince of a guy he was.

“Sit,” he ordered gruffly.

Elizabeth lowered herself to the stool, demurely pulling the tails of her shirt around her to cover her panties. She felt shy with him. Odd, considering. But then, maybe shy wasn't the right word. Vulnerable. That was it. She didn't like it. After Brock she had vowed not to be vulnerable to a man again. Love hurt, especially when the one you loved felt something less. She didn't want to go through that again.

Not that she was falling in love with Dane Jantzen, she rushed to assure herself. It wasn't that at all.

He cleaned the wound carefully, his big hands as gentle as any mother's as he eased away the dirt and blood and bits of glass. The thought made Elizabeth wonder what kind of father he'd been before Mrs. Jantzen had given him the boot. She wondered if he missed that role. Most of the men she had known wouldn't. J.C., Bobby Lee, Brock—none of them had ever wanted to be a father except in name only. Somehow, she got the feeling Dane would be different. Maybe it was the fact that the only personal item in his office was that picture of his daughter holding up her sign—
I LOVE YOU
,
DADDY
.

His daughter, who was probably at home waiting for him.

“What are you doing here?” Until now it hadn't occurred to her to ask. She'd been too grateful to have him here. He looked up at her, a mixture of surprise and concern in his eyes. She rephrased the question. “Why are you here? How did you get here?”

A hint of a blush rose across his cheeks. He cleared his throat and dropped his head, giving undue attention to the Band-Aid he was fumbling with. “I was riding,” he mumbled.

“Riding? At this hour?”

Dane ground his teeth a little and pressed the Band-Aid into place, drawing a wince from Elizabeth. He didn't want to admit he had planned to watch over her from the cover of the woods. Didn't want to admit he had already spent two nights doing just that. He didn't want to think about the fact that he'd been late getting there tonight. Almost too late.

“It helps me unwind,” he said. That was one version of the truth. He enjoyed being in the saddle. It was a reasonable explanation, and not as revealing as another version of the truth might have been—that he wanted to be near her, that he wanted to protect her, that he still felt like a cad for what had happened the night before.

“Shouldn't you be home with your daughter?”

He frowned at the reminder that Amy suddenly didn't want to spend any time with him. “She's spending the night with one of her cousins.” He forced his gaze away from the shapely leg he'd been tending and stood up. “Come on. Let me take a look at that shoulder.”

Elizabeth accepted his hand, letting him steady her as she got to her feet. They were too close again. The memory of last night's intimacy hung in the air around them.

Dane was remembering, too, as he undid the top few buttons of the man's shirt she wore. He was remembering that he hadn't taken the time to do this last night. Christ, what a jerk he'd been. He tried to swallow down the guilt and the surge of desire as he slipped the shirt down over her left shoulder. He deserved this torture.

“Does this hurt?” Carefully he ran a hand along the slope of her shoulder and with his other hand gently manipulated her arm. God, her skin was like silk, and the subtle scent of some expensive perfume drifted up from the curve of her neck to tease his nostrils. He wanted to lower his mouth to the spot where shoulder and neck met, and taste her.

Elizabeth winced a little. The shoulder hurt, but the pain was being overridden by other factors. “Yes,” she murmured breathlessly.

“I don't think anything is broken,” he said tightly. “Bruised. Do you want an X ray?”

“No,” she whispered. A tremor went through her, not from pain but from the feel of his hand on her bare skin. “I just want to go to bed.”

Dane bit back a groan. He wanted to take her to bed. But that wasn't going to happen.

He helped her up the stairs to the second floor, putting an arm around her and taking some of her weight against him. When they reached the upstairs hall, he stepped behind her and let her lead the way so she couldn't see how turned on he was.

Elizabeth stopped with her hand on the door of her bedroom and shot a look at Dane over her shoulder. “Don't you dare laugh at my bed,” she warned, brows pulling low over her eyes.

“Why would I laugh at your bed?”

“Brock did.” She pushed the door open and limped into the room, flipping on the lamp on the nightstand instead of the ceiling light. The room didn't look quite so shabby cast in soft shadows.

Dane stepped into the small, pink-walled room, amazed, but not at all tempted to laugh. He wouldn't have laughed on pain of death. The look she was giving him was too proud, too tender.

The bed dominated the room, barely leaving space for a mismatched dresser and nightstand. Elizabeth walked around it, turning back the eyelet comforter and fluffing ruffled pillows, her chin set at a defiant angle, daring him to comment on the ornate brass headboard and footboard.