Survival Instinct (8 page)

She leaped up to meet him, thrusting the trap out before her. His hand skidded off the trip plate and the trap slammed closed around his arm and this time
he
was the one who shrieked.
He
was the one to lose his balance, stumbling backward to tip over the guardrail at a gentler part of the outcrop. His cry stopped short as he crashed through the branches and finally hit something strong enough to hold him.

Karin dismissed him, at least long enough to hop around holding her wrist and crying, “Ow, ow, ow, ow,
dammit, ow!
”

“Ellen!”

And here came Dave, roaring around the end of the car, his face flushed and his hair totally ruffled, his coat still flapping open to reveal a sweatshirt with the absurd logo of a red bird flexing impossible muscles. He stopped short, just as she halted her little pain dance. He said, “Where—”

Karin gave a haughty little nod at the guardrail. “Turnabout is fair play.”

In some disbelief, he leaned over the guardrail. When he straightened, he was shaking his head. “He’ll need help getting out of
that.
”

“Call for it,” she said. “But I’m not waiting. I’m all bent up and I’m
still
cold and I’m starving. I’m driving on to Bluefield.” She headed for her truck.

“You’re—oh,
no.
Not alone, you’re not.”

“Then follow me. You’ve probably got a sneaky way to do that, right? Some other little tracker thing?”

At first abashed, his expression hardened. “Hey, you want to talk sneaky—what the hell did you put in my drink?”

Improbably, she felt her cheeks pinking up. Ellen’s Xanax, that’s what. “Didn’t hurt you,” she muttered, mustering exhausted dignity to pull at the tire chains.

He grabbed them away from her in one big mass and dumped them into her truck bed. “I’m not kidding. You’re not going anywhere alone. I’ll follow you to a safe place to leave that thing and then I’ll take you to the Bluefield hospital.”

“I’m not waiting,” she told him, opening the truck door to fumble around for her keys. She could drive one-handed if she had to, even on these curves. For a while, at least. And somewhere in here she had Goldfish crackers.

He stood frozen a moment, then gave a bemused shake of his head. “Hey,” he said. “About that cliff thing. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah,” she said, climbing in behind the wheel. “About getting those tire chains back down to you while Mr. Mad Sheep Man was tossing me around…you’re welcome.”

He shook his head again. This time it looked like a more subtle version of throwing his hands up. “I’ll catch up with the local LEOs later.”

She couldn’t help a smirk. “Let him explain about the leg-hold trap on his arm…yeah. And oh—tell them he doesn’t
really
have Mad Sheep disease, whatever he says.”

That stopped him short. He held her gaze a long moment. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell them. But boy, do we have to talk.”

“Yeah,” she told him. “That goes both ways. And I want food
before
we go to the hospital. No way I’m going to wait on an empty stomach. And no way I’m eating hospital crap.”

This time he held up his hands for real, total capitulation. “You win.”

She gave him a victory smile. But as she shut the door and started the truck, she looked at what her life had become and she suddenly wasn’t so sure.

Dave took Ellen to a truck stop just outside of Bluefield. She ordered a huge breakfast and savored each bite. For a while he just watched her. The way she ate, the way she interacted with those near her, the way her gaze flicked around to keep tabs on those around her. If he hadn’t known she’d spent the night out on a cliff face… Oh, her appearance was ragged enough—scuffed, torn and dirty clothing, her cheek scraped, her left arm tucked protectively into her lap. Her eyes gave away the most—no longer piercing, but rimmed with exhaustion. Not quite the same face as the one he’d once interviewed…but she’d mentioned that the accident had broken some facial bones. Not the same demeanor, either.

In fact, she was someone a little bit different with everyone to whom she spoke. To the older man who’d seated them, she’d been a daughter figure. To the waitress, a sister. To the trucker who’d hesitated long enough to give her a questioning once-over, dismissive enough so the man had turned away, not so blatant that he’d taken offense.

So there was plenty to look at. Plenty to ponder. And Ellen, even stiff and battered and grimy and exhausted, was still striking enough to catch Dave’s eye by surprise time after time. More vibrant than she’d been before. It made him wonder if she’d been abused by Longsford…if now he saw what she would have been like without the man’s influence. Or if—

“The accident really changed you,” he said, though he hadn’t meant to speak out loud at all.

She looked at him with one of those dry expressions, the eyebrow raised, her wide mouth quirked up at one corner in a way that emphasized the unusually straight line where her lips met. “You’re just now figuring it out?”

“I’m sorry about the tracker,” he said, and took a sip of his coffee. Unleaded, because he didn’t need any more caffeine for a week. Maybe two. “It was insurance against Longsford’s men. I didn’t mention it because…frankly, I didn’t want you to think I was concerned about keeping you safe.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said crisply, taking a slug of milk. White foam traced the left half of her upper lip. “There’s only one moment you could have planted that thing, and I’m
really
sorry that you even thought of it. I know I was thinking about other things.”

He winced at her words. “Trust me, it wasn’t—” And then he fell silent, caught in her gaze as she looked up at him, her expression making it perfectly clear what she had been thinking about. He stuttered to a stop there, and then finally took a deep breath into aching lungs. Slowly, he sat back in his chair, still holding her gaze. He thought about the conflict of interest and he thought about professionalism and he gave an abrupt shake of his head, freeing himself from the moment.

The scary thing was, he wasn’t convinced. Not where it counted. Witness or not, he
wanted
—

“You’ve got a milk mustache,” he told her.

Calmly, she licked her lip clean and went back to her pancakes.

It wasn’t until later that he realized they’d never talked about why she’d run.

At the hospital emergency department, Karin fell asleep with her head on Dave’s leg, curled up on the padded bench seat while she waited for her turn. She woke to the sound of Ellen’s name to discover his hand resting on her hip, his head tipped back while he snored gently. He still wore that silly sweatshirt and his jeans were as ragged as hers, but…he somehow still looked as if he’d walked out of the pages of a catalog.

She slid out from beneath his hand and he didn’t wake. No little wonder, after the crash course of drugs his system had gotten. Might as well let him sleep on. He’d taken it pretty hard that she’d gone over the cliff as a result of his tracking bug. She guessed that his out-to-save-the-world directive didn’t leave much room for nearly getting someone killed.

She followed the nurse in Igor mode, stiff and pained in every muscle she had. An interminable length of time later, she came back out, somewhat less stumbly and somewhat more floaty. Painkillers were a wonderful thing. Dave waited for her, bleary-eyed and rubbing his neck; she guessed that he’d only just woken up.

“Sleep well?” she asked him, and couldn’t help but grin.

“Ha,” he said, and rubbed his neck again. Served him right. He nodded at her wrist, where a short arm cast enclosed her arm from elbow to halfway up her hand. “Broken?”

“You must be an investigator of some sort.” But she relented and gave a short nod. “It’s not bad. One of those little wrist bones. Or two. They gave me pain meds and told me to see my family doctor when I get home.”

“About that—”

She gave a sharp shake of her head. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I want to find a hotel—you’ll have to drive, by the way—and I want to sleep until I wake up. Then I want decadent room service and an old black-and-white movie. And then I’m going to sleep again—until sometime tomorrow, at which point we can pick up my truck here, and I’ll drive myself home.”

He stood up; he was closer than she’d meant them to be. “There’s more than that,” he said gently. “There are things we’re not done with.”

She’d figured. But pretending otherwise…it had been worth a try.

And then she thought of that moment on the cliff, when he’d come to help her. When he’d closed his strength and warmth around her and she’d had that flood of relief and she’d thought
this is what it’s like.
To be frightened and to know you’re trapped in your desperate situation…and to have someone come along and make a difference.

And to know there was still a little boy out there, and his only chance was if someone did the same for him.

Dave knew it, too. She had the feeling Dave never let himself forget it.

So she sighed and she rubbed a finger over her brow and she looked back at him with the slightest of nods. “Okay,” she said. “But not now.”

“Okay,” he said back. “Let’s find a hotel. One with really heavy curtains and good soundproofing.”

Damned if he wasn’t doing it again.

Making a difference.

Chapter 9

K
arin woke to a muttering television and the tickety-tacking of a keyboard. She followed the low light in the room to find Dave in the corner, ensconced with his laptop and that yellow pad of paper. He slouched in a chair by the room’s little round table, his feet propped on the double bed Karin hadn’t fallen into upon arrival and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses settled firmly on his nose. His eyes looked slightly larger than normal through the lenses…huh. Farsighted, was he?

“Hey,” she said, and it sounded like a frog being stepped on. She sat up in the bed—carefully—and reawakened every single bruise anyway. “So were you wearing contacts before, or do you do the vanity thing and leave the glasses off?”

He finished a few more keystrokes and looked up at her. “More like I break them on a regular basis if I leave them on. Never could adjust to contacts. Doesn’t matter…unless I’m using this thing or tired, I’m just fine.”

“Working late,” she observed, discovering the clock on the bedside table between them. Just after midnight. No wonder her mouth tasted so vile. And ugh…that smell…was that
her?

“I caught up with my sleep a little earlier,” he said drily. “It seemed wise to get in a report to the local LEOs as soon as possible.” He nodded at the foot of his bed. “There’s a sub in there for you. Didn’t know what you’d like, so I went for blah.”

Surprised gratitude twinged through her. “Thanks. Blah is fine.
Anything
is fine. I think…I’m going to take a shower first.” Yeah. That smell was definitely her very own.

“I talked housekeeping out of a garbage bag and some rubber bands.” He looked back at his computer, typed a few words. “For your cast.”

“Jeez, who are you? An ex–Boy Scout?” She hadn’t meant for her words to come out so sharply.

He looked up again, catching her gaze for a long moment. But when he looked back at his work, he said simply, “There’s a sweatshirt in there, too. It’s all I had…it’ll be too big, but it’s clean.”

She plucked ruefully at her own long-sleeved waffle-weave shirt. “I can’t believe we didn’t bring my bag.”

“Other things on our minds.” It was a noncommittal reply, and she knew she’d hurt him with her sharp words after all. No big surprise that someone who was so fixated on helping children would have a heart big enough to be a target.

Well, so be it. She wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him.

And he’s only trying to help a little boy.

With much care, she left the bed and went into the bathroom, leaving the sound of his swift keystrokes behind. Her inner wince of contrition followed her right on in.

Under any other circumstances, it would have been a luxurious shower—hard spray, hot water, lots of lather. But tonight, it was merely a challenge to avoid the bruises and abrasions. She washed out her jeans and underwear and then hung them with the stern admonishment to dry overnight. The small fine-toothed comb he’d left would do nothing but foul up her hair, so she left it to dry uncombed, knowing she’d pay for it later. And though his sweatshirt hung down below her hips, she wrapped a towel around herself anyway. She surveyed herself in the mirror—tangled hair down around her shoulders, gray eyes wary and pained, abrasions artfully scattered around her face. The sweatshirt had another Red Wings logo on it—a ball with wings—which at least stiffened the cloth and obscured her breasts.

Sort of.

Turned out she wasn’t that brave after all, and she kept one hand at the twist of the towel as she left the steamy bathroom. Just in case. She rummaged in the open television cabinet, coming up with the hotel stationery and a pen, snagging the food on the way back.

“There’s a soda on ice,” he said, not looking up. Or rather, desperately not looking up. She caught his eyes following her, heard the slight strain in his voice.

She was about to say,
you do think of everything,
but stopped herself. “Thanks,” she said. And when she put it all down on the bed and sat, safely tucking the covers around her, she popped the top of the soda, fiddled with the tab a moment and said, “Thanks for getting me off that cliff, too.”

This time he looked up. And again, he didn’t answer right away. Then he nodded, and said, “You’re welcome. And you’re right. It was my fault.”

Startled, she nearly spilled the soda she’d just put her lips. “I didn’t say—”

“But you’ve thought it. More than once.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t take a mind reader. I’d think the same, if I were in your place. But…I thought we were on the same page. About the safe house. I didn’t think you’d—”

“Drug you.” She said it without remorse. “The safe house probably seems like a great idea to you. But it wasn’t
my
idea, was it? I can take care of myself.”

“So I saw.” He shook his head, but he smiled a little as he did it. “You certainly do rise to the occasion.”

“I could say the same of you.” It was an attempt to divert him, but it was lame and she knew it had failed when he just looked at her. Then faint amusement crossed his features and he said, “So. Mad Sheep disease?”

She couldn’t help it; she snorted, raising a hand to keep the current swallow of soda in her mouth where it belonged. “Hey, he’d just tossed me over the cliff. He didn’t mean to, but he was getting ready to walk away—with Longsford’s blessing. I figured he’d have a little rash starting from the poison ivy, an itch or two. So I told him he’d been exposed by my sheep.”

He thought about that a moment, then shook his head…but it was a gesture of amused admiration. “Good try.”

She shrugged, tearing off a corner of the sub. Hardly stale at that. “Didn’t work. Made a mess, in fact…I had no idea he’d be so sensitive to poison ivy. It came on strong enough to make him believe me after all.”

Dave tapped a few more words into the laptop. “Means he’s in custody, though.” He got serious with his typing for a moment, and Karin ate her sub in silence. It didn’t take long before she pulled the pad of paper to prop on her knees.

Karin Sommers’s Substitute Journal, March Something

Next installment in our exciting story. I’m here in a hotel room with a hunky guy in glasses that make him look even
more
sexy—if it can be believed—and I’m not even wearing underwear. Gosh, what do you think will happen next?

Nothing, that’s what. Because I hurt too damn bad. I’m in trouble, Ellen. Real trouble. I can’t help that boy as you could have, because we neglected to do one of those memory transference things as you died. I might be able to do something as me—Rumsey’s lessons come in handy now and then—but I can’t be me without throwing away the new life you died to give me.

And considering that warrant, without throwing away what’s left of the old…

And didn’t that just sum it all up.

Karin ate another bite of sandwich, savoring it. When she looked up she found Dave watching, his laptop closed, report submitted. “What did you tell them?”

He assumed a straight man’s face. “That he didn’t have Mad Sheep disease, no matter what he said.” He watched as she tucked another morsel of food into her mouth, then gave himself a slight shake. “Actually, I didn’t. I figure if he’s babbling about Mad Sheep disease, they’re not likely to give whatever else he says much credence. I just told them we’d found him when we stopped to stretch our legs, but that my companion had hurt herself while trying to help. Once we realized we couldn’t, we called 911 and went to get you medical attention. And that I would be happily cooperative about answering any questions.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He shrugged. “I don’t think we’ll have to. The man tripped and fell over the side in the dark, that’s all. He’s not the first they’ve rescued from that little patch of ground and he won’t be the last. And whatever he says, you can bet he’s not going to admit that Barret Longsford sent him to kidnap you, or that he threw you over the side of that mountain and then came back for you. Unless he’s got a warrant lurking, he’ll be headed back to Barret soon.”

Karin stopped chewing at
warrant lurking
but immediately forced herself to continue, even if the food had gone tasteless. Swallowing, she took a sip of soda lest the bread get stuck in her throat, but after that she had her game face back. Even if she did push the sandwich aside.

If he noticed, he misinterpreted. “Don’t worry,” he said. “If something comes up, I’ll handle it. Working with the local LEOs is something I do all the time—you think I had a contact in Bluefield out of coincidence?”

She’d wondered, actually. “So the errand geek is still on the loose,” she said, drawing her knees up to grow pensive.

“Sidelined for a while, I should think,” Dave said. “That rash…it’s going to take him out of work for a while.”

Karin pictured the man, allowing herself a small, tight smile. “All over his hands,” she said. “Ol’Barret’s gonna have to send someone down to get him.”

Dave looked at her another long moment, rubbing a finger just below his lower lip in a thoughtful gesture. “Seriously,” he said, “we could have pressed charges. But I don’t think you could have stayed low-profile, and I’d rather have Barret wondering just where you are. I’ve gotten the impression you feel the same.”

She took a sharp breath at the thought of being discovered. Longsford would
know
Karin wasn’t the woman he’d dated. Fooling Ellen’s casual acquaintances while leaning on the changes wrought by the accident was one thing…fooling someone who had been intimate with her was something else again.

“Hey,” Dave said. She looked at him, for the moment only blinking. Here she was with the man who’d inadvertently turned her life upside down, the night after her life had
literally
gone topsy-turvy over the side of a mountain. She’d survived that…she’d survive this. She’d survive being unable to help Rashawn Little—and she’d survive being wanted by Longsford as Ellen and in California as Karin. She’d survive, because it was what she did. But right now…

Right now it all piled up around her in an implacably suffocating way.

Dave made getting-up noises, and rummaged in the overnight bag he’d dropped to the floor on the other side of his bed. “Hey,” he said again, standing there looking as rumpled as she felt, damned adorably rumpled. And in his hand…a flask.

“Ooh,” she said. It was an expensive flask, leather covered. It promised…

Single malt.

“Just a taste,” he said. “It’s cask strength, and you’ve got pain drugs in your system.”

“They’ve worn off. Trust me on that.” She watched—more listened—as he retrieved two hotel glasses, rinsed them and reemerged still shaking them free of excess water; he put them on the little round table. Then he rummaged in the room’s minibar and brought out a bottle of purified drinking water.

“Ooh,” she said again. “We’re going to do this right.”

“Damned straight we’re doing this right. This is a twenty-six-year-old Cardhu. Distilled in ’76, bottled in 2000.”

She dropped her knees back into a cross-legged position, leaning forward a little. “If I didn’t hurt so much, I’d bounce. Twenty-six-year-old Cardhu? Let’s get married.”

He grinned. “Ah,” he said. “A true believer. I’m surprised this didn’t come out when we spoke last year.”

“We weren’t talking about pleasant things,” she pointed out, ignoring her little frill of alarm. This detail wouldn’t be the one to out her. “
This
is a pleasant thing. A
sublime
thing.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment, trickled a finger of scotch into each glass, and handed her one, sitting on the edge of his bed. Not so far away, as they each swirled the amber liquid, taking in the smoky scent of a cask-strength malt. Karin sighed with appreciation, then took the smallest sip, holding it on her tongue as it warmed. Woody and citrusy and just a hint of smoky aftertaste when she swallowed.

She stole a glance at Dave, found his eyes closed and his nostrils slightly flared and suddenly fell just a little bit in love with a man who could savor such simple pleasures.

If scotch at nearly two hundred dollars a bottle could be called
simple.

When he opened his eyes, he smiled, a self-aware sort of smile. “It’s better shared, I always thought.” He uncapped the bottled water and tipped it at her, and Karin held out her glass, wincing a little at what the movement did to her muscles.

“Never mind,” she said, as he eyed her with concern. “This will help.” She waited for him to pour a splash of water, swirled and took in the aroma all over again. The taste turned smoother, sweet honey on her tongue with a side of citrus and a peaty, smoky aftertaste. “Oh yeah.”

He grinned suddenly, still taking in the expanded aroma from his own glass. “I had a feeling it wouldn’t be wasted.”

“Oh?” She let the glass warm between her hands as he warmed a mouthful of the drink. “How did you come by that?”

He nodded at her sandwich. “The way you eat,” he said. “You enjoy it. You take your time. You…it’s…” He cleared his throat. “It caught my attention.”

Karin let another sip of whiskey sit on her tongue, regarding him from beneath lowered brow. Too observant, this one.

Too engaging.

Too tempting.

And if she was going to hold herself together, to protect her new life…just plain too dangerous.

In the morning, Karin donned her dry underwear and her not-so-dry jeans and held back conversation in favor of ordering room-service breakfast. She had him worried, she knew; now he knew better than to take her for granted. And she caught him watching as she lingered over her spicy sausage and couldn’t believe herself when she flushed.
Get a life, Sommers.