Survival Instinct (9 page)

Of course, that was the whole point.

She knew he’d insist on escorting her back home, and he did, following her truck with the casual skill of a pro. She knew he’d insist on coming inside, and he did. She knew they’d have another conversation about the safe house and her memories and the boy…and she knew he was running out of time. One way or the other, he’d be headed back to Alexandria soon.

She hadn’t known he’d left his boxers on the floor of her bathroom. She tossed them at him and he caught them without comment, stuffing them into his overnight bag. Didn’t even blush, darn it. She picked up a crumpled towel—more evidence of his attempts to shake off the drug she’d given him.

She could also take it as evidence of his frantic reaction to her disappearance. Probably somewhat like Rumsey’s reaction…only she found she didn’t mind. Not this time.

She let Amy Lynn know she was home but that she wasn’t likely to stay, and she pointed Dave at the living room where he could make his phone calls. Then she went into her bedroom to peel off his sweatshirt—how could it still smell enticingly like him when it had clearly been freshly laundered?—and do what she’d been studiously not thinking about since her interminable night on the cliff.

She went up to the dormer.

To the storage off the dormer, where she’d carefully packed away Ellen’s most personal things.

Not before she’d had a good look at them, of course—the amnesia defense could only take her so far. The official stuff—bank information, old taxes, insurance papers…she’d kept those out in the file cabinet just as though they were hers. By default they
were;
she paid the bills and made decisions and signed Ellen’s carefully forged signature. But in storage…notes, old letters, photographs…

She’d taken a couple of ibuprofen, made herself a stiff cup of coffee, and disappeared upstairs.

“We have to talk—” Dave had said to her on the way by; she’d merely lifted a hand in acknowledgment. She’d told him she wanted to check her things, to try to jog her memory. Close enough to the truth. She figured she had until dinner to sort out what came next.

Dewey had followed her up the stairs; now he curled up beside her as she sat cross-legged beside the half-height door to the eaves storage. Ellen’s old letters had told her next to nothing; she wasn’t a woman who’d made close friendships and as Karin looked at the stack—a few holiday cards kept through the years, one wistful note from a former coworker and several of Karin’s quick missives from the years before e-mail and library Internet access—Karin suddenly felt awash in the sadness of such a solitary life.

And then she realized she had even less to show for herself, closed her eyes long enough for tears to form but not long enough for them to fall and set the letters aside. She flipped through Ellen’s photo album—scenic shots from a handful of vacations, several parties from work…And here were several captioned photos clipped from the society page, with Ellen on the arm of Barret Longsford. She was dressed more expensively than Karin ever would have guessed.
Longsford must have provided those glittering gowns, that cocktail dress….

Karin ran her finger over a picture that showed Ellen in detail. Her makeup, flawless…the dress, formfitting. Like Karin, Ellen had a lean figure…lean unto boyish, Karin had always thought, but there was nothing boyish about Ellen in this dress. “Wow,” Karin whispered at her sister. “You look amazing.”
And I never knew….

Beside her, Longsford had a publicity smile pasted on his face, his hand at Ellen’s elbow and the other hand giving a princely wave to the media. He wore a tux for this particular benefit event, his hair—blond or light brown, it was hard to tell in the black-and-white photo—conservatively styled, his teeth straight and white, and just enough smile lines at the corners of his eyes to look both dignified and a little dashing. She tapped the picture, tapped his face. “And do you really steal away little boys, Mr. Longsford? Do you kill them?”

And if he did…would Dave be able to prove it?

Stashed with the society clippings in the back of the album, loose photos sat unorganized and unsecured. More from the Longsford days. Exclusive resorts, a cruise ship, several outings that appeared to be more mundane trips to local parks.

A careful study of those photos revealed nothing of significance. Ellen and Longsford, his arm over her shoulder, a fountain behind them. Or a bandstand with band, or a sculpture…Karin would have guessed them to be events of political significance except for their dress…always casual, jeans and a polo shirt for Longsford, light sweaters and pretty shirts over slacks and jeans for Ellen. Longsford always had dark glasses on, always a cap of some sort.

But hey. Even an aspiring politician, son of a U.S. senator, and social gadfly needed some time to himself. Maybe that’s why Ellen had taken these pictures…reminders of her private time with a public man.

Still. They did nothing to prove Longsford was a monster. They did nothing to pinpoint where a small boy might be stashed.

“Crap,” Karin said into the quiet room. Dewey’s tail thumped twice on the carpet in response. “Crap,” she repeated, just so he’d do it again. Then she kissed him on the head and piled the albums, letters and loose photos away in their box, and pulled out the next one.

The old date book. Hmm, this could be promising. It had been on Ellen’s desk when Karin arrived to this unfamiliar house that was suddenly her home. At first she thumbed randomly through it. Plenty of days with Longsford’s name on them. Karin settled in to turn the pages, swiftly but in order. A doctor appointment, an office event…blah, blah, blah…and then a series of Realtor connections. The bank. The moving date. Long before then, Longsford’s name ceased to show up. Karin wasn’t sure if it reflected the assimilation of the man into Ellen’s life, or the breakup. If she’d spent enough time with him so she no longer noted it on the calendar, then there was no telling when they actually broke up.

Maybe it had been when she first talked to Dave Hunter. She had it in the book, right before the evidence of her intent to move.

And again, the day before she had left to meet Karin in California.
Call Dave Hunter.

But she hadn’t. Karin had called
her
late the night before, asking for help.

So what had triggered her intent to contact Dave?

“I’m not meant for this,” she told Dewey, who of course thumped his tail at every word. “I’m meant for creating situations, not untangling them. What a good boy.” And he understood those last words as she’d meant him to, and offered up a flurry of wild thumps. Therapy dog.

Karin flipped through the remaining blank pages in frustration. Bad enough she’d had to look through all these things—to immerse herself, once more, in the loss she’d barely accepted.

A photo fluttered out.

“Hmm,” she muttered, reaching for it. “And why aren’t you with your little photo friends?”

The date on the back stamped it as being from one of the last batches, one of the park photos. And when Karin turned it over, she saw exactly why it had been pulled aside.

There was Longsford, leaning over to talk to a small boy. Karin turned the pages of the date book, tearing paper in her haste. There. The discussion with Dave Hunter…dated only a week before these photos were developed. Too bad the picture itself didn’t bear a digital time stamp; there was no telling the exact date of the event.

But what if that little boy was Terry Williams?

Dave would know.

No.
She couldn’t show it to Dave. Not just yet. He’d have questions she couldn’t answer…and it wouldn’t bring him any closer to finding Rashawn Little.

The photo trembled in her hand. God, she didn’t need to show it to Dave. She
knew.
Why else would Ellen have pulled this photo? Why else would she have planned to call Dave? Karin didn’t know if Ellen had realized the photo’s exact significance, but she’d clearly put two and two together.

Dave was right. Longsford was his man. And while Longsford’s willingness to let his errand boys push her around—and then leave her on a cliff to die—had been pretty damning, they spoke only of the man’s ruthlessness. Not of his guilt in the kidnapping and murder of little boys. This photo…

This photo drove it home.

Longsford was a predator.

Ellen would have been able to help nail the bastard.

But Karin…all Karin could do was hand over this photo and shrug. Somewhere out there Rashawn Little was sitting on a figurative cliff, helpless. Waiting for someone to drop him some tire chains. To give him that wondrous feeling Dave had given Karin…that for one moment, she wasn’t alone in the world.

As Ellen, she couldn’t help at all.

But Karin had resources Ellen had never even imagined.

Chapter 10

D
ewey warned Karin out of her deep contemplation by lifting his head from his paws and then stalking out. By the time Dave got there, she was waiting for him—still sitting cross-legged, still holding the clues Ellen had left. Things that had meant nothing to her when she’d packed them up but now suddenly meant everything.

Dave waited in the doorway, as if sensing this was her most private space. More private, even, than the bedroom.

Not that she’d had visitors to either.

“Hey,” he said, leaning against the door frame, a casual posture for someone who couldn’t possibly feel casual inside. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but…we need to talk.”

“Hey,” she said. Odd to see him there, draped in the doorway with all his innate grace and still wearing his sweatshirt as though it were designer goods. She could feel his presence from here…a baffling awareness. What was she supposed to do with that?

Enjoy it.

She blinked at the unexpected little voice in her head.

Huh.

He rubbed that spot below his lip, just above the cleft in his chin. Not a Kirk Douglas dimple, a more subtle thing at the bottom of an angled jaw. It balanced his nose—a strong nose, at that—and somehow always drew her eyes to his mouth.

At least it did when he hadn’t already caught her gaze, holding it in silence as he so often did. Like now. Then that mouth went wryly crooked. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Ellen, but…I’m running out of time. Rashawn is running out of time. I’ve got to go back…and I want you to come.”

She gave her next line on cue…the line that would make sense if she was who she’d told him she was. “You still think I’ll remember something?”

Dave gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. But it’s not safe for you to stay here by yourself. Not now. And that’s my fault.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “We’ve established that.” Not that he had any true idea of the potential ramifications. Of course, he was so damned honest that if he had even an inkling of her warrant, he’d probably put her on a plane to California himself.

That’s not fair,
said her pesky little voice.
He might believe you didn’t do whatever Rumsey claims you did. He might even help you.

As if she could take the chance.

She was hardly the innocent. She might not have done what the warrant claimed, but she’d done plenty. The long-term scams were her specialty, but she’d pulled plenty of high-pressure investment scams. She’d muled for Rumsey, she’d picked pockets when she was younger…she’d done plenty. She’d done it to survive and she felt no particular guilt even though she’d been ready to leave it behind.

That, she suspected, would bother Dave most of all.

She savored the physical tension between them. If he wasn’t leaving until tomorrow, then there was the rest of the afternoon…the evening…

Take what you can get.

It had always been a motto of sorts.

Her glance fell upon the items in her hand. She looked over at him, gestured with them.

He took the invitation, coming in to kneel beside her when he saw the nature of what she had, exhaling with the surprise of it. She offered the photo; he took it, holding it out at a distance.

“Need those glasses?” she asked.

He shook his head, his mouth gone tight. “Do you know who this is?”

“Longsford,” she said, her inflection saying
isn’t it obvious?
even if her words didn’t.

His finger—abraded and bruised from the cliffhanger antics—stabbed at the picture. “No. The boy. Terry Williams.”

Karin looked away. “Crap.” And then, still looking away, said, “Check the date book.”

He did. Something like wonder came into his voice. “You were going to call me.” It changed to demand. “Why the hell didn’t you?”

Karin pointed at the next day. “There,” she said. “My sister reached me. She…was in trouble. She lived with my stepfather. But my stepfather isn’t a nice man, and she finally needed a way out. I left that day to get her.” So odd to talk about herself in that way…but somehow also a relief. She could tell him of herself without truly revealing anything at all. Her finger then traveled across the page, stopping at the day Ellen had died. “Here. The accident. By the time I got back home, that note meant nothing to me. ‘Hi, is this Dave Hunter? Who are you, and do you know why I was going to call you?’”

Dave ran his finger over the photograph. “Damn,” he said softly.

“Isn’t that photo enough? Won’t it help?”

He stilled, thinking about it, and then shifted beside her, settling into a cross-legged position like her own. He didn’t need to shake his head for Karin to know the answer. “Someone else, we might pull in for questioning with evidence like this. Longsford is too highly connected. When we go for him, we’ve got to have the case already made. But this is one more piece.” He flipped the photo over, checking for notes, and then gestured with it. “Can I take it?”

“It’s all yours.”

He nodded his thanks. “If I’d had any doubts about him…”

That surprised her. “Did you?”

His smile was grim and weary. “No. But I’m the only one. There’s a reason they didn’t officially bring me in to consult.”

She realized for the first time that he was doing this on his own time. Scraping around without Bureau resources, trying to find Rashawn before it was too late.

He looked over at her—caught her eye in that way he had. “You’ll come with me?”

She hesitated. She didn’t need his help…she could easily wait until he left and then do what she’d planned in the first place, hide out as someone else until the threat was over.

But if Longsford wasn’t caught, then the threat would never end. Not now, once he’d decided she was a threat. Especially not if he wanted to continue his little hobby.

She was going to have to tell Dave. To offer him the help Ellen couldn’t give him.

And when he learned who she really was, what she’d really done with her life, this man who now sat so comfortably beside her, who’d offered her his warmth and his kisses…then he’d look at her in an entirely different way.

Take what you can get.

Something must have shown on her face. The wistfulness…the
want.
And he had it, too. He said, “Hey.” The same way he’d announced himself at her door, but somehow an entirely different word.

“Hey,” she said softly. Had they moved closer together? Yeah. Definitely. With the
want
growing between them, reminiscent of their connection in the henhouse and quickly going beyond. She said what she’d said then, trusting him to catch it. “You like this with all your witnesses?”

Give the man credit, he didn’t need a Clue Bat. “No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I’m like this with…
you.
”

They reached for each other at the same time, fingers tangling in hair, lips meeting with inexplicable familiarity. Her cast rested awkwardly against his neck, but when she ran her fingernails over the skin behind his ear he still froze for an instant. Then he nudged her backward, shoving the box out of the way. She went gladly and brought him with her, no hesitations…just
want.
She offered him full, hard kisses, half trapped under his body—and she suddenly felt bereft from the waist down. No warmth, no weight…no
heat.
Then his hand slid down her ribs—carefully, still somehow thinking of her battered state—and up her shirt and already she strained, lifting herself with the expectation until his hand cradled her breast.
Oh, yeah.
She dropped her head back, giving him free access to her throat.

Mistake. That Dave Hunter integrity was still at work, and she’d given him just enough space to think about it. “Ellen,” he said, and the doubt came through clearly enough.

“Don’t even think it!” she said fiercely. “I’m not even a witness anymore, not really. And you’re
not getting away this time.
”

He laughed, propped on his elbow long enough to clear her face of the hair that had somehow become tangled between them; gently, he disengaged a strand. “Gee,” he said, amused in his mild sarcasm. “If you’re
sure…
”

She put his hand back on her breast—as close as she could get it, hindered by her cast—and pulled his head back down. Firmly. His lips barely touching hers, he murmured, “I guess you’re sure.”

In response, she levered herself up and rolled them both over. It was noisy and ungraceful and full of intent, and when she was done she straddled him.

Dave didn’t appear to notice. Too busy helping her yank his sweatshirt over his head, and then too busy hissing through his teeth as she found the flat of his nipple and scratched it lightly; he thrust up against her to create instant lightning in all the places that were rapidly becoming the most important parts of her body. Except…

Too many clothes. She wiggled in a wordless demand and his hands clenched on her hips, his head tipping back and a delightful groan working its way through clenched teeth. A man who knew what he liked…who knew how to let go and enjoy it. But still too many clothes. “Off!” she demanded, reduced to one-word sentences. She unsnapped her jeans, fumbling to unbutton his until he took over. They separated long enough to shuck their jeans and then she was right back with him, sinking into the satisfaction of almost-contact, wrapping herself around the heat of his erection through his dark boxers. She moved against him, body thrumming, and gave no quarter as he reached for his jeans, his wallet—and then arched in helpless reaction as she reached behind herself to give him an intimate tickle.

So she did it again, and then leaned down to nibble the throat he’d just exposed.

“Lord!” he said. “You—”

She laughed into the curve where his neck met his shoulders, taking in the scent of him. But he hadn’t lost himself entirely; he dropped his wallet to grab her hips and lift his own, angling them together so perfectly she cried out at the intensity of it. “Two can play that game,” he told her.

She groped for that wallet. This was what she’d wanted, what her body had been reaching for, each and every time she’d felt the connection between them. Across the room, in a crowded henhouse, over pancakes at breakfast…this was the silent language they’d been speaking to each other. “Now,” she told him. “Now, now,
now.
”

Panting, his ice blue eyes alight with laughter and desire, he said again, “If you’re
sure
—”

She knew the only answer to that. She ran her hand up the inside of his thigh, sneaking in under his boxers. He instantly snatched the wallet up, pulled out the condom lurking within and covered himself, not bothering to remove the boxers. Karin did her best to make it a challenge, scraping her nails lightly up his thigh, high enough to make him react and gasp and tighten—but he laughed, too, short and breathless, enjoying her.

And then he didn’t bother with her underwear, which she wouldn’t have predicted anyone could just yank aside like that but who
cared,
not when they finally came together.
Together.
They spent a few luxurious moments learning the feel of each other—hard and soft, getting acquainted—and started to move. Nothing slow about that, not with the two of them so explosive, so full of coiling energy. Karin arched into him, braced her hands on his thighs and threw her head back. They danced together, fast and hard and quickly building, until all her strength drained from her fingers and toes and spiraled inward and Dave’s thighs tightened beneath her hands, raising them both.

It was impulse that made her clench her knees to his side, stopping them in mid-thrust. Impulse that made her close down around him so he gave a surprised little cry, neck straining, fingers reaching and needy and headed for the juncture of her thighs. She did it again and he froze, arching upward, trembling, still reaching for her, pulsing in response to her.

A long moment she held them that way, neither of them quite breathing, the intimacy of their connection almost unbearable, a pulsing focal point of—

“Now,” she whispered, and moved. He gave a great cry, a strangled sound…a startled sound. And he finally reached her, a single touch, and she cried out with him.

He should have been spent after that…Karin was, as limp as a noodle and not sure whether to fall forward or simply to finish falling backward to lie like an acrobat atop his knees. He made the decision for her, pulling her forward to kiss her with a surprising intensity. She thought it might be a thank you…she thought it might be his way of making certain he didn’t take her lightly. Either was fine with her and she kissed him back until they had so little breath left there was no choice.

She lay across his chest, taking a brief moment to regret that she’d never gotten her shirt off, never felt his hands on her bare breasts.
Next time.

Except there wasn’t likely to be a next time. She was running out of time. She’d have to tell him who she really was…and the man who thought he’d made love to Ellen might well not want to make love to Karin. Karin who’d lied to him…deceived him…

For once, quite suddenly, she was grateful to Rumsey. He was the one who’d taught her to grab opportunities, to rely on her instinct…to avoid thinking things to death when the moment was right. And nothing…
nothing
could be more right than this. Whatever happened next. Nothing could take this moment away. She kissed his collarbone, drawing on enough energy to run her hand down the crisp of blond hair that covered his chest. “I changed my mind,” she said, lazy and satisfied. “This wasn’t a good idea at all.”

He laughed, as much as he could with her weight on his chest and a slight tremble still reverberating through his body, and he kissed the top of her head. “You’re right,” he said, and his voice tickled her ear. “That didn’t work out well in the least. We should never do it again.”

“Ever,” she said…and prepared to do it again.