Hot On His Trail
Linda Winstead Jones
The trial was supposed to be television reporter Shea Sinclair's big break - her chance to show the world she wasn't just some empty-headed "weather girl.”Then she became the story when Nick Taggert, a contractor on trial for murder, bolted from the courtroom and took her with him - at gunpoint…. But she soon found herself an all-too-willing "hostage.” This man was dangerous, all right - especially to a woman who looked too long into those beautiful blue eyes of his - but he was no murderer.And she intended to help him prove it. Because when they were finished running from the law, she was going to make him her prisoner - for life….
“You should be in bed,” Shea said when her heartbeat settled down. “You’ve been shot, remember?”
She tried her hardest not to stare at Nick’s bare chest. A man shouldn’t look so good in nothing but a pair of jeans, she thought.
“So should you,” he said.
“I haven’t been shot,” she countered.
But she might have been, she remembered. “Would you really have shot me back there?” she asked in a soft voice.
He hesitated, then said, “Probably.” Something smoldered in his eyes, and she realized he could see right through her nightgown. His eyes were riveted below her waist.
“But I’m glad I didn’t have to,” he added huskily. “It would be a shame to scar those legs of yours.” He very slowly lifted his eyes to her face, taking his time, and gave her a crooked smile that set her heart to pounding again. “A real shame…”
Dear Reader,
As always, Intimate Moments offers you six terrific books to fill your reading time, starting with Terese Ramin’s Her Guardian Agent. For FBI agent Hazel Youvella, the case that took her back to revisit her Native American roots was a very personal one. For not only did she find the hero of her heart in Native American tracker Guy Levoie, she discovered the truth about the missing child she was seeking. This wasn’t just any child—this was her child.
If you enjoyed last month’s introduction to our FIRSTBORN SONS in-line continuity, you won’t want to miss the second installment. Carla Cassidy’s Born of Passion will grip you from the first page and leave you longing for the rest of these wonderful linked books. Valerie Parv takes a side trip from Silhouette Romance to debut in Intimate Moments with a stunner of a reunion romance called Interrupted Lullaby. Karen Templeton begins a new miniseries called HOW TO MARRY A MONARCH with Plain-Jane Princess, and Linda Winstead Jones returns with Hot on His Trail, a book you should be hot on the trail of yourself. Finally, welcome Sharon Mignerey back and take a look at her newest, Too Close for Comfort.
And don’t forget to look in the back of this book to see how Silhouette can make you a star.
Enjoy them all, and come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around.
Yours,
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Hot on His Trail
Linda Winstead Jones
With many thanks to my good friend Sabrah Agee,
and to all the good people of Marion, Alabama.
LINDA WINSTEAD JONES
has loved books of all kinds for as long as she can remember, spending her leisure hours with Nancy Drew and Miss Marple, or lost in worlds created by writers like Margaret Mitchell and Robert Heinlein. After years as an avid reader she decided to try her hand at writing her own stories. Since 1994 she’s been publishing historical and fantasy romance, winning the Colorado Romance Writers’ Award of Excellence for her 1996 time-travel story Desperado’s Gold. With the publication of Bridger’s Last Stand, her first book for Silhouette Intimate Moments, Linda stepped into the exciting arena of contemporary romance.
At home in Alabama, she divides her time between her husband, three sons, two dogs, reading whatever she can get her hands on and writing romance.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Prologue
No one would look at him. Five men and seven women filed gravely into their seats, their eyes on the floor or their shoes or the back of the juror before them. One woman dabbed at her red eyes. Tears. That couldn’t possibly be a good sign. Nick’s heart felt like it was about to burst through his chest.
The judge didn’t look at Nick, either, nor did the aide who remained close by the judge’s side. The assistant district attorney appeared to be supremely bored. His steely gaze wandered the room in an aimless way.
Nick’s own lawyer didn’t look at him, either. Norman’s solemn eyes were on a blank sheet of paper on the table. His fingers worked restlessly.
From beyond this very small part of the world, in the seats beyond the jury box, eyes were trained on Nick. He knew that. But in the past two weeks he had learned to ignore those onlookers so completely they ceased to exist. His mind had remained on the witnesses against him, the evidence the D.A. had presented so competently, the defense Norman had put together.
His defense was simple, but it was enough. It had to be. Innocent men didn’t go to prison for the rest of their lives. They didn’t go to the electric chair.
At the judge’s direction, he and Norman rose to their feet. Still, no one looked his way. Not the judge, not the D.A., not the members of the jury. Everything was so…quiet. Nick wondered if they could all hear the beat of his pounding heart and the way the blood rushed through his veins, so loudly he could hear the roar in his ears.
He waited to hear the words “Not guilty.” He waited for Norman to smile, to clap him on the back, for relieved eyes to turn his way at last.
Guilty. At first he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. The noise that followed the verdict was deafening. The crowd murmured loudly, with individual voices raised. A few men and women hurried from the room: reporters, damn them all to hell. The judge banged his gavel, and the sheriff’s deputies came to take Nick away. They didn’t look at him, either. Norman said something low and indistinct, something Nick couldn’t hear for the roar in his ears.
Numbly, he allowed the two sheriff’s deputies to lead him away. Through the side door, through the small office, into the hall by way of a doorway near the elevator that would take him back to jail. Back to jail.
His heart beat much too hard now, threatening to burst through his chest. He couldn’t breathe. His vision dimmed. Guilty?
One of the deputies reached for his handcuffs. In a move more instinctive than deliberate, Nick lunged for the man’s weapon.
Chapter 1
Shea ran up two courthouse steps, spun around quickly and lifted a hand to her hair. She smoothed one dark strand, which barely brushed her shoulder. “Do I look okay?”
Mark, in his usual ratty T-shirt and a backwards ball cap that covered most of his bright red hair, cocked his head and glanced from behind his video camera to smile at her. He was the same age as Shea, twenty-five, but could easily pass for sixteen years old. Since he didn’t stand much more than five foot six he looked like a kid lugging around that big camera. “You’re beautiful, sweetheart.”
She didn’t feel beautiful. The August heat was suffocating, humid and almost overwhelming. Her hair was going to fall, her makeup was going to melt…and she had to look her best.
If she’d had more time she might have chosen the royalblue suit instead of the red one, but it was too late to worry about that now. The call from the station had been unexpected, and she’d had less than fifteen minutes to put on her makeup and change clothes. Fortunately, she was getting good at this. Concessions had to be made, though, in the name of expediency. Her legs were bare and she was wearing a pair of running shoes instead of the red pumps that matched this suit.
It didn’t matter; she’d only be on camera from the waist up.
“So,” Mark said casually, the heavy camera that was resting on his shoulder leaning precariously to one side. “What did you give Astrid to make her sick?” He wagged his pale eyebrows and gave her a devilish smile.
Shea restrained the childish impulse to stick out her tongue. “Nothing, I swear.” She grasped the microphone nervously; her palms were sweating. Oh, she never got nervous filing a story!
But then, she’d never covered a story like this one. Astrid Stanton had been with Channel 43 for nearly seven years, and the Nicholas Taggert murder trial was her story. She’d even gotten a few seconds of play on the network. The network! If not for a nasty bout of the stomach flu—which Shea had absolutely nothing to do with—it would be Astrid standing here; six foot tall, blond-haired, blueeyed, ratings-go-through-the-roof-when-she-smiles Astrid.
“Weird case,” Mark said, sensing Shea’s nervousness and trying to make conversation. “I mean, Taggert actually killed his neighbor because the guy was painting his house the color of Kermit the Frog?”
“Chartreuse,” Shea said. “The color was chartreuse.”
“Whatever,” Mark answered with a grin.
“And there has to be more to it than that,” she mumbled, as much to herself as to Mark. “People don’t kill over something so inconsequential.” At least, she hoped they didn’t. The very possibility was depressing.
This was Shea’s chance, and she knew it. Reporting the news was what she wanted to do more than anything else in the world, and she was tired of filling in for the weatherman on the weekends, sick of smiling inanely through stories on how pets looked like their owners or how a bunch of schoolkids had celebrated spring with kite day. She was in this business to cover real news, and murder was as real as it got.
The jury was coming in; they had that much. No one had much doubt as to what the verdict would be. Even though Nicholas Taggert had maintained his innocence throughout the trial, the evidence was overwhelming. The state had DNA—a couple of stray hairs on a blood-and-paint-stained Taggert Construction T-shirt. A small amount of the same blood and paint had been found in Taggert’s kitchen. They had the murder weapon, a baseball bat with Taggert’s fingerprints on it, and several neighbors had witnessed a heated argument between Taggert and his neighbor, the late Gary Winkler.
Still, Taggert had been convincing on the stand as he’d professed his innocence, and these days when you put twelve people together and called them a jury, anything was possible.
Nicholas Taggert had been residing in the jail on the ninth floor of the Madison County Courthouse for the past ten months, as there had been no bond set for this bizarre and grisly case. Today a jury would decide if he’d remain imprisoned until his sentence—either life without parole or death by electric chair—was passed, or if he’d go free.
Shea’s producer, Kimberly Lane, came bursting through the courthouse doors. “Guilty,” she said, breathless from her run from the second floor.
A deep breath calmed Shea. Suddenly her palms were dry, her heartbeat slowed and she was no longer nervous. I can do this. It’s who I am, it’s what I want. Her shoulders squared as Mark nodded to her, and she lifted the microphone to her mouth.
“This is Shea Sinclair reporting for Channel 43 live from the Madison County Courthouse, where Nicholas Taggert has just been found guilty of murder. Ten months ago the successful building contractor was accused of killing his neighbor, Gary Winkler. Mr. Winkler—”
An unexpected bursting noise, like a firecracker, broke her concentration, and Shea snapped her head around so she could see the glass courthouse doors. “That was a gunshot,” she said softly into the microphone. Muffled shouts followed, and then another sharp report of gunfire from within the building.
She climbed a step, her eyes on the doors.
“Get back here!” Mark growled at her. She looked at him once, just to make sure he was following her, and ignored his advice.
“There seems to be something happening in the courthouse,” she said softly and clearly. “Whether or not it’s related to the Taggert trial, I can’t say at this time.”
A man with a gun in his hand pushed through the doors and onto the covered walkway that encircled the courthouse. Shea recognized Taggert right away, with his neat black hair and expensive gray suit.
That face was unforgettable, even if it hadn’t been plastered regularly on the evening news and in the newspapers for the past ten months. It was handsome, with intelligent eyes and distinct, sharp lines. More than one woman who’d glanced at Taggert’s picture had proclaimed it a crying shame that he’d gone bad. “What a waste,” Astrid had said on several occasions.
Mark yelled this time. “Shea, get down here right now!”
She glanced over her shoulder to see that he had his camera on the escaped murderer, but she ignored his order and took another step toward Taggert. Maybe she could catch a word from the convicted murderer with her microphone. Oh, this was too good.
Taggert limped, she noticed, dragging his right leg with every lurching step he took. As he came closer she saw that there was a nasty hole in his pant leg, and he was bleeding badly. He left a thin trail of blood on the white concrete pathway as he headed for the steps.
The courthouse doors burst open again, and five law enforcement officers rushed out, weapons drawn. Two Madison County deputies came through the doors first, and three Huntsville City uniformed policemen were right behind them. No one fired; there were too many civilians on the street and the sidewalk.
“Are you getting this?” she asked softly, her eyes never leaving the drama that was taking place just a few feet away.
“Yeah baby, I got it, I got it,” Mark whispered.
There were other camera crews in the area, but she and Mark were closest. No one else would have a shot like this one on the five o’clock news. No one. Shea smiled.
Taggert jogged in her direction, and he locked the coldest, bluest eyes she’d ever seen onto her face. Suddenly she realized that the pictures in the newspapers and the clips on the evening news had not done justice to his size. The man was tall—over six feet, surely; wide in the shoulders and long legged. Shea’s smile faded, and she shivered from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Taggert was pale, and frantic, and dangerous…and staggering straight at her.
She waited too late to take Mark’s advice and retreat from the situation. Taggert grabbed her microphone and tossed it away, and in a swift, sure move he wrapped one arm around her waist and spun her about with a jerk, so that she faced the advancing officers. Her heart leaped into her throat as she stared down the barrels of several guns.
Taggert backed down the steps, the hand that held his weapon snaking past her waist as he took aim at the officers.
“Put ’em down,” he said hoarsely. His hot breath touched her neck, and she could feel his irregular breathing against her skin. The officers didn’t immediately do as he asked, so he wedged the gun he held into Shea’s side. The oddly warm black metal pressed sharply against a rib.
The advancing armed men came to an immediate halt and lowered their weapons.
“Now, Taggert,” a gray-haired deputy in a khaki uniform said calmly. His Southern drawl was like molasses, thick and sweet and dark. “Let the girl go and come on back in. We can write this off as a moment of poor judgment on your part, get you to a hospital and get that leg fixed up, and then we’ll just forget it ever happened.”
“Yeah, right,” Taggert said into her ear, his hoarse voice so low Shea was sure no one but she could hear.
A tall, thin man in a dark suit skirted around the lawmen. Shea recognized him, from numerous news reports, as Taggert’s lawyer, Norman Burgess. “Come on, Nick,” he said calmly. “Let the lady go, give me the weapon and let’s go back inside.” Absurdly, his voice was almost sweet, serene and musical. “It’s not over. We can appeal.”
“They don’t believe me,” Taggert whispered again. Shea didn’t know if the statement was meant to be heard or if the injured man was talking to himself. His arm tightened around her, and he dragged her down another step.
One cop raised his gun. I can take him. Shea read his lips as he whispered. She didn’t have to read the lips of the deputy who reached out to make him lower the weapon again, drawling a loud curse as he tried to avoid more bloodshed.
“You might hit the girl,” he added in a calmer voice.
As if she wasn’t panicked enough with the muzzle of a gun stuck to her ribs! That one hothead would take the chance without a second thought, if he believed he’d get Taggert. She was expendable…but not as long as Mark had the camera on her and Taggert. No law enforcement agency could afford that kind of bad press.
“A car,” Taggert whispered breathlessly into her ear again, and he jerked around so they were half facing the street. “Is one of these yours?”
She made a split second decision, an easy one when she weighed all her options. “The red Saturn,” she said, nodding her head in the direction of the car that was parked at the curb. “The keys are in my pocket, and you can have them. Just let me go.”
The idea of getting into the car with Taggert terrified her. He was desperate, he had a weapon and she remembered too well the stories Astrid had filed on him. A former military man, he’d spent several years in Special Forces. Before that he’d been a teenage troublemaker. The state had made part of their case the fact that Taggert was capable of anything.
He dragged her toward the car, holding her in a viselike grip and keeping her body between him and the officers. He kept the gun pressed tightly to her ribs.
Burgess ran down the steps. “Nick, you’re making a terrible mistake. This is kidnapping!”
“The keys,” Taggert said, the whispered words an unquestionable order.
Shea reached into the pocket of her red jacket and pulled out a small silver key chain with the initials S.L.S. engraved in the center in a delicate script. Two keys hung from the chain—one to the car, the other to her apartment. She considered trying to remove her house key, then decided against it. Her trembling hands would make the task too difficult, and besides, she could have the locks changed this afternoon.
“Here,” she said. “Take the car and let me go.”
Taggert ignored her request for freedom, but he did take the keys from her hand. His hold on her faltered for a fraction of a second as he made the transfer. “If anyone follows, I’ll shoot her,” he rasped, tightening his grip as he made the threat. “Let me get away clean, and in two hours I’ll release her. You have my word.”
“Nick, don’t,” Burgess whispered.
The door to her Saturn was unlocked, and Taggert reached behind him and threw it open. He sat down hard and brought Shea with him. She dropped back and down, and ended up sitting in his lap and practically falling to the front passenger seat. Warm blood touched the back of her calf. He was bleeding pretty badly; maybe he’d pass out….
With the hand that held the weapon he threatened her with, Taggert slammed the passenger-side door shut, and for the first time Shea actively tried to get away. The slamming of the door was so final, so terrifying. Gun or no gun, she refused to willingly ride off with a murderer.
She used her elbows first, lashing back into his ribs with all her might. One elbow connected solidly and Taggert grunted, but he didn’t loosen his grip. She used her feet, kicking back blindly. Taggert let out a howl when the heel of one running shoe connected solidly with his injured leg. While he yelled she snapped her head back and bashed his nose. He let out a string of low curses and grabbed her hair, twisting her head and forcing her to look at him. He held her so tightly she couldn’t move, not even to look away.
Her short struggle gave the officers an opportunity to move closer to the car, but with Taggert in control there was nothing they could do. The escaped murderer glanced at them and made sure they saw the gun he had pointed at her head.
His face hovered close to hers, so close she could see the dark stubble on his chin and the beads of sweat on his brow. A thin trickle of blood seeped from one nostril. Shea shivered. The ice-blue eyes he locked on her were colder, more menacing, than anything she’d ever seen.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.
“Then let me go.” She struggled against his grasp as he slowly maneuvered over the console and into the driver’s seat. His hold on her never slackened. His moves smooth and sure and amazingly quick, he placed the weapon between his legs and jammed the key into the ignition.
Instinctively, she reached for the gun. She was fast, but not fast enough. The engine started, and Taggert snagged the gun before she could. He pointed it at her chest. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
He released his hold on her, slammed the car into drive and took off. The weapon he pointed at her never wavered. When they were well down the street he glanced at her, and those icy eyes softened a little. “I’m really not going to hurt you,” he said. “In two hours I’ll let you go. I promise.”
Shea settled warily back against the seat, her eyes on the weapon Taggert lowered slowly. She was terrified; she was angry. And for some odd reason, she believed him.
He didn’t have much time. They’d have news helicopters in the air in a matter of minutes, and while they might not attack while he had a hostage, they would definitely be looking for him. In order to make this work, he had to disappear.
Nick glanced in the rearview mirror. An unmarked car followed, at a distance of course. Since he had a hostage, they were playing it safe, being cautious, but if they could stop him now they would. That wouldn’t do.
He turned right, and then quickly turned right again, and before the car that was following turned onto the residential street, he made a sharp turn into a narrow alley that ran between two old houses. The car lurched as it hit a pothole.
His heart pounded so hard he could feel it, and in his head he could still hear the guilty verdict and the roar of the courtroom that had followed. His leg was bleeding badly and the girl sitting in the passenger seat looked like she was thinking of opening the door and jumping out, taking her chances that the fall would be less dangerous than he was. He cast a quick, warning glance in her direction to change her mind. And then he returned his attention to his driving. He concentrated on getting out of here in one piece, and tried to dismiss the nagging certainty that he’d just made a bad situation worse. He had nowhere to go from here.
He knew these downtown neighborhoods well; he’d renovated several of the historic homes here, when he’d first started his business. Years ago, a lifetime ago. Another sharp turn put him in a backyard, where he was hidden from view for a few moments. The car bounced over a short stretch of rough terrain until he found another dirt lane, one that led to another quiet street.
With one hand on the steering wheel, Nick drove the car down a series of tree-lined roadways. The major roads would be covered; there was no way he’d be able to drive straight out of town. News helicopters were probably already overhead, but the heavy canopy of trees in this old neighborhood would keep the car out of sight. For now.
He wasn’t a hundred percent, mentally or physically, right now—not even close—so two hands on the wheel would have been better…but he didn’t dare set the pistol down again.
The adrenaline pumped through his veins, adrenaline and fear and rage. The rage kept him going, kept him from pulling the car over and collapsing. He’d been so sure the verdict would be not guilty. He was innocent, and if the system worked, if there was any justice…
But there wasn’t any justice. If a man could be convicted of a murder he didn’t commit, if everyone was so damn quick to convict an innocent man, then there wasn’t any justice at all.
His leg throbbed. It had been blessedly numb until the girl had kicked it, and before too much longer it would hurt like hell. It continued to bleed, but the flow had slowed some. He’d have to bandage it…soon.
Nick again glanced sideways at the girl he’d grabbed from the courthouse steps. She’d fought for a while, but now she was quiet and she no longer gripped the door handle as if she was thinking of jumping. He half expected to see tears, fear, anger, anxiety—but she remained relatively calm. Her hazel-green eyes were fixed on him, clear and unafraid, and at that moment she looked very familiar, like an old friend whose face you recall but whose name escapes you. She was a reporter, he knew. Hell, he’d grabbed the microphone from her hand and tossed it down. But still he couldn’t place her. He just couldn’t quite remember…
“How’d you get away?” she asked softly, just a hint of the South in her voice.
“What difference does it make?” He returned his attention to the empty, tree-lined road that headed up Monte Sano Mountain.
“I want to know, that’s all.”
He hadn’t planned it. Up until the moment the jury foreman said “guilty,” Nick had been so sure he’d be walking out of that courtroom a free man. “A deputy was taking me upstairs to the jail, but before he could put the cuffs back on I grabbed his pistol right out of the holster and clipped him under the chin. He went down like a stone. Another one came at me.” Out of nowhere, with a shout and a hand on his weapon. “I brought him down with a swift kick and headed for the stairs.”
“You make it sound easy.”
Easy. “It is, if you’re fast enough and strong enough.” And desperate enough. God knows he was desperate enough, and since he’d been such a model prisoner for the past ten months he’d had the element of surprise on his side, as well.
A thick overhang of trees shaded the road they traveled, allowing no more than a few small dapples of sunlight here and there on the road. If he was lucky the patrol cars and helicopters that were searching for him right now would be focused on the major roads out of town. After all, he’d be a fool to stay in an area where everyone knew his face and his name, and believed him to be a killer.
Of course, thanks to the press, everyone in the country knew his face and his name. He hated the reporters. They’d grabbed on to every detail of his life, had hounded everyone he’d ever known in the months since his arrest. They’d made his life hell and done their best to convict him long before the trial. He glanced at the girl again. Reporters like her, though in truth he couldn’t remember ever seeing her cover the story of Winkler’s murder or the trial. Until today. That didn’t mean anything. Lately he’d tried not to watch.
He pulled off the mountain road and onto the dirt trail he’d been heading for, a winding, narrow path barely wide enough for her car. A sharp turn took the car into a copse of thick trees and low-lying bushes. No one would see them here, unless they knew exactly where to look.
“Who shot you?” the girl asked in a soft, controlled voice.
“The deputy I knocked down.” He braked to slow the car as the trail got rougher. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled. If he’d been thinking he would have taken that weapon, too, or at least taken the time to knock the second deputy out…but no. His only objective had been to get out, and he’d forgotten his training. It had cost him.
The path grew narrower, and green-leafed branches brushed against the sides of the car. The girl flinched with every grinding scrape, but she said nothing. When the winding trail came to an end he put the car in park and shut off the engine.
He needed time to think, time to plan, and time was one of the many things he didn’t have. He had no time, no money, no ally…no chance.
“How did I end up here?” he muttered, laying his head against the steering wheel and closing his eyes. Less than a year ago he’d had a successful contracting firm, a woman in his life he’d foolishly thought had potential for a longterm relationship, and a nice house he’d built himself. Ten months later the business was history. Lauren had not turned out to be the woman he’d thought she was, and even if she had been, twice-monthly conversations through scratched Plexiglass was no way to keep a relationship alive. The house was empty, up for sale so he could pay his legal fees.
Once again, he literally had nothing.
He should’ve known the reporter he’d snatched would try to take off once the car was stopped, but she startled him when she threw open her door and scrambled out. He tried to reach out to snag her before she got away, but she was too fast…or he was too slow.
Nick opened his own door, scraping it against the branches of the bush he’d parked alongside. Even here in the shade the warmth was oppressive, thick with strength-sapping summer heat. It threatened to drag him down, to finish him, once and for all. He shook it off.
The pistol fit comfortably in his right hand, and as he fought his way through the bushes his eyes found the hostage and stayed on her as she made her way slowly through the same dense growth he fought. Her dark hair danced with every step she took. The red she wore made her an easy target.
When he rounded the front of the car, his leg gave out from under him, buckling so that he fell to his knees. He righted himself quickly, but found he could not stand. All of a sudden he had nothing left to give. Well, almost nothing.
“Stop!” he shouted once with surprising strength, and then, almost without conscious thought, he raised the pistol and fired.
Chapter 2
The blast took Shea by surprise, and she waited for the impact of a bullet in her back. Oh God, I’m going to die. She stopped running, and still she fought for every breath she took, her heart pumping so hard she could feel it pounding in her chest.
But she wasn’t dead. He’d missed!
“Stop!” he shouted again. “Hold it right there or the next one goes in your leg, not a tree.”
Shea cut her eyes to the right and saw where a bullet had exploded, embedding itself in a tree not two feet away. The shot had been a warning; he hadn’t missed at all. She looked at the splintered bullet hole in the center of the tree trunk and knew Taggert had hit exactly what he’d been aiming for.
She slowly turned around. Taggert was on his knees in front of the car, the weapon he held pointed steadily at her.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she said.
“I said I didn’t want to hurt you.” Taggert had gone deathly pale, and a strand of thick black hair fell over his forehead. His suit was rumpled, the tie loosened slightly, and it seemed to Shea that he swayed ever so slightly, there on his knees in front of her car. Through all that, she saw his unwavering tenacity. He was inflexible. In spite of his wound and his weakness, he was damned and determined to have his way.
Part of her job was to read people when she had to. She had to be able to smile and nod through an interview, all the while knowing in her heart who was lying and who was telling the truth. It was an instinct some people had and others didn’t.
In this instant Shea saw something she’d rather not. Nicholas Taggert really didn’t want to hurt her, but he would.
“If I shoot you in the leg you won’t die,” he said passionlessly. “Unless you go into shock, which is always a possibility. Won’t we make a pair.” A humorless smile barely touched his lips. “You can try to hobble away and I’ll hobble after you.”
“What do you want from me?” Shea asked. “You got away from the courthouse. You don’t need me anymore.”
“I need time,” he said softly as he lowered the weapon. “We’re too close to houses, roads. If I let you go now I won’t have time to get away.”
“What if I promise not to tell them where you are?” Shea took a step back and Taggert raised his gun quickly, snapping it up and training the sight low on her body. The leg, he’d said. He was pallid and weak—growing weaker with every second that passed—but the hand that held the gun remained steady.
“No good,” he said. “Even if you keep your mouth shut, and I doubt that’s possible, simply by showing up on this mountain you’ll tell the cops where to search.”
Shea took a single step forward, and Taggert dropped the gun again. He looked relieved, and that evident relief told her, as much as any instinct, that he was willing to carry out his threat. He didn’t want to, but he would.
She returned to the car, shaking and angry. On her run she’d ignored the branches that snagged her clothing and scratched her bare legs, but on the return trip she felt every scratch, every gentle brush of a leaf, as if it were an added indignity.
“I’m going to watch you fry for this,” she said bravely when she was no more than five feet from Taggert.
He struggled to his feet, but all the while he kept a steadfast hand on his weapon. “Yeah, well, you’re going to have to stand in line,” he muttered. “Right now everybody wants to see me fry.” He motioned with the gun toward the car. “Sit down.”
She had to fight branches to return to the parked car, pushing angrily past thin, flexible limbs that made way for her and then snapped back. Stepping in a small hole she’d managed to miss in her failed escape attempt, she lurched forward, grabbing on to the opened door for support. But she obeyed Taggert’s surly order and lowered herself into the passenger seat again.
He slammed the car door when she was seated, and she winced at the sound of the branches scraping against the Saturn. This car wasn’t even a year old, and it was her first new car. It would be a mess when this was over, between the bloodstains and the scratched paint.
Taggert limped around the front of the car, leaning on the hood occasionally for much-needed support, stumbling twice before he fought his way to the driver’s-side door and plopped down beside her. He waved the gun in her direction. “Put on your seat belt.”
“What?”
He locked those cold blue eyes on her again. They were chips of ice in a pallid face, hard and uncompromising. Those extraordinary eyes showed no mercy, not even a hint of apology for what he’d done to her. “Do it.”
She fastened her seat belt, muttering every curse word her brothers had ever unwittingly used in her presence. If she did decide to run again, she’d have to stop to unfasten the seat belt, warning Taggert of her intentions.
She waited for him to start the car, but he didn’t. Instead he shifted his body so he leaned against his door, and he very carefully lifted his wounded leg and placed it in her lap. The weight was more than she’d expected, and warm blood seeped through his pant leg onto her skirt. Suddenly he seemed too big for her compact car, the leg in her lap too long and heavy. A surge of panic raced through her own blood. This was all too much, and Taggert was too close.
“You’re going to have to help me with this,” he said softly.
Shea stared at the leg in her lap, at the blood-soaked gray fabric and the hole…two holes and a lot of blood, she saw from this angle. If possible, she felt more terrified than when he’d fired the gun and she’d thought she was dead. “I can’t,” she whispered.
“You have to.”
Taggert jammed the gun into the waistband of his trousers and shrugged out of his jacket, moving cautiously, as if every small movement hurt him. “Wrap this around the leg,” he said as he tossed it to her.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Taggert shook his head and began loosening his tie.
Shea took a deep breath. She positively hated the sight of blood, and there was too much of it here. Taggert should be passed out, or going into shock, or at least getting woozy. She quickly glanced at him as he whipped the tie from his neck. He could die from this wound to the leg, if he lost too much blood, if he went into shock.
She wrapped the jacket around his injured calf, taking great care not to move the leg any more than was necessary. Still, when she very easily lifted Taggert’s leg to shift the jacket around the calf, he winced. She tried to place the thickest part of the makeshift bandage over his wound, to staunch the bleeding, and she wrapped the jacket arms around crosswise, making a relatively neat bandage, given what she had to work with.
When the jacket was swathed around his calf, he handed her the necktie. “Wrap this around a couple of times and bind it tight.”
“Like a tourniquet?”
“Not that tight. Just tight enough to hold the jacket snugly in place.”
She did as he instructed, crisscrossing the tie several times around his leg. He didn’t flinch again; she wondered if he could feel anything at all. “You need a doctor,” she mumbled as she brought the ends of the navy blue tie together and fastened them in a knot.
“I’m sure you’re right,” he muttered darkly, “but I’m not likely to run across one anytime soon.” He took a deep breath. “You’ll have to do.”
When she finished the unpleasant task, Taggert very cautiously removed his leg from her lap, leaving behind a nasty stain on her skirt. That dark stain was a reminder of how very serious the wound was. He could easily die. Even though he’d kidnapped and threatened her, she didn’t want that to happen.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked as he swung his body around to face forward, resting against the wheel as if he wanted nothing more than to lay his head there and go to sleep. “You have to know they’ll catch you, eventually.”
“I know,” he whispered. “But I can’t just sit back and accept what’s happened. I have to do something. No one else can prove my innocence, so I have to do it myself. When I have the proof I need I’ll turn myself in.”
Taggert slowly rotated his head until he faced her again, and Shea saw something that startled her. Eyes that had been like ice just a few minutes ago had softened. She didn’t know if the ache she saw in his eyes was there because of the wound in his leg or for some other reason. Like it or not, his ache touched her. Goodness, that pain went deep; seeing it made her shiver.
“I thought the system worked,” he said, and his voice wasn’t simply soft now, it was weak. “I thought the truth was sacred. But you know what? No one cares about the truth. The police want a conviction, the D.A. wants a win. Why bother to look for the truth when you have a convenient patsy sitting right in front of you?”
Shea’s instincts were in perfect working order, in spite of the trying events of the afternoon. She’d never been so scared; she didn’t scare easily, but Taggert had terrified her. For revealing that weakness, she should hate him, and she did. She did. But heaven help her, she believed him. Nicholas Taggert was innocent.
He slowly propelled himself away from the steering wheel until his dark head fell against headrest. His eyes fluttered and then closed, but all the while one hand rested over the gun that was tucked into his waistband.
“What are we waiting for?” Shea asked.
Taggert’s eyes drifted open. “Dark,” he whispered. “We’re waiting for dark.”
Nick wanted, more than anything, to sleep. He fought the urge to close his eyes again, knowing that if he did he’d likely never wake up. The girl would take off, and this time he didn’t have the energy—or the will—to chase after her. He’d either wake up surrounded by cops, or he’d never wake up at all.
“It’s supposed to rain tonight,” she said in an absurdly conversational tone of voice. “Visibility should be poor, and the cops will be busy with fender benders all over town. Maybe that will help you some, keep some of them busy elsewhere. And maybe the rain will cool some of this heat,” she added, her voice low, as if she were talking to herself.
Nick turned his head but didn’t lift it. The girl watched him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. For the first time he really looked at her. She was pretty. Not gorgeous, maybe, but striking and yes…very, very pretty. Her warm brown hair looked soft and thick. It fell straight and smooth, like a dark waterfall, but the ends curled under just a little. Her eyes tilted up slightly at the corners, but not enough to give her an exotic look. She had too much of the girl-next-door in her to ever be exotic. And if a woman could have a perfect mouth…
Rain. “I know who you are,” he muttered. “You’re the weathergirl.”
The sunlight was slowly dying, and an oddly grayish light washed across her face. Yes, the light was fading, but it was enough to show Nick her displeasure at his recognition. Her lips came together and thinned, and her eyes narrowed.
“I am not a weathergirl,” she insisted frostily.
He began to feel a dullness within, as if the light inside him was fading as surely as the light of day. He lifted his head in an effort to clear it. “Yes you are,” he said. “I recognize you. You’re a real favorite in the TV room at the Madison County Jail, almost as popular as that big blonde.”
“Astrid,” the weathergirl muttered.
“Yeah.”
“Astrid should be here, you know,” she said angrily. “You’re her story and I was just filling in.” When she got really angry she did things with her mouth. Her lips pursed; something twitched. “If she hadn’t come down with the stomach flu she’d be sitting here right now, not me.”
Nick shook his head gently, unable to make a more vigorous move. “No, she wouldn’t.”
“And why not?”
He leaned slightly toward her and whispered. “I never would’ve grabbed the big blonde. She scares me.”
The statement obviously took the weathergirl by surprise. Her eyes widened, and finely shaped dark brows lifted. “She scares you?”
“A little. I think it’s that big silly grin on an Amazon that does it. It’s not natural.” He was losing it, could actually feel himself losing control. His heartbeat was thready, his vision less than clear and his head swam uneasily. “You don’t have a silly grin,” he added. “You have a nice, real smile. ‘This is Shea Sinclair with the weekend weather.”’ He smiled himself, for some reason. “Shea Sinclair,” he said again, “weathergirl.”
She looked like she wanted to hit him. Senseless girl. He had the pistol, he’d kidnapped her, everyone in the world believed he was a cold-blooded killer, and she looked like she wanted nothing more than to reach out and smack him a good one.
“I am not a weathergirl. I do the weekend weather, at the moment, but I also file stories. I’m a reporter, Mr. Taggert.”
For some reason he fixated on the memory of her smile. It really was a nice smile, relaxed and genuine, as if the cold or the heat or the rain that was coming didn’t bother her at all. She’d smiled, he remembered, as he’d run from the courthouse.
“Why were you smiling as I came out of the courthouse this afternoon?” he asked.
Her anger dulled; she even looked a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to, but I got excited about the possibility that we might actually catch a word or get a really great picture no one else would have.”
Ah, Shea Sinclair really was a reporter. He’d become familiar with the breed in the past few months. They were wolves after a piece of meat, and he was the sirloin. No, that was too kind, much too generous. Wolves were majestic, if deadly. Reporters were little yapping dogs, eagerly fighting over a scrap of meat, and he was hamburger.
Nick had been angry at the world for months, and right now he experienced a flash of blinding fury at his hostage for turning out to be another annoying, ambitious reporter who’d found reason to smile at his desperate escape. “Well, come tomorrow you’re going to have a real exclusive, aren’t you, weathergirl?”
She didn’t correct him this time, but pursed her lips together in apparent disapproval and turned away to stare out the passenger-side window. Her shoulders were squared, her spine too straight. Evidently the silent treatment was punishment for his last offense. Good.
When darkness fell he started the engine and backed slowly down the path. The trail was bumpy, the branches and leaves that brushed against the car invisible but noisy. He made the turn almost blind, leaving the route and lurching through a low spot before getting the tires on the trail again. The weathergirl continued to silently stare out of her window, even though there was nothing to see. Just darkness and shadows and the gray-green bushes and trees that had shielded them.
At the two-lane road, he switched on the headlights and continued the journey he’d started in the daylight, heading for the other side of the mountain. He didn’t think there would be a roadblock on this little country road, but every time the car rounded a blind corner Nick held his breath until he saw a length of clear road stretching ahead.
She’d been right about the rain. It started, a light sprinkle, as he steered the Saturn across a level stretch of road at the top of the mountain. When they passed one car on the winding downward slope his heart beat a little bit faster, but the vehicle didn’t so much as slow down. They were just another pair of headlights on a rarely used road.
When the mountain road was behind them and the terrain was level again, Nick pulled off the pavement and onto a rutted dirt path, rounded a bend and stopped the car with a lurch. For the first time since he’d made the mistake of calling her “weathergirl” once too often, Shea Sinclair turned her head to look at him. The headlights lit the dirt path before them, their reflection illuminating her stoic face in shades of gray. The light-headedness that wouldn’t go away made her face look like ivory—ivory with soft, black velvet shadows.
He waited for her to throw open her door and take off, but she just stared at him.
“You really didn’t do it?” she whispered.
Nick shook his head.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
She didn’t make a move, so Nick reached over and unfastened her seat belt. “Go.”
Shea turned her head away again, to glance out at the deserted field. “Here?” Her head snapped around, and she stared at him wide-eyed. “You’re just going to dump me in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, in the rain?”
“That’s the plan,” he mumbled.
Instead of jumping from the car and making her escape, Shea Sinclair stared him down. “No,” she whispered.
Surely he misunderstood. “What did you say?”
“I said no.”
Nick cursed beneath his breath as he reached out and snagged Shea’s wrist and dragged her toward him, easing himself from the car and hauling the uncooperative weathergirl with him, over the console, across the driver’s seat. A soft, cool drizzle struck his face, and droplets soaked through the white dress shirt he wore. The cool water cleared his head slightly, as he pulled on Shea Sinclair’s arm. He was making progress until she grabbed the steering wheel and refused to let go. It hit him, as surely as the gentle rain, that right now he didn’t have the strength to forcibly remove her from the car.
“Are you nuts?” he yelled, poking his head into the car and placing his face close to hers. They were practically nose-to-nose, and in the semidarkness he locked his eyes to hers. She didn’t flinch, didn’t show any sign of backing down. “I’m trying to let you go!” Yelling was not such a good idea. His head swam and his knees went weak. Damn.
“You can’t let me go,” she argued. “You need me, Taggert.”
“I’m not a…” He swayed slightly. “I’m not a kidnapper.”
Shea smiled, and Nick’s knees wobbled uncertainly. The smile was all wrong; wrong time, wrong place. There had been a time when a smile like this one would’ve given him hope, would’ve made him list easily forward to kiss her…but not now. She should be running scared right now, and he should be well down the road, running to God knows where.
“Actually,” she said softly, “you are. And since I don’t think there’s a different charge for long-term versus shortterm kidnappings, you might as well make the best of what you’ve got.”
He clamped his hand more snugly around her warm, slender wrist. If she knew how long it had been since a pretty girl had smiled at him, she wouldn’t do this. The smile made his insides tighten and his mind spin. The gentle upturn at the corners of her mouth, the sparkle in her eyes promised so many things. Shea Sinclair had no idea what she was doing to him.
Then again, maybe she did. She let go of the steering wheel and slowly reached out for him, that delicate hand uncertain and enticing, those long, pale fingers as promising as her smile and her eyes. She was going to touch him. For a second Nick was frozen at the very idea. More than anything he wanted this woman to lay her hands on him. He craved the warmth of a woman’s delicate fingers, a tender caress.
It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him; a fat deputy clapping on handcuffs didn’t count.
Without warning, her motion changed from slow to lightning fast, and she grabbed the pistol from his waistband and pointed it at his midsection.
His head spun dangerously and still he laughed. It was the perfect ending to the worst day of his life. He’d been found guilty of a murder he didn’t commit, had been shot in the leg, and now he stood in the rain with a pistol pointed at his gut. “Caught by a weathergirl,” he said unsteadily. “Won’t this make a fine story on the ten o’clock news?”
“You’re hysterical,” Shea said as she scooted into the passenger seat, taking the pistol with her. “Sit down before you fall down.”
He dropped into the driver’s seat, clearheaded long enough to notice that she held the weapon like a woman who was used to handling one. At least if she shot him it wouldn’t be an accident. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Maybe it would be better if she did shoot him here and now. All he wanted was for this to be over, and it would make a helluva story for the weathergirl.
All he had to do was lunge for her and this would be over and done with. He couldn’t move.
“Now what?” he whispered.
“You tell me.” He turned his head to see Shea slowly lower the pistol. “Do you have a plan?”
“No.”
“Well, you need one, but first you need to rest.” She placed the pistol on the floor at her feet. “Until the wound in your leg heals I’m afraid you won’t be able to do much of anything. You really should let me drive.”
He had to be dreaming. “Yeah, that would be real smart,” he muttered.
“You’re in no condition to drive,” she said sensibly. “And you’re going to have to heal before we can begin the investigation. We need to dump this car pretty quick,” she added as a mumbled afterthought. “Everyone will be looking for it by now.”
“I know.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Do you know how to hot-wire a car?”
He stared at her, hard. “No.”
She wasn’t leaving, and he didn’t have the strength to force her from the car. The rain picked up and the light sprinkle turned into a downpour, obscuring everything outside the windows.
Shea Sinclair had said he needed her, and maybe she was right. But could he trust her? It had been such a long time since he’d trusted anyone.
“I know where I can get a truck,” he said softly, “not too far from here.”
“That’s a start.”
He wished she had touched him, just once, something easy—a hand on his face, maybe. Her hands were soft; he could tell just by looking at them. Soft and warm. Her wrist had been temptingly warm and wonderful in his grip, but what he wanted, what he needed was for her to touch him.
“Why are you doing this?”
In the distance a flash of lightning arced across the sky, lighting the interior of the car for a split second. A rumble of thunder followed.
“If I can help you find the real killer it’ll make one hell of a story.” She grinned. “And they can find someone else to do the weekend weather.”
Nick didn’t want to look at her anymore. He stared instead at a windshield so washed in heavy rain he could see nothing beyond it. “So I’m a good story.”
“The best.”
It was better than nothing, he supposed. He sure wasn’t going to get far on his own in this condition. “Okay,” he whispered. “You can stay.”
Rain pounded against the car. “I have just one question,” Shea said softly, and something about the tone of her voice forced Nick to turn his head to look at her again. This was the first time he’d heard trepidation. She wasn’t smiling now.
“Ask it,” he prodded when she didn’t continue.
She pursed her lips and hesitated, and then she took a deep breath. “Back there, on the mountain, would you really have shot me in the leg if I hadn’t stopped?”
The weathergirl had to know what she was getting into. He had to make sure she knew, so that she had a chance to back out while she still could. As the car rolled across the bumpy, muddy road, he turned his head to stare at her.
“Yes.”
Chapter 3
Taggert wouldn’t make it much longer, but he absolutely refused to pull over and let her drive. He braced himself over the steering wheel, his eyes trained straight ahead. They hadn’t spoken for the past fifteen minutes; Shea suspected he didn’t have the energy to talk.
He stuck to back roads that took them into Marshall County, and except for the occasional car or truck they passed, blurred by the rain, they had the wet roads to themselves.
Dean would have her hide for this, but her oldest brother was the least of her problems right now. Boone would understand, and so would Clint, though Boone would likely lay the blame for her decision to stay with Taggert on her early influences of Nancy Drew and Agatha Christie.
Shea strengthened her resolve with the selfless notion that if she didn’t help Taggert he didn’t have a chance. He’d die, either alone from his wound or when the cops caught up with him. And they would catch up with him, soon. He wasn’t thinking clearly, and he didn’t have the strength to run and hide for long. Not without her help.
If he died the truth died with him. A murderer would go free, and the courts would be satisfied that Nick Taggert was, indeed, a killer. That wasn’t right; it wasn’t justice. Together she and Taggert would search for the truth. And wow, this was going to be a great story.
Taggert turned her battered Saturn onto a long, gravel driveway. Sitting at the end, visible through the rain, sat a small house that looked very much like a log cabin. It waited for them, simple and square and solid. Welcoming lights burned, harsh on the front porch and muted through the windows.
“Who lives here?” she asked, keeping her voice low as they neared the house. Taggert didn’t answer, and her heart skipped a beat. She believed he was innocent; he’d declared it so indignantly, so righteously, and she had seen the truth in his eyes. But he had kidnapped her. What did he have planned now?
The drive circled around the house; the crunching noise the tires made on the gravel was sure to be heard by whoever waited inside. At a window near the back door a pale blue curtain fluttered. They’d been seen.
“You’re not thinking of doing anything drastic, are you?” she asked as Taggert stopped the car and put it in park. Finally, he turned his eyes to her.
He listed forward slightly with his arms resting on the steering wheel, shoulders slumped and those normally piercing eyes half-closed. “Drastic?” he repeated.
It was a rather ridiculous question, she supposed, considering what had transpired so far today. He’d escaped from the courthouse, been shot and kidnapped her. Everything had been drastic. But still… “There’s no reason to involve anyone else in this,” she said sensibly. “We can steal a car. Well, we can borrow one without asking, and leave a note or something. My purse is in the trunk, and I have a little cash, so there’s no reason—”
“You think I’m going to rob the man who lives here?” Taggert interrupted.
You heard about it on the news all the time. A convict escapes from prison and storms into someone’s home—preferably an isolated house, like this one—for hostages and money and food.
“Aren’t you?”
He managed to shake his head once, and the expression on his face changed subtly to one of disgust and maybe even disappointment. “Why don’t you take off right here, weathergirl?” he whispered. “Start walking.”
“No,” she answered just as softly.
The back door opened and bright light spilled onto the yard and the long gravel drive. An older, heavyset man stood there, squinting out into the night and waiting patiently.
Taggert threw open his door and stepped into the rain. Shea scooted across the seat, making the awkward move over the console and placing herself quickly right behind him, knowing, even if he didn’t, that he wouldn’t make it to the house under his own power. She was there to catch him when he practically fell back into the driver’s seat. Slipping an arm around his waist, she allowed him to lean on her as she stood beside him. He hesitated, and then his arm circled her lightly. Taggert was tall and hard and muscled, and in normal circumstances he would have overpowered her. But at the moment he needed her help to stay on his feet.
“He’s a friend?” she asked, and Taggert nodded once.
Relief washed through her. She should’ve known that he wouldn’t break into someone’s home like a common thief. Even in his weakened condition, Nicholas Taggert was anything but common.
He leaned on her heavily as they approached the open back door, moving slowly in spite of the rain. Her arm around his waist, and his around hers, provided unsteady but effective support. Taggert was too big; if he fell she’d never be able to get him up. After they’d taken several tottering steps the old man made his way to them and added his strength at Taggert’s other side. Shea supposed she could let go and allow Taggert’s friend to lead him inside, but she didn’t. Nick seemed to lean into her, still, so she kept her arm around his waist and canted in his direction, bracing his heavy body as best she could.
The back door opened onto a brightly lit kitchen. An oak table and four chairs sat there, and Taggert’s faltering path took him and those who were assisting him directly toward those chairs.
“Boy, can you make it to the den?” the old man asked.
“Sure,” Taggert answered weakly, and they bypassed the oak chairs and went through a wide doorway into a square, rustic room. The old man steered them toward a long, mustard-colored couch, where they deposited Taggert in a slightly awkward maneuver.
When his arm slipped from her back, the palm of his hand skimmed down her spine and across her hip, as if he needed support, still. As if he didn’t want to let her go.
Once Taggert was deposited on the couch, the old man started cussing—long, inventive, loudly delivered profanity as he removed thick, rain-splattered glasses and cleaned them on his shirttail. Taggert leaned his head back and closed his eyes until the tirade ended.
The old man took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself as he placed the glasses on his nose. “What the blue blazes were you thinking, boy? You could’ve gotten yourself killed. And kidnapping this poor lady.” He turned his head her way and squinted at her through thick lenses, even though they stood close. “Now, that was stupid.”
“I know,” Taggert said weakly, without so much as opening one eye.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” the old man said softly. “Right now we’ll see to that leg and get you to bed. In the morning—”
“No.” This time Taggert’s eyes did open. “We can’t stay here, Lenny. I just…I need your truck.”
“It’s yours,” Lenny said without hesitation. “And I tell you what, you leave the little lady here and I’ll see that she doesn’t call anyone or go anywhere until you’ve had a chance to get on down the road a ways.”
“Sounds good to me,” Taggert muttered.
“No.” Shea directed her denial to the man Taggert called Lenny. “I’m going with him.”
The man drew his bushy eyebrows together. “What for?”
“I’m a helluva story,” Taggert said caustically before Shea could answer. He locked his eyes on her, and in spite of his weakened condition they were cold and strong. Piercing, as if he had never known weakness. “But this is one part of the story no one ever hears, you understand me? As far as the cops are concerned we’re stealing Lenny’s truck. He didn’t see anything, we didn’t talk to him, he is not involved in this. Is that clear?”
Shea nodded, and Taggert closed his eyes once again.
Lenny looked Shea up and down once, squinting as he brought his gaze to her face. He even leaned forward slightly. “Name’s Leonard Caudel,” he said.
“Shea Sinclair,” she answered, offering her hand.
Caudel took her hand and shook it gently. “I know.” A smile bloomed on his face. “You’ve been all over the news today, young lady. I can’t see real good, but if I get close to the television I can see well enough. You’ve been on the television before. You’re the weathergirl, right?”
Before Shea could correct Caudel, Taggert laughed. It was a weak, nearly silent chuckle, and he didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “You’ve done it now, Lenny,” he whispered, and then he fell silent once again.
Shea was annoyed, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort of an argument. “Do you have a place where I can clean up? I’ve been out in the rain, and the man bled on me, and…” She felt dizzy for just a moment, light-headed. “It has been the longest day,” she finished.
“Come this way,” Caudel said, taking her arm and leading her into a long hallway. “You could use a change of clothes, I reckon.”
She looked him up and down. He was as tall as Taggert and twice as big around. No way was there anything in this house that would fit her, even in a pinch. “Well…”
“My late wife, Judith, she was about your size. I guess I shoulda gotten rid of her things years ago, but I never could bring myself to do it.” He grinned. “But I wouldn’t mind at all if you could find something in her closet that would suit this occasion.”
In a small, sparsely furnished bedroom at the end of the hallway, he threw open a closet. “You’ll have to do the choosing. Like I said, I can’t see so well no more, so there’s no telling what I’d pick out. You just take what you want. There’s a bathroom down the hall if you want to clean up a bit. I’ll see to Nick’s leg.”
The contents of the very full closet were brightly colored and years out of fashion. Orange, bright pink, a shade of green so garish it hurt her eyes. A glimpse of tie-dye and a pair of orange bell-bottom pants said “sixties” as surely as if a neon sign hung there. “I’m sure I’ll find something that will do,” she said optimistically.
Caudel was leaving the room when she stopped him with a question. “You know him well?”
He turned in the doorway, a smile on his face. “I gave Nick his first job out of the military, taught him everything I know about the construction business before my eyesight started to fail.” The smile disappeared. “He’s a good man, and he didn’t kill nobody.”
She didn’t believe he had, either, but still… “He shot at me.”
The smile came back. “Ma’am, if he didn’t hit you, he didn’t shoot at you. Nick could shoot the flies off a pile of, uhhh…” He cleared his throat. “Off a pile of sugar,” he said, “and never disturb a single grain.”
For some reason that was a comforting reassurance. Shea turned to the closetful of old clothes and listened to Caudel’s retreating footsteps.
“I shoulda been there.”
Nick opened his eyes at Lenny’s mumbled self-censure. “I told you a thousand times I didn’t want you in the courtroom,” he said. It was the truth. Lenny was more like a father to him than the man he’d called Daddy for the first eleven years of his life. Nick didn’t want Lenny to sit in that courthouse and watch the trial; it would have been an unnecessarily harsh ordeal for the old man. “Besides,” he added, “you can’t drive anymore.”
“I can, too,” Lenny mumbled.
“You’re blind as a bat, you’ve got no business…dammit!” He came up off the couch like a shot when Lenny’s removal of the makeshift bandage proved to be too painful. “Just leave it alone,” he said as Lenny unwrapped his bloodstained jacket and tie.
Lenny ignored the order and took a pair of scissors to his pant leg, cutting the fabric away with an easy touch. “No. It’s going to be cleaned and bandaged properly, and then we’re going to get you out of these filthy clothes and into a warm bed.”
Nick shook his head as he lay back down. The lumpy couch felt as good as any soft bed he’d ever slept in. “They’ll look for me here sooner or later, probably sooner, so I can’t stay. I won’t risk involving you.”
“They won’t think to look here for a while, I reckon,” Lenny insisted.
“Can’t risk it,” Nick whispered.
The roar of water from the bathroom reminded him of Shea’s presence in this house. She should be gone by now; another chance had come and still she didn’t run. He wouldn’t chase after her if she took off now, and neither would Lenny. Nick was crippled and Lenny was half-blind; Shea could walk out of this house and they wouldn’t be able to stop her.
Nick closed his eyes and tried to relax as Lenny very carefully tended to his wounded leg. Nick couldn’t think straight, and that wasn’t good. In fact, it was damn bad. All he could think of with any clarity was one fact: Shea Sinclair smelled great.
When he’d hovered close in the confines of the car, when she’d wrapped her arm around his waist and steadied him, there had been moments when her scent had almost overpowered him. He wanted to bury his nose against her neck and breathe deep, to sleep with that scent in his nostrils.
Nick wondered if he was running a fever; God knows he was delirious.
He should leave right now, while Shea was getting cleaned up and prepared for her grand adventure of a story. Unfortunately, she was right: he needed her. He wouldn’t get far without Shea Sinclair’s help.
As Lenny tended the leg, Nick drifted off. He didn’t wake until he heard Shea’s voice. That voice was already so familiar that it struck a chord somewhere deep inside, like the voice of an old, dear friend.
“How is it?” she whispered.
“Not too bad, considering,” Lenny answered just as softly. They thought he was asleep, and didn’t want to wake him, he supposed. If he had the strength he’d say something and prove them wrong…but he didn’t. “He’s doggone lucky, if you ask me. The bullet grazed his calf. Made a deep furrow, but there doesn’t seem to be any muscle damage to speak of. He lost a lot of blood, though, and he’ll have to watch for infection.”
“I know. I wish we had some antibiotics.” Her voice was a little bit closer now; he could almost feel that voice, as if it vibrated deep inside him. How odd.
“I’ve got part of a prescription I didn’t finish,” Lenny said, a bright note in his voice. “Just a few days’ worth, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Yes, it is,” Shea said, sounding relieved. “He’ll need a change of clothes, too.”
“I rounded up some old clothes I outgrew years ago. They’re on the chair by the fireplace,” Lenny said, groaning as he stood. “I’ll get those pills and a glass of water.”
Nick half opened his eyes. Lenny entered the kitchen, and Shea stood over the recliner by the cold stone fireplace. She wore a pair of tight white pants that ended just below her knees, and a pale blue blouse that was cropped so that the hem hung just at her waist. The severe red suit had disguised her figure, but this outfit enhanced it, hugging every curve. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a thick ponytail.
She turned around, the pile of clothing in her hands, and Nick let his eyes drift closed again.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered as she kneeled on the floor beside him. “If I had a lick of sense I’d run like hell and not look back.”
Yes, you would.
“Dean will kill me,” she said.
Boyfriend? Husband? Lover?
“Well, maybe Clint and Boone will protect me.”
More boyfriends?
“Goodness knows they’ve saved me often enough.” Shea sighed, and then Nick felt the warmth of her hands on his chest. She flicked one button of his shirt and then another. The tips of her fingers grazed his skin as his shirt came open, and his eyes fluttered open.
“What are you doing?” he whispered harshly.
She wasn’t at all startled that he was awake; she should be. “I’m getting you dressed so we can get out of here.”
“I can dress myself.”
She smiled. “Yes, I’m sure you can.” She’d washed the makeup off her face, revealing smooth skin with just a few pale freckles sprinkled across the nose. Even without lipstick, her lips were rosy, pink and full.
He should push her hand away and finish the job himself, but he didn’t. He liked the occasional brush of her fingers against his skin, and she was so close he could smell her again. He liked it; he liked it too much.
“Can you sit?” She flattened her hand on his back and helped him raise up, and then she slipped the damp white dress shirt off his shoulders.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked as she took a blue-and-green-plaid cotton shirt and helped him into it. Her hands were easy, gentle and sure. He had to remind himself that she wasn’t his friend, she wasn’t his ally, it didn’t matter how good she smelled or how enticing the simple brush of her fingers felt on his skin. “It’s the story, right?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “The story.”
All of a sudden he knew he couldn’t do this. Somehow he had to get rid of the weathergirl. With all the strength he could muster, Nick reached out and took Shea Sinclair’s chin in his hand and made her look him in the eye. He didn’t have the strength to force her to do anything, but he damn well knew how to send her packing.
“I haven’t had a woman in ten months,” he whispered. “I haven’t so much as touched a woman in ten months.”
Her face went pale; her hazel-green eyes widened. But she didn’t back away.
“You want a thrill, weathergirl?” he asked, his voice so soft it was little more than a breath of air. “You think this is fun? Some kind of adventure?” He leaned down, placing his face close to hers. Damn if he couldn’t smell her, feel her breath and the warmth of her skin. Her lips were so close, right there before him and tempting as hell. “I promise you this. You stick around, and as soon as I get my strength back I’ll show you a thrill or two.”
She didn’t back away. “I know what you’re doing, Taggert,” she whispered. “And it’s not going to work. You can’t scare me.”
“Yes, I can.” He reached out with his free hand and touched the base of her throat, let the back of his fingers trail down to the valley of her breasts. She was warm and soft, as he’d known she would be. He watched the movement of his roughened hand on her pale skin, marveled at the way the sight teased his insides and made his head spin more than it had before.
He didn’t want to scare the weathergirl anymore, he wanted to hold her. Hard and fast. He wanted to sleep with her in his arms, that’s all. His mouth drifted closer to her. No, that was not all. He wanted everything; he wanted all of her.
Shea moved her head back and gently grabbed his wrists, moving his wandering hands to his knees. “You’re not well, Mr. Taggert,” she said as she stood. “So I’m going to forgive you for behaving in an inappropriate manner.”
“Oh, thank you,” he muttered dryly. Hell, he’d even failed in frightening her off. Apparently he wasn’t a very imposing figure, at the moment.
Lenny came back into the room with a glass of water and a small plastic bottle of pills. “It’s just four days’ worth, I’m afraid.”
“That’s better than nothing,” Shea said as she leaned forward and began to button the plaid shirt she’d slipped onto Nick before he’d foolishly tried to scare her off.
He brushed her hand away. “Dammit, I can dress myself.”
She backed off and allowed him to finish buttoning the shirt. It was more of an effort than he’d ever let on. When that chore was done, Lenny handed him a pill, which he dutifully took with a swig of water, and Shea tossed a pair of faded jeans onto the couch beside him.
“Do you have the makings for sandwiches?” She directed the question to Lenny, who slowly nodded his head.
“Help yourself. I’ve got plenty of bread, peanut butter and jelly, ham and cheese, and there’s some leftover tuna salad in the refrigerator.”
“I’ll make us something to take in the truck while Taggert finishes getting dressed.”
Nick let his head fall back against the couch. He felt less light-headed with the support, a little sturdier. The sensation of strength was an illusion, he knew. He was about to pass out.
It would be so easy to drift away, to close his eyes and fall asleep and give up. He wasn’t a man to give up easily. He’d fought long and hard for everything he’d had. He’d worked his way up from nothing. Literally nothing. After all those years of hard work he was back to nothing again. He should fight, as he always did; he should defy the odds. But right now—right now he considered giving up, giving in. It would be the easy thing to do.
Hell, he hadn’t taken the easy way very often in his life. Why should he start now?
“Now what?” he whispered, “Dammit, I don’t even know where I’m going yet.”
Shea walked confidently toward the kitchen, a lively spring in her step. Watching the sway of her hips and the bounce of that ponytail made him a bit dizzy. She’d been so afraid just a few hours ago, but she didn’t look like a hostage anymore. And there wasn’t even a hint of worry in her eyes. There should be, dammit, there should be.
But he was the one sitting here remembering what she felt like, what she smelled like. He’d been so close to a kiss, and he’d wanted it. For a moment he’d wanted it as much as he wanted freedom, the truth, his life back. So who was the hostage now?
“I don’t have a clue where to go from here,” he said again, his voice so low he figured no one would hear.
“That’s okay,” Shea said without so much as a glance back. “I know exactly where we’re going.”
Chapter 4
Every now and then, quite frequently, actually, Shea glanced at the sleeping man in the passenger seat of the rumbling old pickup truck. Shea didn’t know what year Lenny’s two-tone, pale blue and white Ford was, but it was definitely old. They just didn’t use chrome like this anymore. Taggert had not wanted her to drive, but he hadn’t put up too much of a fuss. He had to know that he was in no shape to drive.
Taggert didn’t completely trust her, but he didn’t have anyone else to turn to. And he needed help.
Sleeping, he looked much less menacing than he had when he’d threatened her with a gun and tried to send her packing in the rain. Lips soft, ice-chip eyes closed, features relatively relaxed, he was simply beautiful. Not a pretty beautiful, but a manly beautiful. The kind that made women’s hearts thud and their eyes go misty while they sighed in wonder. He had a real man’s face, with a long straight nose and a sharp jawline and a dusting of five o’clock shadow. And that beautiful face was resting atop a nearly perfect body.
She smiled crookedly. Leave it to her to finally find a man she was insanely attracted to now, at the most inopportune time and place in the most unsuitable of circumstances. She’d been so focused on her career lately that she brushed off most men who asked her for a date, and the few dates she’d suffered through hadn’t been much fun.
She’d let Grace talk her into a blind date with a homicide detective a few months back. Luther Malone. Good-looking guy, smart, and as anxious for the blind date as she’d been, which meant the evening had gotten off to a very bad start. She hadn’t found him to be much fun, and he’d gotten quickly annoyed with her nosy questions. He’d taken her home early and there hadn’t been a second date.
Shea took a quick glance at the gas gauge and whistled low and sharp. Almost empty. Like it or not, she would have to stop soon. Better here on a country road than on the interstate, she imagined, spotting the solitary sign straight ahead.
Placing an Atlanta Braves cap, one of Lenny’s contributions, on Taggert’s head, she left him sleeping while she pumped gas into the guzzler of a truck. She didn’t think she looked too strange, even though the outfit she’d scrounged from Lenny’s late wife’s closet came directly from the sixties. Capri pants were making a comeback, and the blouse was fairly simple, so she didn’t think her attire would raise any eyebrows. She’d steered clear of the tiedye T-shirts and the neon-green bell-bottom pants.
When the tank was full she went inside to pay, heading for the back of the store to grab a couple of soft drinks and two banana Moon Pies. Taggert hadn’t eaten nearly enough of his sandwich, and he’d need his strength. Maybe a sugar boost would do it. She could use a sugar boost herself, truth be told.
She was at the counter counting out bills when the state trooper walked in. Her heart nearly stopped.
“Hi, Billy,” the clerk said with a wide smile. This was apparently a regular stop for Billy, the tall, thin trooper.
“Toby,” the officer said with a professional nod. “How’s it going?”
“Slow,” Toby said as Shea very carefully counted out her change. “You know how it is.”
Her first instinct was to turn and run like hell, but she didn’t. She took her drinks and Moon Pies and declined a bag, and glanced through the window to see that Taggert still slept. Thank goodness she’d thought to put the ball cap on his head!
“Where you headed, little lady? That your truck outside?”
Shea’s heart stopped. The trooper was talking to her! She took a deep breath and turned to face him, hoping the change of clothes and the fact that her hair was pulled severely back and her face scrubbed clean of makeup made enough of a difference in her appearance that he wouldn’t immediately recognize her.
She looked at him closely before speaking, to see if he made the connection. Apparently he didn’t. “My husband and I are headed to Florida to see my mama,” she said, putting on her best, deepest Southern accent. She sounded a lot like her cousin Susan, she decided as the words left her mouth. “Hate to get that old truck on the interstate, since it won’t do more than forty-five, and besides—” she gave the trooper a bright smile “—I like the drive better this way.”
He nodded. “I know what you mean. You be careful, though. When I came on duty I heard a murderer from Huntsville escaped this afternoon.” Billy shook his head, a quite large head on a long, narrow neck, she noticed.
“Really?”
“I hear it was all over the news, but since I’m on night shift I slept right through it.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Didn’t you see nothing about it?”
“Nope. I guess I was busy packing for the trip when the news was on.”
The trooper looked through the window to the truck, where Taggert stirred. Just a little.
“I’d better get moving. In a couple of hours it’ll be my turn to sleep and Pookie will have to do the driving.” Pookie? What was she thinking! “He’ll expect to find us a ways down the road when that happens.”
Shea shuffled the drinks and Moon Pies to make sure they were secure in her hands, said good-night to the clerk and the trooper, and escaped into the muggy night air with a sigh of relief. He hadn’t recognized her! Would he later, when he saw her picture on television or in the newspaper? Maybe. Maybe not.
She climbed into the truck and placed her purchases on the seat between her and Taggert. He opened his eyes, just slightly, and reached up to remove the ball cap.
And the trooper left the store with a cup of coffee in his hand.
Taggert leaned forward, moving slowly toward her, his lips parted to speak. The trooper was just about to pass in front of the truck, and his head rotated in their direction. After her heart leaped into her throat, Shea drew a deep breath and followed her instincts.
She took Taggert’s face in her hands and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him to hide his face from the trooper. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Billy smile as he passed. She watched the trooper turn his attention to his patrol car, his smile still in place, and all the while her lips were glued to Taggert’s.
Feeling the danger was past when Billy stepped into his car, she started to pull away, but Taggert grabbed the back of her head with tender fingers and held her in place. His mouth moved over hers, soft and tender, as his tongue tasted her lower lip. Heavens, he was warm, softly arousing, close and intimate. There was no searing demand in the kiss, in fact it was quite sweet, but as it continued, she instinctively kissed him back, and something deep within her stirred. Something that didn’t need stirring, thank you very much.
Taggert’s hand slipped down and settled at the back of her neck, and a low growl escaped from deep in his throat as he continued to kiss her quite thoroughly. He didn’t touch her anywhere else, but Shea felt that kiss all through her body. Her nipples hardened, her knees shook, she felt her heart rate increase.
The trooper pulled away, and Shea turned her head to remove her lips from Taggert’s. He didn’t fight, but instead let his head fall heavily onto her shoulder. “Did I tell you how good you smell?” he whispered. “Fresh and clean and feminine. I didn’t know I would miss the way a woman smells,” he said in a low, groggy voice.
“Go back to sleep, Taggert,” Shea said, placing her hands on his shoulders and forcing him gently into his corner of the truck. “With any luck, you won’t even remember this.”
“Nick,” he said as he settled back with his eyes drifting closed. “Any woman who kisses like you do should call me Nick.”
“Nick,” she said softly, placing the baseball cap on his head. He immediately removed it and tossed it to the floor, where it landed on a small stack of T-shirts Lenny had contributed to the cause.
She sighed heavily and started the rumbling engine, pulling away from the pumps and onto the two-lane road. Heavens. If that trooper ever did recognize her and realize who the man in the truck was, she would be in deep. Way too deep.
About a mile down the road, she took the cell phone from her purse and switched it on. Mark was on speed dial. This would be her last chance to use the phone. Once they got where they were going it wouldn’t be safe. The cellular company could trace them to this area, but right now they were on the move. From here they could go anywhere. Georgia, Florida. South Alabama.
“Mark,” she said, when her cameraman answered the phone. “It’s me.”
“Shea?” he shouted. “Oh my, are you all right? Did he hurt you? Where are you? I’ll come—”
“Mark, I just have a minute,” she interrupted. “Listen carefully.”
She heard him breathing, but he said nothing. “First of all, call Boone in Birmingham and tell him to call my folks and Clint and Dean and tell them I’m all right.”
“Are you?” Mark asked softly.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Shea assured him. “Ask Boone to check into the Taggert trial and the Winkler murder and see if he finds anything odd.”
“Done,” Mark said, all-business.
“Then call my friend Grace Madigan and see if she’ll do the same. She and Boone will take different tacks, so they might come up with different results.” Grace’s husband was a private investigator in Huntsville, and she’d been working for him for months. Mark and Boone and Grace. Shea didn’t trust anyone else.
“Okay. Shea? What’s going on?”
“Just…trust me, Mark.”
She heard his uncertain sigh over the crackling line.
“Do you have caller ID yet?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Don’t get it,” she said. “I’ll call you in a few days and this will only work if you don’t know where I am.”
“Jeez, Shea,” he said in a low voice. “This sounds dangerous.”
She glanced at the man sleeping beside her. “It is,” she said softly.
Tara, Nick thought dizzily as he opened his eyes. A gravel driveway crunched beneath the slow-moving truck tires, and the moonlight shone brightly on…Tara.
“You’re awake,” the weathergirl said in a low voice. “That’s good. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to rouse you, and I really do not want to spend the night in this truck.”
He’d been out for hours. Plenty of time for Shea Sinclair to reconsider her foolish plan and drive him directly to the nearest police station.
But she hadn’t. “Where are we?”
“Marion,” she said with a smile. “My aunt’s house. They’re on vacation. My cousin Susan lives in California, and her first baby is due in a couple of days. Aunt Irene and Uncle Henry won’t be home for weeks.”
The gravel drive circled the house, and Shea stopped before the back door. Not Tara, Nick thought as he looked at the peeling white paint and overgrown garden. But not a police station, either. It was such a relief to know that someone, anyone, believed in his innocence. He might be a good story to the weathergirl, but she had to believe…. She wouldn’t bring him here if she thought he was guilty. She wouldn’t stay with him if she thought he was a cold-blooded killer.
She didn’t kill the engine, but jumped out of the driver’s seat to circle the truck and open his door. She offered an arm in assistance, and he took it and stepped down.
“You wait here,” she said softly, “while I hide the truck in the barn.”
“There’s a barn?” He leaned on her and remembered…something. The way she smelled, the way she tasted. The way she tasted?
“It’s pretty far back on the property and hidden from the road, so I don’t think anyone will even think to look for the truck there. It’s too far for you to walk, though.” She left him leaning against the kitchen door and hurried back to the truck. As it rumbled away, he watched the tail lights. When he couldn’t see them anymore, he closed his eyes and slumped to the ground. How did he know what she tasted like?
The next thing he knew Shea was there again, and he was sitting on the porch with his back against the door. He’d fallen asleep, or passed out, while she’d been taking care of hiding the truck. She lifted a potted plant and reached beneath it, pulling out a key. What kind of a town was this?
“The kind of town where people trust their neighbors,” Shea said as she assisted him to his feet and placed an arm around his waist, propping him up while she slipped the key into the lock.
“Did I ask that out loud?” he whispered.
“You mumbled,” she said, opening the door to a dark kitchen.
“No lights,” she said. “I don’t expect any of the neighbors are up this late, and most of the house is shielded by trees anyway, but I don’t want to take any chances. We haven’t come this far just to get caught because we turned on a light.”
We, she said.
“The moonlight will do,” she said sensibly. “For now.”
He let her lead him through the kitchen, through a huge dining room, to the foot of the stairway.
“Can you make it up the stairs?” she asked, uncertainty in her voice.
“Of course I can,” he snapped, angry at his weakness, at his inability to think straight. Tomorrow morning everything would be better. Tomorrow he would know what to do.
Moving up the stairs was slow going, with Shea on one side, the banister on the other and his body being completely uncooperative. He was breathless when they reached the first landing, near to passing out again when they reached the second floor.
“Carol’s room is the closest,” Shea said, turning him to the right. “I hope you like purple.”
Nothing had any color in the moonlight, but oh, the double bed looked soft, and warm, and if he could just make it that far…
At the edge of the bed he tumbled, falling to the soft mattress, pulling Shea with him. She squealed a little, in surprise, just before they landed with a gentle bounce.
He held on tight to still the spinning in his head. Shea Sinclair could make the spinning stop. She could ground him. He drew her close, testing her softness and warmth. Feeling the wonderful way her curves settled against the length of his body.
“You can let me up now,” she whispered.
“Not yet.” He buried his face against her hair, reached out and removed the rubber band that contained the dark strands, so her locks spilled down and around. “You smell so good.”
“So I’ve been told,” she muttered unhappily.
“You smell like sunshine and soap and…sex.”
“I do not,” she insisted, pushing against his chest.
He didn’t let go. He hadn’t slept in a real bed in ten months, had forgotten what a soft mattress felt like. He’d forgotten what a woman felt like, but Shea brought it all back. The feminine shape. The gentle suppleness.
“How do I know how good you taste?” he asked, pulling her close and resting his head against her shoulder as he laid one leg, the uninjured one, over both of hers.
“You don’t,” she snapped. “You’re delusional.”
He pressed his lips against her neck, very briefly. “No,” he said. “I’m not.” He used what little strength he had against her, holding her down gently, locking his leg around hers, laying an arm over her chest.
“Let me go.”
“I just want to sleep,” he said, feeling himself drift away. “And I want to hold you while I sleep. Smell you. Taste you.”
“Taggert…” she said, her voice distant and uncertain.
“I won’t hurt you, I swear,” he whispered. “I would never…”
As he drifted away he heard her whisper, “I know.”
Taggert was heavy, warm and massive, and sound asleep. It might’ve been possible to slip out from under him and make her way to Susan’s room for the night, but Shea allowed herself to remain beneath him as her own exhaustion washed over her.
Besides, maybe he really did need to hold her as he slept. She liked that idea, that someone needed her in such a simple way. She didn’t have to worry about him trying anything funny. He was in no shape, physically, to be a threat to her.
Stretched out beside and over her exhausted body, touching and holding her, Taggert seemed massive and overwhelming. He fixed her to the mattress with his muscled arm and one long leg. He leaned into her, too, in a way that pinned her down without crushing her beneath his weight.
Still at last, safe in the dark, she finally had time to ask herself the big question. What had she done? Taggert had given her the chance to escape, and other chances had come and gone. Yes, this was a big story, but it was more than that.
The same sense of right and wrong that had driven Dean to the U.S. Marshals Service and Boone to the Birmingham Police Department and then into his own P.I. practice lurked within her, too. She couldn’t stand by while an innocent man went to prison, and maybe even to the electric chair. It went against everything her parents had taught her. Justice. Honor. Moral integrity. Okay, they were old-fashioned ideals in a technical world, but they were what she knew and believed in.
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