"Great. Then we—" He stopped, staring. He'd only then looked up at her, only then seen her in the light. "God, Shiloh, why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" He reached for her hands and pulled her over beside him.
"I am?" She looked blank.
Con's stomach had begun churning at the first sight of the blood on the left side of her face. It had trickled over the delicate skin to her neck, where another small stream joined it and flowed down her slender throat to dampen the neck of her sweatshirt. With hands that trembled slightly he tilted her head back, turning her cheek to the light.
"Looks like a glass cut." He swore under his breath. "Probably when that bullet came through the windshield."
Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember those frantic moments. "I do remember something stinging," she began, her hand automatically going to her cheek.
"Don't touch it. There may still be some glass in there. Are you hurt anywhere else?" His tone was sharper now, brisker, in command.
"No, I—"
"Is there a first-aid kit around?"
She nodded. "I'll get—"
"You'll sit. Where is it?"
She pointed. "Under the top step."
He turned and crossed to the stairway. Sure enough, the step was hinged, and when he lifted it the white box with the red cross was inside. Smart, he admitted grudgingly, for it to be where you could reach it from inside or out. He vaguely noticed that even the inside of the compartment was finished in that same, rich wood and had to agree with her. This boat was class all the way.
He made her sit at the navigation station, where there was a high intensity of light. He gently wiped away the blood. He probed at the cuts, removed one small sliver with exquisite care, holding the tweezers rock steady. It was a triumph of control; inside he was shaking. And furious with himself, despite his promise to her earlier.
"This is going to sting," he warned her as he poured disinfectant on a piece of gauze. She sucked in her breath when the liquid hit the cuts, but made no other sound.
"Anyone ever tell you that you're a master of understatement?" she asked dryly when he'd finished.
"I'm sorry." He didn't look at her as he replaced everything neatly in the kit. "About everything."
Shiloh sighed. "I thought we settled that. No wheel spinning."
"So it's harder than I thought." He slammed the box shut and went to put it back.
"It's only a cut. Not even worth a bandage. Quit it."
He let the lid of the step drop back into place, irritated that it was so well built it didn't even bounce. Boy, you're really on the edge if that's all it takes to set you off, he told himself. And with a determined effort he forced himself into a semblance of calm.
"Sorry. Just edgy, I guess." Why am I always apologizing to her? Because you're always being a jerk, that little voice answered. Shut up, he snapped inwardly. Where the hell were you when I needed you?
"Me, too. Let's forget it, okay?"
He looked at her, sitting there so calmly. You didn't need me at all, the little voice said smugly. Shut up, he repeated, without much emphasis. He walked back and sat down where she had been, across from the bench that ran along the wall. Or whatever they called it on a boat. He studied the floor this time, seeing the exquisite workmanship of the narrow teak strips.
After a moment she spoke. "Do we sit tight or cast off?"
He raised his head. "They're too damned good, Shiloh. It should have been hard for them to find me at your place, but they did it in days. It should have been harder for them to find the loft, and they did that in one. And now they have a chance of finding your car to help them along." He laughed harshly. "That means they should be here in about an hour."
"Con … my father … if they think we might go there…"
"I know. I've been thinking about that, too."
"Then you think they might find him?"
His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "I'm through underestimating them. He could be a lever for them, the only one they've got."
"A lever? But why would they think he meant anything to you? Why wouldn't they go after someone who does?"
"Because there isn't anyone," he said briefly, in a cold, flat tone that forbade any emotion, any sympathy for what the bleak words revealed. "But they know you're in this now, even if they don't know why. So now they've got their lever, if they can find it."
She paled but didn't speak. As if it were a visible thing, he saw her draw on some inner strength and steady herself. Amazing, he thought. She's just like Linc. And her father. A cool customer. Blood, he thought with a twinge of bitterness. Blood will tell.
"You can't use a lever if you can't find the person you want to use it on," he said abruptly, grimly.
"So we run."
He let out a long breath. "For now. Just until my boss gets back." He ran a hand through his tousled hair. "It's his company, his people, he's got to make the decision." He felt her eyes on him. "They won't hurt your father, if they do go for him. They need him. Hell," he said tiredly, "maybe they won't even think of it."
"But you don't believe it."
"They haven't missed a damn thing yet."
"Can I at least … warn him?" He looked at her doubtfully. "The radio. Marine operator. They wouldn't be expecting that, would they? I'll wait until we're offshore."
He hesitated, then nodded. It was a risk, but he had no right to deny her. She had forgiven him for the danger he'd put her in; if anything happened to her father, he knew she would never forgive him again. He didn't stop to think why it would matter so much, since, after this was over, he would never see her again. He didn't want to think about that time, not now.
"Then let's go."
He looked up as she got to her feet, clearly anxious to get started. He studied the length of the boat. "Can you really sail this thing by yourself?"
"She's cutter-rigged with roller furling. Piece of cake." She eyed him pointedly. "Provided, of course, my deckhand does what he's told."
He laughed, startling himself; he hadn't figured there would be much to laugh about in their situation. He got up and threw her a salute. "Aye, aye, cap'n," he said with a grin. "But you'll have to tell your dumb deckhand in English. All that nautical talk is beyond my limited capabilities."
She grinned back. "I'd say you're trainable. Might even make it to first mate someday."
"Oh, I'll work hard," he said with exaggerated earnestness.
"That," she said dryly, "I can guarantee." She headed to the steps. "Close the bow hatch, will you? I'll fire her up."
He nodded, then waited until she'd put her foot on the first step. "That's the pointy end, right?"
She looked back sharply. His effort at a straight face crumpled, and a grin tugged at his mouth. She tried to look angry and failed; as she went up on deck she was laughing.
Con stood staring after her. They were about to take off in a boat in the middle of the night, with her sailing it virtually alone. She'd been run out of her home, shot at, cut up, had driven straight down the side of a hill, she was worried to death about her father, and she could still laugh.
And make him laugh. He didn't recognize himself in this man who had taken to engaging in lighthearted verbal dueling with her quick wit. It was a kind of carefree silliness he'd never known, and it intrigued him even as it bemused him. It seemed absurd in the midst of the mess they were in. Then he heard the distinctive sound of a diesel power plant starting, and, like a good deckhand, he went to obey the captain's order.
Had she been blindfolded, Shiloh would still have known the second they cleared the breakwater. She felt the deck lift beneath her feet as the swell increased, felt the breeze as they left the protection of that wall of rock. As sweetly as ever, the Phoenix responded to the wheel, and they made the turn and were out of the harbor.
It was an almost surreal scene, the moonlight dancing over the quiet water, the empty sea spread before them. They had passed one cruiser coming in, loaded with slightly tipsy par
tygoers, but the ocean beyond the harbor belonged to them on this peaceful Sunday night. The farther they went, the more it changed, until the surreal became real, and the chaos they had gone through before became the unreality.
Gradually, as the distance between them and the receding land increased, Con began to relax. If their luck held until they were out of sight of the coast, if they could just get that much breathing room…
He listened but could barely hear the steady thrum of the engine. She had told him it ran quiet, that that was one of the beauties of the little ship; she hadn't exaggerated. He had been dividing his time between watching behind them and searching the empty expanse of black water before them. She said she preferred to motor at night, to take advantage of their greater maneuverability under power just in case they came upon something in the darkness.
"Something?" he had asked, a little warily.
"Debris, McQuade," she had answered with a grin, "not the Loch Ness monster."
He had grinned back, shrugging. "Told you I was a landlubber."
It was then that he had at last begun to relax. He just watched her, liking the way she looked standing at the big, traditional teak wheel, the breeze of their movement blowing her hair, the look of enjoyment visible on her face even in the moonlight. Especially in the moonlight.
After a while she bent to fiddle with a piece of equipment, then came back to sit beside him on the cockpit seat. He looked from her to the unattended wheel and back.
"Automatic pilot, I hope?"
She laughed and nodded. Damn, he was beginning to like that sound.
"Where are we going?"
"On this course? We'll hit Hawaii in about three weeks."
He stared at her, then at the compass, then back at her. He caught the gleam of even, white teeth as she failed to smother her grin. He chuckled ruefully. And halfheartedly. The thought of sailing to Hawaii with her didn't sound nearly as absurd as it should have.
"I thought we'd head for the windward side of Catalina. Not many people there during the week, and there're a dozen little coves to hide in and never see a soul."
A rather acid question about her having hidden in them with the worthy Wayne rose to his lips, but he bit it back and merely nodded. The Phoenix chugged steadily on. It was a while before he spoke again.
"Shiloh?"
"Hmm?"
"That was a hell of a stunt you pulled back there."
She shifted to look at him; he could see the silvery light reflected in her eyes. "You mean my little trip down the hill?"
He let out a little breath. "That, too. You wrapped those two guys around a pole trying to follow you."
"Good," she said simply.
"I meant laying down that cover fire. You could have gotten out without a scratch if you hadn't done that."
"I didn't hit anybody. I just wanted to distract them."
"You did. I was pinned down. That one guy came a little too close for comfort."
"So did the one heading for me, the one you dropped. And speaking of stunts, how about that cowboy act with the rope?"
She saw him lift a shoulder in a careless gesture. "I thought it might work, with the .45 and three of them on the rope. It did." He looked at her for a moment. "What made you close the door?"
"I saw you go out the skylight."
He shook his head. "So you locked them in. Green-eyes, you amaze me."
The admiration in his tone warmed her again. "You're kind of impressive in action yourself, Mr. McQuade. Tell me, how did you get into this line of work?"
The silence stretched, her words hanging in the air as he lifted one foot to brace it on the cockpit seat and rested his elbow on his upraised knee. She wasn't surprised; when it came to himself, he had the conversational tendencies of granite. Long after she had given up expecting an answer, he spoke. The words came slowly, awkwardly at first, the very sound of them telling her how unaccustomed he was to talking like this.
"When I left school, I decided to try corporate law. Nice, clean business deals, I thought. All on the up-and-up. Talk about naive." He gave a little snort of laughter. "I went to work in the legal department of a company in Denver. After six months I was bored to tears. After a year I was ready to quit. All I ever did was open mail and file it. That was the highlight of my day, filing."
"You?"
"Yep. Connor McQuade, boy clerk, filer and gofer."
She couldn't picture it. "I'm surprised you lasted a whole year."
"I was still pretty naive. I kept thinking it would change someday." His voice was full of self-mockery, although the words were coming more easily now. "Then I stumbled onto some evidence that somebody was skimming. I poked around a little and found out how, and where it was going. So I went to my boss with it." He paused, and she could see the wry twist of his lips. "There was only one problem."
"He was in on it?"
"He was it. He'd been doing it for years, had a nice pile in a Swiss account. I was too damned stupid to see it."
"Who would ever have suspected it?" she protested. He raised an eyebrow at the quickness of her defense. "What happened to him?"
"Nothing."
She looked puzzled. "Why? If you had the proof—"
"He made sure I didn't have a chance to use it. He meant to make it permanent, but his aim was off."
"He … shot you?"
"By the time I came around in the hospital, he was gone. Along with any trace of what he'd been doing. Probably living high on the Riviera somewhere."
And you haven't trusted anyone since, she thought with instinctive certainty. Except maybe my brother. "But you're still doing it. Going after the bad guys, I mean. Why?"
He chuckled ruefully. "You mean after my inauspicious start?"
"No," she said softly. "After he almost killed you."
He automatically started to dissemble, then shut his mouth. There wasn't any point in denying it when he knew she'd seen the jagged scar. Among other things.
The heat that spurted through him at that memory made his body clench, and once more he fought the image of that vivid, erotic dream. For one of the few times in his life, talk was welcome.
"I lived," he said shortly. "But the old man who owned the company sold out after the dust settled, and I was out of a job. I was in that hospital bed, trying to figure out how I was going to pay for it, when the guy he sold out to walked in. Mr. Wills had called him about me. He offered me a job right then."
He dragged a hand over his tousled hair. "Needless to say, I took it. I had to. But I was glad later. The new owner knew exactly what he wanted me to do, and he arranged for me to get some pretty heavy training." He smiled crookedly. "Some of it private, from … soldiers of fortune, I suppose, and then some high-level military training, which is practically unheard of for a civilian. My boss has a lot of clout." He shrugged. "I've been with him ever since."
"Sam?"
He nodded. "He's a straight arrow. Seven years, and he's never let me down once."
So there was at least someone else he trusted, she thought. But whoever Sam was, he hadn't been there this time. Whatever it was, whatever Con had been doing—and she had begun to doubt rather sourly that she would ever know, if she left it to him to tell her—Sam wasn't there to help.
"Never let you down until now," she said.
He shook his head. "He didn't know it was going to come apart. Neither did I. It shouldn't have. Not so soon. I'd only been on it two weeks."
"On what?"
He looked at her for a moment, then looked away, studying the horizon as if he expected it to change. "I can't, Shiloh. You know that. As long as you don't know anything—"
"—I'm a sitting duck. And they won't believe I don't know anything, anyway. You know that."
She waited, and when he didn't answer, she got to her feet. He still didn't trust her. "I'm going to call my father," she said, and went below, the taut straightness of her back speaking eloquently of her feelings.
* * *
« ^ »
He heard her raise the marine operator. He stared ahead, his emotions in turmoil, his common sense-trying to battle them down. She'd done so much already, saved his butt more than once, she deserved his trust, didn't she? Keep her out of it, his common sense ordered. Trust nobody.
He heard the call go through and thought suddenly that he should have warned her not to say too much. But before he could call out to her, he heard a deep, rumbling voice coming over the small speaker of the VHF radio.
"Yo."
"Hi, Daddy." It was endearing, that childhood term, and he remembered how he'd felt that night when Linc had first told him about his family.
"Shy, is that you, girl?"
"It's me, Daddy. How are you?"
"On an even keel, baby. Is something wrong? I didn't expect to hear from you again so soon."
"Can't I call my own father without something being wrong?"
Con heard a low, indulgent chuckle. "You do, baby, but not usually twice in a week, and not usually via ship-to-shore. When you're at sea, you're too wrapped up to think of your old dad."
"You should know."
The chuckle became a hearty laugh. "Aye, that I do, baby, that I do. Where are you?"
"In the Pacific."
"Oh, feeling smart-alecky, are we?"
"No. Daddy?" Her voice had changed, and her father didn't miss it.
"Come clean now, girl. What is it?"
"Remember the 'black hat' game?"
The deep voice was suddenly taut. "Yes. Why?"
"I've been … wondering. The person I'm with knows the rules, but I was afraid you might have forgotten."
"Some things you never forget." He didn't know the man, but Con knew that tone, knew it too well.
"Good. Maybe you could ask my brother to write them down and send them to me, if you hear from him."
"A big if, but I will. Do you have all the pieces you need to play?"
"Not quite. Some of them are missing, but they may turn up anywhere, when you least expect it. You know how it goes."
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