In all the world, there were only the two of them. Nothing else, no one else mattered. Only the here and now and the feel of his strong body above hers.
❧
By morning, the rain had stopped and only the tattered storm clouds remained. Babs stirred and stretched, aware of feeling rested and more alive than she'd felt in years. Her body ached deliriously, reminding her of last night's passion. Sam had carried her to bed and she'd fallen asleep in his arms. She had no idea what time it was when she woke to the feel of his hands exploring her body, his mouth nibbling a path along her spine. The memory brought a sleepy smile.
The bed was empty but Babs could hear Sam in the kitchen. A slightly scratchy baritone rose over the clatter of pots. Her smile widened. Somehow "It's Not Easy Being Green" was not a tune she'd have expected to hear from Sam. Kermit the Frog he was not.
She threw back the covers and sat up, reaching for the flannel shirt Sam had left draped across the bottom of the bed. Weak sunshine lit the room and she scowled at it. If it wasn't raining, there was no excuse for them to stay here.
She didn't want to leave the old farmhouse. It had been a quiet haven, a break from the madness that had surrounded her life lately. Once they left, she'd have to face the real world again—and deal with what her family had done. She wasn't ready for that. She wasn't sure she'd ever be ready.
She washed her face and combed her hair and then hurried out into the living room. The rain might have stopped but the old house was still cold. Sam had a fire going in the fireplace and the living room was warm and toasty.
"Good morning."
Sam looked up, his eyes sweeping over her from head to foot. Babs felt the look as if it were a touch, warming her, letting her know he was glad to see her.
"Good morning. Ready for breakfast?"
"Sure. What are we having?" She walked to the stove to peek at what was cooking but Sam's hand closed around her nape, tilting her head back for a thorough kiss. By the time he released her, Babs had forgotten all about breakfast. She opened her eyes as he brushed his thumb across her mouth. He was looking at her in a way that made her knees go weak.
"I'm tempted to forget about food and take you back to bed." Babs could only stare at him, her fingers clinging to the front of his shirt. He sighed and pried her fingers loose, pushing her gently toward the living room. "I suppose you need your nourishment. Go sit down and I'll bring your breakfast."
Babs sat on the sofa, carefully avoiding the spring that had broken through the ancient upholstery. Sam brought the food in and settled himself on the floor. She balanced her plate on her knees and stared at its contents.
"Someone must really like corned beef hash."
Sam nodded. "Must have. It could have been worse. They could have liked anchovies."
She took a few bites and then set down her fork. She didn't want to say it. She didn't even want to think it, but it had to be said.
"I guess we'll be leaving after breakfast." She kept her voice carefully neutral, as if it didn't matter at all.
Sam threw her a quick, unreadable look and then looked down at his plate. He cut a beet up into neat little squares, paying careful attention to the operation.
"I think we should stay here today and start out tomorrow."
"I'm rested enough to go today." Why was she arguing? Nothing would please her more than to stay just where they were. But she didn't want Sam to know how much she wanted to stay here. She didn't want to admit how much she wanted to stay.
"Maybe. But I think it would be a good idea to give it another day. You must have been really exhausted to collapse like that. I don't know how far we're going to have to walk before we can get a ride. I don't want to have to carry you to L.A."
"Where are we going to go when we leave here?"
"Well, I figured we'd get to a phone and see if Emmet has shown up. If we can't get hold of him, we'll rent a car. But, one way or another, we're not going anywhere today so why don't you finish your breakfast and relax."
Babs had a million more questions but she didn't ask them. Just for today, she wanted to forget about the rest of the world and pretend that nothing else existed beyond this house and this man.
After breakfast Sam rinsed the dishes and then presented her with a battered copy of an old James Michener novel. He'd found it in the back of a cupboard and the last hundred or so pages were missing but Babs didn't mind. It felt nice to sit next to the fire and read. Sam went outside and she could hear him shifting wood. When he came back in, he was carrying a small piece of oak. He settled himself on a stool near the sofa and began to shave chunks of wood off one end of the stick.
Babs divided her time between h«r book and watching him and then gave up on the book altogether and just watched him.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm whittling."
"What are you whittling?"
"I was thinking of doing an oak rendition of Michelangelo's David. What do you think so far?" He held the stick out at arm's length, studying it carefully. Babs looked at it.
"It looks more like Bugs Bunny," she announced after careful consideration.
He threw her an indignant look. "Everyone's an art critic. Obviously it's still in the early stages of creation. It's unfair to judge it before its true character emerges. The wood has a definite message to reveal to the world and I'm trying to set it free."
"I think you'd do better to set it on fire."
"Funny. Very funny." But his eyes held amusement.
It wasn't until after supper that either of them mentioned the future again. Dinner had been eaten and darkness had fallen outside. The Michener book lay forgotten on the floor. Sam's wood carving sat upright on the hearth, resembling nothing in particular. Babs leaned against Sam's shoulder, staring into the fire, letting the bright flames hypnotize her.
"Do you have a will?" The question startled her out of her pleasant stupor. She blinked.
"What?"
"Do you have a will?"
She struggled to shift mental gears.
"Not really. Just whatever provision is in the trust fund. Why? Do you think I might drop dead and leave you without your fifty thousand?" The question held an edge of hurt despite her attempt to make it a joke. She sat up, running her fingers through her hair. Sam's arm fell away from her shoulders, leaving her alone. She didn't like the feeling.
"To hell with the fifty thousand. I don't care about that." He waved his hand dismissively.
"Then why are you asking about my will?"
He reached out and took one of her hands, his eyes intent in the firelight. "Look, I know you don't want to think about this and I don't blarpe you. But it seems like there's a pretty good possibility that someone wants you more than just out of the way temporarily. They want you dead."
"Why would anyone want me dead?"
"I don't know. But when we leave here tomorrow, it might be nice if we had some idea of who it might be and why. I've given it a lot of thought and the best motive I can come up with is money. You've got a lot of money. If something happened to you, who would inherit your money?"
Babs stared at him, her eyes wide. He was really talking about someone trying to kill her. She'd avoided really thinking about it because the possibility was so horrifying, but he was making it impossible to ignore. Her fingers tightened over his as the realization sank in. Someone wanted her dead.
He must have seen the dawning horror in her eyes because he leaned forward, cupping her cheek with his
free hand, his eyes intent on hers. "Nothing is going to happen to you. I'm going to make sure of that."
Staring into the brilliant blue of his gaze, Babs believed him. Those eyes didn't give her any choice but to believe him. Her breath left her on a quick sigh that stopped just short of a sob.
"I believe you."
"Good." His mouth touched hers in a brief kiss before he sat back, his expression serious. "Who inherits the money if something happens to you?"
"The fa
mily. I don't remember exactly how it goes. Finney told me about it when I turned eighteen and the trust fund money had started coming directly to me. I guess I didn't listen all that carefully. At eighteen you don't think about dying." She frowned, her eyes focused on the wall behind his shoulder as she tried to remember the conversation with Finney.
"If I die before I'm twenty-five, then I think the money is divided equally among the rest of the family."
"What happens if you die after you're twenty-five?"
"Well, at twenty-five the money is mine so I guess, after that, whatever happens would be what would happen to anyone's money if they died without a will. I guess the courts would decide who gets it."
"So, if you die in the next six months, your family splits the wealth."
She shivered, feeling chilled despite the heat of the fire. It sounded so cold, so final, when he said it. Sam's eyes refocused on her and he gave her a quick smile.
"We're just speculating here. Nothing is going to happen to you."
"I know, but it's pretty scary to think about someone hating me enough to want me dead."
"It probably has nothing to do with you. It's the money. Some people will do anything for money."
"I suppose."
"Tell me about your family."
"God, I could write a book about my family but no one would believe it. What do you want to know?"
"Just a thumbnail sketch of each of them. Give me some idea of who I'm dealing with."
"You're dealing with a bunch of people who haven't figured out that this is the twentieth century. They all belong in the days of servants and lackies. They'd have been happy then."
"What about the aunt who raised you?"
"Aunt Dodie? Well, she'd have made a good drill sergeant or maybe a director at a camp for the damned. Aunt Dodie believes that she w^as put on earth to manage everyone's lives as she sees fit and to hell with what they want."
"What about money? Does she have any of her own?"
"Some. Her mother inherited quite a bit from my great-grandfather and Aunt Dodie's father managed it pretty well. Uncle Lionel was a lawyer before they were married and he earned a good salary. My cousin Lance never has enough money. He'd probably bump me off in a minute. My aunt has some fantasy about Lance and me getting married—keep the loot in the family, I guess."
"What's Lance like?"
"Spoiled, beautiful, useless. It's a shame, really. He might have turned into a halfway decent human being if Aunt Dodie hadn't drummed it into his head that the world owed him something because he was born into the Malone family."
"So the two of you don't get along?"
She laughed, a short sound that lacked humor. "That's an understatement. We fought like cats and dogs when we were kids. He resented me coming to live with his parents after my parents died. He resented my having money. He resented that I didn't kiss his sleeve as he walked by. He resented me. Period. And I suppose I resented him. It didn't seem fair that his parents were still alive when mine were dead."
"Okay. So we'll put Lance at the top of the list."
"Look, we don't like each other but I can't really believe that he'd have me killed."
"I didn't say he did. But we've got to have a list of suspects. All the best detectives have a list."
Babs smiled weakly at his obvious attempt to interject a little humor into the situation. What she really wanted to do was shut her eyes and lean against him and pretend that the rest of the world didn't exist. She resented the intrusion into their peaceful little world. But Sam was right. They had to face this sooner or later.
"What about the rest of the family?"
"There really isn't all that much. Uncle Emmet—but I don't think we have to worry about him. There's Aunt Bertie and Uncle Clarence, but they aren't likely suspects."
"Probably not but tell me about them anyway."
"Well, neither of them has had any contact with reality since I've known them. Aunt Bertie makes pots and baskets and similar useless stuff. Uncle Clarence collects guns and smokes cigars."
"Guns? Seems an odd thing to collect for someone who's out of touch with reality. You don't get much more real than that."
Babs grinned, relaxing for the first time since this conversation had begun. "Well, the story is that in the twenties, Aunt Bertie was quite a flapper."
"A flapper?" Sam's mouth turned up, trying to imagine that ditzy voice on the phone belonging to a young woman in a drop-waist dress and beads.
"A flapper. Quite a wild one, too, from what I hear. Parties, cigarettes and," her voice dropped dramatically, "rumble seats."
"No. Not rumble seats." Sam looked shocked and Babs bit her cheek to hold back a grin. She nodded solemnly.
"Rumble seats. Anyway, my great-grandfather was threatening to throw her out of the family but Bertie was his favorite, his pet, and he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. Just before her behavior became too scandalous, she got married. And not some hole-in-the-wall affair either but a spectacular wedding with the creme de la creme of society. People even flew in from New York, which was no small thing in those days."
"So she married Clarence and your great-grandfather was happy."
"Well, not completely. He wasn't real enthused with her choice. Uncle Clarence was supposedly a Chicago gangster with all kinds of unsavory connections. If it had been any of the other children, I'm sure the old man would have thrown them out of the family—lock, stock and rumble seat—but he couldn't bring himself to cast aside his pet so he set about covering up Uncle Clarence's past."
"A gangster?" Sam smiled but there was an arrested look in his eyes. Babs caught it and shook her head.
"Don't get any ideas. If Uncle Clarence really was a gangster, it was fifty years ago. I don't even know if the story is true. Naturally, no one will talk about it but that's what I pieced together over the years. Anyway, it was all a long time ago and Uncle Clarence has floated through life ever since."
"I suppose you're right." He leaned over to toss another small log on the fire. "So it sounds like our top suspect has to be your cousin."
"I guess. I don't know." Babs stirred restlessly, watching the flames lick hungrily at the new log. "I guess if it has to be one of them, I'd say Aunt Dodie is the only one capable of murder. She might even be able to justify it to herself. She's got a firm belief in her own infallibility. Uncle Lionel might arrange it if she told him to. He does everything else she tells him." She shuddered, looking away from the fire.
"I just can't really believe that any of them wants me dead. There may be no real love lost between us but there's still quite a gap between that and actually killing a person."
The fire found a pocket of moisture in the log, exploding it with a loud pop that punctuated her words. A small lamp that stood on a table next to the sofa exploded at the same moment, showering them with bits of porcelain.
Babs lifted a hand to her hair to brush the glass out of it. Her only thought was that the fire popping couldn't possibly have caused the lamp to explode. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, like a film slowed down to view frame by frame.
She looked at Sam, her eyes widening as she noticed the look of deadly intent in his eyes as he lunged across the short distance between them. She felt his hands grab her shoulders but it didn't feel real, none of it felt real. She went over backward, feeling the scrape of the braided rug through her shirt, feeling Sam's large frame cover her.
It couldn't have been more than a few seconds that she lay there, counting every heartbeat, her mind refusing to function. Sam's chest crushed her breasts and, after a moment, Babs realized that she wasn't sure which was his heartbeat and which was hers. She drew a rough breath, trying to shake the fog out of her mind.
"What happened?"
"Someone took a shot at us."
A shot. Of course. It wasn't the fire popping that broke the lamp, it was a bullet. And Sam had pushed her down out of the line of fire and covered her, protecting her with his own bod
y. The thought was enough to penetrate the vagueness in her mind. She didn't want anyone taking a bullet meant for her. She moved, trying to shift his weight off her.
"Hold still." Sam hissed the command in her ear.
"Get off me. If somebody is going to get shot, it's going to be me."
"Nobody is going to get shot." He shifted but kept his arm across her shoulders, holding her to the floor. "Stay down and don't move until I tell you to."
Staying close to the floor, he crawled over to the table where he'd set the oil lamp. Babs rolled onto her stomach, watching as he carefully reached up, fumbling a moment before finding the key and turning down the wick. The light dimmed and then went out and the old house was suddenly dark, lit only by the fire in the fireplace.
The flickering light only added to the surrealistic feeling of the scene. It was as if they were playing some silly game where the object was to stay low. Only the consequences of losing this game could be deadly.
Sam disappeared into the bedroom, pulling himself along on his elbows. Babs waited, hardly daring to breathe. She was lying too close to the fire and her right side felt sizzling hot but she didn't move. After what seemed an interminable time, Sam reappeared, still on his belly, dragging his pack behind him.
Glass shattered and there was a dull thud as a bullet buried itself in the wall. Babs caught her breath on a sob and pressed her face against the rug. A light touch on her shoulder made her jump but it was only Sam. She raised her head cautiously.
"It's okay. I didn't bring you this far to let you get killed." Another shot punctuated the sentence. Babs winced but she didn't look away from him. Sam grinned and wrapped his hand in her hair, tugging her forward a few inches to kiss her. It was only a brief touch of the lips but it was enough to make the fear recede a little.
"We're going to get out of this. They're not really trying to kill us."
"They're not?"
"Nope. They just want to keep us pinned down while they work their way closer to the house. They may hope a lucky shot gets one of us but they're not counting on it."
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