Crossfire Christmas

by Julie Miller

  “That’s a sweet bedside manner you’ve got there, darlin’.” She reached over and shut off the heat. “Turn it back on. You’re shivering.”

  “Like you care.” She shook her head. “The cold’s better for you. That’s probably the only reason why you haven’t bled to death yet.”

  “You’re a smart girl.”

  “I’m not a girl.” She said the word as if it left a sour taste in her mouth.

  “No, you’re not.” Her cute little curvy shape and endless backbone proved that. Her grown-up strength was also giving him an idea for plan B or C or whatever letter of the alphabet he was on now with this mess of an assignment. He could see the glow of lights in the distance now, a neighborhood or highway interchange, he guessed. But there was still no oncoming traffic or vehicles on the road behind them. The site of his crash had been swallowed up by hills and darkness. So the ambulance and cops must be coming from the south—not the direction they were headed. He’d have to play the kidnapper for a day or so longer, but he could make this work. “You married?”

  “No.”

  “Got a boyfriend? Kids? Roommate?”

  She smiled, but there was no humor in her tone. “I’ve got a big brother who’s a cop. A fugitive like you is probably already on his radar.”

  Good. “So no boyfriend, either.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Eyes on the road,” he warned when she glared at him again. “You don’t play the big-brother card unless you’ve got no other man in your life to stick up for you. You live alone.”

  Her fists tightened around the steering wheel. “My personal life is none of your business.”

  This plan was going to work. The woman lived alone and no one was expecting her. She had the skills he needed—if he could just keep her in line. “A pretty little thing like you with that sassy mouth and no husband or boyfriend? Are you a widow or a workaholic?”

  “Am I a...?” He met her glare this time, and she quickly glanced away. “It’s...complicated.”

  As intriguing as that answer might be to follow up on, Nash had the information he needed. She lived alone. No one was expecting her for a date. No one would worry if she didn’t check in for the next few hours. Steer clear of the cop big brother—if he wasn’t just a story she’d made up to try to intimidate him—and this plan could work. “Trust me. I understand complicated.”

  “I bet you do.” They passed a sign indicating a state highway up ahead. She pointed to the traffic lights in the distance. “Am I taking you to your place? Just tell me where to turn. I’m bad with street names. I promise if I see the address, I’ll erase it right out of my head.”

  “I’m not from here.”

  “Are we going to your hideout?”

  “Hideout?” Amusement threatened a smile again. “Isn’t that a little Sam Spade-ish?”

  “Whatever you call it. To meet up with your friends? Will they take care of you? Or are they the three men who did that to you?”

  “They were from...” Ah, hell. He was saying too much. He didn’t want to give her any names or places she might share later. “I don’t have friends in K.C.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” She adjusted her lights down from bright as a car coming from the opposite direction appeared over the next hill. “Why are you here?”

  “You ask an awful lot of questions, darlin’.”

  “Darlin’? I think I prefer Peewee.”

  Nash considered her answer. He could give a little as long as she was cooperating. “What’s your name again?”

  “Teresa.” She rolled her R with a musical lilt.

  “Take me home, Teresa.”

  “You said you weren’t from here.” Her gaze darted down to the dashboard, and her posture straightened a tiny bit, putting him on guard. “Oh. I wondered where the twang of yours was from. How far south are we going? I’ll need to stop for gas if we’re driving any distance. There are a couple of gas stations up on 40 Highway.”

  Really? She thought she could outfox him and stop in a public place where she could call for help? His momentary lapse into nice-guy territory had just ended. “Don’t get too smart, Teresa.” He nodded toward the needle on her dash before raising his gun in his lap. “Your tank is practically full. Very responsible for this kind of weather. Nice try, though. I’m guessing our destination isn’t that far or you wouldn’t be on this backwater stretch of road. You’re taking me to your place.”

  Chapter Four

  How had this happened to her?

  How had she gone off on such a wrong turn from proving herself to be a smart, self-sufficient adult? She’d been taken hostage by a bleeding stranger, and now she was helping him limp up the steps into her apartment building—sneaking a fugitive into her own home! Although he carried her bag of groceries in the hand at the end of his injured arm, and they walked hip to hip as if they enjoyed holding on to each other, there was nothing normal about this stroll from the parking lot.

  Teresa felt the barrel of Mr. Charles’s gun nudge her side through the blanket she’d draped around his shoulders to mask his weapon and injuries from anyone who might see them stumbling across the scraped and salted concrete. “Remember,” he warned in that deep-pitched drawl of his, “if anyone asks, we just took a tumble in the snow. You say anything to anyone that gives me away, and this bullet will go right through that pretty hide of yours.”

  Maybe Gamberro was her middle name, and her older brother and sisters were right to worry about her.

  “I get it. You have a gun. I’ll do what you say.” She hiked that mysterious black bag of his higher onto her shoulder, freeing her arm to unlock the outer door. She had to release her grip on the back of his belt to hold it open for him.

  But there was no thought of closing the door behind him and running away. The man was like a wounded bear. Even without the gun, her captor was mean and unpredictable and all sinewy brawn. Although he said he wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible, she had no doubt he’d shoot right through the glass or wrestle her to the ground again if she didn’t do his bidding.

  “This is crazy,” she whispered, sliding her arm behind his back again, steadying his uneven gait. “You’re going to die. And I don’t want a dead man in my apartment.”

  “Then don’t let me die.”

  There were two more stairs inside before they reached the carpeted lobby and elevators. The fist of fear squeezing her gut tightened with every step. What would he do if she couldn’t make him well enough to travel? Who was he running from? Were there other armed men in the city looking for him? What if she was still his prisoner when they found him? The sooner she could send him on his way and call her brother, AJ, to report him, the better. “We should have gone to the hospital.”

  “Not an option.”

  “You’d rather die than be turned over to the police?” Teresa pushed the call button and the doors opened. “What if I can’t fix you? I don’t exactly have a fully equipped E.R. in my apartment.”

  He limped in beside her and rested his backside against the railing, easing some of his weight off her shoulders. “A smart girl like you will figure it out. What floor?”

  “I’m in 417.” Teresa pushed the number 4. “What if you die? Is there someone worse than you out there who’s going to blame me?”

  “No one cares if I die. Only if I live.”

  Teresa swung her gaze up to the haggard shadows darkening his eyes. “I don’t care what you’ve done—that’s a horrible thing to say.”

  As the doors started to close, a familiar quavering voice called out from the lobby. “Hold the door, please. My arms are full.”

  “Don’t you dare, dar—”

  But Teresa had already pushed the door-open button. She wasn’t sure if it was ingrained politeness or some la
tent survival instinct kicking in that made her ignore his warning and invite company into the elevator with them. Florence Walker, with her snow-white hair pulled up in a bun on top of her head, toddled into the elevator car with a basket of neatly folded clothes perched on her hip. “Good evening, Teresa. I’m trying to be healthy and use the stairs to do my laundry, especially since I can’t get out and walk now. But my knee only made it up one flight from the basement before I decided exercise is for the birds.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Walker. This cold weather will aggravate your arthritis.”

  Those same light brown eyes that had been matter-of-factly devoid of emotion a moment earlier drilled her with a silent warning. He straightened beside her, keeping his long thigh—and the gun—in contact with her body.

  But the woman who lived in the apartment beneath Teresa’s seemed completely unaware of any tension inside the elevator. She glanced up at the man wearing a blanket draped around him like a serape and smiled at Teresa. “Am I interrupting something? A date?”

  A date? Florence thought this was the kind of man Teresa wanted in her life?

  The elevator bobbed once before it slowly began to rise. The motion rocked Teresa into her captor’s side. He slid his arm behind her and let the icy steel of his gun rest on the curve of her bottom. She flinched at another round of full-body contact with his tall, hard frame.

  And flinched again when she realized she hadn’t immediately pushed some space between them. How sick. Why would she even notice the shape of his body? Was her skin tingling with awareness at being pressed against him? No, it had to be the numbing cold wearing off now that they were inside. She should not—could not—think that there was anything to like about this dangerous bully of a man.

  Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

  “Have I embarrassed you, dear? Your cheeks are red.”

  Teresa tore herself from her humiliating thoughts to look into the concerned blue eyes behind Florence’s wire-rimmed glasses. “No. Of course not. I... It’s the cold.”

  Flattening her palm against the worn wool of the blanket, she tried to put some distance between them. If anything, he moved closer, pushing his rib cage against her hand and wedging her firmly against the gun at her back. She needed to get away from this man. Now. But how? Running hadn’t worked. Neither had arguing or begging.

  Her gaze fell to the drops of blood on her captor’s round-toed boot. Look, Mrs. Walker. Be suspicious. Help me. Teresa lifted her gaze to Florence, willing the older woman to notice the danger she was in, silently asking her to go to her apartment and dial 911. “Mr., um...” See? If this was a date, wouldn’t I know his name? Teresa made sure her smile looked forced. “This, um, man I just met is feeling a little under the weather.” She glanced down at the tiny bloodstains again. Look. “He—”

  “I took a nasty fall and got hurt.” Florence might not be noticing the clues Teresa was giving her, but her captor certainly had. “Might have dislocated my shoulder.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Florence clucked her tongue against her teeth. “You really have to watch that ice.”

  Really? This sweet, clueless woman was sympathizing with the ratty, pale stranger instead of the neighbor who lived in the apartment above her and shared tea on the fire escape when the weather was nice? Teresa bit down on her frustration and tried communicating a silent cry for help one more time. “I offered to drive him to the hospital, but—”

  “She’s taking real good care of me, ma’am.” He grinned and lifted the bag of groceries he held a few shaky inches. “She’s going to fix me a nice hot meal.”

  Florence turned her full attention up to Mr. Charles. No way would she notice the blood now. “I imagine our Teresa would make any patient of hers feel better. She’s the sweetest young lady in our whole building.”

  “I bet you give her a run for her money.” Was he flirting with the older woman?

  Mrs. Walker laughed. “Now, aren’t you a dear.” She winked at Teresa, without noticing one bit of distress. “This one’s a keeper. Not only is he tall and good-looking in that scruffy cowboy kind of way, but he’s a charmer.”

  A keeper? Charming? Do you see me smiling? “I’m just his nurse. He’s a patient.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.” The elevator dinged for Mrs. Walker’s floor and slowed its ascent. Florence winked at Teresa and smiled. “Don’t you worry. I may be old, but I read books. I know what codespeak is. I won’t tell your family that you had a young man over tonight.”

  That was what she thought all the pleading signals had been about? Hiding a lover from her family?

  The elevator doors opened, and Florence headed down the hallway.

  “Mrs. Walker? Would you—?” But a poke of steel against Teresa’s hip stopped her from calling back her white-haired neighbor.

  The older woman turned. “Yes, dear?”

  Her captor dropped his head, his breath a warm tickle against her ear. “Give me away and I’ll shoot her.”

  Teresa tilted her head back to read the deadly promise in his honey-brown eyes.

  Somehow, she remembered how to smile when she spoke to Florence Walker again. “Thanks for keeping my secret.”

  “Of course, dear. You two have fun playing doctor.”

  Mr. Charles reached behind Teresa to tap the door-close button with the end of his gun. “Good night, ma’am.”

  “Good night.”

  The moment the doors drifted shut, Teresa pushed him away, hating that little sting of guilt she felt when he grunted with the effort to keep himself on his feet. “Really? You’d shoot that sweet old grandmother?”

  “Whatever it takes to survive.” He sagged back against the railing, his jaw clenched in a tight cord of pain. “You don’t have to like me, Peewee. You just have to do what I tell you.”

  “I hate you,” she muttered into the corner.

  “That’s the idea.” Whatever injuries he’d sustained, his hearing was just fine. The elevator had barely started to move before the bell dinged again. “We’re here. Fourth floor, right?”

  For a split second, Teresa considered bolting out of the elevator and letting the doors trap the slow-moving man behind her. But the last thing she wanted was for Mrs. Walker or any of the other innocent residents to stumble onto a collapsed gunman in the elevator, think they were doing the right thing by stopping to help him and end up his prisoner. At least she had some understanding of how the criminal mind worked. With a murdered father, a brother who was a cop and a sister who worked in the E.R., she stood a better chance of getting out of this unscathed than any of the elderly residents or young families who lived in the apartment building with her.

  “Come on.” She braced her wet boot against the door when it started to slide shut and reached for the wounded man. “Let’s get you inside before you threaten any other neighbors.”

  He tossed his right arm around her shoulders, leaning on her a little more heavily than before as he stepped out beside her. “You always this mouthy, Peewee?”

  “Pretty much.”

  The chuckle that rumbled in his throat became a groan of pain. He was in bad shape, probably even worse than he’d let on. As much as she normally admired that kind of determination to survive in a patient, a part of her wished he’d go ahead and pass out so that she could take his gun and escape to call AJ and the police. She had to lean him against the wall beside her door and drop the deadly black bag so she could fish out her keys from her purse. By the time she had the knob and dead bolt open, he’d dropped the sack of groceries to the floor beside his boot. The blanket he wore had gaped open to reveal the bloody shoulder of his jacket and the gun down at his side. His face was pale and his eyes had drifted shut.

  “Don’t you die here,” she warned, as concern mixed with anger, fear and the impulse to run from the dangerous man.


  “Not yet, darlin’. Not yet.” Those golden-brown eyes opened, looking straight down at her. He shifted the gun to his weak hand and swiped the ring of keys from her fingers before pushing his way inside the door ahead of her. “Grab the food and my bag.”

  Damn it. She hated feeling any kind of compassion for this man even more than she hated being forced to help him. She should have run when she’d had the chance.

  Dropping his belongings on the tiled entryway without any regard for the bag’s noisy contents was the only protest she made when he locked the door behind her. He slipped her keys into the pocket of his jeans while she took off her wet coat and draped it over the back of a dining-room chair, then carried the smushed groceries to the kitchen peninsula.

  “What is this? Santa’s workshop?”

  Teresa turned and eyed the rolls of wrapping paper, ribbon and sacks of yet-to-be-wrapped presents strewn across the top of the table. “I have a big family with lots of nieces and nephews. Don’t bad guys celebrate Christmas, too?”

  “Not this year.” She caught his gaze across the entryway and thought she detected something more like longing in his weary gaze, rather than the sarcasm she’d imagined in his tone.

  But when his eyes focused and met her curious perusal, his expression hardened like ice. He limped up beside her at the kitchen peninsula, reaching over to the phone above the counter and pulling out the line that connected it to the wall jack. “Hey!”

  “My rules, darlin’.” That cord ended up in the pocket with her keys as he scanned the main rooms of her apartment, no doubt looking for any other means of communication to disable. When his gaze landed on her again, the bully who gave the orders was back. “Pull that table over in front of the door.”

  “You have the gun, remember? I’m not running.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t trust you.”

  With a huff, Teresa scooted the chair aside and lifted the edge of the oak table she’d inherited from her mother.

  “Wait.” Before she’d dragged it a foot, he was waving her away from the table with the gun and pointing into the living room. “Try the sofa.” Again, as soon as she started sliding it across the carpet, he stopped her. He nodded to the armoire against the wall where her television and sound system were stored. “Can you move that?”