"And … afterward."
Once again, the color drained alarmingly from her face. She knew, of course, what he meant. Their time in the bar, on the dance floor, and on their way to the condo. Worse yet, in the corridor outside the condo, wrapped in each other's arms. He hadn't seen anybody around them, but at the time he might not have noticed a Sherman tank in the corridor.
How had he lost his head so completely? He'd disregarded all the rules he'd ever set for himself, including every shred of common sense. He deserved to be shot, dragged through the streets in shackles, drawn and quartered, thrown to the wolves.
He probably would be, he realized, if certain photos hit the papers and his powerful client, her uncle, saw them. That prospect didn't bother him nearly as much as the chance that Claire would discover his role in procuring the photos.
He pulled into a gas station and parked. "Lie down on the seat, as if you're sleeping. Keep your head covered and the doors locked. I'll be right back."
"Be careful, Tyce. If they know you're with me, you'll be a target, too."
He had to admit, he hadn't thought of that. She was right, though. If certain photos taken last night hit the papers, his face would become internationally famous by tomorrow morning, if not sooner. The paparazzi would be thick on his tail.
Ironic.
And if the news got out that he'd been working for a tabloid, how much faith would clients put in his discretion as a private investigator and security expert?
He put on his sunglasses, locked the car doors and hurried to an inside phone. While he waited for Fred to answer, he turned toward the wall, took off his glasses and searched them for electronic tracking devices. He found none. He then opened the microcamera within their frame. The cartridge was there, but that meant nothing. Hattie would have replaced it with a new one. Dropping the tiny cartridge to the floor, he ground it beneath his heel, picked it up and tossed it into a nearby trash can. He then instructed Fred on where to meet him, who to bring along and how to proceed.
Before returning to the car, he stopped at the small convenience store within the gas station and bought two oversize Florida State Seminoles T-shirts and baseball caps. When he returned to the car, he opened her passenger door and handed her a shirt and cap. "Get out, put these on, then walk over to that vending machine. I want our friends in the sky to get a good look at us dressed this way."
"Get out? You think I should get out of the car? But they'll see me putting it on. What good will a disguise do if they—"
"You said you trusted me, didn't you?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Then just do it."
Tight-lipped and white-faced, she climbed out of the car, stood beside it in clear view of the helicopter that now hovered a discreet distance away, and pulled on the large garnet-and-gold T-shirt, careful not to dislodge her sunglasses. She then placed the billed cap on her head.
"Push all your hair up into the cap," he ordered, keeping his voice quiet so the customers at the nearby gas pumps wouldn't hear. He donned the other T-shirt and cap, then warned, "Don't look at the copter. We don't want them to know we've spotted them."
"I don't understand why you want them to see us wearing—"
"You'll understand soon enough."
As they drove down the highway headed east toward Tallahassee, he explained the plan. He'd arranged for a man and woman to meet them at a roadside rest area, where they'd swap vehicles and make a getaway.
Claire's anxiety mounted. "These people we're meeting … how do you know they can be trusted?"
"They've worked for me for years. They're some of the best security agents in the business."
"They work for you?" For some reason, this surprised her. She'd been thinking of him as a loner, a maverick, working entirely on his own.
"Yeah, and they're good. So don't worry, okay?"
She didn't argue, or point out to him that she'd been betrayed by people she'd trusted implicitly. What good would it do? She had to trust somebody. She'd decided that somebody would be Tyce. She refused to second-guess him.
Only a pickup and a semi were parked in the neat, paved lot beside a sunny picnic area with tables and grills. The helicopter, Claire noticed, now hovered a mile or so behind them over the rural interstate. It could have been mistaken for a traffic copter, but Claire knew better. It was paparazzi. She felt it in her bones.
A deep anger resonated inside of her. They had no right to stalk her like this. She wished she could snatch them out of the sky and shake some sense of decency into them. She had no doubt they were snapping pictures of her and Tyce as they walked from the car to the small building that contained the water fountains and rest rooms. She kept her head down and her sunglasses on.
Once they were inside, she headed directly for the ladies' room and into a stall. Just as he'd predicted, a woman of about her height and build stood at the sink, apparently brushing her short, dark hair. The woman soon stepped into the stall beside hers and whispered, "Here, take these."
Claire looked down and saw the woman's hand extended beneath the partition, holding the glossy brown wig and flowered cotton dress she'd been wearing. Claire took them and handed over her T-shirt and cap. Although they were alone in the rest room, neither of them spoke. The woman next handed her a pair of white plastic sunglasses and seashell earrings. Claire gave her the sunglasses and earrings she'd been wearing.
She remembered that Tyce had instructed her to wait in the rest room a full ten minutes after her decoy had left it. She remained where she was, hidden in the stall, while the woman now wearing the Seminoles cap emerged from the stall beside her. Over the top of the door, Claire watched her leave the rest room. Her heart pounded as she waited out the full ten minutes, checking her watch at half-minute intervals that felt like forever.
When the time came she stepped out of the stall, adjusted the bobbed, chin-length wig in the mirror and tied the sash of the simple cotton dress that was only slightly too large for her.
Taking a deep breath, she left the rest room, remembering vividly the last time she'd donned a disguise in a public rest room and headed out for freedom. Her escape then had been caught on videotape and broadcast to the world. She was still chasing that freedom, and more desperate than ever to find it. She'd had a taste—a brief, wonderful taste—and craved more.
When a man in a light denim shirt, sleek black sunglasses and a tan Stetson took hold of her arm, she almost jerked away from him in fright. Silly of her. Tyce had told her to expect him in a cowboy hat. She forced a smile and accompanied him to the car. To the truck, actually. A shiny, black pickup with enormous wheels and heavily tinted windows.
The gray sedan they'd been in had already left. She didn't dare look up to see if the helicopter had followed it, but she listened for its distant thrumming sound and heard nothing over the hammering of her own heart.
The only other vehicles in the lot were the semi in the far corner and a motorcycle parked beside them. The sight of the motorcycle, even without its rider, gave her a start. Paparazzi in Europe often favored motorcycles. Not so much here, though. But one could never be sure…
Tyce swept her smoothly past the motorcycle and helped her up onto the high bench seat of the pickup. She sat stiffly and twisted her hands in her lap as he started the rumbling truck engine, backed out of the parking space and drove away from the rest area. The motorcycle remained where it was, thank God, with its rider nowhere in sight.
As they motored down the expressway in the opposite direction from where they'd been headed, she realized she'd been holding her breath. Slowly she exhaled. "Is the copter gone?" She couldn't bring herself to look.
He exited the expressway and turned north onto a two-lane country road. Slanting her a smile, he pushed the Stetson back on his head with an easy gesture she recognized from cowboy movies. "Took off after Fred and Wanda like hounds chasing a rabbit."
Hardly daring to believe, she checked behind them herself—both the sky and the road. No one, not a single
vehicle, was in sight.
Gladness fizzled through her like fine champagne, making her feel light-headed and light-hearted. "We did it! We lost them!" Tossing her sunglasses aside, she scooted across the seat and looped her arms around his neck. "You lost them. You're a genius, Tyce Walker. And my hero."
"Aw, shucks, ma'am," he drawled, dipping his head in a show of modesty that would do any cowboy proud, his lazy smile deepening the vertical crease beside his mouth.
She laughed, plucked the interfering sunglasses from his face and planted an exuberant smooch on his lean, angled cheek, right where the lightning-white scar crossed it.
"Whoa! Hold on thar, little lady." Without taking his eyes from the road, he reached up with one hand to tilt his hat back to its proper angle. "What in tarnation do you think you're—"
His western drawl broke off as she planted another loud kiss just below the laugh lines of his eye … then a softer one near the strong, clean line of his jaw. His smile went a little off kilter. She pulled back, just far enough to catch the troubled surprise in his glance, then dropped a kiss below his ear.
An unsteady rush of breath escaped him, and he slanted his face to force the next kiss nearer to his mouth. This one stirred her senses with the taste of him, the scent of him. He stopped her with the look in his forest-dark eyes, too intense to be playful. "Claire," he whispered gruffly, "don't kiss me unless you mean it."
Her blood warmed, her eyes closed, and she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, meaning it with all her heart.
He groaned, his arm came up around her and he steered the truck to the side of the road, off onto a graveled shoulder beneath a canopy of oaks. He shut off the engine, threw the gearshift forward and turned to her, his gaze heated and intense.
He kissed her with a slow, undulating thoroughness that pressed her back against the seat and sent shards of heat through her. His hand swept up the length of her throat, his fingers curved around her jaw and he angled his kiss deeper. She opened wider, coaxing him in. She couldn't get enough of him this way, though, not nearly enough. And from his frustrated moans, it seemed he couldn't get enough of her.
When the longing grew to a near-violent pitch, he broke off and rested his forehead against hers. "Let's go somewhere we can be alone," he said, his breathing hard.
She nodded, wanting that fiercely. Wondering if it were really possible. Trust in him, she told herself. He'd shaken off the paparazzi, hadn't he?
He stole one last, sweet, lingering kiss, brushed the backs of his fingers down the curve of her face and smiled into her eyes with a tenderness that wrapped around her heart. Then he turned from her and repositioned himself behind the wheel. But as he reached for the key in the ignition, he froze.
"Tyce?"
"Shh. Listen."
She heard it then. An almost inaudible ticking sound, coming from somewhere beneath the truck. She frowned. "What is it?"
His face had paled beneath his tan. "Open your door," he ordered in a curiously strained, deadpan tone. "Get out of the truck and walk into the woods." His hand reached for his own door handle. "Far into the woods."
"You want me to—"
"Do it now!" he growled, frightening her into action. She fumbled for her door handle, shoved the heavy truck door open and fell out into the roadside brush. Her legs and dress tangled in sharp, thorny weeds as she struggled to stand.
She'd taken no more than half a dozen staggering steps when the world exploded around her. A deafening roar, a blinding flash, a push of fiery heat against her back, kicking her forward, pitching her headlong into a blur.
And searing pain.
Confusion.
Blackness.
* * *
8
« ^ »
She heard more than saw the people around her, although a blur of faces and hands imposed itself on her now and then. The voices were clear enough most of the time. She understood much of what they said, the ones who spoke directly to her, but it was his voice she clung to, his face she focused on, during those flashes of clarity.
It was important to see him, to hear him. More important than anything.
She'd been hurt, it seemed, but she felt no pain. He told her she'd be all right. He was carrying her. Odd, that he'd be carrying her. He was taking her to a safe place, he said. It sounded nice. A safe place. She felt safe now, as if wrapped in a comfortable cocoon and watching a hubbub of activity that had little to do with her.
"Your name," another man was asking her. "Do you know your name?"
A curious little jab of reluctance disturbed her. She knew her name. Claire. But there were other names, too, and she didn't want to think about them, or talk about them.
"Don't ask her that," she heard Tyce say. "She's lucid. She called my name when she first opened her eyes."
A woman's face swam before her. The woman looked vaguely familiar. Something about a rest room stall and a baseball cap. "Do you know where you are, Claire?"
"Yes." She knew where she was. In a way.
"Where? Where are you?"
Again, the reluctance, the disturbing reluctance to answer. "Ask Tyce," she replied. "Tyce Walker. Ask him. He knows."
She thought she heard his brief laugh, and it comforted her.
The voices grew distant, and a roaring in her ears grew louder. She let the sound wash over her, pretending it was the sea. The sound of the surf rolling onto the shore. It wasn't, she knew. It was too loud to be the sea.
"A jet," he was telling her. "I'm taking you on a private jet, Claire. There's a nurse here who's coming with us."
It tired her, trying to make sense of it, and she let her eyes drift shut.
"No, stay awake. Open your eyes, Claire. Talk to me."
Nice, that he wanted her to talk to him. She loved talking to him. She loved the way he listened, as if every word was important, even when it wasn't important at all. She loved the way he'd frown at her, or smile. Or sometimes yell. He made her feel very real, somehow.
"Your favorite breakfast, Claire. What do you like for breakfast?"
"Caviar," she roused herself enough to answer, "and cream cheese."
"What else?"
"Canadian bacon."
They were lifting her, many hands, and then they were lowering her. Laying her down on something soft. But he wasn't holding her anymore, and she didn't like it. "Tyce?" She lifted an arm and found that it was heavy, too heavy, but she couldn't let it drop back down until she found him.
"I'm here." His voice sounded hoarse, gruff. His face hovered above her, so dearly familiar, but somber and intense. "I'm right here. I won't leave you. The nurse wants you to stay awake. What else do you like for breakfast? Some kind of sauce?"
Cute, that he wanted to know. She smiled and slipped into a cozy darkness. His voice droned on, urging her to do this, do that, answer this, answer that. She wanted to cooperate. She really did. But it was too much of a strain to focus on his requests when she was so very, very tired.
And cold. Trembling cold. He uttered something that sounded urgent. Blankets wrapped around her. The darkness deepened. At its edges, shadow phantoms pressed in. Sinister phantoms, creeping up on her. She groaned.
A strong, warm hand touched her—held her hand, stroked her face. She found his voice again. His gruff, insistent voice. Relief washed through her. His voice, his touch, warmed the darkness and kept the phantoms away. She slept.
He returned to the cabin just as the sun rose above the rolling green terrain of eastern Ohio, its early morning rays barely strong enough yet to dilute the darkness. He ached with tension and his eyes burned from lack of sleep as he pushed open the log cabin's front door.
Brianna Rowland, the elegant young wife of one of his favorite business associates, looked up at him with a gentle smile as she set a plate of biscuits and smoky sausage links on his kitchen table. Tyce sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she'd come, that she'd left her own family yesterday afternoon and stayed all night with the doctor a
nd Claire while he himself had been busy setting up a perimeter guard and issuing orders for his investigators. Both Brianna and the physician, Doctor Noreen Myers, would keep this matter of an injured runaway heiress strictly confidential, he knew. A tall order for most people.
"It's about time you're back. You've been out all night." And though Brianna herself had been up all night, too, every strand of her light brown hair remained neatly twined in a smooth twist, small gold studs glinted at her ears and her beige slacks outfit looked as fresh as when she'd arrived yesterday. "Come sit down and have breakfast," she ordered in her firm yet soft-spoken way that somehow always garnered cooperation.
At the moment, however, Tyce couldn't bring himself to sit or eat. His gaze went to the closed bedroom door on the far left of the massive stone fireplace. "Is she all right?" He hardly recognized the raw, weary voice as his own.
"No change in her condition since the last time you asked," drawled Dr. Myers from another corner of the kitchen, coffeepot in hand, her brown eyes gleaming in her warm, dark face as she regarded Tyce with wry exasperation, "which was about three minutes ago."
"No, the last time he called us from his walkie-talkie was—" Brianna checked her watch "—at least eight minutes ago, Doc."
Tyce acknowledged their teasing with a weary half smile, relieved that they were teasing rather than delivering bad news. He supposed he had called from his walkie-talkie quite a few times while stationing his men around the property. He couldn't help it. His worry about Claire interfered with every breath, every heartbeat. He wouldn't have left her side if the need hadn't been so great to post guards at strategic points and to set the rest of his staff into motion on finding the would-be murderer.
The thought of someone actually trying to kill Claire washed over him again with icy dread. He'd snatched her out of death's fiery jaws by mere seconds. Fierce anger still shook him. He'd find the son of a bitch who'd planted that bomb and kill him himself, if he had to.
"She's sleeping peacefully," Brianna assured him as he continued toward the bedroom. "We woke her again a few minutes ago, and she's fine. Come eat."
THE PRINCESS AND THE P.I. Page 11
