“Ray.” She lifted a hand to touch his jaw.
Too late, he thought in the seconds before he covered her mouth with his. Hell, it had been too late last night when he’d climbed into this bed.
He kissed her softly and it was like coming home. All the anger and the pain seemed to have leached out of him in the night. She responded with a matching reverence.
As their lips and tongues mated, desire swelled, demanding more than soft kisses. Her hands found him, freeing him from the confinement of his boxers, pushing them down over his hips. Growling deep in his throat, he kicked free of their confinement. Then, lightning-quick, he rolled her onto her back. That fast, he was poised to enter her, his need pressing urgently against her most intimate flesh. He gritted his teeth. One thrust and he’d be home, if she’d just open her legs a little wider, tilt her hips the tiniest bit....
Damn, was she trying to drive him crazy with all that wriggling? He grasped her hips to still her and would have thrust into her but for the cry that broke from her lips. Belatedly, he realized she was trying to struggle free. As soon as that fact registered, he turned her loose.
She leapt up, nearly inflicting some damage on him in her haste, and streaked to the bathroom. Seconds later, he heard her retching.
What the hell?
He sat up, nausea roiling in his own stomach.
Had she remembered the sonofabitch at last? Had recollection occurred at that critical moment, making her stomach revolt at the idea of making love with someone else?
Someone else. Dammit, he was her husband. The rest of the male population was supposed to fall into the category of someone else, not him.
He heard her retch again. Dragging a hand over his face, he pulled himself together and rolled out of bed. He yanked the bed sheet loose, wrapped it around his waist and went to investigate.
Grace sank down on the edge of the tub and applied a cold facecloth to her face with trembling fingers. Oh, God, what horrible timing. One minute Ray was making love to her and the next minute she’d been sick as a new sailor on a heavy sea.
“You okay?”
She dropped the cloth to see Ray standing in the doorway, looking rumpled and sexy as sin with the sheet bunched at his hip. But any hope she might have cherished that they could pick up where she so hastily left off died a quick death when she looked at his face. He looked like a stranger, and it had very little to do with the shocking blond hair and artificial tan.
“Yeah, I’m okay now. I don’t know what came over me.”
His face bore no expression, but a muscle ticked below his eye. “Then you didn’t ... remember anything?”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Like what?”
“Like who you really wanted in that bed with you.”
“No!” She felt the blood drain from her face, only to rush back in a painful flush. That’s what he thought had sent her racing for the bathroom? Oh, Ray. Her heart felt like it would crack open.
She looked down at her bare feet, at the cigarette burn in the dull cushion floor, at the rust stain in the tub, anywhere but at Ray.
“No, I haven’t remembered anything.” She pushed the words past a lump in her throat. “My blood sugar must be out of whack or something. Now that I think of it, I’m starving. I guess I missed one too many meals.”
“You sure?”
She risked a glance at him to find him watching her closely. “I’m sure,” she said. Her stomach gave a loud rumble in support and she managed a smile. “See?”
“I’ll go out and find us some breakfast.”
The thought made her stomach lurch queasily again. What if something happened to him while he was out there?
“No need to do that. We’ve got some meal replacement bars here somewhere in all that stuff I bought yesterday. Why don’t we have one of them? We can stop later for a proper breakfast after we’ve finished transforming ourselves.”
After a few seconds’ pause, he nodded his assent, then glanced at his watch. “We should get a move on if we want to slip out of town in morning traffic.”
She stood, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror, all pale skin and tangled red hair. Get used to it, Grace. It’s the new you. “Do you want to shower first or shall I?”
“You go ahead. I’m gonna turn on the radio news.”
To see if there was any mention of their possible fugitive status. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. She turned to the shower, drawing the cheap plastic curtain back so she could turn the taps on.
“Grace?”
Water temperature adjusted, she turned back to him, lifting an eyebrow.
“About what happened out there?” He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom. “I’m sorry.”
Her first instinct was to crawl under a rock or any ready hiding place. But that was the old Grace, she reminded herself. The new Grace, the Grace whose life could be ended by an assassin’s bullet at any time, couldn’t afford to take refuge behind a blush while vital things went unsaid.
So she looked him squarely in the eye and said, “I’m not.”
“Huh?”
“I’m not sorry.”
Heart pounding, stomach feeling a little sick again, she reached for the knob that tripped the shower. Then she pulled the t-shirt over her head, stepped naked into the tub and pulled the curtain on Ray’s astonished face.
Half an hour later, after making use of the styling products she’d bought and the bathroom’s puny built-in 1200-watt hair dryer, she emerged, dressed again in the t-shirt.
“Omigod.”
She started to lift a hand to her hair but aborted the nervous gesture, reaching instead for one of the department store bags. “Omigod good, or omigod awful?”
“Grace, you look ... wow.”
She buried her nose in the bag to hide the pleasure his words brought her. “The look’s way too young for me, but I guess that’s the point, right? To look different.”
“Yeah.”
Grace dug some costume jewelry out of the department store bag and a small cache of cosmetics from the drug store bag. When she looked up, Ray’s gaze was still fixed on her hair. She’d created a crooked part, using pomade to texture it into uneven chunks. She grinned at his expression, succumbing to the need to touch a hand to her hair. “Weird, huh?”
“I can’t believe you made it look so good after the butcher job I did on it.”
She shrugged. “You can do anything with this stuff. I’ll do yours, if you like.”
He pulled back at her offer. “No need. I’ll just wear a ball cap.” He cleared his throat. “So, what am I supposed to wear?”
She crossed to the small pile of clothing, pulled some stuff out and handed it to him. “Did we make the radio?”
He shook his head.
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t really expect they’d go public. Too unsettling for the community, the idea of a rogue cop out there.”
He headed for the bathroom.
Grace turned the small TV on, flipping to the music channel to drown out the sound of Ray in the shower. Grimacing, she donned yesterday’s underwear, still damp from last night’s rinsing. Their first stop after breakfast would have to be for lingerie. She pulled on black athletic pants. Next came a tiny, bellybutton-baring cropped top that hugged her curves.
Makeup was next. Normally, her toilette was pretty minimal: moisturizer, a sheer foundation to even out her pale skin, a little blusher and she was out the door. That wasn’t going do it here, though.
She closed her eyes and tried to picture the punked-up girls who hung out with their skater boyfriends downtown. Eyes and lips, lots of black. With that idea in mind, she tackled her makeup. The shower had stopped by the time she’d finished. Eyeing her reflection, she tugged her pants down until they rode on her hips like the girls she’d seen. Not bad. Still, she needed something else.
From the cache of costume jewelry, she chose a silver heart on a leather loop
that fell to her cleavage, then added a plain braided choker, and finally a beaded hemp job that hung somewhere in the middle. To complete the picture, she slid an ear cuff onto her right ear and swapped her studs for a pair of dangly earrings made from tortoiseshell guitar picks.
In the bathroom, the hair dryer started up. Pushing her feet into new running shoes, she laced them up, then went to stand in front of the mirror.
Holy emo-punk Lolitas, Batman! She looked about fifteen.
The bathroom door opened and she forgot her own appearance as Ray stepped into the room. Grace dragged in a breath.
The big baggy jeans hung just right. Over the oversized white t-shirt she’d given him, he wore the short-sleeved plaid Sean John hombre shirt. He’d put on the skater shoes she’d given him and pulled the Cleveland Indians baseball cap over his hair. One hand was shoved into the pocket of his low-riding pants while the other rested on his hip, and the corners of his mouth were turned down. Even the small cut on his cheekbone seemed to lend him a measure of menace.
“Ray! You look....”
He scowled. “I know exactly how I look. Like a punk. A thug.” He pulled the cap lower over his forehead. “I couldn’t go back now even if I wanted to. Look at me!” He gestured to the voluminous material of the wide-legged pants.
“You look great.” She grinned.
“I look like walking proof evolution has hit a brick wall.”
Grace’s smile broadened. “Not yet, you don’t. But you will when I’m finished with you.” She held up several small packets.
“What’s that?”
“Fake tats. Even with those clothes and that scowl, you look way too clean. You need some ink.”
Fifteen minutes later, Grace steered him in front of the mirror. Barbed-wire tattoos marred both biceps and a snake crawled up his left forearm. He glowered at his reflection, which now included a heavy silver chain lying on his t-shirt. “Okay, now I look like a thug.”
She laughed. “You look perfect. Not over-the-top into banger territory or anything. You still look like a citizen, but no one is going to get in your way.”
He grunted. “Well, one thing’s for sure. No one looking for me will look twice.”
“Same here.” She pulled on a transparent black shirt, eyeing her own tattoos through the fabric. “I look like a hooker.”
“No,” he said, his voice flat, “you don’t.”
Something about his expression made her glance up to meet his gaze in the mirror, but she couldn’t read his expression.
“You don’t look anything like a hooker,” he reiterated, “But if you did, it’d be only fitting.” He glared at himself in the mirror. “I look like your pimp.”
She looked away. “The main thing is we don’t look anything like we used to. That’s all that matters, right?”
“That’s right,” he echoed.
They stopped for breakfast at a pancake house. Ray watched Grace attack a short stack as soon as the waitress delivered it. Cripes, she wasn’t kidding about being starved. He pushed his plate toward her when she’d cleaned her own.
“Guess I ate too many of those bars,” he lied.
“You don’t want anymore?”
He almost smiled at her hopeful tone. “I’m done.”
She speared his last pancake, plopped it on her plate and added syrup. When had she eaten last? He’d have to keep an eye on her, make sure she had regular meals. What had she said? Something about blood sugar? That’s all they’d need, to find out she was borderline diabetic or something.
As Grace finished his meal, Ray noticed the cashier, a young man, eyeing them nervously. He scowled. What was his problem? Unless ... his heart rate took a jump. Was the manhunt on? Had the cashier made them and called the cops?
“Ray, what is it?”
His gaze flicked to Grace, who’d cleaned her plate again, then back to the cashier.
“Nothing. We’d better go.”
“If it’s nothing, then why are you glaring at that kid?”
“I’m not glaring.”
“Yes, you are. And you’re scaring him to death.”
He blinked. “Huh?”
“Ray, you don’t look like you stepped out of GQ anymore. You look ... scary. And the way you’re scowling, he’s probably wondering if we’re going to hold him up on the way out, then shoot him just for kicks.”
Aw, hell. He forced his brow to smooth. “Told you I looked like a thug.”
“Only when you glare like that,” she said. “But maybe it’s not such a bad thing. People will leave us alone.”
People did leave them alone. Later, when Ray stopped to gas up the Toyota, he felt wary eyes on him as he stood at the pumps. When he went inside to pay, no one looked him squarely in the eye. He could almost hear the thoughts of the middle-aged man behind the counter. We don’t want no trouble, son.
“What are you gawking at?” he wanted to shout. “It’s only clothes, just a friggin’ haircut.” Instead, he gritted his teeth and asked for the washroom key for Grace.
While she freshened up, he leaned against the car’s rusting fender. No wonder so many of the young punks he’d hauled up over the years had such a chip on their shoulder. When he got back to work—hell, if he got back to work—he’d try harder to give the pierced-and-tattooed toughs the benefit of a doubt.
He straightened as Grace emerged from the washroom. When she stepped clear of the building’s shadow, the sun struck her hair, setting it aflame. As she crossed the parking lot toward him, his pulse jerked.
The morning was cool and she still wore the tiny jean jacket she’d bought, but it hung open, giving him a glimpse of skin between the short top and the low-riding workout pants. Normally, he didn’t go for that get-up, but on Grace’s body, there was nothing school-girlish about it. Her hips swayed, her stride confident as she approached him. She looked, he realized with another jolt, like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted sexually and how to get it.
That was one helluva transformation she’d pulled off!
Or maybe not such a big one. For all he knew, maybe she was a tigress in lover-boy’s bed.
Grimly, he moved to her side of the car, opening the door.
“Ray, you’re going to have to stop doing that stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Opening doors. Guys who look like you don’t open doors for women who look like me.”
“This one does.” He closed her door, walked around the Toyota and climbed in.
Five minutes later, they were on the highway. He could feel Grace’s confusion before she spoke.
“Saint John? That’s where we’re going?”
“Yup.” He felt her gaze on him, but didn’t take his eyes off the road.
“Wouldn’t we be boxing ourselves in?”
He shot her a look this time, an appreciative one. She was right, of course. If the manhunt was on, it’d be hard to slip across the border into Maine. There’d be heavy scrutiny if they tried to board a ferry or bus, and a plane was out of question. They’d be hard up against the ocean with precious few options.
“What’d you have in mind?” she continued. “Stow away on a container ship bound for Cuba?”
“They’ll expect us to go west to keep our options open.”
“So we do what they’d least expect?”
“Right.” He cast her a sideways look. “Besides, I don’t want to get so far away that I can’t monitor what’s happening in Fredericton. Saint John’s just an hour away. Plus it’s urban enough that we’ll blend in without raising any eyebrows. Can you imagine the looks we’d get in rural New Brunswick, decked out like this?”
He took his eyes off the road to glance at her again. Instead of the amusement he expected to see, her profile was set in stark lines.
“I came this way the night of my accident, didn’t I?”
A green Subaru chose that moment to overtake them. Ray swore and clapped his gaze back on the road. He should have noticed the other
car preparing to pass. He’d better pay attention or there’d be another accident on this highway.
“Ray? I was going to Saint John, wasn’t I?
“You were on this highway, yes, so you must have had Saint John in mind. Or maybe St. Andrews.”
“No. Saint John.”
The speedometer needle jumped. Ray eased up on the accelerator. “You said that like you remembered.”
“Kind of.” She chewed at her lip. “I think I planned to go to the airport there, catch a flight.”
She’d been going to board a plane, fly away from him.
His speed dipped. She’d planned to put miles—maybe oceans—between them. “Do you remember buying a ticket?”
“No.”
She might have disappeared forever. His stomach clutched. “Any idea where you were planning to go?”
She dipped her head. “I don’t remember. And why would I fly out of Saint John when there’s an airport in Fredericton?”
The misery of her tone penetrated his own reaction to the news. “It’s okay,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on her knee. “You did good. That gives us something to check out, at least. We can call the airlines, see if you’d booked anything.”
She looked pitifully grateful for his words. Suddenly she seemed like the old Grace despite the sassy hairdo and youthful get-up. Ray wasn’t prepared for the wave of fierce ambivalence that swept over him at the thought.
A glint of something in his rearview mirror caught his attention. Cripes! A transport truck, hard on his tail. He glanced at his speedometer. Damn. He’d let his speed drop. If they weren’t on an upgrade, the big rig would have passed him.
Okay, no more conversation. And no more picking at the tangled knot of emotions his mind had become. He tramped the accelerator, then reached over to flick the radio on. He should be listening for news bulletins anyway.
Chapter 8
IT WAS TOO EARLY to check into a motel when they hit Saint John, which was fine with Grace. A motel room meant close quarters and nowhere to retreat to but into her head. Right now, her head was the last place she wanted to spend any time. After that tantalizing fragment from the night of her accident, she’d spent the rest of the trip trying to coax more memories out of the shadows. Her brain had refused to release its secrets, however.
Saving Grace (Serve and Protect Series) Page 10
