by Gina Wilkins
And then she hardened her expression, stepped out of the room and slammed the door closed behind her.
3
GABE GUIDED his pickup into another motel parking lot, pulled into the most isolated space he could find and shut off the engine. And then he waited.
It was after three in the morning. The parking lot was deserted. From Gabe’s CD player, which he’d left playing to keep him awake, Larry Gatlin crooned about having “done enough dying today,” after the breakup of a longtime relationship. Gabe winced. Country music had both soothed and tormented him these past two years. Sometimes he’d felt as though the songwriters had looked into his own bruised heart.
To distract himself from the sad song, he looked around, spotting Page’s car parked at one end of a row of rather disreputable-looking vehicles. This motel was hardly first-class, nor was it in the most prosperous section of Springfield, Missouri.
Page had certainly chosen an out-of-the-way place in which to hide this time, Gabe mused. She hadn’t been aware, of course, that she had been followed all the way from Wichita.
He could hardly look at her car without being bombarded by memories of the day they’d bought it How he’d teased her about checking out the radio before she’d bothered testing the vehicle’s performance. The little car still looked pretty good, he noted automatically. No visible dents, though it was dirty. So dirty, he realized, that the numbers on the license plate were almost indecipherable. Accident—or intentional on her part?
Without warning, the passenger door of the truck opened and a man slid inside. He closed the door quickly to shut off the overhead light.
“How are the eyes?” Blake asked, settling comfortably into the passenger seat.
Turning off the music, Gabe scowled and muttered something incomprehensible, trying to ignore the lingering discomfort. It had taken him well over an hour of washing his eyes with water and tears before he’d trusted his ability to drive.
Had Blake not been standing by with his van and his cellular telephone, Page would have made a clean escape. Again.
“You’ve got to admit the woman’s resourceful,” Blake commented. After a moment he added, “Something tells me she’s had to be.”
“Yeah. She’s definitely running from something. Or someone. And it isn’t me—at least, not entirely,” Gabe amended, thinking of her determination to evade him.
“You’re still sure of that?”
“I’m sure.” He’d been writhing in agony and blind as a bat after she’d zapped him with the vicious spray, but he’d heard her soft apology.
Just as he’d heard the sincere regret behind it.
He was beginning to understand that she had what she considered to be compelling reasons for her actions. But, whatever her motivation, he was still furious with her for what she’d done to him. Everything she’d done to him for the past two and a half years.
“So she’s on the run. And she refuses to tell you why.”
“Right.”
“Has it occurred to you that you have no right to hound her like this? You’re basically stalking her, you know.”
Gabe shot the other man a savage glance. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m trying to put my life back together. That’s my right.”
“How far are you willing to go to get your answers?”
Gabe considered the question—and the somber tone in which it had been asked. What was Blake suggesting? And how far was he willing to go?
“As far as I have to,” he muttered, as much to himself as to Blake.
Blake nodded in the shadows, as though he’d received the answer he’d expected. “Okay. Then I have a plan.”
PAGE DIDN’T SLEEP much that night.
She’d driven as far as she could before exhaustion had claimed her. She’d hoped to get a couple hours’ rest and then move on, putting as much distance between herself and Wichita as possible in the next few days, taking a circuitous route that would be difficult, if not impossible, for Gabe to trace. Back roads, switchbacks, obscure towns—Page had learned all there was to know about them. Not that they’d helped her all that much.
She tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she was haunted by the look in Gabe’s eyes just before she’d deliberately sprayed burning liquid into them. It bothered her that she’d been able to do so without the slightest hesitation.
Even though she had to do what she did, shouldn’t it have been more difficult for her to have pressed that trigger? How much more damage would she have been willing to inflict to get away from him?
She didn’t like the person she had become over the past thirty months. She was beginning to fear that, whatever happened in the future, even if this nightmare were to end, she would never get back the part of herself that she’d had to lock away for her own survival. She was terribly afraid she would never like herself again—and that no one else would, either.
The minutes crept by as she stared blindly at the darkened ceiling.
She didn’t try to cheer herself with pleasant memories—memories had become so painful that she’d locked them away with her other vulnerable emotions.
Nor did she indulge in fantasies of a happier future. Hope was something she’d almost abandoned.
Instead, she passed the time visualizing the one constant during this ordeal. The photographs. She could see each one of them in vivid detail in her mind. They flashed through her mind like color slides on a mental screen, replaying over and over, ghostly silent reminders of what she had to do and why.
And she knew that, no matter how much she would dislike doing so, she would hurt Gabe again to keep him away from her.
She simply had no other choice.
GABE STARED out the windshield of Blake’s van, keeping watch over Page’s room. Blake was stretched out in the back, getting some rest after making the arrangements he and Gabe had agreed upon. It had surprised Gabe how quickly Blake had fallen asleep. The P.I. must have developed the ability to catch some sleep whenever he could.
Gabe wasn’t sure he’d have slept even if he allowed himself to try. His thoughts were too disturbing. He couldn’t help comparing the cool, unapproachable woman he’d confronted to the sweet young woman he’d married.
He had loved her with an unprecedented intensity that had delighted him at first, and had almost destroyed him after she’d left. Only his grim determination to find her again had kept him going for the past two and a half years.
Now he’d found her. And he’d discovered that she’d become a woman who was almost a stranger to him.
He didn’t know what he felt now. Anger was definitely in the forefront. Hurt. Disappointment. Concern, he supposed, about whatever was haunting her.
Love?
Even the word sent a pang through him. He wasn’t even sure he was capable of loving that way again.
And yet, would he be hurting this badly if he didn’t still love her? Why else would he be so devastated by her words, her actions, and most of all, the baffling fear in her eyes when she looked at him?
If nothing else, she owed him an explanation for what she’d done to him. He would remind himself of that every time he questioned whether he had any right to follow through on the plan he and Blake had concocted.
PAGE WAS BLEARY-EYED and groggy when she left her motel room not long after sunrise. Dragging a hand through her unfamiliarly short hair, she unlocked the driver’s door of her small car and slid behind the wheel.
She’d showered, but hadn’t been able to style her hair, since she’d left her hair dryer in Wichita, along with her cosmetics bag and her favorite bathrobe. She’d dressed for comfort in faded jeans, a short-sleeved blue knit shirt and sneakers.
She didn’t think it mattered how she looked today. She planned to spend the day in the car, putting as many miles behind her as possible before she selected the next place she would settle—for a while.
She drove south on Highway 65, thinking she’d cross the Arkansas state line and then turn east, taking winding r
ural roads through the Ozark foothills. Maybe she’d head for Tennessee—Knoxville or Gatlinburg, perhaps. Or some little town in between where no one would think to look for her.
She barely got out of Springfield.
Her car engine coughed and her speed began to fall, though she still had her foot pressed on the accelerator. Frowning, she stared down at the gauges.
She’d filled her tank the day before, yet the car acted as though it were out of gas. It coughed again and lurched forward. She clung to the wheel, cursing beneath her breath.
Her trusty little compact had never given her a moment’s trouble. Why had it chosen today, of all days, to mutiny?
There was little traffic on the highway at this early hour on a Sunday morning. Nor were there any buildings in sight, only rock bluffs and stubby evergreen trees and highway construction equipment abandoned for the weekend.
“Don’t do this to me,” she whispered. “Please.”
She should have known better than to hope for the best Her luck just didn’t run that way. The engine made one more strangled, gasping sound and died. All she could do was guide the silently coasting car to the shoulder of the road and shift into park.
She beat her fist against the steering wheel. “Damn. Damn, damn, damn.”
A beat-up truck sped past without slowing. A moment later a family sedan passed. The elderly couple inside it stared at her, but didn’t stop. She didn’t blame them. They were living in a crazy, dangerous world.
She was walking proof of that.
Walking was exactly what she should be doing, she decided with a sigh. She couldn’t sit here indefinitely, waiting for her car to suddenly decide to run again. She had to do something.
Although she knew nothing about engines, she reached beneath the dash and pulled the latch to open the hood. Maybe it would be something obvious even to her, she thought without much hope. A disconnected battery cable or a broken belt or something.
She slid out of the car and walked around to peer under the hood. It was a cool spring morning, and she shivered a bit as she leaned over and peered cautiously at the tangle of machinery. It took her only a moment to decide that whatever was wrong was not something visible to her untrained eyes.
A blue van slowed and pulled over to the side of the road in front of her car. Page tensed as a slender man climbed out and started toward her. His face was shaded by a large black Western hat and mirrored sunglasses. His clothing reinforced the cowboy-wannabe image—a brightly colored, Western-cut shirt and snug-fitting jeans over pointy-toed boots.
He looked innocuous enough, but she no longer accepted anyone at face value.
“Trouble, ma’am?” he asked in a low-pitched drawl.
She nodded, stepping to one side of her car, far enough away from him to make a run for it, if necessary. “It just died without any warning.”
“I know a fair bit about cars. Maybe I can get her goin’ for you.”
“I’d appreciate it,” she murmured, trying to see his face beneath the brim of the hat.
There was something vaguely familiar about him, but nothing she could put a finger on. Yet he seemed more interested in her recalcitrant car engine than in her. He hardly gave her a second glance before ducking beneath the open hood.
She risked taking a step closer. “Can you see anything wrong?”
“Yep. Think I’ve found it.” He reached in and twisted something, grunting with the effort. “Hell. I’m gonna’ need my tools. You want to hand ’em to me, ma’am? There’s a red toolbox just inside the side door of the van.”
Page was becoming wryly amused at his manner. He must be younger than she’d thought at first glance, she decided as she opened the side door of the van. She wasn’t even thirty yet and he’d been treating her like an aging aunt.
The van, which looked new, was empty except for a couple of soft drink cans and a small red metal box sitting behind the front passenger seat. Page lifted the toolbox and carried it to the man whose blue-jeaned backside was sticking out from beneath her hood.
“Thanks,” he said without looking at her. He set the toolbox on the car engine, rummaged inside it, and pulled something out.
“I need you to give me a hand here, if you don’t mind,” he requested over his shoulder.
She moved closer, ducking under the hood. “I don’t know anything about cars,” she admitted. “What can I do?”
“Hold this wrench,” he instructed, guiding her hand to a small silver tool he’d clamped to a connector of some sort. “Don’t let it slip, now.”
“I won’t.” She clung tightly to the wrench, hoping she’d be back on the road soon, thanks to this helpful cowboy mechanic.
“Thank ya’, ma’am. You’ve made this real easy for me.”
Something sharp jabbed into the soft inside of her outstretched arm. Page yelped in startled pain and let go of the wrench. “What—”
The man’s arm went around her waist. She could tell immediately that he was stronger than he’d first appeared. “There’s no reason to be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured her, his Southwestern drawl gone now.
Stunned into immobility, she stared fully into the face beneath the shadow of the Western hat for the first time, and mentally removed the concealing sunglasses.
“Blake,” she whispered, a sick feeling gathering in her stomach as she recognized him. “Blake Jones.”
“Well, that’s half right,” he murmured, his arm tightening around her when she began to struggle. “Settle down, Paula—er, Page. You don’t want to fall and hurt yourself.”
Her head was spinning, and her vision was beginning to blur. “What did you do to me?” she whispered, the words difficult to force out through her tightened throat. “What are you—”
Her knees buckled.
He supported her gently. “Easy, now.”
“I—I—”
Her head lolled. She couldn’t find the strength to support it.
He was already leading her swiftly to the van, basically carrying her in his right arm since her feet refused to cooperate. She’d left the side door open when she’d fetched the toolbox for him, so it took him only a moment to place her inside the vehicle.
The slamming of that side door was the last sound she heard before she blacked out on the carpeted floor.
PAGE WOKE with a pounding headache, a nasty taste in her mouth, and a knot of foreboding in the pit of her stomach.
She was lying on her side on a narrow bed in what appeared to be a rustic cabin. The bed, a nightstand, a small dresser, and a straight-backed chair were the only furnishings in the room. There was a window on one wall, but it had been boarded up. The only light came from a small lamp on the dresser.
At least Blake hadn’t left her in the dark, she thought wearily. She tended to be more paranoid than usual when she couldn’t see her surroundings.
She rolled onto her back, wincing when the movement made her head throb. She should probably be more afraid, she mused. For all she knew, Blake—or someone he worked for—would be coming in any minute to kill her. Maybe it was a lingering effect of whatever he’d injected into her, but at the moment she was finding it hard to care.
She was tired of running. Tired of being alone and afraid.
Chiding herself for surrendering so easily after all she’d been through, she sighed. Okay, so she’d have to at least make an effort to rescue herself. Even if she had no chance of getting away, she couldn’t just lie here and wait for whatever happened.
Gathering all her strength, she sucked in a deep breath and rolled to sit on the side of the bed. She clutched the headboard as the room spun around her. Her stomach lurched and she broke into a cold sweat
She refused to give in to the nausea. She rested her head in her hands, willing the weakness to pass.
All she needed was a moment, she assured herself. She’d fight this dizziness off, then get up and try the door. She expected to find it locked, but she would make sure. And then she’d see
about breaking out.
The bedroom door opened, and she raised her head abruptly. Narrowing her eyes in response to the fresh wave of pain that crashed through her temples, she expected to see Blake enter.
Her heart sank when Gabe Conroy stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
His eyes searched her face. She knew she looked pale and wretched, her hair limp and straight, her jeans and knit top badly wrinkled.
He, on the other hand, looked wonderful. His long sleeved, red and white polo shirt clung intriguingly to his broad chest, and his well-worn jeans emphasized his slim waist and strong thighs.
There’d been a time when she’d made every effort to look beautiful for him, she thought with a pang she quickly stifled. She told herself it was better to look weak and vulnerable now. She had to get his guard down if there was any hope of outfoxing him a third time.
“What is it going to take,” she asked in a long-suffering tone, “for me to get rid of you?”
A slight twitch in his jaw was his only reaction to her sarcasm. He held a glass of water in his right hand; he offered it to her, along with two small capsules in his left palm. “Blake said you’d wake up with a headache. These should help.”
She looked at the pills for a moment, considered refusing them, then nodded and reached out with an eagerness she tried to conceal. She craved relief from her headache, but she was also aware that she needed to be rid of the pain so she could concentrate on getting away from him.
“Thanks,” she said after swallowing the pills and setting the glass on the nightstand. “Now may I leave?”
“Nice try,” he said, settling into the chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her.
She managed to meet his gaze without squirming. “So this is...what? A kidnapping?”
“Something like that.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “The Gabe Conroy I remember was an upstanding citizen who would never resort to breaking the law.”
A faint flush darkened his cheeks; she suspected it was caused by temper rather than guilt “Yeah, well, people change,” he muttered.
