by Joan Hohl
“Because as long as you’re with me, you are not safe.” Cameron stood over her, scowling, and raked his fingers through his burnished hair. “That call was from the agent I talked to earlier. He told me that my apartment was broken into and ransacked this afternoon.”
“And they believe it was that escaped criminal you told me about?”
“Yes. And they also believe he is tracking me.”
Clutching the afghan, Sandra struggled to her feet to stand before him. “But then, why leave here? As I think I pointed out before, we’re secluded here, and—” She paused when his hand sliced through the air, effectively cutting off her reasoned argument.
“And I’m afraid he knows exactly where we are,” Cameron inserted, his voice heavy with disgust.
“That’s ridiculous,” she argued. “He’s been in jail. How could he possibly know about Barbara’s hideaway, or even me, for that matter?”
“So far as this place belonging to Barbara and you personally are concerned, he couldn’t know,” he readily agreed. “But he does know that I’m here. He knows, because I inadvertently told him.”
“You told him!” Sandra cried, suddenly understanding that his obvious disgust was self-directed. “But how? You certainly couldn’t have talked to him.could you?”
Cameron was shaking his head in denial before she had finished speaking. “No, I haven’t talked to him. But what I did do was just as stupid.” He heaved a sigh. “I left the written directions to the cabin lying in plain sight on my kitchen table.”
“And your apartment was broken into and ransacked,” she said flatly.
“Exactly.”
“It’s not going to require a lot of tracking ability on his part to find you, then, is it?”
He gave a quick, sharp nod. “Which is why I have got to get you out of here.”
“But-”
He again cut her off. “At once.” Pivoting, he started for the bedroom. “So I think you had better get busy packing.”
“No.” Sandra’s soft but firm refusal brought him to an abrupt halt.
“No?” Cameron slowly turned to stare at her, his expression one of sheer disbelief.
“No.” Sandra met his narrowed stare with cool composure, determined that she would not be panicked by the possibility of a criminal arriving on the scene. Nor would she tolerate being ordered about, not even by Special Agent Cameron Wolfe.
“What do you mean, no?” he asked, in a tone of controlled calm.
“I mean, no, I’m not leaving,” she answered, in an equally calm tone. “I’m not afraid.” That wasn’t quite true. Still, while she felt a mite apprehensive about the situation, she felt an even deeper sense of anger and resentment at being summarily ordered to get packing.
Her calm demolished his calm.
“Dammit, woman, will you think?” He paced back to within a foot of her. “You’re too bright to pull a childish rebellion act.”
“Thank you…I think,” Sandra said, maintaining her cool, while containing an impulse to slap him silly for the insult implied within the compliment. “Nevertheless, I won’t change my mind.” She arched her eyebrows. “Didn’t you relay the same directions to this place to the agent you spoke to?”
“Certainly, but—”
“There you are, then,” she said, coolly interrupting him. “Wouldn’t you say that, even as we speak, there are any number of law enforcement officers, federal, state and local, converging on this place?”
“Probably, but-”
She interrupted him again. “I’d say definitely. So…not to worry. You may leave if you like, of course, to join your fellow officers in the chase, but I.am.not.budging,” she said, her firm tone emphasizing each word. “And don’t call me ‘woman.’“
Apparently rendered speechless, Cameron glared at her from glittering blue eyes, giving her the impression that at any moment smoke might well steam from his ears and nostrils.
Girding herself to withstand an onslaught of ranting and raving, Sandra clenched her muscles and drew her composure, along with the afghan, around her chilled and quaking body.
But Cameron didn’t rant or rave. He heaved a deep sigh and gave her a knowing, cynical smile.
“I see. You’re not pulling a childish act of rebellion at all, are you?” he observed, coolly and rather tiredly. “You’re doing your in-your-face-and-bedamned ultrafeminist shtick. Right?”
Sheer rage swept through Sandra, a rage born of his blatant stupidity. How could he? she railed, literally shaking from the emotions roaring in protest inside her. After the days and nights they had shared, how could he dare to accuse her of now making an equal-rights stand? Didn’t he know her primary concern was for him? His safety? And, if he didn’t know, why didn’t he know? Or why hadn’t he at least asked?
So much for symbiosis and domestic harmony.
Sandra felt wounded, the pain running astonishingly deep. Freezing inside, she drew the mantle of hot fury around her.
“You’re a fool, Wolfe,” she said, concealing her pain with disdain. “And I can’t be bothered sparring with fools.”
Her budding hopes for their future killed by the frost of his cynicism, she gave him a dismissive once-over, then circled around him.
“Sandra?” There was a new, altogether unfamiliar and surprising note of uncertainty in his voice. “Where are you going?”
“To bed,” she snapped, heading for the bedroom. “So if you’re leaving, you’d better get your stuff together and out of the bedroom.”
“I’m not going without you,” he called after her, the note of uncertainty giving way to one of anger.
“Your choice.” Sandra marched into the bedroom, tossed aside the afghan, pulled on her robe, then went to the linen closet to collect a quilt. Then, snatching his pillow from the bed, she marched back to the living room and threw the bedding at him.
“You’re kidding.” Cameron’s eyes flashed blue fire at her; she deflected it with a cold smile.
“Laugh yourself to sleep.” Swinging around, she strode from the room.
“Sandra!” He was right behind her—but a step and a half too late.
She turned the door lock an instant before he grasped the knob.
“Now you are being childish,” he said, raising his voice to penetrate the barrier.
She didn’t deign to answer.
“I won’t beg,” he threatened.
“I never thought you would.”
“Are you going to open the door?”
“No.” Sandra bit down on her lower lip, but she held her ground.
“Good night, Sandra.”
Good night? Or goodbye? Tears rushed to her eyes, and she didn’t trust her voice enough to respond. The tears spilled over onto her cheeks when she heard him sigh and move away.
Standing stock-still, Sandra glanced at the bed, then quickly glanced away. The standard-size double bed looked so big, so empty, so lonely. After the thrilling nights spent in that bed with Cameron, could she bear to even think of crawling into that bed alone?
All she had to do was unlock that door and call to him, for him, an inner voice whispered.
No. She shook her head. After the closeness, the intimacy, they had shared, he had misread her motives completely, accusing her of militancy, selfinterest, when in fact her concern was all for him.
Suddenly impatient, with Cameron, with herself, she brushed the tears from her cheeks with a swipe of her hand. If he was too dense to discern that she felt she couldn’t leave him to face the danger alone, that was his problem, not hers.
Shrugging out of her robe, her panties and bra, Sandra pulled on her nightgown and slipped into bed. She had slept alone before.for a good many years. Like it or not, she could sleep alone again.
She didn’t like it. She didn’t do much sleeping, anyway. Awake and miserable, she lay, stiff and tense, listening to the pinging sound of sleet striking against the windowpanes.
But, although she couldn’t know it, Sandra wasn’t the
only one awake and miserable.
Cameron hadn’t even bothered to lie down. He felt too restless, too agitated, too damn mad to lie still and quiet; the emotions roiling inside him wouldn’t be contained, had to be released by some form of action.
The first of those actions was reflexive, second nature to him after his years with the Bureau. Shoving his bare feet into his running shoes, he left the house and made his way cautiously to his vehicle. Quickly retrieving his holstered gun, he spared a moment to rake the area with a narrow-eyed sweep before returning to the house, wet and shivering from the cold, sleet-spattered rain.
Spring.
Right.
Scattering cold droplets with an impatient shake of his head, he kicked off his shoes, then padded to the couch to slip the weapon beneath the end cushion. Still shivering, he moved to the fireplace and placed another piece of wood on the dwindling flames.
The fire blazed to renewed life, radiating heat and warmth. But the warmth didn’t penetrate the surface of his skin, didn’t touch the cold and empty spot deep inside him; only crawling into bed beside Sandra could have warmed him to the core of his being.
The realization of how very important she had become to him, to his physical and mental comfort, startled him, made him uneasy and even more restless.
Dammit, he cursed in silent frustration, venting his restlessness by prowling the room. What was with the woman? Oh, yeah, she had ordered him not to call her “woman,” he savagely reminded himself, making a sharp turn into the kitchen.
But, hell, she was a woman—wasn’t she? Oh, yeah, he answered himself. He knew firsthand, up close and personal, that Sandra was all woman.
All feminist woman, he recalled, making a sour face and a rude noise.
The very last thing he needed was to get hung up on a woman who wouldn’t hesitate to whip out a little copy of her own personal Declaration of Independence every time she decided he was pulling a male-superiority act.
What kind of a masochistic idiot was he, anyway? he railed at himself, deliberately stoking his anger, to smother the disappointment and hurt he was feeling. How many times did he have to get emotionally raped by a woman before he got smart enough to keep his emotions inviolate?
And what in hell did he want in here, anyway? Cameron skimmed the nearly dark room with narrowed eyes, seeking diversion from his own thoughts.
Coffee. That was it—he needed some coffee.
He moved to the countertop—only to stand there, blankly staring at the automatic coffeemaker. What did he think he was doing? he chided himself. Coffee would only wire him, and he was strung too damn tight now.
Spinning around, he headed for the fridge; what he really needed was a beer, maybe several beers.
Cameron never finished the first can he opened; he was too busy pacing off a path in the rug to take the time to swig from the can.
Was Sandra asleep?
He groaned aloud. Damn. Why had he thought about her sleeping? Thinking about her, in bed, sleeping or awake, caused a yawning hollowness inside him, a yearning, sharp and deep, to be there, burrowed beneath the covers, beside her, inside her.
“Sandra.”
Cameron froze, startled by the whispery longing in his own voice. Hell, he had it bad. whatever it was.
Love?
Remaining perfectly still, he examined the word that immediately sprang into his head.
Love?
He rolled the word around in his mind. He had been in love before, years ago. Yet it hadn’t felt anything near like what he had experienced these past days with Sandra. Never before had he experienced the roller coaster of sensations and emotions he had felt simply from being with her. Over the past week, his feelings had run the gamut, from the highs of euphoria, possessiveness, protectiveness and happiness, to the lows of anger, anxiety, frustration and hopelessness miring him now.
But did those varied and confusing sensations and emotions equate to love…or were they the natural response to an appreciation of really great sex?
God. Cameron was developing a headache. All this probing of his psyche was getting to him.
And none of his internal dialogue had so much as touched on the cause of his present dilemma, that of his need to get Sandra out of the cabin and harm’s way.
He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. She had stated adamantly that she would not budge. Furthermore, she had sounded as if she meant it. He was fresh out of ideas as to how to go about convincing her to leave, short of tossing her over his shoulder and physically removing her from the place.
Yeah. Right.
A grim smile played over his lips as he imagined himself playing Tarzan to her Jane.
Although it held sensuous appeal, he knew he could scratch that particular fancy.
Shaking his head in despair at his dearth of ideas, Cameron retraced his steps into the kitchen to set the half-full can of beer in the sink.
It was only then, standing so close to the window above the sink, that he became aware of the wind picking up speed, and what was now mostly sleet sweeping across the deck and against the pane.
Oh, hell. What was he racking his brain for? he thought irritably. From the sound of the wind and sleet, they were going to be iced in and unable to go anywhere, anyway. Might as well try to get some sleep.
Cameron did try. He just didn’t succeed too well. The couch wasn’t long enough for his tall frame, and the cushions suddenly felt lumpy. Besides, Sandra wasn’t curled up next to him. And, in addition to the physical discomforts, the concept of love, romantic love, the forever-after concept of love, persisted in dancing around the fringes of his mind, tormenting him with the hopelessness of a man like him, already made wary of females, falling for a blazing feminist like Sandra.
How was a man to sleep under those conditions?
Had she reacted immaturely?
The question loomed ever larger throughout the dark hours in Sandra’s alert consciousness.
When it first slithered into her head, she had made a snorting sound of rejection, then flipped from one side to the other in the seemingly tooroomy bed.
But the inner probe proved impervious to rejection, continuing its stabbing forays into her attention.
By somewhere around two-thirty or three, Sandra gave up evasive tactics. Flopping onto her back, she stared into middle distance, as if expecting an answer to magically materialize, written in bold letters against the darkness by a fiery finger of illumination.
And, to a certain extent, her expectations were realized. Dawn came to Sandra’s consciousness hours before it grayed the eastern horizon.
Heaving a tired sigh, she bravely faced the truth: Of course she had reacted immaturely, simply because she had reacted emotionally instead of intellectually.
Women in love were known to do that occasionally—or so Sandra had always heard.
It was a bit of a shock. Sandra had never considered herself one of the typically portrayed helplessly emotion-driven females.
Love did really strange things to people—Sandra had heard that maxim more than once, as well.
And here she was, flat on her back in bed, staring into the darkness of the predawn house, vigorously engaged in an argument with herself.
Strange indeed.
The really hard-to-take part was, she was losing the damn argument!
Having always judged herself a thoughtful and rational being, capable of stepping around emotions to examine the cold, hard facts, both in her private and professional life, Sandra now felt challenged to live up to her own intellectual capabilities.
So then, had she reacted immaturely to Cameron’s marching orders?
Of course she had.
Once she’d admitted the obvious, the emotional trigger was easily identified. In point of fact, Sandra acknowledged, she loved Cameron more than she valued her own physical safety and well-being.
But, naturally, she couldn’t tell him that, Sandra realized with a sinking sensation. She very much feared that, s
hould Cameron sense even a hint of her true feelings for him, he’d back away in an instant. He hadn’t been tagged the Lone Wolfe by his contemporaries without reason. In a nutshell, despite the occasional indulgence of the senses, he preferred being alone.
By the time a weak and sickly light had somewhat brightened the room, Sandra had resolved her inner conflict. In essence, she would continue as she had begun, even if that meant maintaining to Cameron what he perceived as her position of immaturity and feminist militancy.
Resigned to the role, she pushed back the covers and dragged her tired body from the bed. She had little choice but to maintain her position, she reasoned. Because there was no way in hell she’d allow him to remove her to a safe place, then return to face the danger alone—even though he was trained and paid to do precisely that. Besides, there would very likely be the nearest thing to a platoon of law officers swarming around the cabin.
A woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do. A wry smile flickered over her lips as Sandra repeated the catchphrase to herself.
Her smile fading, she pulled on her robe and pulled tight the belt around her waist, literally girding herself to approach the Lone Wolfe in the living room.
He wasn’t there. Sandra found Cameron in the kitchen, sitting at the table, hunched over the cup of steaming coffee cradled in his hands.
“Good morning,” she said, wincing at the tone she had deliberately hardened to conceal her trepidation.
“Oh, you’re speaking to me again,” he muttered, glancing up at her without raising his head. “You can afford to be gracious, I suppose, now that the weather has settled the issue of contention between us.”
Weather? Sandra frowned and moved to gaze out the window above the sink.
“Oh!” she exclaimed in a surprised murmur.
The scene beyond the pane was again one of a winter wonderland, every surface locked in ice, glittering in the pale light of morning.
“Yeah,” he said disgustedly. “Even if you agreed to go, I couldn’t take you down that road. The Jeep’s great in snow, but it don’t do diddly on ice.”
“But then.” Sandra swung around to look at him. “It works both ways, doesn’t it?”
