by The Witness
She slumped and released a huff of breath, raking her fingers through her hair, which had come loose from the intricate braid she'd fashioned that morning before leaving the Denver Police Station. Even so, it took her a minute to process his words.
"I...uh...I'm sorry. I was reading the instructions and...and I guess I dozed off."
"Dammit, I warned you about that."
"For heaven's sake, I didn't do it on purpose. In the last two days I've had a total of about five hours of sleep. In that time I've witnessed a murder, fled for my life, been in a plane crash and hiked through knee-deep snow. I'm exhausted physically and emotionally. Is it any wonder I fell asleep?"
It was a halfhearted protest, at best, but Lauren just couldn't muster the energy for a more heated reply. Her eyes burned and she was so tired and wooden-headed she couldn't think. It was all she could do to simply stay awake.
Sam was not moved. "I told you before we left Denver that when I gave an order I expected it to be obeyed. Fall asleep like that again, and you may not wake up. The fire has warmed the cabin up a little but it's still freezing in here. You have to stay awake long enough to get a hot meal in you and for me to build a shrub mattress for the sleeping bag."
"I'll try."
"Don't try, do it. And for God's sake, why did you fill the pot brim full?" he demanded, as globules of water continued to hiss and pop in the flames.
Grabbing a flannel shirt from the duffle bag, Sam used it as a hot pad to pick up the pot of boiling water. He poured some into the skillet, then carefully refilled the canteen.
"I...the instructions call for three cups of water. I wasn't sure how much that was."
"I see. So you filled the pot to the top."
"I, uh...I didn't find a measuring cup in the pack."
"No, and you won't find a food processor or a blender, either. Dammit, you're supposed to approximate three cups. That pot holds four times that amount. How the hell did you expect to add in the mix without the water running over?"
"Well, I...uh..."
"Never mind. Give me the packet."
Sam cut open the tough plastic with one of the knives and dumped the contents into the boiling water. After giving the contents a stir he put the lid on and stood up. "C'mon, on your feet. If you don't move around you're going to konk out again. You can man the door while I bring in the rest of the wood and brush. I piled it up just outside." He stopped and gave her a derisive look. "You can manage that much, can't you?"
Answering with a glare, Lauren climbed to her feet and staggered over to the door.
By the time the wood and the enormous pile of spruce brush were inside and more wood was added to the fire, the stew was ready. Bob Halloran's utensil packet consisted of two deep-dish aluminum camp plates that could double as bowls, two sets of lightweight forks and spoons and one large stirring spoon. Sam pulled the pot farther from the fire and dipped up stew into each plate, then handed Lauren one without a word.
They ate without speaking or even looking at each other. To her amazement, the thick broth actually contained chunks of meat, potatoes and other vegetables and tasted quite good. Better, in fact, than anything she'd managed to put together in her own kitchen so far. Of course, she was so famished, old shoe leather would probably have tasted delicious.
They polished off the pot of stew, each eating several helpings. When they were done Sam dumped his plate and spoon into the empty pot.
"Okay, now let's take care of that cut."
Lauren's hand automatically went to her forehead. "What do you mean? I've already cleaned it."
"Yeah, well, you'd never know it by looking." He took a sterile gauze pad from the first-aid kit and dipped it in warm water and gently swabbed the wound. When he began to scrub the rest of her face Lauren tried to pull away.
"What are you doing?"
"Be still. You've got blood smeared all over your face."
"Oh." She closed her eyes and bore his ministrations stoically, but his nearness made her nerves jump. He was too close. His breath feathered over her cheek, moist and warm. The sharp, fresh scent of the outdoors clung to him and mingled with the scent of male. His hands felt rough and cold against her face.
He applied an ointment to the cut and covered it with a bandage. "There. That's better," he said, snapping the first-aid kit shut. Lauren opened her eyes and a relieved sigh escaped her as she watched him climb to his feet and move away.
"Do you think you can manage to wash up while I make a shrub mattress?"
Annoyance rippled through Lauren at his tone, but she tilted her chin and replied with a cool, "Of course."
She had no idea how she was supposed to accomplish the task with no sink, no dishwashing soap, no scrubber and only a skillet full of warm water, but she wasn't about to admit that to this man. He was scornful enough of her as it was without giving him more ammunition.
Gamely she picked up one of the plates and started to plunge it into the skillet.
"No! Not that way!" Sam barked, making her jump. He snatched the plate out of her hand and dumped it back into the stew pot, then hefted the skillet and poured a scant amount of water over the soiled plates. "Haven't you ever gone camping before?" he demanded, his voice hard with impatience.
"No. I haven't."
"Big surprise. Look, the object is to do everything as simply and efficiently as possible. You conserve water and don't make extra work for yourself. The skillet is clean and contains a supply of clean water that we may need later. The stew pot has to be washed anyway so you scrub everything out in it. It's just simple logic," he tacked on in a tone that said even a moron ought to be able to reason that out.
"Scrub? With what, exactly, am I suppose to scrub?"
Wordlessly Sam broke a twiggy shoot about four inches long off a bare clump of brush and handed it to her. "When you get them as clean as you can, take them outside and scrub them with snow to finish the job," he ordered and turned his attention to the pile of short spruce limbs.
Only anger and mortification kept Lauren from falling asleep on her feet. She wanted to believe that Agent Rawlins knew that and was being deliberately derisive to keep her stirred up and awake. That's what she wanted to believe, but deep down, she suspected it was dislike, not thoughtfulness that had prompted his comments.
While she scrubbed the pot and plates and utensils with vigorous anger, Sam returned their supplies to the backpack, then went to work with the spruce scrub. When Lauren had finished scrubbing the dishes she picked up everything and headed for the door.
"Wait a minute. Where do you think you're going?"
She stopped and cast a disgruntled look over her shoulder as he stood up and walked toward her. "You told me to scrub these out in the snow."
"Yeah, but first you tie on the safety line." He picked up one end of the rope that he'd left coiled on the floor beside the door. One end was tied to the door handle. With deft movements, Sam tied it around Lauren's left wrist. "This is so you don't get lost out in that blow."
"I really don't think this is necessary. I'm just going to step outside the door to finish cleaning the pots."
"Yeah, well, while you're out there..." He paused, his mouth twisting in a sardonic half smile. "You might as well use the 'ladies' room' again. That means going out away from the cabin. You can follow the rope back."
He turned and went back to the pile of brush. "As soon as I finish here we'll be turning in for the night."
Since she craved sleep even more than she had food, that was the most welcome news she'd heard all day. Lauren glanced behind him at the spot a couple of feet from the fire, where he'd been busily laying out rows of overlapping spruce boughs in roughly the shape of a twin-bed mattress. "Good. I'm more than ready for that."
While Sam held open the door, she darted outside into the teeth of the storm. The cold slapped her in the face like a giant icy hand and the wind almost knocked her down. Lauren put her head down and quickly went to work.
When she return
ed Sam was working on the last row of branches. Lauren had taken the time to pack the pot and plates high with snow. The last thing she wanted was to have to brave that storm for more snow again tonight.
Sam glanced up as she pushed the door open a crack and squeezed inside, carrying the pot and plates stacked one on top of the other and balanced against the front of her body, but he made no comment. She bumped the door back into place with her bottom, edged across the room as though she were walking a tightrope and placed the three containers close to the fire. She turned to find Sam spreading the silvery sheet over the mattress of spruce branches. When he lay the sleeping bag on top of that, she frowned.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I'm getting the bed ready."
"But you've put the sleeping bag on top of the mattress. Where are you going to sleep?"
Sam straightened and looked at her. "In the sleeping bag. The same as you."
"Wha-aat? You're out of your mind if you think I'm going to sleep with you."
"You don't have a choice. Neither of us does. We have one wool blanket, one space blanket and one sleeping bag between us and a fire that's barely putting out enough heat for us to survive. Hell, you could hang meat over in the corner right now and it would freeze solid in a few minutes."
"That may be, but—"
"Listen, why don't you just drop the virtuous maiden act, okay? Given who and what you are, it's a little ludicrous, don't you think?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded huffily. Surely he couldn't know about her and Collin? There hadn't been enough time for him to dig that deep into her past relationships. Or relationship, she should say, since Collin had been her one and only lover.
Sam ignored the question. "Trust me, it isn't necessary. Lady, you could strip naked and beg and I still wouldn't be interested in you that way."
Lauren stared at him, quivering with so many conflicting emotions she was speechless. Anger, resentment and insult were uppermost, but at the same time she experienced a wave of relief so great her knees almost buckled.
She was trapped on this mountain in a raging blizzard for God knew how long, alone with a harsh, tough-as-nails man whom she barely knew. She was totally at his mercy, because without him she would surely die. If he were to turn sexually aggressive she could not possibly fend him off. They both knew that.
Under the circumstances, she knew she ought to be happy that he apparently found her repulsive.
And she was. Of course she was.
Still...he didn't have to be so blunt about it. She'd never thought of herself as the type to drive men mad with lust, but until now no one had ever treated her as though she were a troll. It was insulting.
"So don't just stand there looking like an offended virgin," Sam growled. "I'm tired, and I want to get some shut-eye, so get a move on. Take off your boots and crawl in."
Knowing he was right and that she was apparently safe from any sort of sexual advances did not make the arrangement any more acceptable, but Lauren was simply too exhausted to argue. She was ready to drop. If it meant getting some sleep, at that moment she would have cuddled up with Freddy Krueger.
Refusing to look at Sam, she unlaced her boots, tugged them off and slipped into the sleeping bag. She scooted over as far as she could, shifted a bit to find a comfortable position and with a sigh, closed her eyes. By the second breath, sleep had pulled her under.
Sam stared down at her. She lay curled on her side, facing the fire, her cheek cradled on her stacked hands, her face slack in utter surrender to her body's demand for rest.
The flames cast shifting patterns over her elegant features, throwing some into deep shadows and highlighting others with a golden glow, but even that could not disguise her exhausted pallor. The bandage on her forehead stood out in sharp contrast to her skin.
Her lashes lay against her cheeks like thick fans and loose tendrils of auburn hair curled around her face. Her luscious lips, bare of any trace of lipstick, were slightly parted. Between them he could see the edge of her teeth and the tip of her pink tongue. She looked utterly innocent and vulnerable.
Sam's mouth twisted. Which just proved that old saying that looks were deceiving, he thought and headed for the door.
A few minutes later he returned from answering nature's call one last time and found that Lauren had still not moved so much as a muscle. Her breathing was so slow and shallow he could barely make out the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Stepping around her, Sam hunkered down in front of the fire and stoked it with more wood. When the blaze was burning bright he unlaced his knee-high, fur-lined moccasins and tugged them off, then pulled out the felt liners that provided extra insulation and set them before the fire to dry out thoroughly.
To take full advantage of the meager warmth, he had placed the sleeping bag in front of the hearth and the supply of wood, close enough to both that he could reach over Lauren and toss more branches onto the fire throughout the night without leaving the bed. She might not appreciate that convenience, but he sure as hell did.
He skirted back around her, slipped into the sleeping bag from the other side and zipped it up. Turning onto his side, facing the fire and Lauren's back, Sam looped his arm around her waist and settled his body to hers, tucking his knees against the backs of hers and pulling her into the curve of his torso. Small and slender, she fit perfectly, her head tucked beneath his chin, her rump snug against his manhood, her body flush against his all the way from the top of her head down to her sock feet resting against his shins.
Sam shifted his head as a silky tendril of hair tickled his nose. With every breath its clean smell invaded his nostrils, a mix of subtle floral shampoo and sweet, clean woman.
Gradually her body heat began to reach him, seeping through the layers of clothing they both wore. Even through all that bulk, her womanly curves were apparent, and to his annoyance his body responded in the way any healthy heterosexual man's would.
Sam ground his teeth. Never mind that she wasn't one of Carlo's usual silicone-enhanced bimbos, she was still most likely the mobster's latest lay, and he had no business getting hot and bothered over her.
The lecture didn't help. Not one bit.
Not that Lauren seemed to mind. She was sleeping so soundly she didn't so much as twitch.
Sam gave a small, ironic snort. Hell, if anything, he should have been the one to complain about the sleeping arrangement, not her. God knew, if he'd had any other choice he would have taken it. Despite his body's mindless hormonal response, he didn't crave to be anywhere near this woman. As far as he was concerned, she was a job. Nothing more.
Though he was nowhere near as sleep-deprived as Lauren, it had been nineteen or twenty hours since Harvey Weiss had rousted him out of bed in the wee hours of the morning. Still, he could not sleep. Lying perfectly still, Sam stared at the fire, his mind worrying over their predicament.
He had to get her off this mountain alive and into a safe house, and he had to do it quickly. It wasn't going to be easy, particularly not with a pampered female with no outdoor skills. Or any practical skills at all, for that matter. Except maybe in the bedroom.
For the moment, they were safe—from the elements and from Giovessi's men. Lauren knew that, as well. Which was why she had relaxed so completely and succumbed to her body's demand for sleep.
However, what she didn't know, what he hadn't told her was, once the storm cleared that could change, and change rapidly.
She assumed the engine trouble that had caused their plane to crash had merely been an unfortunate twist of fate, and he hadn't bothered to tell her otherwise. But he didn't think so.
Bob had been a fanatic about safety checks and maintenance, and he had kept his aircraft in tip-top condition at all times. Both engines blowing within minutes of each other, almost an hour into the flight when they were over the most rugged mountain range in the state, was no accident.
And if someone had gotten close enough to sabo
tage the plane, they would have also planted a tracking device. It was a dead certainty that as soon as weather permitted, someone would come looking for the wreckage to confirm their deaths.
He had no intention of telling Lauren what he suspected, however. That knowledge would merely add to her anxiety and serve no useful purpose. For now, at any rate, what she didn't know, wouldn't hurt her.
Unconsciously Sam rubbed his chin back and forth against the top of Lauren's head. Catching in his beard stubble, the clean strands of her hair slid back and forth against her scalp like slippery silk. As soon as the storm cleared he had to hike back to the plane and find and destroy that bug before Giovessi's men could locate the crash site. If he didn't beat them to it, when they found only two charred bodies in the wreckage they would know that he and Lauren had survived. And they would come after them.
Seven
The next morning, as always, Sam awoke before dawn. Before he opened his eyes he became aware of a weight pressing on his chest. Sam frowned. Had the roof caved in and crushed them while they slept, pinning them to the floor?
Not daring to move in case he was badly injured, he cracked one eye open a slit—and sucked in a sharp breath.
He lay on his back and, with the total abandon of a child, Lauren lay sprawled on top of him, sound asleep.
With her cheek snuggled over his heart, her head rested on his shoulder and her hair spread out all around them. One of her arms curved around his opposite shoulder and the other lay limp against his side. Crooked at the knee, her left leg hooked around his right hip. The other nestled intimately between his.
And he had the granddaddy of all morning erections.
"Jesus."
Anger, disgust and unwanted desire twisted inside Sam. He tried to will away the arousal, but given the woman's provocative position, he knew that wasn't going to happen. "So be it," he snarled. "You play sex kitten, and you can't complain about the results."
