by Janzen, Tara
* * *
The Elk Café was part of a larger conglomerate including a gas station, convenience store, and gift shop. Johanna found the telephone next to the bathrooms near the back of the gift shop. Guilt assailed her again as she punched the buttons to place a collect call to the private club where she and Henry were members.
Guilt was ridiculous, she told herself. Nonetheless she also had to keep telling herself it was for Dylan’s own good too. She could help him more by using the law against Austin than she could ever help him on the run. Maybe she could even save him.
Save him from Austin just long enough to throw him in jail for your own reasons. That’s what she’d threatened him with. That’s what she’d told Henry she was going to do. Now she knew she wouldn’t hound him into a jail cell. He’d been through enough on her account. More than enough.
Her finger paused above the last numeral in the club’s phone number. Her mouth tightened. Damn him for messing up her code of ethics. She knew the difference between right and wrong. Or rather, she used to know the difference. Dylan Jones had made her whole system of values look mighty gray.
She didn’t know what to do—but she knew what she would have done yesterday or any other day before he’d come back into her life. She punched in the last number and gave her name to the answering computer. The call was accepted by the first person who picked up the phone. The Boulder Club didn’t as a rule accept collect calls from its members, but Johanna knew Henry would have taken care of all the small details. What she didn’t expect was to be speaking to a police detective rather than her partner.
“Miss Lane, I’m Detective Campbell. We’ve been waiting for your call. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, trying to hide her unease. “Is Henry Wayland there?”
“Yes. Are you still with Dane Erickson? Is he armed?”
“May I speak with Henry, please.” Dylan’s lack of faith in the police must have rubbed off on her, because she felt surprisingly uncomfortable talking to a detective—especially to one asking questions about him.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Miss Lane,” Detective Campbell began again, “we’ve been worried about you. I’d like you to give me your location so we can send someone to pick you up.”
“I would like to speak with Henry, please.”
A disgusted sigh was followed by the sound of muffled voices.
“Johanna.” Henry came on the line, blunt and to the point. “Where are you?”
“What’s going on, Henry?” she asked. It had sounded like a lot of people were huddled around the phone at the Boulder Club.
“What’s going on?” Henry repeated, his voice rising. “What’s going on is that you’ve been kidnapped by a certifiable criminal. Dane Erickson has a rap sheet a mile long. Now I want you to quit analyzing the situation and just tell us where you are so we can get you the hell out of there.”
A woman walked into the alcove concealing the bathrooms and the telephone, and Johanna turned her face to the wall to keep the conversation private.
“Relax, Henry. I’m safe.”
“No, you’re not. You are definitely not safe. Your Dylan Jones, alias Dane Erickson, Daniel Erickson, and Marty Barnes, has been up on charges from car theft, to check bouncing, to three counts of assault. He’s never gone as far as kidnapping before, but it fits. He’s a dangerous man, Johanna.”
“I knew he was a car thief.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“He’s been implicated in some very major drug dealings.”
“In Mexico, I know.”
“The police would love to pick this guy up, but they’re more concerned about your safety. I must have been deranged this morning to suggest that you stay with him.”
A man came out of the men’s room, and she turned her back the other way, keeping her eyes downcast and her voice low.
“I didn’t have a choice this morning, Henry. I was tied to him.”
“Right.” Henry sounded relieved that the decision had truly been out of his hands. “But you’re free now, thank God, and you need to tell us where you are. Don’t worry about Dane Erickson. He won’t be able to hurt you once the police have you. They are professionals, Johanna. They know how to handle men like him.”
Men like him. She dragged her hand back through her hair. Johanna didn’t even know where men like him came from, let alone how to handle them. She’d never met anyone more compelling or so quietly, seriously confident of his abilities, and she’d known both those things the very first time he’d walked into Austin’s office. She also knew she didn’t like the idea of turning him over to the police.
“Henry, I—”
A movement at the opening of the alcove caught her eye. She glanced up, and her heart stopped for an instant. When it started up again, it was beating too fast. Her mouth went dry. Dylan leaned back against the wall and slipped his hands into his front jeans pockets, watching her with a brooding gaze. His coat was draped over one arm, helping him hide the gun in his waistband.
“It’s a miracle he hasn’t done any jail time,” Henry continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “All I can think is that he’s got a damn good lawyer.”
Dylan shifted his position slightly, and Johanna stiffened, bracing herself. Henry said something else she didn’t catch. Her concentration was all on Dylan and what he might do next. The possibilities seemed endless and none too pleasant.
With effort, she held his gaze, until his lazy, dangerous perusal shifted to a more questioning, less condemning countenance. Then she had to look away. He was giving her infinitely more grace than she deserved. It was his life she was juggling, her net he’d gotten caught in, and she who had been caught red-handed betraying him.
She wanted to say she was sorry, but the words wouldn’t come. For a moment she was gratified she had at least a semblance of honor left, however fleeting. But a fleeting sense of honor wasn’t enough to save him. He’d turned her world upside down, and consequences would be paid. One word and she would be free of him. It was the only sensible thing to do, but she couldn’t remember when being sensible had ever seemed so wrong.
Her gaze moved back to his face. He was tired, weary. The strain of his life showed in the pinched lines at the corners of his eyes and in the unconscious movement of his hand upward to support a bruised rib. He breathed slowly, watching her, waiting for her to answer his silent question.
She was in emotional quicksand and sinking fast. She needed to leave him, but she couldn’t. He wouldn’t survive without her. Nothing could be simpler, or more compelling: He had saved her life; she had to try to save his.
“You’re right, Henry,” she said, lowering her gaze and speaking softly into the telephone. “He does have a damn good lawyer.”
“Jo—”
She hung up the receiver and faced Dylan with what she hoped wasn’t a look of pure, unadulterated guilt or total surrender. “I guess we better get going. I’m not sure if they traced the call or not.”
He took his time with an answer, letting his gaze drop partway down her body and come back up before he nodded and turned to leave.
The look made her nervous. It implied a willingness to accept a concession she was sure she hadn’t intended to make. Yet she wasn’t willing to change her decision.
Halfway across the parking lot, his steps slowed. She thought he was hurting and looked up at him in concern. He didn’t return her look, but surprised her by taking her arm and gently pulling her to a stop.
“There’s something I need to know.” He seemed strangely ill at ease, even shy in the way he failed to meet her eyes with his usual domineering attitude.
“I didn’t tell them where we were or where we were going. I promise,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head to face her, and she realized that was the question he wanted answered. “You had the chance. I wasn’t going to stop you.”
She stared
up at him for a long moment, then lowered her lashes. A pale flush of color came into her cheeks.
It was apparently all the answer he needed. He released her arm and touched her once, lightly, on the shoulder, guiding her toward the ear.
Johanna was mortified. She wasn’t sure what he’d read into her reaction, but she was sure embarrassment was an appropriate response on her part. She should have given him her reasons in a straightforward, professional manner. Instead she’d equivocated and given him a free field to come up with his own answers.
“I believe you’re with the FBI,” she said belatedly, trying to salvage her reputation as a woman with above-average intelligence.
“Good.”
“Henry checked you out. He didn’t come up with the FBI, but he said you’ve never done any jail time. I drew my own conclusion.”
“Correctly,” he added, reaching for the passenger door on the gray sedan.
Too late Johanna realized what he was doing. She inhaled sharply and whirled around, throwing herself against him and almost knocking him down. It had been her intention but he was too quick, too steady on his feet. His arms came around her, holding her tight, and she buried her face against his chest, holding her breath for the instant it would take for a blast of sound and pressure to end their lives.
The blast never came. His heart continued to beat a strong and solid counterpoint to her ragged breath. The warmth of his body continued to envelope her like a protective shield.
“Damn,” he muttered, his embrace tightening. “Dammit. I’m sorry, Johanna.”
The door had not exploded. He’d been lying to her all along. She didn’t know whether to sob in relief or shout at him. In the end she did neither. She pulled herself together with as much dignity as she could muster, called him a bastard in a very ladylike manner under her breath, and got in the car.
He closed the door for her, and she couldn’t help but flinch. For twenty-four hours she’d been expecting the damn thing to blow up at any minute, and it hadn’t even been armed.
“I’m sorry,” he said again after he’d gotten in and closed his own door behind him. “I guess I could have told you this morning.”
“You could have,” she agreed in an affronted tone of voice, an amazing feat considering how badly she was shaking inside.
“I did it to keep you from getting hurt.”
“So you say about everything.” Her pulse was still racing, and she was afraid she might burst into tears at any moment.
They sat in the dark, in total silence, until he finally spoke.
“I was hurt pretty bad last night. I knew I didn’t have much time to get you out, and I didn’t think a wrestling match in the car would do either of us any good.”
The first tear came, unbidden and unwelcome, but Johanna didn’t know if it was for herself or for him.
“I’ve been pretty rough on you,” he admitted. “I wish . . . well, I wish it could have been different.”
So did she. Another tear tracked silently down her cheek to join the other. She wished everything could have been different—because months ago, when Austin had first introduced her to his newest employee, she had thought Dane Erickson was someone very special. Now she knew she’d been right.
Ten
Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw the shine of wetness on her cheeks. Wary, he turned his head to see her more fully. He’d always known there were certain levels of the female psyche he was unfamiliar with, but the depth of his ignorance hit him anew.
What was she crying about? he wondered. They hadn’t blown up. She now believed he wasn’t a complete reprobate. So much of the worst was over for her. Wasn’t it?
Her soft sob and quick inhalation told him otherwise. He had an uneasy feeling the crying business was only beginning. When she sniffled, he knew it.
He let out a heavy sigh and glanced around the parking lot. He knew how to fight with her, and God knows he’d dreamed enough about making love with her, but tears were beyond his coping abilities.
Maybe she’d just figured out that she’d made a big mistake by not giving him away to the police. He glanced over at her again.
No, he decided. She was too smart not to realize she’d done the best thing for herself as well as for him.
“The Bureau gave Dane Erickson a record,” he said, turning halfway toward her and addressing what he thought might be part of the problem. He’d heard enough of her phone conversation to know Henry Wayland hadn’t wasted any time in checking Dane Erickson’s “references,” as it were. He’d also surmised that the FBI had chosen to retain his cover—typical of the type of support he’d been getting for the last few months. “Your lawyer friend probably found out about it.”
“He did.” She discreetly wiped at her cheek with the heel of her palm, but he saw the gesture and it pulled at him in places he hadn’t known he’d possessed.
“The drug thing was also set up by the FBI,” he reassured her. “On the whole I’m a pretty law-abiding citizen.”
Johanna slanted him a disbelieving look through her tears.
“You always impressed me as a woman with good instincts,” he continued. “I guess I just want you to know that you can trust what they’ve told you about me.”
His audacity amazed her.
“What in the world makes you think that might be to your advantage?” she asked, her disbelief rising along with her eyebrows.
He shrugged and reached under the steering column. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
The wires he twisted in his fingers sparked the engine to life, thankfully overriding the necessity for her to answer. Because of course he was right. Again.
With dismay, she dropped her head back on the seat and closed her eyes. Her actions had spoken for themselves. They didn’t need her big mouth confirming everything he was thinking.
Dylan eased the gray sedan out of the parking lot, carefully watching the traffic. Maybe he’d stated his case too bluntly. He’d obviously made her angry—again—a particular talent of his, he realized. But she’d stopped crying, and for that he was truly grateful. He was too far down the line to be discovering personal weaknesses like Johanna Lane’s tears.
Miles later he pulled off the highway and followed a dirt track back into the mountains, heading for what a billboard had promised would be a Rustic Resort with Family Cabins, a Restaurant Lodge, Horseback Riding, and World-Class Trout Fishing with Professional Guides.
The sky had never looked darker or the stars brighter than they did under a crescent moon in the Rockies. Dylan wasn’t exactly sure where they were—other than someplace in northwestern Montana—but he took that as a good sign. If he didn’t know where they were, neither did Austin.
“I thought we were going to Seattle, to your friend’s,” Johanna said, shortly after he made the turn off the highway.
“We are.”
“We’re getting a little out of the way here, then, aren’t we?” she asked, echoing his own thoughts.
“That’s the general idea.”
Another mile of silence passed before she spoke again. “How long have you lived in Chicago?”
“Most of my life. I was born there.” If she wanted to talk, that was fine with him. It helped keep his mind off his pain and his exhaustion. Pace, Montana, was supposed to have been their stopping place for the night, but she’d blown that possibility with her phone call.
Hell, he didn’t blame her. He would have done the same thing.
“As a city boy, doesn’t all this bother you?” she asked, and the nervousness in her voice made him turn and look at her.
“All what?” he asked, confused. He could think of three or four different things about their current situation that bothered the hell out of him—and none of them had anything to do with being born in Chicago, Illinois. He didn’t have a clue as to what was troubling her, but his list started with her name.
She was bundled up in his coat, her back straight, her bottom perched on the edge of the
seat, as far on her side of the car as she could get. That bothered him plenty, because he wanted her close to him. The more he thought about it, the closer he wanted her—close enough for their skin to slide over each other’s, for their breath to mingle, and the taste of her to become a reality on his tongue.
Great. Now he was really bothered, hot and bothered.
“All these trees, the forest, the dark, the stars,” she said, missing his problem by a light-year or two. “We haven’t passed a town in over an hour. It actually looks like there could be . . . well, bears out there, lurking around.”
“You’re too old to be afraid of the dark, counselor,” he said wryly. “And I’ve never heard of anybody being afraid of the stars.”
“That still leaves about eight million trees and Lord knows how many bears.” She didn’t sound at all convinced of his reasoning or her safety.
He gave her a thoughtful look before he spoke. “You can’t possibly be afraid of the trees.”
She grinned sheepishly at him, the last thing he’d expected. “Okay,” she admitted. “It’s the bears. There are bears out there, aren’t there?”
He was quiet for a moment, then he turned to hide his grin and swore, one succinct word. A second’s worth of laughter escaped him, and he swore again. “I can’t believe it.”
“What?”
“Bears?” he asked, incredulous, turning back to her. “Bridgeman is after us. Half the cops in Colorado are after us, and by now, if we’re lucky and they’re doing their job, the Feds are after us. And you’re worried about bears?”
“A bear is a dangerous animal,” she said in her own defense.
“So is Bridgeman,” he countered, not able to give up his smile completely. “Don’t worry, Miss Lane. I didn’t drag you across three states and the Rocky Mountains to let a bear get you.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, seriously.
He slanted her a quick glance. She was still bundled up in her corner of the car, but her posture had relaxed. His gut tightened, and he bit back a curse. She had no business trusting him like that.
