HOT ON HIS TRAIL

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "Astrid," the weathergirl muttered.

  "Yeah."

  "Astrid should be here, you know," she said angrily. "You're her story and I was just filling in." When she got really angry she did things with her mouth. Her lips pursed; something twitched. "If she hadn't come down with the stomach flu she'd be sitting here right now, not me."

  Nick shook his head gently, unable to make a more vigorous move. "No, she wouldn't."

  "And why not?"

  He leaned slightly toward her and whispered. "I never would've grabbed the big blonde. She scares me."

  The statement obviously took the weathergirl by surprise. Her eyes widened, and finely shaped dark brows lifted. "She scares you?"

  "A little. I think it's that big silly grin on an Amazon that does it. It's not natural." He was losing it, could actually feel himself losing control. His heartbeat was thready, his vision less than clear and his head swam uneasily. "You don't have a silly grin," he added. "You have a nice, real smile. 'This is Shea Sinclair with the weekend weather.'" He smiled himself, for some reason. "Shea Sinclair," he said again, "weathergirl."

  She looked like she wanted to hit him. Senseless girl. He had the pistol, he'd kidnapped her, everyone in the world believed he was a cold-blooded killer, and she looked like she wanted nothing more than to reach out and smack him a good one.

  "I am not a weathergirl. I do the weekend weather, at the moment, but I also file stories. I'm a reporter, Mr. Taggert."

  For some reason he fixated on the memory of her smile. It really was a nice smile, relaxed and genuine, as if the cold or the heat or the rain that was coming didn't bother her at all. She'd smiled, he remembered, as he'd run from the courthouse.

  "Why were you smiling as I came out of the courthouse this afternoon?" he asked.

  Her anger dulled; she even looked a little embarrassed. "I didn't mean to, but I got excited about the possibility that we might actually catch a word or get a really great picture no one else would have."

  Ah, Shea Sinclair really was a reporter. He'd become familiar with the breed in the past few months. They were wolves after a piece of meat, and he was the sirloin. No, that was too kind, much too generous. Wolves were majestic, if deadly. Reporters were little yapping dogs, eagerly fighting over a scrap of meat, and he was hamburger.

  Nick had been angry at the world for months, and right now he experienced a flash of blinding fury at his hostage for turning out to be another annoying, ambitious reporter who'd found reason to smile at his desperate escape. "Well, come tomorrow you're going to have a real exclusive, aren't you, weathergirl?"

  She didn't correct him this time, but pursed her lips together in apparent disapproval and turned away to stare out the passenger-side window. Her shoulders were squared, her spine too straight. Evidently the silent treatment was punishment for his last offense. Good.

  When darkness fell he started the engine and backed slowly down the path. The trail was bumpy, the branches and leaves that brushed against the car invisible but noisy. He made the turn almost blind, leaving the route and lurching through a low spot before getting the tires on the trail again. The weathergirl continued to silently stare out of her window, even though there was nothing to see. Just darkness and shadows and the gray-green bushes and trees that had shielded them.

  At the two-lane road, he switched on the headlights and continued the journey he'd started in the daylight, heading for the other side of the mountain. He didn't think there would be a roadblock on this little country road, but every time the car rounded a blind corner Nick held his breath until he saw a length of clear road stretching ahead.

  She'd been right about the rain. It started, a light sprinkle, as he steered the Saturn across a level stretch of road at the top of the mountain. When they passed one car on the winding downward slope his heart beat a little bit faster, but the vehicle didn't so much as slow down. They were just another pair of headlights on a rarely used road.

  When the mountain road was behind them and the terrain was level again, Nick pulled off the pavement and onto a rutted dirt path, rounded a bend and stopped the car with a lurch. For the first time since he'd made the mistake of calling her "weathergirl" once too often, Shea Sinclair turned her head to look at him. The headlights lit the dirt path before them, their reflection illuminating her stoic face in shades of gray. The lightheadedness that wouldn't go away made her face look like ivory—ivory with soft, black velvet shadows.

  He waited for her to throw open her door and take off, but she just stared at him.

  "You really didn't do it?" she whispered.

  Nick shook his head.

  "Then who did?"

  "I don't know, but I'm going to find out."

  She didn't make a move, so Nick reached over and unfastened her seat belt. "Go."

  Shea turned her head away again, to glance out at the deserted field. "Here?" Her head snapped around, and she stared at him wide-eyed. "You're just going to dump me in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, in the rain?"

  "That's the plan," he mumbled.

  Instead of jumping from the car and making her escape, Shea Sinclair stared him down. "No," she whispered.

  Surely he misunderstood. "What did you say?"

  "I said no."

  Nick cursed beneath his breath as he reached out and snagged Shea's wrist and dragged her toward him, easing himself from the car and hauling the uncooperative weathergirl with him, over the console, across the driver's seat. A soft, cool drizzle struck his face, and droplets soaked through the white dress shirt he wore. The cool water cleared his head slightly, as he pulled on Shea Sinclair's arm. He was making progress until she grabbed the steering wheel and refused to let go. It hit him, as surely as the gentle rain, that right now he didn't have the strength to forcibly remove her from the car.

  "Are you nuts?" he yelled, poking his head into the car and placing his face close to hers. They were practically nose-to-nose, and in the semidarkness he locked his eyes to hers. She didn't flinch, didn't show any sign of backing down. "I'm trying to let you go!" Yelling was not such a good idea. His head swam and his knees went weak. Damn.

  "You can't let me go," she argued. "You need me, Taggert."

  "I'm not a…" He swayed slightly. "I'm not a kidnapper."

  Shea smiled, and Nick's knees wobbled uncertainly. The smile was all wrong; wrong time, wrong place. There had been a time when a smile like this one would've given him hope, would've made him list easily forward to kiss her … but not now. She should be running scared right now, and he should be well down the road, running to God knows where.

  "Actually," she said softly, "you are. And since I don't think there's a different charge for long-term versus short-term kidnappings, you might as well make the best of what you've got."

  He clamped his hand more snugly around her warm, slender wrist. If she knew how long it had been since a pretty girl had smiled at him, she wouldn't do this. The smile made his insides tighten and his mind spin. The gentle upturn at the corners of her mouth, the sparkle in her eyes promised so many things. Shea Sinclair had no idea what she was doing to him.

  Then again, maybe she did. She let go of the steering wheel and slowly reached out for him, that delicate hand uncertain and enticing, those long, pale fingers as promising as her smile and her eyes. She was going to touch him. For a second Nick was frozen at the very idea. More than anything he wanted this woman to lay her hands on him. He craved the warmth of a woman's delicate fingers, a tender caress.

  It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him; a fat deputy clapping on handcuffs didn't count.

  Without warning, her motion changed from slow to lightning fast, and she grabbed the pistol from his waistband and pointed it at his midsection.

  His head spun dangerously and still he laughed. It was the perfect ending to the worst day of his life. He'd been found guilty of a murder he didn't commit, had been shot in the leg, and now he stood in the rain with a pistol pointed at his gut.
"Caught by a weathergirl," he said unsteadily. "Won't this make a fine story on the ten o'clock news?"

  "You're hysterical," Shea said as she scooted into the passenger seat, taking the pistol with her. "Sit down before you fall down."

  He dropped into the driver's seat, clearheaded long enough to notice that she held the weapon like a woman who was used to handling one. At least if she shot him it wouldn't be an accident. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Maybe it would be better if she did shoot him here and now. All he wanted was for this to be over, and it would make a helluva story for the weathergirl.

  All he had to do was lunge for her and this would be over and done with. He couldn't move.

  "Now what?" he whispered.

  "You tell me." He turned his head to see Shea slowly lower the pistol. "Do you have a plan?"

  "No."

  "Well, you need one, but first you need to rest." She placed the pistol on the floor at her feet. "Until the wound in your leg heals I'm afraid you won't be able to do much of anything. You really should let me drive."

  He had to be dreaming. "Yeah, that would be real smart," he muttered.

  "You're in no condition to drive," she said sensibly. "And you're going to have to heal before we can begin the investigation. We need to dump this car pretty quick," she added as a mumbled afterthought. "Everyone will be looking for it by now."

  "I know."

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Do you know how to hot-wire a car?"

  He stared at her, hard. "No."

  She wasn't leaving, and he didn't have the strength to force her from the car. The rain picked up and the light sprinkle turned into a downpour, obscuring everything outside the windows.

  Shea Sinclair had said he needed her, and maybe she was right. But could he trust her? It had been such a long time since he'd trusted anyone.

  "I know where I can get a truck," he said softly, "not too far from here."

  "That's a start."

  He wished she had touched him, just once, something easy—a hand on his face, maybe. Her hands were soft; he could tell just by looking at them. Soft and warm. Her wrist had been temptingly warm and wonderful in his grip, but what he wanted, what he needed was for her to touch him.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  In the distance a flash of lightning arced across the sky, lighting the interior of the car for a split second. A rumble of thunder followed.

  "If I can help you find the real killer it'll make one hell of a story." She grinned. "And they can find someone else to do the weekend weather."

  Nick didn't want to look at her anymore. He stared instead at a windshield so washed in heavy rain he could see nothing beyond it. "So I'm a good story."

  "The best."

  It was better than nothing, he supposed. He sure wasn't going to get far on his own in this condition. "Okay," he whispered. "You can stay."

  Rain pounded against the car. "I have just one question," Shea said softly, and something about the tone of her voice forced Nick to turn his head to look at her again. This was the first time he'd heard trepidation. She wasn't smiling now.

  "Ask it," he prodded when she didn't continue.

  She pursed her lips and hesitated, and then she took a deep breath. "Back there, on the mountain, would you really have shot me in the leg if I hadn't stopped?"

  The weathergirl had to know what she was getting into. He had to make sure she knew, so that she had a chance to back out while she still could. As the car rolled across the bumpy, muddy road, he turned his head to stare at her.

  "Yes."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Taggert wouldn't make it much longer, but he absolutely refused to pull over and let her drive. He braced himself over the steering wheel, his eyes trained straight ahead. They hadn't spoken for the past fifteen minutes; Shea suspected he didn't have the energy to talk.

  He stuck to back roads that took them into Marshall County, and except for the occasional car or truck they passed, blurred by the rain, they had the wet roads to themselves.

  Dean would have her hide for this, but her oldest brother was the least of her problems right now. Boone would understand, and so would Clint, though Boone would likely lay the blame for her decision to stay with Taggert on her early influences of Nancy Drew and Agatha Christie.

  Shea strengthened her resolve with the selfless notion that if she didn't help Taggert he didn't have a chance. He'd die, either alone from his wound or when the cops caught up with him. And they would catch up with him, soon. He wasn't thinking clearly, and he didn't have the strength to run and hide for long. Not without her help.

  If he died the truth died with him. A murderer would go free, and the courts would be satisfied that Nick Taggert was, indeed, a killer. That wasn't right; it wasn't justice. Together she and Taggert would search for the truth. And wow, this was going to be a great story.

  Taggert turned her battered Saturn onto a long, gravel driveway. Sitting at the end, visible through the rain, sat a small house that looked very much like a log cabin. It waited for them, simple and square and solid. Welcoming lights burned, harsh on the front porch and muted through the windows.

  "Who lives here?" she asked, keeping her voice low as they neared the house. Taggert didn't answer, and her heart skipped a beat. She believed he was innocent; he'd declared it so indignantly, so righteously, and she had seen the truth in his eyes. But he had kidnapped her. What did he have planned now?

  The drive circled around the house; the crunching noise the tires made on the gravel was sure to be heard by whoever waited inside. At a window near the back door a pale blue curtain fluttered. They'd been seen.

  "You're not thinking of doing anything drastic, are you?" she asked as Taggert stopped the car and put it in park. Finally, he turned his eyes to her.

  He listed forward slightly with his arms resting on the steering wheel, shoulders slumped and those normally piercing eyes half-closed. "Drastic?" he repeated.

  It was a rather ridiculous question, she supposed, considering what had transpired so far today. He'd escaped from the courthouse, been shot and kidnapped her. Everything had been drastic. But still… "There's no reason to involve anyone else in this," she said sensibly. "We can steal a car. Well, we can borrow one without asking, and leave a note or something. My purse is in the trunk, and I have a little cash, so there's no reason—"

  "You think I'm going to rob the man who lives here?" Taggert interrupted.

  You heard about it on the news all the time. A convict escapes from prison and storms into someone's home—preferably an isolated house, like this one—for hostages and money and food.

  "Aren't you?"

  He managed to shake his head once, and the expression on his face changed subtly to one of disgust and maybe even disappointment. "Why don't you take off right here, weathergirl?" he whispered. "Start walking."

  "No," she answered just as softly.

  The back door opened and bright light spilled onto the yard and the long gravel drive. An older, heavyset man stood there, squinting out into the night and waiting patiently.

  Taggert threw open his door and stepped into the rain. Shea scooted across the seat, making the awkward move over the console and placing herself quickly right behind him, knowing, even if he didn't, that he wouldn't make it to the house under his own power. She was there to catch him when he practically fell back into the driver's seat. Slipping an arm around his waist, she allowed him to lean on her as she stood beside him. He hesitated, and then his arm circled her lightly. Taggert was tall and hard and muscled, and in normal circumstances he would have overpowered her. But at the moment he needed her help to stay on his feet.

  "He's a friend?" she asked, and Taggert nodded once. Relief washed through her. She should've known that he wouldn't break into someone's home like a common thief. Even in his weakened condition, Nicholas Taggert was anything but common.

  He leaned on her heavily as th
ey approached the open back door, moving slowly in spite of the rain. Her arm around his waist, and his around hers, provided unsteady but effective support. Taggert was too big; if he fell she'd never be able to get him up. After they'd taken several tottering steps the old man made his way to them and added his strength at Taggert's other side. Shea supposed she could let go and allow Taggert's friend to lead him inside, but she didn't. Nick seemed to lean into her, still, so she kept her arm around his waist and canted in his direction, bracing his heavy body as best she could.

  The back door opened onto a brightly lit kitchen. An oak table and four chairs sat there, and Taggert's faltering path took him and those who were assisting him directly toward those chairs.

  "Boy, can you make it to the den?" the old man asked.

  "Sure," Taggert answered weakly, and they bypassed the oak chairs and went through a wide doorway into a square, rustic room. The old man steered them toward a long, mustard-colored couch, where they deposited Taggert in a slightly awkward maneuver.

  When his arm slipped from her back, the palm of his hand skimmed down her spine and across her hip, as if he needed support, still. As if he didn't want to let her go.

  Once Taggert was deposited on the couch, the old man started cussing—long, inventive, loudly delivered profanity as he removed thick, rain-splattered glasses and cleaned them on his shirttail. Taggert leaned his head back and closed his eyes until the tirade ended.

  The old man took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself as he placed the glasses on his nose. "What the blue blazes were you thinking, boy? You could've gotten yourself killed. And kidnapping this poor lady." He turned his head her way and squinted at her through thick lenses, even though they stood close. "Now, that was stupid."

  "I know," Taggert said weakly, without so much as opening one eye.

  "We'll talk about it in the morning," the old man said softly. "Right now we'll see to that leg and get you to bed. In the morning—"

  "No." This time Taggert's eyes did open. "We can't stay here, Lenny. I just … I need your truck."