"It's yours," Lenny said without hesitation. "And I tell you what, you leave the little lady here and I'll see that she doesn't call anyone or go anywhere until you've had a chance to get on down the road a ways."
"Sounds good to me," Taggert muttered.
"No." Shea directed her denial to the man Taggert called Lenny. "I'm going with him."
The man drew his bushy eyebrows together. "What for?"
"I'm a helluva story," Taggert said caustically before Shea could answer. He locked his eyes on her, and in spite of his weakened condition they were cold and strong. Piercing, as if he had never known weakness. "But this is one part of the story no one ever hears, you understand me? As far as the cops are concerned we're stealing Lenny's truck. He didn't see anything, we didn't talk to him, he is not involved in this. Is that clear?"
Shea nodded, and Taggert closed his eyes once again.
Lenny looked Shea up and down once, squinting as he brought his gaze to her face. He even leaned forward slightly. "Name's Leonard Caudel," he said.
"Shea Sinclair," she answered, offering her hand.
Caudel took her hand and shook it gently. "I know." A smile bloomed on his face. "You've been all over the news today, young lady. I can't see real good, but if I get close to the television I can see well enough. You've been on the television before. You're the weathergirl, right?"
Before Shea could correct Caudel, Taggert laughed. It was a weak, nearly silent chuckle, and he didn't even bother to open his eyes. "You've done it now, Lenny," he whispered, and then he fell silent once again.
Shea was annoyed, but decided it wasn't worth the effort of an argument. "Do you have a place where I can clean up? I've been out in the rain, and the man bled on me, and…" She felt dizzy for just a moment, light-headed. "It has been the longest day," she finished.
"Come this way," Caudel said, taking her arm and leading her into a long hallway. "You could use a change of clothes, I reckon."
She looked him up and down. He was as tall as Taggert and twice as big around. No way was there anything in this house that would fit her, even in a pinch. "Well…"
"My late wife, Judith, she was about your size. I guess I shoulda gotten rid of her things years ago, but I never could bring myself to do it." He grinned. "But I wouldn't mind at all if you could find something in her closet that would suit this occasion."
In a small, sparsely furnished bedroom at the end of the hallway, he threw open a closet. "You'll have to do the choosing. Like I said, I can't see so well no more, so there's no telling what I'd pick out. You just take what you want. There's a bathroom down the hall if you want to clean up a bit. I'll see to Nick's leg."
The contents of the very full closet were brightly colored and years out of fashion. Orange, bright pink, a shade of green so garish it hurt her eyes. A glimpse of tie-dye and a pair of orange bell-bottom pants said "sixties" as surely as if a neon sign hung there. "I'm sure I'll find something that will do," she said optimistically.
Caudel was leaving the room when she stopped him with a question. "You know him well?"
He turned in the doorway, a smile on his face. "I gave Nick his first job out of the military, taught him everything I know about the construction business before my eyesight started to fail." The smile disappeared. "He's a good man, and he didn't kill nobody."
She didn't believe he had, either, but still… "He shot at me."
The smile came back. "Ma'am, if he didn't hit you, he didn't shoot at you. Nick could shoot the flies off a pile of, uhhh…" He cleared his throat. "Off a pile of sugar," he said, "and never disturb a single grain."
For some reason that was a comforting reassurance. Shea turned to the closetful of old clothes and listened to Caudel's retreating footsteps.
* * *
"I shoulda been there."
Nick opened his eyes at Lenny's mumbled self-censure. "I told you a thousand times I didn't want you in the courtroom," he said. It was the truth. Lenny was more like a father to him than the man he'd called Daddy for the first eleven years of his life. Nick didn't want Lenny to sit in that courthouse and watch the trial; it would have been an unnecessarily harsh ordeal for the old man. "Besides," he added, "you can't drive anymore."
"I can, too," Lenny mumbled.
"You're blind as a bat, you've got no business … dammit!" He came up off the couch like a shot when Lenny's removal of the makeshift bandage proved to be too painful. "Just leave it alone," he said as Lenny unwrapped his bloodstained jacket and tie.
Lenny ignored the order and took a pair of scissors to his pant leg, cutting the fabric away with an easy touch. "No. It's going to be cleaned and bandaged properly, and then we're going to get you out of these filthy clothes and into a warm bed."
Nick shook his head as he lay back down. The lumpy couch felt as good as any soft bed he'd ever slept in. "They'll look for me here sooner or later, probably sooner, so I can't stay. I won't risk involving you."
"They won't think to look here for a while, I reckon," Lenny insisted.
"Can't risk it," Nick whispered.
The roar of water from the bathroom reminded him of Shea's presence in this house. She should be gone by now; another chance had come and still she didn't run. He wouldn't chase after her if she took off now, and neither would Lenny. Nick was crippled and Lenny was half-blind; Shea could walk out of this house and they wouldn't be able to stop her.
Nick closed his eyes and tried to relax as Lenny very carefully tended to his wounded leg. Nick couldn't think straight, and that wasn't good. In fact, it was damn bad. All he could think of with any clarity was one fact: Shea Sinclair smelled great.
When he'd hovered close in the confines of the car, when she'd wrapped her arm around his waist and steadied him, there had been moments when her scent had almost overpowered him. He wanted to bury his nose against her neck and breathe deep, to sleep with that scent in his nostrils.
Nick wondered if he was running a fever; God knows he was delirious.
He should leave right now, while Shea was getting cleaned up and prepared for her grand adventure of a story. Unfortunately, she was right: he needed her. He wouldn't get far without Shea Sinclair's help.
As Lenny tended the leg, Nick drifted off. He didn't wake until he heard Shea's voice. That voice was already so familiar that it struck a chord somewhere deep inside, like the voice of an old, dear friend.
"How is it?" she whispered.
"Not too bad, considering," Lenny answered just as softly. They thought he was asleep, and didn't want to wake him, he supposed. If he had the strength he'd say something and prove them wrong … but he didn't. "He's doggone lucky, if you ask me. The bullet grazed his calf. Made a deep furrow, but there doesn't seem to be any muscle damage to speak of. He lost a lot of blood, though, and he'll have to watch for infection."
"I know. I wish we had some antibiotics." Her voice was a little bit closer now; he could almost feel that voice, as if it vibrated deep inside him. How odd.
"I've got part of a prescription I didn't finish," Lenny said, a bright note in his voice. "Just a few days' worth, but it's better than nothing."
"Yes, it is," Shea said, sounding relieved. "He'll need a change of clothes, too."
"I rounded up some old clothes I outgrew years ago. They're on the chair by the fireplace," Lenny said, groaning as he stood. "I'll get those pills and a glass of water."
Nick half opened his eyes. Lenny entered the kitchen, and Shea stood over the recliner by the cold stone fireplace. She wore a pair of tight white pants that ended just below her knees, and a pale blue blouse that was cropped so that the hem hung just at her waist. The severe red suit had disguised her figure, but this outfit enhanced it, hugging every curve. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a thick ponytail.
She turned around, the pile of clothing in her hands, and Nick let his eyes drift closed again.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered as she kneeled on the floor beside him. "If I had a l
ick of sense I'd run like hell and not look back."
Yes, you would.
"Dean will kill me," she said.
Boyfriend? Husband? Lover?
"Well, maybe Clint and Boone will protect me."
More boyfriends?
"Goodness knows they've saved me often enough." Shea sighed, and then Nick felt the warmth of her hands on his chest. She flicked one button of his shirt and then another. The tips of her fingers grazed his skin as his shirt came open, and his eyes fluttered open.
"What are you doing?" he whispered harshly.
She wasn't at all startled that he was awake; she should be. "I'm getting you dressed so we can get out of here."
"I can dress myself."
She smiled. "Yes, I'm sure you can." She'd washed the makeup off her face, revealing smooth skin with just a few pale freckles sprinkled across the nose. Even without lipstick, her lips were rosy, pink and full.
He should push her hand away and finish the job himself, but he didn't. He liked the occasional brush of her fingers against his skin, and she was so close he could smell her again. He liked it; he liked it too much.
"Can you sit?" She flattened her hand on his, back and helped him raise up, and then she slipped the damp white dress shirt off his shoulders.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked as she took a blue-and-green-plaid cotton shirt and helped him into it. Her hands were easy, gentle and sure. He had to remind himself that she wasn't his friend, she wasn't his ally, it didn't matter how good she smelled or how enticing the simple brush of her fingers felt on his skin. "It's the story, right?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "The story."
All of a sudden he knew he couldn't do this. Somehow he had to get rid of the weathergirl. With all the strength he could muster, Nick reached out and took Shea Sinclair's chin in his hand and made her look him in the eye. He didn't have the strength to force her to do anything, but he damn well knew how to send her packing.
"I haven't had a woman in ten months," he whispered. "I haven't so much as touched a woman in ten months."
Her face went pale; her hazel-green eyes widened. But she didn't back away.
"You want a thrill, weathergirl?" he asked, his voice so soft it was little more than a breath of air. "You think this is fun? Some kind of adventure?" He leaned down, placing his face close to hers. Damn if he couldn't smell her, feel her breath and the warmth of her skin. Her lips were so close, right there before him and tempting as hell. "I promise you this. You stick around, and as soon as I get my strength back I'll show you a thrill or two."
She didn't back away. "I know what you're doing, Taggert," she whispered. "And it's not going to work. You can't scare me."
"Yes, I can." He reached out with his free hand and touched the base of her throat, let the back of his fingers trail down to the valley of her breasts. She was warm and soft, as he'd known she would be. He watched the movement of his roughened hand on her pale skin, marveled at the way the sight teased his insides and made his head spin more than it had before.
He didn't want to scare the weathergirl anymore, he wanted to hold her. Hard and fast. He wanted to sleep with her in his arms, that's all. His mouth drifted closer to her. No, that was not all. He wanted everything; he wanted all of her.
Shea moved her head back and gently grabbed his wrists, moving his wandering hands to his knees. "You're not well, Mr. Taggert," she said as she stood. "So I'm going to forgive you for behaving in an inappropriate manner."
"Oh, thank you," he muttered dryly. Hell, he'd even failed in frightening her off. Apparently he wasn't a very imposing figure, at the moment.
Lenny came back into the room with a glass of water and a small plastic bottle of pills. "It's just four days' worth, I'm afraid."
"That's better than nothing," Shea said as she leaned forward and began to button the plaid shirt she'd slipped onto Nick before he'd foolishly tried to scare her off.
He brushed her hand away. "Dammit, I can dress myself."
She backed off and allowed him to finish buttoning the shirt. It was more of an effort than he'd ever let on. When that chore was done, Lenny handed him a pill, which he dutifully took with a swig of water, and Shea tossed a pain of faded jeans onto the couch beside him.
"Do you have the makings for sandwiches?" She directed the question to Lenny, who slowly nodded his head.
"Help yourself. I've got plenty of bread, peanut butter and jelly, ham and cheese, and there's some leftover tuna salad in the refrigerator."
"I'll make us something to take in the truck while Taggert finishes getting dressed."
Nick let his head fall back against the couch. He felt less light-headed with the support, a little sturdier. The sensation of strength was an illusion, he knew. He was about to pass out.
It would be so easy to drift away, to close his eyes and fall asleep and give up. He wasn't a man to give up easily. He'd fought long and hard for everything he'd had. He'd worked his way up from nothing. Literally nothing. After all those years of hard work he was back to nothing again. He should fight, as he always did; he should defy the odds. But right now—right now he considered giving up, giving in. It would be the easy thing to do.
Hell, he hadn't taken the easy way very often in his life. Why should he start now?
"Now what?" he whispered, "Dammit, I don't even know where I'm going yet."
Shea walked confidently toward the kitchen, a lively spring in her step. Watching the sway of her hips and the bounce of that ponytail made him a bit dizzy. She'd been so afraid just a few hours ago, but she didn't look like a hostage anymore. And there wasn't even a hint of worry in her eyes. There should be, dammit, there should be.
But he was the one sitting here remembering what she felt like, what she smelled like. He'd been so close to a kiss, and he'd wanted it. For a moment he'd wanted it as much as he wanted freedom, the truth, his life back. So who was the hostage now?
"I don't have a clue where to go from here," he said again, his voice so low he figured no one would hear.
"That's okay," Shea said without so much as a glance back. "I know exactly where we're going."
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Every now and then, quite frequently, actually, Shea glanced at the sleeping man in the passenger seat of the rumbling old pickup truck. Shea didn't know what year Lenny's two-tone, pale blue and white Ford was, but it was definitely old. They just didn't use chrome like this anymore. Taggert had not wanted her to drive, but he hadn't put up too much of a fuss. He had to know that he was in no shape to drive.
Taggert didn't completely trust her, but he didn't have anyone else to turn to. And he needed help.
Sleeping, he looked much less menacing than he had when he'd threatened her with a gun and tried to send her packing in the rain. Lips soft, ice-chip eyes closed, features relatively relaxed, he was simply beautiful. Not a pretty beautiful, but a manly beautiful. The kind that made women's hearts thud and their eyes go misty while they sighed in wonder. He had a real man's face, with a long straight nose and a sharp jawline and a dusting of five o'clock shadow. And that beautiful face was resting atop a nearly perfect body.
She smiled crookedly. Leave it to her to finally find a man she was insanely attracted to now, at the most inopportune time and place in the most unsuitable of circumstances. She'd been so focused on her career lately that she brushed off most men who asked her for a date, and the few dates she'd suffered through hadn't been much fun.
She'd let Grace talk her into a blind date with a homicide detective a few months back. Luther Malone. Good-looking guy, smart, and as anxious for the blind date as she'd been, which meant the evening had gotten off to a very bad start. She hadn't found him to be much fun, and he'd gotten quickly annoyed with her nosy questions. He'd taken her home early and there hadn't been a second date.
Shea took a quick glance at the gas gauge and whistled low and sharp. Almost empty. Like it or not, she woul
d have to stop soon. Better here on a country road than on the interstate, she imagined, spotting the solitary sign straight ahead.
Placing an Atlanta Braves cap, one of Lenny's contributions, on Taggert's head, she left him sleeping while she pumped gas into the guzzler of a truck. She didn't think she looked too strange, even though the outfit she'd scrounged from Lenny's late wife's closet came directly from the sixties. Capri pants were making a comeback, and the blouse was fairly simple, so she didn't think her attire would raise any eyebrows. She'd steered clear of the tie-dye T-shirts and the neon-green bell-bottom pants.
When the tank was full she went inside to pay, heading for the back of the store to grab a couple of soft drinks and two banana Moon Pies. Taggert hadn't eaten nearly enough of his sandwich, and he'd need his strength. Maybe a sugar boost would do it. She could use a sugar boost herself, truth be told.
She was at the counter counting out bills when the state trooper walked in. Her heart nearly stopped.
"Hi, Billy," the clerk said with a wide smile. This was apparently a regular stop for Billy, the tall, thin trooper.
"Toby," the officer said with a professional nod. "How's it going?"
"Slow," Toby said as Shea very carefully counted out her change. "You know how it is."
Her first instinct was to turn and run like hell, but she didn't. She took her drinks and Moon Pies and declined a bag, and glanced through the window to see that Taggert still slept. Thank goodness she'd thought to put the ball cap on his head!
"Where you headed, little lady? That your truck outside?"
Shea's heart stopped. The trooper was talking to her! She took a deep breath and turned to face him, hoping the change of clothes and the fact that her hair was pulled severely back and her face scrubbed clean of makeup made enough of a difference in her appearance that he wouldn't immediately recognize her.
She looked at him closely before speaking, to see if he made the connection. Apparently he didn't. "My husband and I are headed to Florida to see my mama," she said, putting on her best, deepest Southern accent. She sounded a lot like her cousin Susan, she decided as the words left her mouth. "Hate to get that old truck on the interstate, since it won't do more than forty-five, and besides—" she gave the trooper a bright smile "—I like the drive better this way."
HOT ON HIS TRAIL Page 4
