Shameless (The Contemporary Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  As she stared out toward the woods of the game reserve, uneasiness invaded her. Where was Reid? Why hadn't she seen him today? He'd been so upset in his quiet, desperate fashion, so withdrawn.

  She was to blame for the whole thing. He had laid out the rules, and she'd failed to follow them. She had just been so surprised to see him, so fascinated by what he was doing in her kitchen. And she had somehow taken it for granted that he was always aware of every little noise and movement around him. She had thought, in her conceit, that he would always know when she was near. So stupid.

  She'd tried to tell him, or maybe she dreamed it. She didn't know, really; her brain felt as if it had been wrapped in quilting batting and put away on a back closet shelf.

  “Good gracious, Cammie! What are you doing up?”

  Cammie turned as her aunt bustled into the room, bringing with her the smells of onions and baking chicken. She forced a smile. “I'm all right. I was tired of being in bed.”

  “You'll hurt yourself. You've been cut wide open.”

  “I don't think it was that bad,” Cammie said in dry tones.

  “No thanks to Reid Sayers,” her aunt returned in indignation. “When I think of him turning on you like that, my heart fails me. Your uncle tried to warn you. Now I hope you'll listen.”

  “It was an accident, that's all.”

  “He could have killed you as easy as not! You don't know that he didn't intend it, too, not after the way Keith was shot in cold blood.”

  “Reid wouldn't dream of hurting me.” Cammie tried to keep her tone firm.

  “How you can defend him is more than I can see or understand. I was never more glad of anything in my life than when he took himself off last night. It made my skin crawl to be in the same room with him.”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Cammie said sharply.

  “You'll think ridiculous when he comes after you again. Things like that happen, Cammie. You see it all the time on television and in the papers. There are people in this world who would just as soon kill you as look at you!”

  “Reid isn't one of them.” She turned her back on her aunt, moving to her closet, where she jerked down the first thing her hand touched, a pair of jeans.

  Her aunt followed her. “What do you think you're doing? Get back in bed right now!”

  Cammie pulled a blue oxford cloth shirt from its hanger and turned to face the other woman. The look in her eyes was both firm and sad as she said, “You're my mother's sister and my only real kin, Aunt Sara, and I love you. But I'm long past the age of being told what to do, even for my own good. I'll be fine. Why don't you go on home?”

  Her aunt's face crumpled. She turned away, then sank down on the bed to sit staring at her hands.

  Cammie closed her eyes, then opened them again. She tossed the clothes she held across the bed and dropped down next to her aunt. Putting her arm around the older woman, she said, “I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You can stay, if you like.”

  Sara Taggart gave herself a shake, then lifted her head, trying to smile though her eyes were red-rimmed. “It's not that. It's … nothing important. I'm just being silly.”

  Cammie hesitated, uncertain her aunt was telling the truth. Still, prying had never been her way, and she wasn't sure she could deal with another problem just now, no matter how small.

  “I'm a witch for turning on you when you've taken such good care of me. Please say that wonderful smell coming up the stairs is your famous chicken and dressing, because I'm starving.”

  She meant it as a diversion, but when Cammie had dressed in her jeans and a loose shirt over her bandaging, and made her way downstairs, she felt the first stirring of actual hunger. The chicken and dressing, shrimp mold, asparagus, and coleslaw her aunt served at the kitchen table smelled delicious. She picked up her fork to attack it.

  It was then that her glance was caught and held by a kitchen appliance shoved to one end of the cabinet near the door, with a cluster of paper bags and boxes around it. She stared at them for several seconds before she realized what she was seeing.

  A deep-fat fryer.

  Her appetite vanished as there bloomed in her memory once more the smell of peanut oil and frying fish and fresh-peeled potatoes. Her stomach muscles contracted, and her stitches burned as they pulled.

  What little conversation there was between her aunt and herself died away. They went through the motions of eating, but little more. Cammie insisted on helping her aunt put away the remains of the meal and tuck the dishes in the dishwater. Afterward, when her aunt mentioned, in a tentative way, that she might go home after all, Cammie's protests were no more than halfhearted. Possibly Aunt Sara sensed it, for she began to gather her things together.

  Wind lifted the ends of Cammie's hair and flipped her shirt collar against her cheek as she walked with her aunt out onto the back porch. She could see it shifting the branches of the trees with a restless motion. The cloud bank she had noticed earlier had moved almost directly overhead. A storm was gathering, the light fading. The mercury security light at the end of the driveway had already come on.

  It was that light reflecting in the polished finish of Reid's Jeep that made her turn in that direction. The vehicle was still sitting in the drive, pulled well up in front of her aunt's battered Oldsmobile.

  Cammie turned a questioning gaze on her aunt. “I thought you said Reid left?”

  “He walked.” Her aunt's lips tightened, then she seemed to relent. “Beat all I ever saw. He just disappeared into the woods like some injured animal. I reminded Lizbeth, when she called to check on you, that the Jeep was still here. Nobody came for it.”

  “Lizbeth called?”

  “Four times. At least, she did the talking. I could hear Reid there somewhere in the background, though, telling her what to ask.”

  The fear that had clenched inside Cammie eased a little. “He did make it home, then.”

  “So it seems. The key's in the Jeep; I looked. I can see if Jack will come drive it over to Reid's house to get it out of your way.”

  Cammie shook her head, the hair trailing down her back swinging between her shoulder blades. “Never mind. I suppose Reid will come after it when he wants it.”

  Aunt Sara gave her a long look, as if she knew what Cammie had in mind. She made no comment, however. A swift hug and a few more reminders of things Cammie shouldn't do, then her aunt was gone, pulling away down the drive.

  Cammie went back into the house. She walked to the kitchen, where she stood for long moments staring at the deep-fat fryer on the cabinet. Reaching out, she lifted the glass lid. It was full of cold oil with cornmeal floating on top of it like scum, and pieces of soggy, half-done fish at the bottom.

  In the other paper bags were potatoes, half peeled; plus cabbage and carrots for coleslaw; onions, pickles, and a covered plastic bowl of what appeared to be hush-puppy mix. It was all the ingredients for a feast, southern-country style.

  Reid had gone to so much trouble, and now it was ruined, most of it. It made her heart ache to see it.

  What had he been thinking as he fried and mixed and sliced? She wished she knew.

  Keith had never in his life dreamed of doing such a thing. He had never once put her pleasure before his own comfort and convenience. She had always been the one expected to do that.

  However, Keith had made a serious tactical error. He had shown her, inadvertently, that she could live alone without fear, without a man — without him specifically — with no trouble whatever. After that, the rest had been easy. When he'd come back, wanting to start over, she discovered that all trust was gone, that she didn't and couldn't believe anything he had to say. And she'd known beyond doubting that she didn't love him, had never loved him.

  What was between her and Reid was so much more complicated. They had brought such excess baggage into their relationship: the old family problem, the brief teenage attraction between them, the difficulties with her divorce, Reid's background, the problems with the mill ownership
and the decision to sell, and later, Keith's death. The weight of all these things had spelled disaster. It was amazing to her that they had managed to wrest a few shining moments from the tangled mess.

  And yet, was it really so complicated? Wasn't it barely possible that she could unravel the whole thing using a simple formula?

  Three questions, three touchstones for future happiness. A set of criteria by which to judge a relationship. All she had to do was ask what she felt, instead of what she did not feel.

  Did she trust Reid. Did she love him? Could she live without him?

  All she had to do was find the answers.

  She moved through the house in fits and starts, her thoughts and feelings as unsettled as the threatening weather. She stared out the front windows, thinking of Keith and Reid and the differences between them. She gazed out the back windows at the woods of the game reserve, thinking of Reid at the Fort on the other side of them, wondering what he was doing, and if he was thinking of her.

  She stretched out on the couch in the living room, pressing her hand to her stitches, remembering the look on his face as he knelt beside her on the floor. She knew then that she had plunged him back into the unremitting pain of that other time, and she hated it, regretted it, with virulent passion.

  She got up again, walking to the sun room, standing for long moments looking up at her own portrait with its too careful smile and the eyes wild with longing. Climbing the stairs, she walked into the guest room where she and Reid had made love that first night. In the dark, she touched the bed, and was startled by the visions that sprang, vivid and erotic, into her mind.

  Finally, she walked out into the windblown darkness and opened the door of his Jeep. She climbed inside among the smells of oil and leather and Reid. Slamming the door, she settled into the seat where he'd sat. She closed her hands on the steering wheel he'd held. Through her mind ran the times she had pressed against him, the times he'd held her. And she stared ahead through the windshield at nothing, and at everything.

  There was no conscious decision. She simply reached for the key and turned it. The engine sprang to life. She swung the Jeep in the direction of the Fort.

  Lightning flashed blue fire overhead, a dim glow beyond the headlights. The vehicle jolted along, swaying with the surging of the wind. Her stitches pulled with every movement, every bump, but the pain was nothing to the ache of doubt in her heart.

  She had her answers. Now all she had to do was convince Reid to listen to them.

  There was a single light burning at the old log house. It shone through the narrow windows of Reid's study. To Cammie it meant that he was home, and most likely alone.

  The wind nearly jerked the door of the Jeep from her hand as she swung it open. Limp green leaves were flying through the air, along with dead twigs and bits of bark. There was a crackling sound to the spider web of lightning that spread overhead. She put down her head and ran for the front door.

  She heard the bell chime somewhere inside as she leaned on the button. Regardless, it was endless ages before it was suddenly dragged open.

  Reid stood there with the light behind him, haloing the wild gold tangle of his hair, leaving his face in shadow. There was anger in his voice, however, when he spoke. “What in the name of all Hell are you doing here? You should be home in bed.”

  “I have to talk to you. It's important.”

  His gaze was riveted to her face for long moments. Wrenching it away, he stared at the long strands of her hair that swirled around her. Then, as if he could not help himself, his gaze dropped to her hand, which was pressed lightly against her bandaging. He stiffened. His tone scraping like steel on steel, he said, “Go home, Cammie. Forget it. Forget everything.”

  He was going to close the door. She saw it begin to move and shot out a hand to hold it. “How can I forget?” she demanded. “Tell me that, and I might go.”

  He drew breath, though whether to answer or to take some action to dislodge her, she could not tell. In that instant the light went out behind him.

  It was a power failure, perhaps, from a falling tree limb hitting the lines; it happened all the time in bad weather. The blackout might last two minutes or two days, depending on the damage and how much outage there might have been in more populated areas. In a way, Cammie was glad of the dark. It made her feel less exposed in what she was trying to say.

  She removed her outstretched hand from the door panel, shifting to touch the solid, warm wall of Reid's chest, feeling him flinch from the touch. “Please,” she said. “There's so much I have to tell you. I know this may not be a good time or place, but if I don't do it now, I may never find the courage again.”

  “Don't.” The ragged command cut across her plea. He clamped his hand around her wrist, dragging it away from his body as if he could not bear the touch of it.

  She swayed toward him, pulled a little off balance by his hold. It was then, in the sudden glare of lightning, that she saw the suitcase and duffel bags stacked beside the door.

  “Oh, Reid, you can't!” she cried. “You can't go away again. I don't intend to push you into anything, or even to say what you might not want to hear. But I can't stand it if you go.” She reached out to grasp his shirt in her free hand as she moved closer. “What happened last night was an accident, nothing more. I won't let you—”

  The shot exploded with a flat, hard report. Above Cammie's head there was a rushing, soundless whistle. The door frame shattered into stinging splinters.

  She was yanked forward with hard strength, caught in a rough embrace. Immediately she was spun free. She tripped over a duffel bag and came up against the side wall with a jar that made her draw a gasping breath of pain and protest. At the same time, the door of the Fort slammed shut.

  “Get down,” Reid rasped.

  The solid thud of a bar sliding into place at the door was echoed by the blasting of a rifle in quick succession. The shots thumped into the thick, heavy door. Reid ducked away in haste, a moving shadow among the dark shadows of the room.

  Cammie slid to the floor, glad to relax her trembling knees. Her voice a strained whisper, she said, “Why? For God's sake, why?”

  “He wants us dead.”

  She ignored the irritation in his voice for being forced to state what he considered the obvious. “Yes, but for what reason? And who can it be?”

  Reid was moving in and out of rooms, slamming what appeared to be shutters of some kind over the glass in the windows. “For now, he's just a sniper. One who made a bad mistake.”

  Reid's voice seemed disembodied as he advanced and retreated in the dark. At the same time, it was so quietly lethal that it sent a chill along her spine. She moistened her lips. “What are you saying?”

  “He's in my territory, he's going one on one, and he's shown his hand. More than that, he picked the wrong first target: you instead of me.”

  “Me?”

  “You moved, or he would have had you.” Reid's voice came to a sudden, compressed halt, as if his words were cut off by lack of air. When he spoke again, the sound was closer, almost at her side.

  “That won't happen again, not ever,” he said with grim and implacable promise. “Whoever is out there may not know it yet, but he's mine.”

  21

  REID SWUNG AND GLIDED FROM THE ROOM AGAIN. Cammie listened to his swift, almost silent retreat. If moving around was safe for him now that the windows were shuttered, it had to be safe for her. She got to her feet to follow, leaving the entrance area and trailing his moving shadow along the hall. Her tone urgent yet soft, she called after him, “We need to phone Bud; he can have a patrol car out here in ten minutes.”

  “I don't think so.”

  She had been afraid that would be his answer. “You can't go alone after whatever lunatic is out there.”

  He came to a halt outside his study. It was a moment before he spoke. “Whoever is out there has killed one person, maybe more. Now he's after you, and I expect I'm next on his list. If the police ta
ke him, he'll plea bargain attempted murder or maybe cop an insanity plea. He'll get seven years and be out in four or less. I don't like the idea of looking over my shoulder for him again that soon.”

  “The police frown on taking the law into your own hands these days. You're the one who'll wind up in prison.”

  “Maybe.”

  He was moving away from her again, into the study. There was a sudden gleam of light, as if from a pocket flashlight. In it she could see him crouching over an array of electronic equipment on the desk in front of him.

  She stepped toward him with her hands clenched at her sides. “That isn't all of it. You want to be rid of whoever is out there because that's the only way you can feel right about leaving. Do you think I don't know why you've been watching me? I'm not blind.”

  “Especially now that whoever is after you has shown his hand.” The words had a bitter edge.

  “I've known since you took care of Keith at the camp house,” she corrected him. “I guessed even before that, when I found you in the woods behind the house. What I don't quite understand is why.”

  She waited with tightly held breath for his answer. There was none. His concentration seemed to be on whatever piece of equipment he was taking from a heavy zippered bag. Her lips tightened before she tried again.

  “So now you've decided that you don't want to be my bodyguard anymore, and you think a permanent solution to the problem will give you the most peace. There's only one thing wrong with that. I can't let you take the chance.”

  He paused in what he was doing to flash the intense beam of light in her direction. He held it steady a blinding instant, then flicked it away again. His voice hard, he said, “If there's anyone who could stop me, Cammie, it would be you. But since I'm doing my best to keep you alive, I have to follow my own judgment.”

  Her teeth snapped together in exasperation. Turning from him without another word, she made her way in the darkness back down the main hall toward the rustic staircase. Under the stair steps was a telephone alcove of the kind that had been built in old houses back when a single, centrally located phone was considered adequate for a household. There were other phones in the house now, she knew, but this one was in the most protected place.