by Tiffany Snow
I was careful with my words. “I hope so,” I said. “But the odds aren’t in our favor.”
He looked at me, his expression grim. “Then why are you here?” he asked.
I stared at him in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“If you think you’re going to die, then why stay?”
It took a moment, but then I understood. He took my lack of faith in our chances of survival as a lack of faith in him.
“I’m here because I love you,” I said. “And if anyone can keep me safe and get us out of this mess, it’s you. But Devon, Vega has people everywhere, and now the FBI is looking for me. It seems . . . hopeless.”
He leaned across the table and took my hand in a firm grip. “You can’t lose hope,” he said. “Don’t lose sight of what you want, and don’t be afraid.”
I looked in his eyes, his expression gravely serious, and gave a slow nod.
“Okay,” I said. “I won’t.”
He studied me a moment more, as though ascertaining the validity of my words, before sitting back again and taking another bite of his breakfast.
Maybe we could maneuver our way out of this for a happily ever after.
“Try this,” I said, holding out my biscuit-and-gravy-laden fork to him.
He looked dubious, but leaned forward and ate the bite, chewing slowly.
“Well?”
The look on his face said it all and I couldn’t stop a laugh. “You don’t appreciate fine cuisine,” I teased.
“Neither of those words apply to that dog’s dinner,” he retorted.
I shook my head and went back to my breakfast, then caught him looking at something over my shoulder, his attention fixed.
“What is it?” I asked, turning to see what had him so mesmerized.
There were only a handful of customers, and I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I glanced in the corner to where a television was hung, then promptly dropped my fork.
My face was on the screen, along with a caption: “Wanted by the FBI.” The TV wasn’t loud but I could hear, “. . . escaped late last night from an FBI detention facility and is considered armed and extremely dangerous. The public is cautioned not to approach her if spotted, but to call 911 or the FBI tips hotline at once.”
The picture of me they used was one that had been taken for my ID badge at work. I was smiling, my hair very long and blonde. And it felt as though I was looking at a stranger.
I’d changed so much since the day I’d met Devon. For the better, I thought.
“Turn around,” Devon muttered. “Don’t draw attention to the television.”
I did as he said, staring at the food on my plate that had suddenly lost its appeal.
“No one paid any attention to that, I think,” Devon said. “But let’s get out of here, just the same.” He tossed some money onto the table. Scooting out of the booth, he took my hand and pulled me after him. Our exit from the diner was ruthlessly unhurried, when all I wanted to do was run. But we caught no one’s attention, as was the intent.
Once we were back in the car, I let out a sigh of relief. Devon started the engine before pulling out of the lot.
“Now what?” I asked. “If they plaster that everywhere, there’s no way we’ll make it all the way to Key West.”
“We need to change your appearance,” Devon said. “People notice you already, so you stick in their minds. You’re quite right. Someone will figure it out.”
My looks. Most women would be glad to have them, but they’d caused me nothing but trouble. Being pretty—a curse that should have been a blessing. I’d been born with pure-white blonde hair that now hung to the middle of my back, and golden bedroom eyes. I was tall and model-thin, which I had always appreciated because it was really the best figure for wearing the designer clothes I coveted.
Devon spotted a drugstore a couple of blocks down. “Get in the backseat and lie down,” he said.
I did as he instructed, climbing over the seat rather than stepping outside. We were only about fifty miles from where I’d been held, and it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that they’d spread the search this far.
“I’ll be right back,” Devon said.
I anxiously waited for him, the car gradually warming as the sun shone into the front windshield. Yet I still jumped, startled, when he opened the driver’s side door. He handed me a bag.
“Hold this,” he said.
I peered into the plastic bag as Devon pulled out of the lot. “Hair color for men?” I asked, holding up the box.
“Too obvious if I bought hair color for women,” he replied.
There were also a pair of glasses, a comb, a deck of cards, and scissors. I could see where this was going and I tried not to be upset. But I liked my hair. The thought of dyeing and cutting it made me want to cry. Which was ridiculous, even I could see that. Hair grew back. If I were dead, it wouldn’t really matter much what color or length my hair was, now would it?
“The shop assistant said there was a town with a hotel about ten miles down the road,” he said. “We’ll stop there.”
I didn’t say anything as Devon drove, and neither did he. No doubt both of us were too preoccupied wondering what we’d do if stopped by a roadblock. But nothing and no one blocked our path on the two-lane blacktop, and we only passed the occasional car. Soon, Devon was ushering me into probably the worst motel room I’d ever been in.
“Not exactly the Ritz,” he said ruefully. “My apologies.”
“It’s fine,” I said, eyeing the stained carpet. It really didn’t matter where we were, so long as I was with Devon. Though not being incarcerated was a definite bonus.
He locked the door behind us and drew the drapes closed while I sat gingerly on the bed.
“This place took cash and I used a fake name,” Devon said, digging through the plastic bag. “But I still want to be on the road again soon.”
I eyed the box of hair dye as he ripped it open.
“So . . . you like brunettes? I hope?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
Devon glanced at me. “I like alive,” he said flatly.
Point taken.
“Let’s do this,” he said.
I nodded and stripped off my shirt, wearing only my bra. No sense getting dye on my clothes. Going into the bathroom, I wet my hair, taking one last look at it.
By the time I returned, Devon had pulled out a wobbly chair from the corner and sat it in the middle of the floor. He’d laid a towel on the floor behind the chair and motioned for me to sit.
I took a deep breath as I sat down. “You have to have a license to be a beautician, you know,” I joked, trying not to think about what was going to happen.
“I’ll add it to my list of transgressions.”
A smile tugged at my lips.
“How short?” he asked, and I appreciated him asking.
“Um, I guess we’d better go above the shoulders,” I said. No way was I going to try something super short and spiky. It took a real hairdresser to know how to cut it like that and I didn’t trust Devon. At least, not with my hair.
I winced at the tug on my hair and the snipping sounds, but Devon was quick and a few minutes later, the heavy weight of my hair was considerably lighter. My neck felt weirdly exposed.
“Is it even?” I asked.
“Mostly,” he said.
I turned to look at him, but he just winked. “Kidding. Sorry.”
Glancing down, I saw my hair on the towel and couldn’t repress a sigh.
“It’ll grow back, darling,” Devon said. His fingers brushed under my chin, lifting my gaze to his.
“I know. I’m being stupid,” I said. “Time for the dye, I guess.”
That was harder. And messy. But a couple of hours later, I’d rinsed it out, blown it dry, and stared in the mirror, trying to get used to the “midnight black” Devon had chosen. The color made my eyes stand out and my fair skin was like porcelain ivory.
“What do you think?�
� I asked Devon, who’d come up behind me.
“I think it’s incredibly difficult to make you look anything short of stunning.”
It was the perfect thing to say to make me feel better.
Devon brandished a pair of glasses. “Put these on.”
The lenses were just glass, not corrective, and the frames were dark. I made a face at myself.
“Not bad,” Devon said. “You look quite different. It should help.”
“Do you think they’re searching for me everywhere in the States? Or just around here?”
“Not only are they searching for you everywhere, they’re enlisting the public to help,” he said. “I must confess, I didn’t think they’d go that far.”
“Can’t the CIA make them stop?” I asked.
“The agencies don’t always share information and sometimes don’t even have the same agenda,” he said. “The CIA’s goal is to help disarm Vega. The FBI doesn’t care about that. They just want you. I’m sure Beau will do what he can, but in the end, the search will go further up the line than he’ll be able to influence.
“We’ll wait until dark, then hit the road again,” he continued.
“Okay.” Key West seemed a long ways away.
Devon left the bathroom while I studied my reflection. I heard the sound of cards being shuffled. Coming out, I saw he’d taken up a spot on the bed and was busy mixing the deck of cards he’d bought.
“A way to pass the time?” I guessed, perching opposite him and crossing my legs underneath me.
“I’d rather have sex, but didn’t think that was a viable option for the entirety of the trip,” he said dryly.
“Well, you’re not exactly twenty-five anymore,” I teased him.
“Twenty-five-year-olds know nothing about sex,” he replied.
“So how old are you anyway?” I asked as he dealt the cards.
“How old do you think I am?”
I studied him, considering. Men only looked better as they aged, and Devon was no exception. The softness of youth had been replaced by a lean strength of character in the line of his jaw and the set of his eyes.
“I’m going to guess . . . thirty-five?”
His lips twitched. “Close enough.”
“So you are robbing the cradle,” I said, picking up my cards.
“I don’t hear you complaining.”
“Certainly not.” I layered on a so-so copy of his British accent, prompting a full smile from him. “So what are we playing?”
“Texas Holdem,” he said. “Do you know how to play?”
“I know the basics of poker,” I said. “Like Five Card Draw. But not Texas Holdem.”
“Then I’ll teach you.”
We whiled away an hour or two playing various poker games, with Devon teasing me about my poorly done poker face. Finally, after trying to bluff my way through a bad hand, I tossed my cards aside and climbed onto his lap.
“You’re terrible at bluffing,” he said, his soft smile indulgent.
“Maybe I’m fantastic at bluffing, and you’re just really good at reading me,” I countered.
“Possibly.”
I rested my head on his shoulder, my good mood fading as I looked out the window.
“You’re worrying again,” he said, his palm gently rubbing my back.
“And you’re not?”
“One problem at a time, one day at a time, one hour at a time. That’s how you deal with it. Look too far ahead and the obstacles can feel insurmountable. It’s like climbing a mountain. Take it one step at a time.”
“And what about after?” I asked. “If we do make it out of this, what then? Where will we live? How will we live? What will we do?”
Devon rested against the headboard and stretched out his legs, pulling me into a more comfortable position on top of him.
“You tell me,” he said. “I’ve been everywhere. If you had to pick, where would you want to live?”
It was one of those questions people play for games, but this was for real.
“I’ve never thought about it,” I said. “I wanted to get away from home, but I don’t want to go so far away I can’t see my grandparents very often.”
“Please don’t ask me to live in Kansas.”
His dry comment made me laugh. No, I couldn’t imagine a man like Devon living in Kansas.
“I won’t,” I said.
“Do you like the snow or the sun? Mountains or the ocean? Trees or plains?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled deep in his chest. “Not at all difficult to please, then,” he said.
My eyes were drifting shut, the exhaustion and stress catching up to me, and I mumbled a reply. The sound of his heartbeat underneath my ear was comforting to me, as was the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His hand was still lightly rubbing my back, and before I knew it, I’d drifted off.
It was dark by the time we left and I was starving, but even the hunger pangs in my stomach paled in comparison to my nerves.
Devon and I found a Salvation Army store in the small town, and we stopped to replenish our wardrobes. Though he’d had clothes with him, he’d ditched them in a dumpster because custom-tailored suits may have helped blend in with the crowd inside a city, but driving through Middle America, they’d stand out.
“You actually expect me to wear that?” Devon asked, raising an eyebrow at the plaid shirt I held up for him.
“It’s your size,” I said, “and it’s not bad. American Eagle brand, not bad at all.”
“It’s checked.”
“We call it plaid here and I adore plaid.”
“Bollocks.”
I snickered, shoving the hanger at him anyway. “Stop whining,” I teased. “They say plaid is the new black. Now be good, or I’ll buy you plaid in flannel.”
“God help me,” he muttered, trailing along as I moved from rack to rack. By the time I was done, we had several days’ worth of clothes in generic denim, cotton, and yes, plaid. I found some used tennis shoes for myself that fit well, and, for Devon, a pair of work boots that he didn’t complain overly much about.
“Expensive shoes stand out,” I said, “especially on a man.”
“Yes, that’s why I buy them,” he groused as he discarded his Ferragamos.
I had the suspicion that Devon knew all this as well as I did, and was only giving me a hard time to make me laugh and take my mind off things. And it worked, mostly. But there was still no denying the fact that the only reason we were buying the clothes was because I was being hunted by the FBI.
“Go out to the car and wait while I buy these,” he said, handing me the key. “There are only a few security cameras here, but the best ones—the ones with the clearest video—will be at the register, and I don’t want your face to be recorded.”
“Okay,” I agreed, my nerves coming back with a vengeance.
I looked at the ground as I headed for the SUV, not meeting anyone’s eyes as I passed. A man was behind me, maybe twenty yards, also walking through the parking lot. I couldn’t see what he looked like without being obvious, but I was acutely aware of him. The temptation was strong to walk faster, but that would make me stand out. Besides, there were other cars in the lot. Maybe it was just coincidence that he happened to be going to his car the same time I was going to mine.
Yeah, because that’s just how my luck had gone lately.
It occurred to me that leading him right to my vehicle wasn’t the best plan. All he’d have to do was overpower me—not difficult—throw me inside, and take the car.
I walked past the black SUV, which was parked in the farther reaches of the lot, and headed for another car. The man followed, only now he was gaining on me.
So much for coincidence.
I broke into a run, hoping I could outdistance him. What I didn’t have in strength, I could make up for in speed. My legs were long and ate up the pavement. Unfortunately, his did, too.
Doubling back, I dodged amongst the parked c
ars. I ducked behind a big pickup, crouching down as I scurried between vehicles, using them to conceal my location. Finding a shadowed spot next to a minivan, I stopped, getting as low to the ground as possible and yet still ready to run. I couldn’t see my pursuer any longer, but in the sudden quiet, I could hear him.
His feet crunched slightly on the asphalt as he searched for me. His steps were slow and deliberate, as though it were only a matter of time before he found his prey. And it was true. I couldn’t outrun him and I had no weapon. Even if Devon came out of the store in time, I was too far away for him to help me.
The footsteps were close, right on the other side of the vehicle where I was hiding. I held my breath and didn’t so much as twitch. If he’d just move on to the next car, I’d make another break for it and head back toward the store and Devon.
Hands came down on my shoulders and I bit back a scream, whirling with a fist cocked. Whoever he was, I wasn’t going down without a fight. But I froze.
“Devon?”
“What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you hiding?”
I glanced around frantically, looking for the man, but he was gone. “There was someone following me,” I explained. “He chased me and I ran between the cars to hide.”
Devon’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the lot, but the only people around were heading into the building, too far away to be the man who’d chased me.
“Let’s go.”
I obeyed Devon’s curt command, allowing him to hustle me into the SUV. But even as we sped out of the lot, my hands were still clammy with sweat as I stared out the back window, searching for the man. He couldn’t have just disappeared. But it seemed he’d done exactly that.
The incident outside the Salvation Army store had really thrown me. I couldn’t understand why the man hadn’t attacked or where he’d gone. Maybe he’d seen Devon and decided against it? Maybe it’d had nothing to do with the FBI search and he had just been a random predator targeting a woman walking alone?
As if my luck would be that good.
“You don’t think I’m making it up, do you?” I asked.
Devon glanced over to me, his brow drawn in a frown. “Why would I think that?”
“Because you didn’t see him,” I said. “Maybe you think I’m being paranoid or imagining things.”
