Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1)

by Jennifer Blake

  It would serve him right if she wasn’t here when he got back. She could walk down to the gas station she’d seen a half mile back. With any luck, she could catch a ride and be in New Orleans well before noon.

  She couldn’t do it. For one thing, Lance would likely chase her down before she got out of the parking lot. More than that, she didn’t want to leave.

  The few minutes spent in Lance’s arms had been the most secure she’d known since before they took her mom away. He’d told her there was no such thing as safety, but it could be he didn’t want her to grow too dependent on him.

  It wasn’t likely now, was it? His kiss under the big pine had not been about the soft darkness of the night, the overwhelming attraction between them or even the pleasure of their dance under the moon. No, indeed. It had been about fulfilling his duty to protect her.

  She didn’t want to be a duty. She didn’t want him to risk his life for her.

  What did she want?

  She didn’t want to die, that much was certain. She longed to be free of this ordeal, free to decide exactly where she stood and what was possible for her. Was that too much to ask?

  She was a widow, a fact she kept coming back to in order to believe it. She’d feared Bruce was dead for days, but that wasn’t like knowing it for a fact. It seemed she should feel deeper sorrow, but all she could muster were a few tears and regret for what might have been. She’d been retreating from him for months, so perhaps it was natural that this seemed only a final separation. The sad part was that she also recognized an element of relief. That was added to her anger at the mess he’d left behind. Somehow, grief had been trumped by the fear of being killed or causing Lance’s death.

  The part of her life that Bruce had controlled was over; it was time for the next phase to begin.

  It was ironic that circumstances had placed her in the control, nominal at least, of another man. She didn’t have to stay put, of course; she’d learned that much from her time with Bruce. She was her own person. From this moment, her fate would be what she made it.

  Life-changing decisions would have to wait; she was too tired to think right now. She and Lance had driven at least three hours, maybe more, since leaving the campground. Adrenaline kept her awake during that time, but was fading now, leaving her shaky and exhausted. Only a couple of hours remained before the early dawn of summer, she thought, with a glance at the sky above the parking lot’s floodlights. She should probably make the most of them.

  Lance’s bed was folded over upon itself since the slide-out was pulled in and locked. Three feet or so of mattress was still available at its foot, however, enough for her to stretch out cross-wise for a bit. The pull of it was too strong to resist, much stronger than the prospect of ice cream.

  She was dozing when she heard the outer door open and close. For an instant, no other sound came, as if Lance paused to look for her. She didn’t know how much he could see in the dim light coming in around the blinds, but kept her breathing slow and even anyway.

  The crackling noise of plastic bags came as he set his purchases on the kitchen counter. The refrigerator light came on when he opened its door to put away the ice cream. She thought he stood for a moment, gazing at her in that extra bit of light, and her heartbeat surged.

  He must have decided to let her rest. He opened a kitchen drawer with the smallest of scraping noises, and then moved forward, away from her.

  A muted snap sounded, and Mandy opened her eyes a fraction to see him removing the lid from a pint of ice cream. He sat down at the table and picked up a spoon, eating his treat in the dark.

  His actions were considerate, even gentlemanly. They were also in keeping with his stance on fraternizing with a female suspect. Why, then, was the total lack of reaction to finding her in his bed so painful? Her chest ached, her throat felt tight and her eyes burned. Tears seeped through her eyelids and plopped onto the pillow she’d pulled beneath her head.

  She wasn’t optimistic enough to expect the kiss they’d shared to change how things stood. No, its purpose had been crystal clear; he’d been protecting her. It was difficult to accept that he’d felt nothing, however, when her world had spun on its axis.

  Well, all right, the kiss wasn’t the only cause for distress. It had been a long, upsetting night on top of weeks of tension. She’d been kidnapped, shot at, and hunted down while she ran and hid like a sacred rabbit. She was tired, so tired of it all.

  What she ought to do was get up, walk to where Lance sat, and remove the ice cream from his hand. She should eat what was left on his spoon, and then sit down on his lap. Yes, and what then?

  She should kiss him until he couldn’t think, as he had kissed her under the big pine. It wouldn’t be because of who could see them, however. It would be because she wanted to, because she wanted him.

  That would be taking charge with a vengeance, wouldn’t it?

  Yes, she should give Lance Benedict the surprise of his life. She might, too. One day.

  Right this minute, she didn’t have the energy. No, nor the courage.

  Chapter 11

  After a couple of hours on the table’s make-down bed arrangement, Lance had profound sympathy for Mandy’s nights spent there. He dozed in fits and starts, and woke with an aching back from the hard cushions and the need to keep his knees bent. The discount store’s bright floodlights that surrounded the RV didn’t help matters, either.

  Finding Mandy in his bed, or as close as she could get without running out the slide, was the main source of his sleeplessness. Did it mean something he’d missed that she was there? Or had she simply been looking for a decent place to crash?

  He wished he knew, but didn’t dare ask. The answer might be something he would hate hearing as joining her in that bed wasn’t an option.

  She was still asleep, stretched across the foot of the mattress with her back to the rest of the RV. He eased off the torture rack of a sleeping place and pulled on his clothes. Picking up the plastic bag holding the two new cell phones, he slipped out the door.

  He stood for a moment, breathing the early morning freshness as he took stock of the parking lot. It was still quiet at this hour, with only a dozen or so cars in front but more than before in the employee parking lot over on the far side. The travel trailer that had screened the RV to their left was gone, and so was the eighteen-wheeler farther up. Lance had heard them move out earlier. There wasn’t a lot he could do about their semi-exposed position now except get back on the road as soon as possible.

  He walked away from the RV. Once he was sure the sound of his voice wouldn’t wake Mandy, he punched in the private number for the Chamelot sheriff’s office.

  “You’re where?” Sheriff’s Tate’s wrathful amazement came through loud and clear.

  Lance couldn’t help grinning, though he launched at once into the events at the campground that led to their midnight departure and present location.

  “That does it,” the sheriff declared. “This business is getting out of hand. On top of that, the lady is wanted for further questioning in the murder of her husband.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Disbelief hardened Lance’s voice. The plastic bag he held crackled as his hand tightened on it.

  “Not my idea. It’s the NOPD suggesting I get her in the office to talk to her.”

  “No arrest warrant?”

  “She’s a person of interest, one they hope will confess. You know how it goes.”

  “They’re barking up the wrong tree. She had nothing to do with Caret’s death.”

  “And you know that because she say’s so?”

  “I’m also inclined to believe her.”

  “Guess she has you fooled, huh? No, Lance, you’re being conned by an expert. The woman’s in this up to her chin, or so the guys in New Orleans tell me. Bring her in.”

  “What?” Lance held the plastic bag closer to the phone, crinkling it with his fingers for all he was worth. “You’re breaking up. Must be—bad connec—cheap pho
ne. Didn’t catch—you said?”

  “I said bring her in, Lance. Bring her in right now!”

  “Ring again, but leave—right now? That what—said? Yeah—will do.” He made the bag crackle a bit more for insurance while talking over the blue streak the sheriff was pouring into his ear. “Sorry. Nothing—static. Need to go. Catch—later.”

  He punched the off button in the middle of that last word, and then stood staring at the phone with disgust. Since when had Sheriff Tate paid any attention to the police bureaucracy down in the Big Easy? He was usually more independent than God. That he’d taken it into his head to treat Mandy like a hardened criminal was ridiculous.

  Right, and when had he become so sure she wasn’t?

  Lance scowled as he considered that question. Was it last night, or from the moment he met her? When he’d looked into her wary, sea-green eyes, or when he’d held her in his arms?

  Had he been royally conned, as he’d just been told? Or was he right about Mandy and every other lawman in the state of Louisiana was wrong?

  He wished he knew. He really did.

  The cell in his hand began to ring, a strident sound like an old-fashioned land line. It had to be the sheriff after he’d used call-back mode for the number; not another soul knew he had the damned thing.

  An over-sized trash can that had lost its top sat a few yards away, rolled up against the tree-trunk sized pole for a set of floodlights. Shaking his head, Lance took aim and did a fast, overhead basketball throw of the cell phone. It was a no-netter, hitting the trash can opening like ringing a basket.

  “And the crowd goes wild,” he muttered, holding that pose a second. Then he stuck the second cell phone into his back pocket, and walked close enough to discard its plastic bag.

  Job well done. Dusting his hands, he spun on his heel to head back toward the RV.

  The thud and swishing sound of a shot came in the same instant as the burning pain above his temple. He hit the pavement, grunting with the impact. Faster than thought, he heaved over, rolling behind the trash can and the big floodlight pole next to it.

  More shots pinged as they hit. Bits of concrete paving kicked up in stinging fragments. Scrabbling on all fours, Lance dove for the bulk of a nearby truck, putting the three-quarter ton with its toolbox between him and the shooter. He rolled beneath it, dragged himself behind the rear wheel.

  His heart was racing, his breathing hoarse. His scalp burned in a long groove, and he could feel the warm wetness of blood trickling down the side of his neck. All he could think of was Mandy alone and scared in the RV. He’d give everything he owned for his Glock that was in the driver’s side door pocket.

  Swearing, he raised his head a few inches to take stock.

  Another shot gouged metal and paint. He jerked back down as it showered from the fender above him.

  No one was anywhere near the RV, not yet anyway. The rounds were coming from somewhere off to the right, near the outdoor plant area and employee parking lot. If he could get a line of sight on the location of the shooter, he might try a run for the vehicle. The problem was crawling from his cover long enough to do that.

  The thought barely crossed his mind before he heard the roar of an engine. Powerful yet muted, it seemed to be heading toward him.

  He risked crawling forward for another look, caught the reflection of floodlights on chrome. Focusing on it from his low vantage point, he made out the speeding shape of a black sedan. It streaked behind a line of parked cars and swerved into the pedestrian lane outside the store front. A woman emerging from the automatic doors screamed and dodged back inside the building.

  On the car came, while the shooter hung out the rear window, weapon in hand. In seconds, it would be even with the lane where the truck sheltering him was parked. He’d have nowhere to hide once it made the turn.

  He wasn’t taking it lying down. Using his elbows, he scuttled backward, getting ready to spring up and run.

  It was then he heard the RV’s diesel engine fire up. From where he lay, he could see the wheels start to turn. It accelerated suddenly, reversing out of its slot before slamming to a stop. Rubber squealed as it surged forward.

  “What the hell, Mandy?” he whispered while blank terror gripped him. “What are you doing?”

  She was driving; he could just make out her pale, slim shape behind the wheel. From the thundering acceleration of the engine, the way it gathered speed with every turn of the wheels, she must have her foot rammed all the way to the floorboard.

  The roar of the two engines seemed to merge in his head, growing louder every second. He could feel the vibration of them through the pavement under him, sense it in his chest. The small motor home thundered past him, racing on a collision course with the black sedan that was making the turn down the parking lane, heading toward him. With sickening clearness, he saw an arm with a handgun extend from the sedan, aiming at its driver.

  His eyes burned as he followed the gray streak that was the RV. The dull thuds of silenced shots rang out like distant fireworks.

  “God, Mandy,” he breathed, a formless prayer.

  He knew what was going to happen even as the bulk of the RV blocked his view. Nothing he could do would stop it. In his mind, he could hear Mandy’s voice telling him a car could become a weapon, explaining how she’d used hers that way before, when she was abducted.

  She was doing it again. She was going to ram the black sedan.

  The heavy RV hit with a thunderous crash. Lance ducked, cursing, as brakes screamed, engines whined, and flying pieces of chrome and glass blew past him. The lighter vehicle skidded sidewise with smoke billowing from its tires.

  Abruptly, it went airborne. Hurtling into a long van parked in a handicapped slot, it folded like black origami. The noise faded into silence.

  It didn’t last. Steam began to spew and glass fell in a tinkling shower. Car alarms blasted, becoming an endless wail. Above it all, Lance heard the RV’s diesel grind as it was thrown into reverse.

  Mandy was okay. She was still at the wheel. He could breathe again.

  She backed away from the carnage, and kept coming until the RV was even with the truck where he lay. Directly opposite, she screeched to a halt.

  He rolled into the open, pushed to his feet. He swayed as darkness crowded the edges of his vision, but rallied as he saw Mandy scramble across from the driver’s seat and throw open the passenger door.

  He staggered to it, caught the handle, and tried to pull himself inside. She grabbed one arm and his shirt collar, falling back as she dragged him up into the seat.

  “Go!” He meant that to be an order, but it sounded more like a plea.

  She gave him an anxious look that turned a little wild as her gaze rested on his forehead. “You’re hurt!”

  “Never mind. Get us out of here.”

  She glanced at the wreckage. The sedan’s passenger door was open, and a man was crawling out it. The woman from the store was running toward it with a cell phone pressed to her ear.

  Mandy’s face turned grim. She swung back and stretched past him to slam his door. Lunging back into the driver’s seat, she jerked the automatic transmission into reverse again and flew backward until the RV was in the clear. Dragging it into drive then, she took off.

  They left the parking lot on two wheels, running a caution light as they swung through the intersection and onto the highway. The RV picked up speed, dodging around slow early morning traffic, cutting it close on red lights. Soon they were out of the small town. Mandy slowed somewhat then, but the vehicle still pitched and rocked as she sent it careering down the road.

  Lance didn’t care. Blinding pain held him in his seat. His head felt as if it had been split open. The back of his shirt was wet with blood, and he could still feel its heat as it flowed out of his hair. He spared a thought for what it was doing to the upholstery of Trey’s baby, and what he’d say when he saw all the other damage, but it had little force. He went back to the parking lot in his mind, to the so
und of a shot and the stunning sight of that black sedan. It was the same one last seen at the campground, he’d swear to it.

  How had the goons tracked them down? He’d thought sure they’d used the signal from his old smart phone, but that couldn’t be right. They should still be looking for it in its shallow grave at the base of a pine tree, or at least standing around at a loss, wondering where they’d gone after burying it.

  Something else, it had to be something else.

  Not Trey, never Trey.

  Not Sheriff Tate. Impossible.

  What, then? What?

  Or maybe who?

  It wasn’t him. That left only one person.

  Mandy. It had to be Mandy who was guiding the pursuit.

  That didn’t make sense.

  Did it?

  Mandy spared Lance a searching look, while keeping one eye on the road ahead. Dismay shifted through her. He was pale, too pale, beneath the sun-bronze of his skin. He seemed out of it, his eyes glazed and lips moving without sound. Blood welled from his wound, sheeting down the side of his face with no sign of stopping. She had to get help for him, but how?

  She had been so scared when she heard the thudding impact of the first shot. She’d been watching Lance out the window at that moment, wondering who he was calling. Seeing him go down had been horrifying, though he was able to take cover. Then she saw the black sedan that had been haunting her for so long, knew the men inside had shot Lance.

  She hadn’t thought but only acted from raw, unfiltered rage. She’d wanted to smash that black car to pieces, but first she had to help Lance. The keys dangling in the ignition seemed to point the way. The RV would block the gunman’s view long enough for him to jump on board. All she had to do, she thought, was get close to where he was pinned down.

  That was until she saw the men in the sedan intended to hunt him down. The RV was far larger than the car she’d wrecked some weeks back. Her seatbelt was fastened from sheer habit. Before she knew it, she was ramming the sedan, showing the goons inside what it felt like to be on the receiving end for a change.