by C. J. Miller
Everything in her responded to his words. Her heart surged and her mind cried out with pleasure. As desperate as it was, they were words she had longed to hear. She didn’t need forever; she needed not to feel this lonely for a little while. So many reasons to keep her distance from this man and yet she reached for him, skimming her fingers down his arm to his hand. He tensed slightly but didn’t pull away. He was too handsome for his own good, said all the right things, and his confidence drew her, awakening her slumbering desire, tempting her to touch him, taste him.
She moved her hand under his. “Detective Truman?”
He looked at their joined hands. “Reilly. Just Reilly.” His voice was gruff. She affected him. It sent a secret thrill across her belly.
“Reilly.” His name rolled across her tongue. “Why are you doing this?”
He swallowed hard. “Doing what?”
She leaned closer to him. “You don’t have to take care of me.” But she loved that he was.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
“Gut feeling.”
She moved her fingers to interlace with his, in part to test his reaction. His jaw flexed and he looked at her. His eyes were filled with emotions she couldn’t read.
A second later Reilly came to his feet, pulling his hand away, and she fell forward on the couch, catching herself on her hands. Her arm burned, slamming her back into reality.
He looked blankly away from her at some point on the wall. “We need to get moving.”
What had she been trying to do? Touching him that way had been a mistake. She was lonely and hurting and she’d made an error in judgment. His rejection stung worse than it should have. She stood, humiliation darkening her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you.”
Reilly waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it again. You’re going through a rough time.”
Carey swallowed hard and blotted out the sense of longing he’d roused. She’d been going through a rough time for too long. She couldn’t explain it, not without sounding like an overemotional lunatic, so she stayed quiet and followed him to his car. Working to put herself together, she focused on getting out of the city and where she’d go and what she’d do next.
Staying with Reilly wasn’t possible, not without one or both of them getting hurt.
Chapter 4
Carey fiddled with the car’s radio buttons, looking for a station with music that wouldn’t worsen her headache or make the mood in the car too mushy. She was already feeling exposed, having made the mistake of holding Reilly’s hand and being rejected. Setting the wrong tone made her feel embarrassed all over again. He wasn’t behaving as if it was a big deal and she tried to write it off in her mind. Mistake with a capital M.
He was a good-looking man and he wasn’t interested in her. She could handle that. She could move on. She was an expert at moving on.
Her hand froze over the dial when she heard the Vagabond Killer mentioned.
“...known as the Vagabond Killer. The Denver police are questioning a witness who survived one of the killer’s attacks and is reportedly able to identify him.”
Embarrassment rushed out of her and was replaced by fear.
Reilly reached for her hand and moved it away from the radio dial. “Let’s switch to satellite radio. We don’t need to hear the news.”
The contact sent plumes of fire licking at her skin. She set her hands in her lap. A casual touch shouldn’t evoke a heated response. “They were talking about the case. It’s already hit the streets. I’ll bet my picture is everywhere.”
“We knew this would happen and that’s why we’re leaving the city. There’s nothing you can do about the case now, so try to put it out of your mind.”
Carey closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The case she could block. The possibility that Mark was en route to Denver to find her chilled her to the core. Could Reilly protect her? She glanced at him, taking in the rough cut angles of his face and the strength of his body. Good looking didn’t begin to describe him. Carey had trouble pretending her attraction to him was nil. What mattered most was his ability to protect her, his strength, and the street smarts to keep one step ahead of someone tracking her. He seemed to have a surplus of that. The handsome part she needed to forget.
They drove for an hour, the radio playing an endless stream of songs. Carey focused on the lyrics, anything not to think about Mark hunting her. Reilly finally broke the silence between them. “I need to stop and get some coffee.” He turned the car onto the off ramp of the interstate.
“I could drive for a while if you want,” Carey said. He looked tired and she wondered when he’d last slept.
He raised his eyebrow. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
“No.” She’d had a driver’s license and a nice car, but those things were a part of the past. Carey Smith had neither.
“Then, no, you can’t drive.” His voice was tinted with amusement.
They drove into a gas station and he pulled into one of the parking spaces next to the minimart. Only one other car was parked, another filling up their tank at the gas pump.
Reilly turned off the ignition. “You want anything to eat?”
“Sure. I could go for some food.”
He’d grabbed a box of crackers from his house before they’d left and she’d eaten most of them. She mentally calculated how much money she had and figured she could spare a dollar or two from the emergency cash jammed in her duffel bag.
They went inside, Reilly threading through the aisles of snack foods and traveler conveniences to the coffee bar. Carey kept her head down as she followed after him. The store was mostly empty, but she didn’t want to chance anyone recognizing her.
The coffee smelled as if it had been sitting since the morning, brown stains burnt to the side of the glass pots. Reilly didn’t seem to mind and he snatched a gallon-sized jug from the line of cups and filled it, adding sugar and cream. He gestured around the store. “Get anything you want. We have another seven hours on the road.”
Carey’s stomach growled and she took Reilly’s advice, picking up a bag of pretzels and a bag of gummy worms. Reilly added a few items to their order, including some shrink-wrapped subs with wilted lettuce. He insisted on paying. They gathered their stash and returned to the car.
“Thank you for this,” she said, gesturing to the food in her lap.
“It’s nothing.”
But it was something to her. No one had bought her anything in the last year. Not a birthday present. Not a greeting card. Her throat grew tight. His kindness touched her deeply. He’d think she was overreacting, so she turned her attention to the window.
He pulled to the filling station and got out to pump his gas. Carey tore into her gummy worms.
She watched Reilly, his torso visible through the window. He was a magnificent specimen of a man, and beneath his jacket and dress shirt, she guessed she’d find pumped biceps and a tight stomach. What woman wouldn’t take notice? Not that she had delusions about him. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in pursuing a physical relationship with her and she doubted he desired any relationship at all. She didn’t blame him.
She was lonely. Needy. On the run. Her life was a mess. He had his together.
But he had ignited something in her blood. He made her feel alive. And she liked how it felt to be back among the living. She imagined kissing him, running her hands over his bare skin, nibbling on his earlobes. Nothing so detailed that she got lost in her fantasies, but enough to keep tension humming in her veins.
If Reilly kissed her, his lips would be soft, yet firm, commanding and giving, hungry and satisfying. His mouth would close over hers and in that moment, he would own her. And if they made love, she would climb on top of him and then she would own him. She smiled at the idea, at owning a man like Reilly, even for a night. Undoubtedly, it would be amazing.
But Reilly had other ideas. They were witness and detective, plain and simpl
e, and Reilly seemed intent on keeping it that way.
* * *
Carey fell asleep curled against the inside of the car door, another sweatshirt she’d pulled from her duffel across her upper body like a blanket, her empty bags of food on the floor by her feet.
No one had followed them from Denver. For long stretches of highway, they’d been alone.
Reilly took another swallow of coffee and glanced over at her serene face, the red hair falling across it. For the hundredth time that day, he wondered about her, about the man she was terrified of and why she thought running was the only option. In the short time he’d known her she seemed to behave like two different women. Scared Carey, who wanted to flee and hide, was a direct contrast to bold Carey, who had interrupted a stabbing in progress, who’d stroked his arm with delicate fingers, who’d smirked at him in a way that made his mind leap to all kinds of lusty possibilities. His gaze did a slow slide down her body.
She had a “come here and touch me” look. A look he had to ignore. Of course his body had its own ideas about what he should do and most of its suggestions had everything to do with touching her.
Reilly had to maintain his objectivity and getting involved with a woman—especially a witness—would cloud his judgment and compromise the investigation. He couldn’t allow the Vagabond Killer to remain on the streets on a technicality. Like one of the detectives on the case sleeping with a witness.
Carey would be safe with him and his family until they caught the guy and brought Carey in to do a lineup. Only Vanessa and the lieutenant knew he was planning to take her to his parents’ ranch outside Ashland, and Carey had told him she didn’t need to contact anyone before leaving. That hadn’t surprised him. People on the run didn’t make friends and they didn’t trust easily.
But she had trusted him when she’d agreed to come to his family’s home. He wouldn’t take that trust lightly and would do everything he could to keep it.
He hadn’t given his family a head’s up, but he knew they’d be okay with it. It was easier to explain in person. His family would help him protect Carey and give her a safe place to hide until the Vagabond Killer was caught. They’d also be discreet in keeping her presence a secret. She didn’t just need protection from the Vagabond Killer; she needed to be kept safe from the man looking for her.
Reilly nudged away the urge to press her for details about her past. He’d promised he wouldn’t, but the investigator in him hated unanswered questions. Who was this man and what about him scared her so much?
Carey was beautiful. Strong. Courageous. Her baggy clothes were an obvious attempt to draw attention away from her curvy body. He knew what was beneath those clothes. When the EMT had been examining her, Reilly had seen the flatness of her belly, felt the softness of her skin and noticed the roundness of her breasts.
He shifted in his seat, turned down the heat in the car and adjusted his pants, which suddenly felt too tight. He’d promised to protect her, not ravage her. It didn’t matter how beautiful she was or how much he ached to kiss her.
She was a perpetual temptation he had to ignore. The case had to come first. Getting a killer off the streets would save lives. Reilly took his duty as an officer of the law seriously and with that came a code of conduct he wouldn’t violate, no matter how beautiful the temptation.
He took another sip of coffee, which had long turned cold. It wasn’t that good to start with, but he’d needed something to keep him awake. He swallowed the bitter brew and concentrated on the road ahead of him.
After driving another two hours and drinking too much coffee, Reilly needed to use the bathroom and stretch his legs. Signs on the highway had announced a rest area nearby. Seeing the entrance, he pulled off the road and for a moment, he considered leaving Carey sleeping in the car. The rest stop had a few cars clustered around the main building and several large tractor trailers parked in the rear of the lot. After the trauma she’d suffered, waking her when she looked peaceful and comfortable seemed unfair. He hated to do it. But it was better if she came with him.
Even in a sweatshirt and jeans, her hair tied back with pieces loose in the front, she was one of the most enthralling women he’d seen. He spoke her name several times and then touched her arm lightly. “Carey.”
She opened her eyes and shifted, looking around, confusion lighting her face. “Are we there?”
He shook his head. They had hours to go before they reached Ashland. “No, I need to use the restroom.” The strain of exhaustion showed around her eyes and Reilly regretted waking her.
She straightened and pulled her hood over her head, covering her red hair. “Good idea.”
They climbed out of the car and walked in the main door of the rest stop. Reilly stayed close, wanting her within arm’s reach. A healthy dose of paranoia could save her life, and the idea of her walking alone in the open, unprotected, didn’t sit well with him.
The building was stark with whitewashed block walls and a cement floor, but it had the basics—a display of maps and points-of-interest brochures, a few vending and soda machines, and men’s and women’s bathrooms.
“When you’re done, wait for me here,” he said, pointing to the vending machines. “Don’t go outside. I’ll be around the corner in the men’s room.” He hated for her to be alone, but he couldn’t go into the bathroom with her.
Carey nodded. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
Reilly watched her enter the women’s room and then hurried to the men’s room. The fewer seconds she was out of his sight, the better.
* * *
Carey glanced over her shoulder as she entered the women’s room. Reilly was waiting for her to go inside. The area wasn’t crowded and she didn’t see anyone she recognized—a good sign. Mark was looking for her, and while she’d known that since she’d run months ago, her picture on the news would give him plenty of clues about her whereabouts.
How far had she and Reilly traveled from Denver? It had to be a least a hundred miles. Was the distance enough that Mark and his thugs would lose her trail?
Carey hurried to finish in the bathroom and washed her hands at the sink. She splashed some water on her face and patted it dry with a paper towel. The mirror was smeared and dirty, speckled with chips and brown age spots, but from what she could see, she looked like something a cat threw up. She turned away. There was nothing she could do about her appearance now.
Another woman entered and as the door swung open, Carey glanced out. Two men she recognized were waiting by the door, their arms crossed, serious expressions on their faces. The shorter man had a goatee and the taller, broader man was clean shaven. She struggled to place them in her memory and to recall their names. Bits and pieces fell into place. When she’d met them for the first time, what had struck her most were their cold, dead eyes. Mark’s associates. They weren’t friends of Mark. They were his hired muscle.
How had they found her? Terror clutched at her chest. She had to warn Reilly. But how? She didn’t have a phone to call him and if she borrowed a phone, she didn’t know his number. If she walked out of the bathroom, even with her head down and her hood pulled up, they would see her. What if they saw Reilly coming out of the bathroom? Would they attempt to hurt him? Did they know to look for him?
She scanned the room for a weapon to defend herself. Toilet paper, paper towels and a few deodorizers were useless. But there was a window. It was small and higher on the wall, but if she flipped over the trash can and used it as a stool, she could pop the window and climb out.
The other woman in the bathroom shot her a strange look as she dragged the trash can toward the window. Carey didn’t care. She needed to hurry and get to Reilly before they did.
Standing on the trash can, she unlocked the window. It was an old window, pivoting from the bottom and swinging out at the top. She gave it a firm push, but it didn’t budge. She shoved it again, wondering when it had last been opened. If the dust, cobwebs and grime were any indication, it had been months. Maybe
years. The window groaned and she worked her fist around its edges like a hammer, loosening it. With a final swing, the window opened and cool air rushed in.
It was a tight fit, but Carey was determined to squeeze through. Putting weight on her ribs burned, but she quelled the cry of pain that sprang to her lips. If Mark’s thugs heard a commotion in the bathroom, they might come to investigate and see her half-dangling out the window.
Contorting her already bruised body, she managed to slide through the open window and fall to the ground outside the bathroom. She landed on her side, her hip striking first. Ignoring the stinging pain, she dragged herself to her feet and circled the building, looking for another entrance.
Behind the rest area was a small patio with wooden picnic benches...and a door leading inside. One small element in her favor. She rushed to it, pulling on the handle. It gave and she opened it a few inches, peering through the crack.
Mark’s men’s heads were bent together in quiet discussion. Wondering if they should charge inside the women’s restroom and look for her?
Her heart sank when she saw Reilly standing by the vending machines. If the thugs turned around, they’d see him. Reilly glanced at his watch. Was he getting worried about why she was taking so long? How could she signal him without calling attention to herself?
Carey closed her eyes and prayed for a distraction. Where was the large bus trip making a stop and flooding the area? In the confusion, she could get to Reilly and they could hightail it to Montana.
No large flood of people came, nor any other distraction, but losing their patience, the thugs made a move to enter the women’s bathroom. Carey’s legs seemed to think for themselves. She shoved open the door and raced toward Reilly. He turned to her, either hearing the footsteps or sensing her approach. Pressing a finger over her lips, she pointed to the front doors. He cocked his head in question, but didn’t speak.
