Christmas on the Run

by Shirlee McCoy

  “You’re sorry? Yeah. I’ve heard that a thousand times before,” he said, lifting her hand from his shoulder with a gentleness that made her heart ache. “I appreciate the sympathy, but it can’t bring them back.”

  “And it can’t make this time of year any easier.”

  “That, either.” He squeezed her hand and released it, turning away.

  She thought he was going to his room. She also thought that she should let him. Putting a door between them was a good idea. A couple of doors was even better, but she couldn’t let him go. Not when she’d heard the weariness in his voice. Not when she knew the truth about why he was awake.

  “I was going down to the kitchen.” She spoke into the silence, the words hanging lamely in the air.

  For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t respond.

  “I’m glad to hear you weren’t trying to leave the house,” he finally said.

  “I’ve been here a week. I haven’t done it yet.”

  “You’ve been here a week,” he agreed. “And you’re getting restless.” Not a question, but she nodded, knowing he probably couldn’t see her through the darkness.

  “I’m used to running every day.” She was also used to making her own decisions and doing her own things.

  “I’d take you when I go tomorrow, but it would be too dangerous.” He’d turned toward her again. She could see the outline of his shoulders, his head, his long legs.

  “It’s already tomorrow,” she pointed out, her pulse jumping as he walked toward her.

  She wasn’t a kid.

  She knew how it worked, knew how it felt to have her heart slam against her ribs and her mouth go dry.

  She’d fallen in love before.

  Probably more than once.

  But there was something different about the way she felt when she was with Dallas. It was both comforting and exciting, familiar and completely new.

  “True,” she managed to say, her heart in her throat.

  “When this is over, I’ll take you to my favorite running trail.”

  “That sounds...” Dangerous? Foolish? Like something she shouldn’t do? “Nice.”

  “Challenging is more like it, but you’re in great shape. You won’t have any trouble.” He’d reached her side, his arm brushing hers as he opened the stairwell door. She felt it like a warm fire on a cold winter day.

  They were standing so close, she could see his eyes gleaming through the darkness, and if she’d wanted to, she could have reached out and touched his shoulder again.

  “Ready?” he asked, and her pulse jumped.

  “For what?”

  “You were going to the kitchen, right?”

  Right! She’d just gotten a little sidetracked, a little distracted.

  “Yes.” She stepped past him, telling herself to do what she’d been planning—walk down to the kitchen alone.

  But he was there, and she couldn’t resist him.

  “Since we’re both awake,” she said, standing on the threshold and eyeing him through the darkness, “why don’t you come, too?”

  “I’m not much in the mood for conversation.”

  “I’m not, either.”

  “Then what do you have planned?”

  “Jazz says that hot chocolate solves most of life’s problems,” she responded, her voice light, her pulse racing. She shouldn’t be doing this. She knew it. It was one thing to spend time with Dallas because she had to. It was another to invite him to the kitchen for a cup of hot chocolate.

  “Does she?”

  “She says a lot of things when she’s awake.”

  “You’re worried about her.” Another statement, but she nodded.

  “We’ve been best friends for years. She’s the only family I have.”

  “You have Zane.”

  “I should have said the only adult family,” she clarified.

  “You also have me and my folks.” He flicked on the stairwell light, the single bulb casting a soft yellow glow across his hard features. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and the beginning of a beard shadowed his jaw.

  She wanted to run her hand over it, feel its prickly softness. She turned instead, heading downstairs, the tread creaking. “It’s not the same,” she responded quietly. “I’ve never met your parents, and you’re only here to make sure Zane is safe.”

  “You don’t know me very well if you think that,” he responded. No heat or anger in his voice. Just a statement that she could have ignored if she’d wanted to.

  “I don’t want you to feel obligated, Dallas.”

  “Obligated to Zane or to you?”

  “Either.” She’d reached the bottom of the stairs, and she stepped into the kitchen, a light over the sink casting long shadows through the room. “I asked you for help because I was desperate to keep Zane safe, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Don’t,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear.

  “What?”

  “Don’t pretend that you think things are going to go back to the way they were after this is over.”

  “I wasn’t pretending anything. I was just saying that Zane is my responsibility. Not yours or your parents.”

  “To me,” he replied, the words rough and a little angry, “family means responsibility to each other.”

  “You’re angry.” She pulled out a small saucepan and grabbed the ingredients for hot chocolate. She didn’t want any. She doubted he did. But she needed to occupy her hands. If she didn’t, she might reach for him. She might try to smooth the frown line from between his brows or massage the tension from his shoulders. She might do any one of a dozen things that could get her into more trouble than she was already in.

  “I’m irritated,” he corrected. “We’ve spent a lot of time together—”

  “I’ve noticed,” she murmured, and his scowl deepened.

  “I see.”

  “See what?” She poured milk into the pan but didn’t turn the burner on.

  “This isn’t about Zane. It’s about you.”

  “It’s about both of us.”

  “You and Zane?”

  “And me and you,” she replied.

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t want any of us to be disappointed,” she answered.

  “You’re assuming that’s what’s going to happen.”

  “Isn’t it usually? Boy meets girl. They fall in love and then out of it. Everyone involved is hurt and disappointed.”

  “Love isn’t a thing to fall into. It’s an action. It’s not a feeling. It’s a choice.”

  “Those are nice words, Dallas, but when push comes to shove, most people love themselves more than they can ever love anyone else. When they have to choose between their own needs and the needs of the people they supposedly love, they always choose themselves.”

  “Most people? Or the people that you’ve known?”

  “Most people I’ve known,” she corrected, looking straight into his gorgeous eyes.

  “I guess you haven’t known many of the right people,” he responded. He was still irritated or angry or whatever word he wanted to put to it. She could see that in the tightness of his jaw, the simmering heat in his gaze.

  She wanted to tell him that she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would always put the needs of the people he loved ahead of his own.

  She should have told him, but his cell phone buzzed and the opportunity was lost.

  He dragged it from his pocket, glanced at the caller ID and frowned.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s Brett.” His voice was still gruff with emotion, his expression hard as he pressed a button and set the phone on the counter.

  “It’s Dallas,” he said. “You’re on spea
kerphone, Brett. Carly is with me. Is everything okay?”

  “Finally! I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for ten minutes!”

  “I didn’t have my phone with me,” Carly explained.

  “You’re out without a phone at three in the morning?”

  She ignored the censure in his voice and the question. “Is Jazz okay?”

  “Better than okay. She’s started to come around. She opened her eyes a couple of minutes ago, when I asked her to. She squeezed the nurse’s hand. She moaned. They’ve called the neurologist. He’ll do a full assessment when he gets here, but this is great news, Carly. It looks like my Jasmine is coming back to me!”

  “Coming back to all of us,” she said, and he sighed.

  “Let’s not bicker over words.”

  “I wasn’t bickering. I was just—”

  “I’m sure Jazz would love to have you here as she’s returning to consciousness,” he said, cutting her off. “When can I expect you?”

  She glanced at Dallas.

  He shook his head.

  Obviously, he didn’t want her to go.

  She was going anyway. “As soon as I can get there.”

  “A time frame would be nice. I’d like to take a shower, make myself a little more presentable for when she is really back.”

  “I can be there—”

  “No,” Dallas interrupted.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she hissed.

  “It means, you’re not going.”

  “Of course I am. She’s my best friend.”

  “Hello?” Brett said. “I’m still here.”

  “I’ll be at the hospital as soon as I can,” Carly responded, running for the stairs and up to her room. She grabbed her coat and her purse, kissed Zane’s forehead and straightened his covers. She didn’t bother brushing her hair or putting on makeup, and she didn’t bother checking in with Dallas again.

  She was going to the hospital whether he liked it or not.

  She stepped back into the hall, closing the door gently and heading for the front stairs. She expected to see Dallas there, blocking her path, insisting that she do things his way. Instead, he was at the front door, coat on, hands tucked into his pockets. He watched as she approached, his expression neutral.

  “This is a mistake,” he said when she reached him.

  “Why?”

  “Because, they could be watching the hospital. They could know she’s waking up. They could be waiting somewhere on the road, knowing that you won’t be able to stay away.”

  “They haven’t tried to contact me in nearly a week. I think they’ve moved on to some other victim. Even if they haven’t, I have to be there for Jazz.”

  “I’m not going to argue, Carly, because I know how it feels to wait for news about someone you love. I’ve already talked to Chance and Jackson. They’ll stay with Zane. Just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “In case the people who are blackmailing you are waiting for an opportunity to gain access to your son. Two people are a lot more difficult to overpower than one. Boone will meet us at the hospital.” He opened the door, stepping outside before she could. His coat wasn’t buttoned, and she could see his holster beneath it, see the butt of the gun he almost always carried when they went out.

  “Ready?” he asked, just like he had in the house. Only this time, he held out his hand, and she took it, hurrying along with him as he jogged to his SUV, opened the door and let her in.

  * * *

  The streets of DC were quiet at this time on Sunday morning. Dallas was glad for that.

  He wasn’t glad they were on the way to the hospital. The move was too predictable, Carly’s need to be with her friend too easily foreseen by anyone who might be interested. What the enemy could predict, he could prepare for. Dallas could have refused to drive Carly, but she’d have resented that. Knowing her, she’d have tried to find another way to get there. He’d have done the same if it were his friend in the hospital.

  No. Not just a friend.

  Carly’s only adult family.

  That was what she’d said.

  He could admit that had stung.

  They’d spent more time together in the past week than he’d spent with anyone in a long time. He’d escorted her to and from work. He’d watched her cut and polish gems, listened to her interact with people at the museum. He’d learned the cadence of her voice and the graceful way she moved.

  “I wonder if she’s really waking up,” Carly said, glancing at her phone for what had to be the twentieth time in as many minutes. “I texted Brett before we left, but he hasn’t responded.”

  “We’ll be at the hospital in five minutes. You’ll be able to see for yourself then.”

  “I’d rather be at the hospital now,” she muttered, leaning forward and peering through the windshield as if that could get them where they were going faster.

  “If I had a teleporter, you could be,” he responded, flicking on the wipers to brush away a few flakes of snow that were falling. The hospital campus was just ahead, and he scanned the road as he approached. Nothing. No cars idling on the side of the road. No shadows lurking near the edge of the road. He wasn’t surprised.

  Things had been quiet since Zane and Carly moved to his place. No emails, texts or phone calls. No kidnapping attempts or veiled threats. It was possible Carly was right. Maybe the blackmailer had been scared off. Or scared into approaching another victim, finding someone else he could use.

  Dallas wanted to think that was the case.

  He wanted to believe that Carly and Zane were out of danger.

  He didn’t.

  This felt personal. He and the team had discussed it. They’d dug through all the information Carly had provided.

  He hadn’t mentioned it to her, hadn’t asked if she knew anyone who might gain from her downfall, but he and the team had been discussing it. Chance and Jackson’s sister Trinity had been doing some research, looking for connections that might give them a lead to follow.

  So far, they’d come up empty.

  On the surface, it seemed that Carly was exactly what she appeared to be—a hardworking single mother who was doing her best to care for her son. There’d been articles and write-ups on the work she did, but she had no website, no online presence. The freelance jobs she’d gotten had been obtained by word of mouth. She was at the point in her career where people sought her out. She didn’t seek them. She was that good.

  At least, that was what some of her former clients had said when Trinity had called and spoken to them. Carly’s coworkers at the Smithsonian spoke highly of her, too. Carly was well liked and respected by the team of jewelry specialists she worked with.

  He could understand why. He’d watched her work on a gemstone for three days, carefully crafting it to match one missing from an ornate antique necklace that was worth over a million dollars. He’d seen her place the stone in the necklace dozens of times, take it out, work it some more. She’d documented everything, taking pictures, writing notes, leaving a paper trail of her work so that a hundred years from now, anyone who encountered the piece would know exactly which stone was a replacement, who had cut it, what methods had been used.

  The work was important to her. He could see that in the way she did it, but her coworkers respected her for more than that. She had an innate kindness, a way of dealing with problems in a respectful but straightforward manner. She didn’t pull punches, but she didn’t glory in her victories.

  She was beautiful, too.

  He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed that.

  But it wasn’t her beauty that intrigued him.

  It was her smile, her humor, her easy way of interacting with everyone she met. It was the hard edge beneath the smooth surface. The hin
t of sorrow behind the smile. He’d learned a lot about her, and he wanted to know more.

  That surprised him.

  Lila had been his first real love. He’d met her at church after he’d left the military. She’d been funny and bright and interesting. He’d fallen for her about as fast and hard as anyone could. In the years since she’d passed away, he hadn’t dated. Friends had tried to hook him up, but he’d refused invitations and not-so-subtle hints.

  He’d wanted nothing to do with the dating scene, nothing to do with their efforts. Nothing to do with loving and losing and hurting again.

  But Carly would be worth the risk.

  She’d be worth the effort.

  If she decided she was willing to take the chance.

  He wasn’t going to push. He wasn’t going to force things. There was no hurry, no rush, no need to grasp for something that seemed about as inevitable as the rising tide or the setting sun. They were being drawn together. He could feel it, and he knew she could, too. What that meant, what they would allow it to mean, was something else entirely.

  A car pulled in behind him, lights flashing in his rearview mirror. Not there. Then there.

  It was behind him now, moving in close, nearly hugging his bumper.

  “What’s wrong?” Carly asked, shifting in her seat and peering out the back window.

  “Probably nothing,” he responded, but it felt like something. It felt like they were being stalked.

  “Then why do you look like it’s something?”

  “I like to be prepared. Just in case.”

  The hospital parking garage was straight ahead, and he coasted to the ticket counter, unrolled his window and pressed the button to open the gate. He grabbed the ticket, eyeing the other car in the side-view mirror.

  The windows were tinted probably a couple of shades darker than the law allowed. No license plate on the front. It looked like a new vehicle, and he figured either the owner was waiting for the tags to arrive, or it had been stolen from a dealership.

  He pulled through the open gate, watching as the car behind him did the same.

  Thousands of people visited the hospital. This could be anyone, but he had that feeling that had kept him alive on more than one occasion. The one that made the hair on his arms stand up, that made his body hum with adrenaline. The one that told him things weren’t what they seemed to be, that danger was closing in.