Her Sanctuary

by Toni Anderson

  “I’ve no comment,” said a voice on the TV. Nat sat bolt upright on the couch and stared at the screen. The voice was unmistakable—a soft Irish lilt with East Coast vowels.

  The footage switched to a lithe figure clad in black emerging from a large municipal building. The tall redhead was squeezed between four dark suits, and despite the cold and the gloom, wore sunglasses to hide her eyes.

  The redhead flicked a single irritated glance at the cameras and then, chin held high, eyes staring straight ahead, she walked to the waiting limo without another word.

  Eliza’s voice.

  “There you can see Ms. Morgan leaving the District attorney’s office three weeks ago, guarded by four federal officials. She hasn’t been seen since.”

  Damn.

  What the hell was going on?

  ****

  Elizabeth made a real effort. She wore a dress—black, round-necked, with three-quarter length sleeves—that reached half way down her calves.

  Understated.

  It was also soft and clingy, revealing the curves she’d so far hidden beneath big shirts and thick coats.

  Understated, but sexy.

  Not that Nat noticed—there was a sternness to the set of his jaw as he loaded the wood-stove, a seriousness to his expression that reflected her inner thoughts. Absently, she smoothed the material along her thigh, watched his competent hands handle the logs with strength and economy, his mind seemingly absorbed by the task.

  The smell of coffee mingled with the acrid taint of wood smoke and brought the down-home feel all the closer. She lifted her mug to her lips and took a sip of the bitter brew.

  Van Morrison crooned in the background.

  Nat hadn’t said much since he’d walked in the door, but she was the one who needed to do the talking.

  “There’s no chance of getting enough money to pay off the loan without selling that land?” Okay, so she was avoiding the issue.

  Nat’s hand slowed and paused. He stared down at the wooden floor as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

  “Nope,” he said, his voice tight.

  “I’ve got money,” Elizabeth offered. She put her coffee mug down on a side-table and took a step forward. He frowned at her, but she carried on regardless. It would be nice to do something for the Sullivans before she left.

  And she had to leave.

  Nat’s laser blue eyes told her to back off, but he didn’t say the words. His lips were drawn into a hard, straight line, his chin jutted out at a stubborn angle.

  Elizabeth was getting nowhere. She pulled her hair back from her face, out of her eyes and knew she should give it up, but she also knew that she could help, because one thing she did have was money and the Sullivans needed a sponsor.

  “I could,” she hesitated, wary of the cold light that entered his eyes, “...you know, lend you some, until you’re back on your feet.” The Sullivans could have it with bells on as far as Elizabeth was concerned.

  “No.” His lips were tight. “Thank you,” was forced out, cold and sharp between his teeth.

  “Why not?” Bravely, she went towards him. “I want to help.”

  As she got close, he stood up, wiped his hands on his jeans, his face a remote, hard mask that she didn’t recognize.

  “Where’d you get the money, Eliza?” A muscle jumped along his jaw. “I didn’t realize law enforcement paid so well.”

  Panic fluttered along her nerves, her feet began to backtrack.

  “I inherited it.” She lifted her chin and stopped moving, determined to do this right. Reaching out, she touched his arm, but he was as responsive as steel.

  Blue eyes were glacial—fascinating to watch—even though their inexplicable coldness punched her panic button with a quick one-two.

  “I don’t want your goddamned money,” Nat snarled and advanced towards her. Backing up fast, her heart sped up as fear clawed all the way up her throat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Anger tightened like a bowstring in his mind and then snapped like a bone. Narrowing his eyes, fury burned bright and resonant, scorching rational thought. When she backed up, he followed, livid that she’d lied to him, pissed that he’d fallen for both the lies and the woman.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been blinded by a pretty face.

  He corralled her up against the couch, planted both hands on his hips and bared his teeth in a snarl. “Where’d you get the money?”

  “I told you, I inherited it—”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Nat roared, “I saw you on fucking CNN. They think the Mafia killed you. Does that make it easier to get away with your little art scam?” Bitterness edged his voice, a sense of loss merging with his anger. He took a deep shuddering breath. “You enjoy stringing me along with your little mind games?”

  Green eyes were huge in her pale face and she shook her head, whipping her hair across her cheeks. It took him a moment to recognize the stark, vivid terror.

  Terror aimed at him.

  It shook him—knocked the breath right out of him. Anger crashed in a wave and he tried to grab her shoulders, wanting to tell her it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care, but she flinched, panicked and fell back. She scrambled away from him and squeezed into a tight ball in the corner.

  He inched toward her, but she shrieked, “Don’t touch me!” And he stood still, breathing heavily and frowning.

  She’d screamed don’t touch me! that first time they’d kissed. What the hell had happened to her?

  “It’s okay, honey. Look.” He held up his hands. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I’m not going to hurt you.” His tone was gentle and he hoped soothing. Cowering in the corner of the couch like a whipped dog, she was terrified and it didn’t make any sense. After seeing her on the news and in that bar fight, he’d figured she’d have gone nose-to-nose with anybody without backing down an inch.

  Obviously, he’d been wrong.

  Walking over to the fireplace, he gave her time and space to get herself together. He wanted to haul her into his arms and comfort her, but knew it was too soon to touch her.

  He’d never raised a hand to a woman in his life, had never even considered it. But some bastard had. Nat tried to hide the dismay that burned like an ulcer in the pit of his stomach. Man, he’d like to get his hands on that sonovabitch.

  “I saw you on television, Eliza.” Frustrated, he propped his hand against the wall, scrubbed the other hand over his face. “I recognized your voice and I wanted to know what the hell was going on, but I sure as hell would never hurt you.”

  He followed her with his eyes, stayed perfectly still as she got up and turned off the music with a click that left the room in booming silence.

  Devoid of emotion, she spoke in a flat voice. “I worked undercover for the FBI. The art forgery story that the press reported was part of my deep cover background that we—the FBI—put together, designed to draw in the crooks. If they reveal I was an undercover agent the other operatives I worked with might be in jeopardy.”

  The FBI...Jesus, it sounded crazy but...it fit.

  “Okay...” Nat paused and looked for any hint of subterfuge, didn’t see anything but naked hurt. “So where did you get the money?”

  A brittle burst of laughter splintered into a sigh of resignation. “What does it matter, Nat?”

  Fear began to sink in. Fear that he might have crossed a line he hadn’t even known existed. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” Nat walked slowly towards her, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He lifted a hand to touch her cheek, but she jerked away.

  “You didn’t scare me, Nat.” Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. “I did that all by myself.” She lifted her head and looked him in the eye, her eyes narrowed in warning, her voice still trembling.

  “There’s something else you should know. I was raped. In New York. I was raped and I’m not good at any of this anymore.”

  Nat closed his eyes and forced himself to stand very still. Regret poured through hi
s veins that he hadn’t been there to protect her, along with fury so potent it blasted his mind. That someone had used her that way, injured her that way, ripped at him.

  Not looking at him, she stared down at her hands fisted in front of her. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it. You just have to leave.”

  He’d suspected the worst. Shit, she slept with a loaded gun under her pillow. Swallowing hard, he blinked away the tears that burned the edge of his vision. He’d hoped he’d been mistaken...

  But he hadn’t been mistaken.

  Eliza was fighting her own tears, blinking back pools of liquid. He wanted to pull her close, comfort her against his chest and hold her safe, make everything better, but rage simmered within him and he knew if he stayed it would spew out like lava and probably scare the hell out of her.

  She didn’t need that.

  Gently he reached out and rubbed a strand of her dark hair between his thumb and his forefinger. It felt like raw silk against his rough skin, and nearly made him choke on the wanting.

  “What’s your real name?” he asked softly. He needed to know.

  “I never lied to you about the important things,” her voice was just above a whisper. She glanced up, unshed tears sparkling in her eyes. “My mother called me Eliza.”

  He took a half step toward her, but she held out her palm to stop him.

  “Go,” she said.

  He started to protest, gave up when he realized it was useless. She needed time alone, and hell, he needed time to think. He’d screwed up badly, should never have raised his voice to her, no matter how pissed he was. A burst of panic shot through him, but he resolutely crushed it. He’d make it right somehow, but not now. The barriers she’d thrown up would take more than a few careful words to penetrate.

  Picking up his hat and old suede jacket, he paused. “I’m sorry. Sorry for yelling, sorry for being an ass and real sorry about what happened to you, Eliza.” There was nothing he could do or say that would heal the wounds, but he needed her to know. “It doesn’t change the fact that I still want to hold you, but I guess it does mean I’ll back off, until you tell me it’s okay.”

  She didn’t look at him, just stared down at her hands twisting the gold signet ring she wore on her pinkie—as unreachable and isolated as a granite mountaintop.

  Walking out the doorway, Nat stood outside the cottage, uncertain and dazed. Before he could change his mind the lock turned, and the deadbolt slid into place. Placing the flat of his hand against the smooth wood of the door he leaned against it, felt the cold like ice.

  She didn’t want him.

  And he couldn’t blame her.

  Rage stole through his system at the thought of someone hurting her, making it hard to breathe. His hands tensed into useless fists that clenched and unclenched at his side. Jerkily he pulled on his jacket, made his way back toward the main house. The silver moon rode high and proud in the night sky and he wanted to kick himself. If she ever spoke to him again—and that was a big if—he wanted her not to cower with fear if his voice rose a couple of decibels. And she was going to learn to trust him enough to tell him all the bad stuff, all the hurt and all the secrets.

  Assuming she stuck around...

  Visions of her sneaking away in the middle of the night made his heart stutter in his chest. It was exactly the sort of sneaky thing that she’d do. Disappear, without a word.

  Well hell. What the heck could he do about it? Except maybe disable the Jeep?

  Eliza had grabbed his senses and Nat didn’t want her to leave. Not yet.

  She was beautiful, but it wasn’t just that. Fiercely independent and violently passionate she seemed held together by nothing more than dogged determination. And he couldn’t get over the aching vulnerability that shone in her eyes when she lost her defenses.

  And he’d hurt her.

  Nat rested his chin on the smooth wooden rails of the fence that ran along the back of the horse barn. Eliza was the best goddamned thing that had happened to him in a long time, but he had absolutely nothing to offer her.

  She’d been violated and hurt. Now she was on the run from the mob.

  Christ.

  He grabbed the rails, heaved himself up to sit on the fence, and stared up at the moon.

  The stars were bright against the inky night sky. The moon glowed like a fat, silver coin, silently aiding the predators of the night. The smell of pine from the woods mixed with the scent of horses and an owl hooted nearby.

  A wolf called out from the hills, a long, drawn out cry. The sound raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck, its loneliness echoed within his heart. Nat looked back at the cottage—dark now, shrouded in complete and utter blackness—void of light. The wolf howled again, its loneliness tangible. Only silence answered it, silence pierced with longing.

  ****

  Vermont, April 13th

  “Where is she?” Marsh leaned over her, clutched the arm of the sofa, rapidly losing his patience. Gravelly tones flowed from the stereo, accompanied by the log fire that crackled and spat in the big stone fireplace. Josephine lifted her chin. Her bottom lip stuck out at a mutinous angle.

  “Shit.” Marsh dropped his head with a slump and moved away from her. “Exactly how long are you going to sulk, Princess?” He worked hard to keep his voice level and controlled, forced his concentration to remain on the job at hand.

  And gave up.

  Rubbing the back of his neck where tension had knotted the muscles into painful bands, he slouched down on the leather couch, stared into the bright orange flames of the fire. It was dark outside, pitch black as only a forest can be. The nearest cabin was miles away, across the lake, hidden by trees. He’d been waiting for her to give him the slip for the last forty-eight hours, but so far she hadn’t budged an inch.

  So he was stuck babysitting the babe from hell.

  He watched as she got up and padded barefoot across the hardwood floor to the wet bar. He noted the delicate arches of her feet and the cute toenails painted different colors. Figured. She poured two drinks, fussed over the ice bucket and dropped a cube on the floor. It skittered under the table and Marsh averted his eyes from her backside as she bent down to pick it up.

  She straightened and carried a glass of whiskey over to him, placing it mutely on the table beside him. Then she went and sat back down, sipping a cool glass of lemonade.

  Why the hell was she being nice to him now?

  She’d called a cell phone the other day but hadn’t gotten a reply. The number had been registered to a Jane Smith, but Marsh was convinced it was Elizabeth’s. They were tracking and tracing calls, but so far nothing. Maybe they’d get lucky.

  And the way things were going—maybe not.

  The names Josephine had called him when she realized he’d drugged her had boggled even his experienced mind—and he’d been in the Navy. Luckily she didn’t suspect about the tracking device.

  He tapped his long blunt index finger against the crystal whiskey tumbler. He was well and truly aggravated, but he wasn’t going to allow Josephine Maxwell to psyche him out. She hadn’t spoken since yesterday morning, after he’d refused to let her attend either her father’s, or Marion Harper’s, funeral. He couldn’t blame her, but wasn’t about to sacrifice her on a sentimental whim.

  But now her silence was beginning to irritate him, the childish stunt grating on his nerves like a constantly plucked violin string. However, he knew that, if she realized he was rattled, she’d never speak to him again.

  Steve Dancer, his technician, had bought clothes and supplies. Now Josie was decked out in a utilitarian navy-blue cabled sweater and soft cotton leggings. Dancer brought her a pair of boots, but she’d said she preferred the ugly old black Doc Martins she’d had with her. Everything Dancer had picked up had been black or navy as per bureau mandate, but Marsh had to admit the dark color suited her.

  She’d vehemently denied knowing where Elizabeth was or what her plans were. They’d made the switch and disappeared, end
of story.

  Marsh didn’t believe her.

  “If we don’t find Elizabeth soon, the mob will.” He stared trance-like into the blaze, defeat settling over him like a blanket. But this wasn’t just about him losing. This was about life and death. And Josephine was playing games.

  He sipped his Scotch then put it back down on the side table.

  She watched him always.

  “Why are you so sure they’ll find her?” she asked. She tossed her fine blonde hair over one shoulder. “You can’t.”

  He blinked. Suppressed a smile. She was talking to him again.

  “You. You’re the weak link.” He carried on staring at the fire, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “I can’t lock you up forever.” Marsh ignored her smirk. “And as soon as you resurface, people are going to start to ask questions.” He turned and studied the perfect bone-structure. “You have the kind of face people never forget.”

  He wouldn’t forget it. She was engraved on his conscience like an etching. And he wanted her, and that aggravated the shit out of him. “Why do you hate me so much, anyway?” Marsh asked her, his curiosity piqued. “I’ve never done anything to you.”

  Josie sat quietly and for a moment he thought she was going to resume her silence. “You recruited her, didn’t you?” she said.

  “Yeah.” Confused he raked his hands through his short hair. “But she wanted to do it. I didn’t force her or—”

  “Of course she wanted to do it! Her parents were blown to bits by terrorists when she was a child. What kid wouldn’t want to get a chance to get back at the bad guys?”

  “She wanted to do it,” Marsh repeated.

  “It was like recruiting Peter Pan or Ariel—”

  “She wasn’t a kid when I took her on,” Marsh cut in.

  “I’m not talking about her age!” Josie shouted, sounding frustrated. She blew a strand of hair out of her mouth. “She was an innocent. You took that from her.”