by Anne Stuart
She’d already tucked her hands back in her pockets, huddling into the corner of the car. Sam reached out and hauled her hand free, wrapping it in his own large grasp. “Just a little hand-holding, Phil. Our lady’s psychic meter jumps every time someone touches her. I’m going to see if I can amplify her powers.”
“Let go of me,” she said, yanking fruitlessly against his imprisoning grip.
“You could always try sitting on my lap,” he countered. “That might work even better.”
“Why don’t we just take off our clothes and fuck? Maybe then I’ll be able to tell you where Mary Nelson is,” she said bitterly.
“Sorry, not interested.”
She could feel the color flame into her face, and she cursed her fair complexion, cursed the totally irrational fact that she would even care. His hand tightened around hers, his long fingers curiously caressing, even as his expression was cold and distant.
“What makes you think I am?” she countered rashly, then bit her lip as his wintry eyes took on that damnable light of amusement.
It even reached his mouth in the faintest of smiles. “Certainly nothing you’ve said or done,” he said, his hand still holding hers.
She tugged, uselessly, then leaned back against the seat, defeated. Phil had the radio on by then, and he was whistling tunelessly along with it. “Listen,” she said, her voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry to the front seat. “We’re agreed that you hate me and I hate you. Why don’t you just give up and go away? It doesn’t matter whether you trust me—you trust Phil. He’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”
“Who says I hate you?”
“What has that got to do with anything?” She was getting desperate by this point, her defenses shattering around her.
“Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot.” He turned her hand over, running his thumb against the softness of her palm, and with a blinding clarity she could see his hand run up her red-covered thigh.
This time when she pulled he released her, and she scuttled back into the corner of the big car like a wounded animal. He watched her without moving, making no effort to recapture her hand. “I don’t hate you,” he said finally. “Any more than you hate me.”
“Yes, I . . .”
“No,” he said flatly. “You don’t. And we’ll work on that after we find Mary Nelson.” With that he leaned back and closed his eyes, shutting her out.
He was still too close. There was something warm and cocoonlike about the back seat, enclosing them in an intimacy that she refused to accept. Shut him out, she ordered herself. Shut your eyes, think of warmth, think of summer, and forget about everything else.
She wasn’t sure when his hand reached over to recapture hers. She kept her eyes closed, ignoring him, ignoring the pulsing heat that spread like fire from his hand up her arm, through her body. She relaxed her tight muscles, letting the sensations flow over her, and waited with resignation for the erotic images to continue.
They didn’t. She was back in that barren, mountainside clearing, the wind whistling around her, and she was cold, terribly, terribly cold. The truck was gone, with its bloody burden intact; the small cabin was deserted, its broken-hinged door swinging in the breeze. The snow had been blasted away by the briskness of the wind, and the hard, frozen ground was empty. No red shoe, no blood. No sign that Mary Nelson had met a horrible death on that spot.
Elizabeth was shivering, shaking with the cold, but the car with its powerful heater had ceased to exist. The man whose hand clutched hers had ceased to exist. “Take the next left,” she said out loud, not opening her eyes.
Phil knew better than to argue. The dull irritation of the car radio was switched off, and the only sounds were the blast of the heater fan, the murmur of the engine as the car climbed into the mountains, the even breathing of the three occupants. And Elizabeth’s instructions.
She didn’t move when the car pulled to a stop. “We can’t go any farther, Elizabeth,” Phil said. “What do you want me to do?”
Slowly she opened her eyes. It was getting dark now, twilight closing in around the car, but it wasn’t a friendly twilight. It wasn’t a friendly spot. The narrow, snowpacked dirt road Phil had been following had ended, the narrow track blocked with recently felled trees.
She was drenched with a cold sweat, something the heater couldn’t even begin to penetrate. “Now we walk,” she said wearily. She looked down, noting with amazement that her hand was tightly clutching Sam’s. It took her a moment to release him. The muscles in her fingers had cramped from clinging too hard.
“Are you sure?” Phil said, peering at her from the front seat. “It’s getting dark, and you look frozen. We can come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow she may not be able to find it again,” Sam said, overriding Phil’s concern.
“Sam, she’s miserable.”
“Can you retrace your route? Find your way back here in the morning?”
Phil frowned. “I’m a professional—of course I can.”
“You’ve also gotten soft. I’ve waited long enough. We walk.” Sam’s voice allowed for no further argument, but Elizabeth was already ahead of him, opening the door and climbing out into the chilly afternoon air. She could see her breath form an icy vapor, and the sight somehow comforted her. She started off, neither noticing nor caring if the two men followed her, moving with surefooted determination over the rocky ground.
She was closer than she’d realized. A hundred yards beyond the scrubby brush stood a clearing. The tire tracks were frozen in the mud; the cabin was deserted. The sun was going down in a flaming blaze of orange and crimson, and the world was coated with ice. She stood in the center of the clearing, unmoving, as the men reached her.
“Is this it?” Phil demanded, puffing slightly from the cold and the unexpected exertion.
Elizabeth nodded, not looking at either of them, her vision turned inward, closed up, unwilling to face the horror and pain that were thick in the air around her.
She was vaguely aware of Sam advancing toward the gaping door of the cabin. In his hand, the hand that had held hers so warmly, was a serviceable-looking gun. He was beginning to believe her, she thought. Or else he thought she’d led them into a trap.
For fifteen minutes the two men scoured the site as the sun sank lower behind the towering mountains. When they finally returned she had gone beyond cold to frozen, the blood congealed in her veins, the tears frozen in her eyes and on her pale cheeks. They were empty-handed, and she looked first at Phil, at the disappointment and concern on his broad face. She didn’t need to turn to Sam to recognize the frustration and contempt that would be riding him hard.
“Got any proof, lady?” he drawled. “There are probably a hundred clearings like this in the foothills around Denver. Where’s your mysterious panel truck? Where’s the body? Habeas corpus and all that? Where’s a single stinking clue?”
“Under the porch.” Her voice was frosty in the night air.
“I looked under the porch,” Sam snapped.
“Look again.”
This time she watched as he stalked over to the sagging porch, kneeling on the frozen ground with a blatant disregard for his clothes and the bone-chilling temperature. “Bring me your flashlight,” he said, his voice changing, and he finally put his gun away.
Phil moved swiftly, handing him the pencil light he carried with him. “And a handkerchief,” Sam added. “There might be fingerprints.”
Elizabeth shut her eyes again. She couldn’t shut out the sounds. The wind in the trees. The distant call of a hawk, wheeling and turning through the Colorado sky. And the rustle of men pulling evidence from beneath the porch.
“Let’s go.” Sam’s voice was gruff in her ear, his hand under her arm strong and rough.
She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. “What did you find?”
“You know damn well what we found. Mary Nelson’s red high-heeled shoe, splattered with dried blood. One cigarette butt, from a British brand. Got a
ny other messages from beyond, swami?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice shaking with cold. “Why don’t you go—”
His hand covered her mouth, stopping her. “Ladies don’t say things like that,” he chided.
“Who says I’m a lady? And how do you know what I was going to say?”
He shook his head. “I don’t need to be a psychic to guess what your suggestion was going to be. And whether you like it or not, you’re a lady. Unless, of course, you’re a lying murderer trying to fool us all.”
“Are you fooled?”
“I believe you. God knows why. Common sense and experience tell me you’ve got to be behind this. There’s no other sensible reason for you to know what you know.”
“So why don’t you arrest me?”
“I’m in Army Intelligence. I can’t arrest civilians.”
“Then have Phil arrest me.”
“Phil believes you.”
“Then what choice do you have?”
“I could kill you.”
For a moment she couldn’t believe she’d heard him. “What?”
“I said I could kill you. I’ve done it before. If I thought it was a matter of national security, the safety of millions, and there was no other way I could ensure that safety, I could kill you.”
“You’ve done it before?” She stared at him in horror, half expecting to see blood on his hands. How could she not have known? How could she have missed it? Were her hormones in such an uncustomary uproar that she didn’t realize she was attracted to a man without a conscience?
“When necessary.” His face was still distant, removed, but his dark blue eyes were watchful. “What do you think of that?”
She tried to summon forth outrage, disgust, contempt. Tried and failed. Despite what he’d told her, despite what her own common sense told her, she already knew him on a deeper level than he might even know himself.
“I think you must have had a good reason,” she whispered, her voice carrying to his ears and no farther. “And I think you must have suffered for it anyway.”
For a long moment he didn’t move. His expression didn’t change; his bleak, watchful eyes didn’t lighten. “Let’s get back to the car,” he said finally. “In another few moments you’ll be frozen.”
“I already am.” She stared down the pathway, knowing he’d be behind her, knowing that if she stumbled he’d catch her. Knowing that if he caught her he’d hold her, and if he held her he’d kiss her. And if he kissed her, she’d kiss him back. She walked very, very carefully.
She didn’t get into the front seat of the Chrysler. Phil had the red shoe on the front seat, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at it, to touch it. She climbed in the back, waiting for Sam to join her. Wondering if he was going to take her hand again.
With surprise and resignation, she watched him climb into the front seat beside Phil, ignoring her presence behind him. “We have to remember how to get back here,” he said. “You keep track of landmarks on the right, I’ll watch on the left. When you get back to town, drop me at a motel.”
Phil looked up in surprise. “You don’t think Elizabeth’s in any more danger?”
She waited for his answer, holding her breath. “I don’t know. If you think it’s warranted, assign someone to her. I’ve got to get back to Washington.”
“You aren’t taking that shoe with you. That’s part of an ongoing local investigation. You can’t just run off with evidence,” Phil protested.
“Watch me,” Sam said, his voice dry. He held up the shoe for a moment, and Elizabeth had no choice but to look at it, the elegant vamp, the narrow instep, the high heel. And the dried blood. “Who’d have thought a Colorado housewife would wear shoes like these?”
She shouldn’t have told him. He didn’t deserve any more help, but for some reason she couldn’t stop herself, and the words just tumbled out. “That’s not Mary Nelson’s shoe,” she said. “That belongs to Shari Derringer.”
IT WAS A SIMPLE enough matter to follow them, even in the darkness. They had no suspicion that anyone would be watching them, and they went about their search with an innocent openness that made him laugh with contempt. Until they found the cabin. And the shoe.
Muhammed Ali Reza felt the anger and shame sweep over him. He never made mistakes. He’d enjoyed that little bit of cleverness, making the frightened woman put on those shoes before he killed her. He’d never noticed that one had fallen off when he’d dumped her body in the refrigerated truck. Now she was lying wrapped in a tarp, thousands of miles away, one foot bare, one foot encased in a too-small, bloodstained shoe.
He had to get the other shoe. He had to silence those three people. A sharp turn on an icy road, a steep drop-off, and it would be nothing more than a tragic coincidence. They were halfway down to the city now, halfway down to civilization and witnesses. Clenching the steering wheel of his Toyota, he pressed the accelerator to the floor.
Chapter 6
SOMEONE’S FOLLOWING us.” Sam kept his voice casual as he glanced in the rearview mirror. The lights had been behind them for five minutes now. On the narrow, winding mountain road a driver would have no choice but to tail the car ahead of him, but Sam knew this wasn’t a simple matter of an innocent Denver resident heading in the same direction. The car behind them spelled trouble, big trouble, and he hoped to hell that Phil Grayson had kept some of his inestimable talents sharpened. Ten years ago he’d been the most formidable driver in Sam’s small, elite unit. If Phil was at the wheel no one could even come close.
But ten years of local police work, of chasing armed robbers and jaywalkers and hobnobbing with psychics, could have worn away his gifts. They had no choice but to find out. Phil knew these roads better than he did, and they couldn’t afford to waste time in changing drivers.
“What makes you think they’re after us?” Grayson’s voice was just as easygoing, but Sam breathed a small, partial sigh of relief.
“I know,” he said simply.
“You always did.”
Sam glanced over his shoulder. Elizabeth Hardy was sitting in the corner of the Chrysler, huddled against the cold, her face pale and pinched. “If you don’t have your seat belt on,” he told her gruffly, “you’d better fasten it. We’re going to be in for a rough ride.”
“Hey, I resent that,” Phil said, the crazy edge of excitement, an excitement they’d all known and craved too much, dancing around in his voice. “I could have outrun that Toyota without Elizabeth even noticing.”
“I don’t think so,” Sam said dryly as the Toyota loomed up behind them, bright headlights spearing the interior of the Chrysler. “I think whoever’s behind us is out for blood.”
The impact was slight, just a kiss of the bumpers, but the message was clear. “Damn,” Phil said genially. “The bastard means business.” The American car shot ahead smoothly, out of reach of the menacing Toyota, at least for the moment, as the road turned sharply to the right, heading down toward the lights of the city.
Sam looked at Elizabeth again, wondering how she’d react in the face of possible death. If anything, she looked even calmer, her hands lying loosely in her lap. “Have any idea who’s chasing us, swami?” he muttered.
“You still don’t trust me? If that was an accomplice of mine he wouldn’t be trying to kill me, would he?”
“Not necessarily true. If we are dealing with the Spandau Corporation, they’d slit their own mothers’ throats without a second thought. All for the bloody glorious cause, whatever the hell that happens to be.” Phil swerved deliberately, and Sam banged against the side of the car, hitting his head. He swore, glaring at his friend, before turning back to Elizabeth.
She had the faintest hint of a smile on her face, and he just knew it was caused by his own discomfort. “Besides,” he growled, “I wasn’t asking if you personally knew the person who’s so intent on running us off the road. I was asking if you could look into your crystal ball and tell me who’s trying to kill us. You included.”
>
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Don’t you care that you might be about to die?”
That startled a reaction out of her. She took off her wire-rimmed glasses, cleaning them on her coat, stalling for time. “I don’t think so,” she said finally, looking up at him without the protection of her glasses, her brown eyes vulnerable and defenseless and full of such a deep sorrow that it pained him to look.
He turned away from her, facing the narrow roadway, glancing at the headlights in the rearview mirror. He could think of a dozen things to say to her, starting with, “Well, you should,” but somehow everything seemed prosaic. If the fool woman didn’t care whether she lived or died that wasn’t his problem. Assuming they survived Phil’s plummeting descent down the mountain, he’d take Mary Nelson’s, or Shari Derringer’s, shoe back to Washington and never again have to deal with the crackpot in the back seat. If they wanted more information from Elizabeth they could send someone directly involved in the investigation. He didn’t want to have anything more to do with her.
He glanced in the rearview mirror, looking for the Toyota, but found himself watching Elizabeth, her calm, fatalistic expression, the darkness in her eyes. He swore then, a short, sibilant word muttered under his breath.
“What’s the problem?” Phil demanded as the huge Chrysler slid around a steep corner at close to seventy miles an hour. The Toyota was falling behind, unable to keep up the pace. “I’ve got him licked. Were you maybe looking for a little more excitement?”
“I’m looking for a good night’s sleep and a flight back to Washington,” Sam snapped. “Do you know of a spot where we can pull off and see who’s so eager to catch us?”
“I don’t know if we can get far enough ahead. He hasn’t given up on us yet, but I know damn well that car doesn’t have the power to keep up, particularly if he’s put it in four-wheel drive.”
“What if he puts it in two-wheel drive?”
“He’d slide off the mountain. I can drive these roads at these speeds, but not very many other people can. And I don’t think our Toyota-driving friend is used to snow.”
