Survive the Night

by Marilyn Pappano

  No, there had been no reason to ask him if he was guilty. But she asked anyway. "Did you break into the bank?"

  He didn't look away, didn't avoid her gaze, didn't back down from his guilt. "Yes," he said grimly, "I did."

  "And you stole the money."

  "I tooksome money. Not four hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

  "Then what happened to it?" The money had been there in the vault when the bank closed for business that afternoon, and it was gone late that night when, after the robbery had been reported, Armstrong opened up the bank for Seth's investigation. It hadn't magically disappeared.Someone had taken it, and since Dillon had admitted to the break-in, to stealingsome money, it seemed most likely that he had taken it all.

  His expression made it clear that he knew the conclusion she had reached. Skeptical, mocking, sardonic, he shook his head. "Honey, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  "Try me."

  With a gesture toward the counter, he said, "Your milk's getting cold. You're supposed to add the flour while it's still warm." At her look, he raised one eyebrow. "My mother used to bake bread."

  Because he was right, Ashley returned to the kitchen. She stirred the flour into the milk, adding extra to make up for the day's humidity. "So what are your plans?"

  "Beyond staying alive, I don't have any. I don't know how I'm going to get out of here, don't know where I'll go or how I'll get there or how I'll live when I get there."

  "Didn't you plan ahead? Didn't you think to put some of the money aside? Didn't you realize you would need a way to survive?"

  There was the scrape of wood on wood,then he came into the kitchen, moving with care, his right arm bent and immobile against his chest. He rinsed his empty cup, set it in the sink,then leaned back against the counter to watch her. "There wasn't any money to put aside." His voice was strained. "I only took five thousand dollars, and I left that—"

  She turned the dough out on the floured counter as she waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she began the job of kneading and considered the possibilities. He hadn't left any money at the bank; Seth would have found it there. He hadn't left any in his room, either. In fact, Seth didn't believe he'd even gone back to his room; if he had, surely he would have taken the blueprints and the notes detailing how he'd intended to accomplish the robbery—the strongest evidence, along with his fingerprints, against him. The authorities inAshevilledidn't believe that he'd gone back to his apartment there. The manager hadn't seen him, and the girlfriend upstairs claimed—quite believably, Seth had thought—that she hadn't, either. Everything there had appeared untouched. His belongings had still been scattered about when they'd searched it; his clothes were still in the closet, and a few personal items—photographs, she recalled—had been left behind.

  So where might he have left the money? Perhaps with an accomplice? There had been no evidence that anyone else was involved, but that didn't make it true. Maybe he'd had a partner, and he'd given the money to this person whom the police didn't know existed to hold until the heat was off. Maybe they'd had plans to meet up somewhere and split the take, but this person had never shown. After all, why should he—or she? He or she had nearly half a million dollars that Dillon was receiving all the blame for stealing. No one would ever connect him or her to the robbery.

  Or maybe it hadn't been an accomplice but simply a woman whom he'd trusted. Maybe he'd thought her affection for him would outweigh the temptation of a half-million dollars.

  Then she looked at him and reconsidered that last theory. She couldn't imagine him trustinganyone. But hadn't he said that to never trust anyone was the lesson he'd learned?

  "Where did you go when you left here?"

  "Back toGeorgia. I stayed inAtlantaawhile, then did some traveling—Georgia,Mississippi.Tennessee."

  "How did you support yourself without the bank's money?"

  "The old-fashioned way. I worked."

  She felt the skepticism cross her face. "You just applied for a job and got hired and worked like anyone else, and the police never caught you? Why didn't they check with Social Security, find out where you were employed and arrest you?"

  His sigh started out heavy and impatient, but with a wince at the movement, it ended hushed. "No, I didn't just walk into a place and apply for a job. I worked the kind of jobs where you get paid in cash and no one worries about taxes, withholding forms or things like that."

  He was talking about day-labor sort of work, drudge jobs where a man worked very hard for very little pay. It was a tough way to earn a living. She couldn't imagine anyone who had any other choices at all choosing to live that way. But surely it beat going to prison, which was all he'd been facing.

  Giving the dough one last turn, she formed it into a ball, placed it in the oiled bowl and coated it, then washed her hands. She dried them, then carried the bowl to the hearth, set it a fair distance from the fire and covered it with a towel. Next she took a piece of fabric from the tall lidded basket that sat in one corner, got pinking shears and a safety pin from her sewing kit and laid everything out on the clean counter next to the stove.

  "What is that for?"

  "A sling. You shouldn't be using your right arm."

  "I'm not using it."

  "You're moving it a little, evenif you don't mean to.A sling will more or less immobilize it and your shoulder, and it'll help your shoulder to heal more quickly." She measured out a piece of cotton, about forty-five inches square, cut it, folded it on the diagonal,then approached him. He watched her warily—no more so, she suspected, than she was looking at him. She wished he could fashion the sling for himself. It was possible, of course, with a lot of trial and error, tying, trying on, adjusting,retying . It was also silly to even suggest.

  She slid one short side underneath his bent arm,then brought the ends up around his neck. It wasn't possible to reach high enough to tie them, though, without asking him to sit down…or getting very close.

  For reasons she couldn't begin to understand, she chose to get close.

  She took one step,then one more, until the only way she was going to get any closer to him was in his embrace. Her feet were between his, her thighs only a millimeter from his. She swore she could feel the heat radiating from his body … or was that her own warmth? She certainly had gotten hot in the past few seconds.

  Rising onto her toes brought her a fraction nearer. She could smell the vanilla bath gel he'd used this morning, could feel his breath on her forehead,could hear each measured intake and each slow breath out. She could feel his skin—warm, smooth, her fingers lingering over each small touch.

  This wasridiculous, she scolded herself as she fumbled with the cloth. She had nursed other men and had done far more intimate things with two of them. Heavens, she'd been nursingthis man for nearly twenty-four hours now. Touching him now was no different than touching him all those other times had been.

  Oh, but it was. This time he was standing up, looking strong, vital, virile. He wasn't lying in bed, so miserable that he might rather be dead, or sitting in a chair, pale with pain.He wasn't so weak that he couldn't remove his own shoes, so cold that he couldn't stop shivering, so tired that he could barely hold his head up. This time she wasn't seeing him as just a patient, an unwanted visitor, a criminal to be feared. This time she wasn't afraid—although she had no doubt that, if he wanted her fear, he could easily provoke it.

  This time was definitely different.

  She tied the two corners into a neat, square knot, adjusted it on the side that wasn't injured,then began gathering the excess fabric over his elbow, folding, tucking, securing it with the safety pin. When she finished, she took a step back, smoothed a wrinkle from the cotton and cleared her throat. "Is that comfortable?"

  Still looking uneasy, he nodded.

  For his peace of mind, as well as her own, she moved farther away, busying herself with cleaning the counter. She imagined she heard a sigh of relief as the distance between them increased, but she couldn't s
ay whether it came from him … or her.

  She'd had plenty to worry about in the past twenty-two hours—whether he might mistreat her, force her to flee with him or maybe even kill her. Those concerns, it appeared, had been groundless. He'd promised he wouldn't hurt her, had promised he would leave her behind when he left, and she believed him. But now she had another worry, one that could potentially be as big a threat to her well-being as any of those others.

  God help her, what if she was falling for Dillon Boone?

  * * *

  Moving each log with care, Dillon stoked the fire, then rested his good arm on the mantel, leaned his head on it and closed his eyes. He was tired and expecting a better night's rest than he'd gotten last night. He didn't know if it was the comfrey that Ashley had used or the natural healing process—or if he was gullible enough that simply being told that the herb would help had made him believe it as fact—but his ribs weren't quite so tender this evening. He could even manage an occasional deeper breath without feeling as if he might pass out from the pain.

  "Are you ready for bed?"

  Ashley's voice came from the chair behind him. She'd been curled up there since dinner, a wooden frame holding a piece of needlework in her lap. He had lain on the couch most of the evening and watched her work, lit by the harsh yellow light of the lamp on one side and the softer golden glow of the fire on the other. That was all he'd done for the better part of two hours, just watched her, and he had enjoyed it in ways he'd never imagined.

  It had been such a homey scene, one that would have appeared so normal to someone looking in: the well-lit room, the blazing fire, the freshly baked bread on the counter, the man stretched out on the couch, the woman bent over a cross-stitch sampler a few feet away. The only things missing were the kids at play and the dog curled up on the rug. And the conversation. The connection. The caring. The intimacy.

  He'd never had many normal, homey scenes in his life. The closest he'd come had been in his grandfather's house, where they'd had the woman, the kid, the dog, but the man—the father—had been missing. As much as Dillon had loved his grandfather, Jacob hadn't quite taken the place of the father he'd never had.

  Even though that father was one hateful son of a bitch.

  "Yeah," he said at last in response to her question. "Do you want to change into a nightgown or something?" A flannel nightgown, he hoped, something with a high neck and a hem that dragged on the floor when she walked, something that not even his long-unsatisfied lust could find attractive.

  He seriously doubted that such a garment existed.

  She was quiet for a moment,then she softly, hesitantly replied, "Yes, I do."

  He turned around and watched as she went to the dresser and took a cotton gown from the top drawer, shaking it out. So much for hopes. The gown wasn'tflannel, the hem wouldn't come within six inches of the floor once it was on and as for the neck…He couldn't see its line, but he could tell it wasn't anything high and substantial. Damnation. He'd be better off if she slept once again in that skirt and shapeless sweater.

  Clearing her throat, she asked, "Do I have to change out here…with you…?"

  Sweetdamnation, that was all he needed. Not trusting his voice enough to answer, he simply shook his head instead. With aquavery smile brought on by gratitude, she hurried across the room to the bathroom.

  Muttering soft curses, Dillon went to the bed. She'd made it that afternoon, folding the covers down invitingly. He sat down on the edge,then leaned forward to reach the handcuff that was still fastened to the frame. He wished like hell he could leave it there, wished he could trust her not to try anything during the night, but he had trusted her this morning and look what it had gotten him. She had almost escaped, and he had suffered for her attempt. He couldn't risk it again.

  So what would they do? Pass another night as they had last night, with him in the bed and Ashley handcuffed to him and on the floor? Maybe tonight she would be brave and would choose to share the bed with him. Yeah, right, and thenhe would be the one sacked out on the floor. Last night he could have slept beside her. He had been so cold, so weak, so exhausted from the pain. Tonight…What a difference a day had made.

  She came out of the bathroom, wearing the gown. It had no sleeves, a V-neck that dipped too low and was made from a fabric almost sheer enough to see through. God, why hadn't he kept his mouth shut? Why hadn't he left her in wrinkled chambray and heavy knit?

  At the couch she scooped up the afghan there and wrapped it around her shoulders. "My robe's in the washer out in the workshop," she said apologetically, uncomfortably. "It has been for days." Her gaze focused on the handcuffs he held, and her mouth thinned as revulsion tempered by resignation slid across her face and flattened her voice. "Where do you want me?"

  He almost groaned aloud.Right here in bed, he wanted to say.Underneath me, on top of me, however I can manage it. Instead, he forced some steadiness into his voice and asked, "Where do you want to sleep?"

  She glanced at the bed where he sat, then at the sofa,then dug her bare toes into the rug she was standing on. "Here."

  "You won't be very comfortable." He swallowed hard and made the offer that just might kill him. "You're welcome to half the bed. I won't bother you. I won't touch you."

  Without even a second's consideration, she shook her head. She didn't want to be that close to him, he realized bitterly. "Do you have some extra blankets?"

  She went to the far end of the room, where a large wooden quilt rack stood in one corner. A moment later she returned with an armload of quilts and started to dump them on the bed. "Not for me," he said, laying his hand on the top one to steady it. "Make a bed for yourself."

  After a moment's hesitation, she set the covers on the chair,then began spreading them out, each one folded in half lengthwise, on the braided rug. She laid two aside to cover up with, then brought the last one to the bed. "I won't be able to keep the fire going," she said, her voice subdued. "It may get cold."

  She laid the quilt, neat geometric shapes with sharp corners and rounded sides, across the foot of the bed, then returned to the pallet in front of the fireplace. He followed her, standing back as shelaid the afghan aside and stretched out. Once she was settled in, the covers snug around her neck, only her left arm remaining uncovered, he knelt beside her and secured the handcuffs, one around her wrist,one around the ball-shaped foot of the sofa. He moved the afghan so she could use it to cover her arm once the room cooled down, then stood up, switched off the lamp on the chair-side table and returned to the bed.

  The entire time she never stopped looking at him, her gaze disappointed, faintly accusing.

  He removed the sling, sliding his arm free and lifting the cloth over his head, then unfastened his jeans. Getting them off was easier this time, but it was still painful, still slow going. By the time he'd finished and swung his legs underneath the bed covers, he'd broken into a sweat and raised his heart rate substantially. He had made himself weak again … though not so weak that he could sleep right away. He lay back against the pillows, weary but not yet sleepy, and stared up at the ceiling, at the strange swaying shadows there created by the fire's dancing flames.

  "Can I have a pillow?"

  There were five or six on the bed, most of which he was using, but he took one of the others and started to push the covers back.

  "Just throw it, if you can." Her voice was soft in the dimly lit cabin, too feminine to be comfortable, too sweet to be uncomfortable.

  Sitting up, he swung the pillow into the air. She caught it, stuck it under her head,then settled in again. She was so quiet that he thought she'd fallen asleep, but when he looked, he saw that she was staring into the fire. Only this morning he'd thought that she wasn't quite pretty, that there was strength, character and generosity clearly defined in her face, but not beauty. But he'd been wrong. In this light—warm, yellow gold—and this pose—thoughtful, subdued, serene—she was very definitely pretty. There was such softness in her face and yet strength, too
. Such fragility. Goodness. Hopefulness.

  Such faith.

  "When the weather has cleared and Bessie will run—" she shifted her glance his way for only a moment "—I can get you out of here."

  "How?"

  "My crafts are sold at a number of shops in westernCarolinaand easternTennessee. I make deliveries, pick up supplies and go to craft shows on a fairly regular basis. No one inCatlin gives a second look to Bessie loaded to the max with stuff."

  Stuffthat could provide him with a place to hide. "What about the roadblocks?"

  "I know all of the deputies around here and most of the state troopers. They would never dream that I might voluntarily help you escape."

  "You think you can talk them out of searching the van?"

  "If I make it difficult enough. If I make it appear that there's no room to hide anything. If I fill it with boxes and baskets." She smiled faintly. "If I mention Seth's name often enough."