But if that was the case, who had taken the money? Dillon had made a valid point:his fingerprints had been all over the place. Not Russell Bradley's or anyone else's. In fact, there was nothing she was aware of that might point to anyone else. All the evidence led back to Dillon, and only to him.
"You don't know, do you? Or if you do know, you don't want to say."
"It's none of your business," he repeated stiffly.
"If you'd tell the truth, maybe I could help you."
He rose from the couch and approached her, stopping a few feet away. "You? Help?" he repeated, a touch of scorn in his voice. "How? You live in a log cabin at the top of a mountain with nothing but deer for neighbors. Your only form of transportation is a piece-of-junk van that won't even start when it's raining. You don't have any money. You peddle little baskets and candles and stupid twig trays to support yourself. You play with your roots and fruits, you make god-awful tea and you pretend that this is a reasonable, rational way for a woman to live. You don't even have the good sense to protect yourself. How could you help me?"
Biting the inside of her lower lip, Ashley dropped her gaze to the floor. She was used to being considered a little odd. Weird, others said; eccentric, she preferred, or unconventional. Her mother called her a free spirit; Seth's mother called her a hippie. Her friends back inRaleighthought she was crazy, and even Seth insisted that this was no way to live. But she had never minded the judgments and the names. She had never cared much what others thought, except her family, and as long as they loved her, what did it matter if her father described her to theirCaliforniafriends as his little Bohemian?
But she cared what Dillon thought. She cared that he obviously thought she was foolish. She cared that he found her life-style—and therefore her—deserving of mockery and scorn.
Drawing a deep breath, she looked up, though her gaze went no farther than his jaw. "You're right. The only help I can give you is to get you out of here, and I promise, as soon as the rain stops, that's exactly what I'll do."
She turned to walk away, but suddenly his left arm snaked around her from behind, crossing her shoulders, stopping her short. "Ashley—"
Stiffness shot through her, making her voice cold and flat. "Don't touch me." After one still moment he let go, and she headed for the door. "I'm going over to the workshop. You can come, you can stay here or you can go straight to hell. Either way, it doesn't matter to me."
Expecting him to stop her at any moment, she took her woolen shawl from its peg, wrapped it around her shoulders and opened the door. Her mud-caked loafers were on the porch where she'd left them yesterday morning, cold and damp but comfortable enough for now. She slid her feet into them, walked down the steps,then , when the rain hit her, lifted the shawl over her head and dashed for the workshop stoop. A glance back from beneath its shelter showed the front door still open but no sign of Dillon. She couldn't believe he had let her walk out, couldn't believe she wasn't now sitting on the hard floor beside the bed wearing those handcuffs.
Lifting the latch, she went inside and flipped the lights on. The first order of business was to get a fire going in the potbellied stove. The second was finding some interest in working. Yes, just a short while ago, she had been craving something to do, had thought that working sounded like a fine idea, but now all she wanted to do was curl up in front of the fire in one of her ready-for-market quilts. Now all she wanted to do was brood.
Over Dillon.
* * *
Sinister.
Dillon studied his image in the bathroom mirror and saw that Ashley had been right. The beard did make him look sinister. Shifty. Unworthy of trust. Maybe it wasn't his usual look, but this morning it seemed an accurate reflection.
Her razor rested on the windowsill between bottles of chamomile and lavender bath gel, and a can of shaving cream—Specially FormulatedFor A Woman's Skin—was on a triangular shelf in the corner above the tub. He squirted a bit of the cream into his hand and sniffed it. Speciallyscented for a woman's skin, too, but it would have to do. Besides, what could it possibly matter how he smelled? He didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of getting close to anyone around here.
Turning the hot water on, he leaned against the sink and stared out the window at the workshop across the clearing. Through the big windows the lights gleamed yellow, two lone bright spots—three, if he counted Ashley—in yet another bleak day. He'd stood at the kitchen window for nearly an hour, watching her work. She'd been perched on an unpadded stool before the tall worktable, assembling the materials for a tray, putting them together, weaving the thin cord over and underneath the twigs. The work seemed to go quickly, not because she hurried but because her movements were so sure, so exact.
Stupid twig trays.For the hundredth time in an hour, he cursed himself. All he'd wanted to do was make her back off and quit pushing for answers he couldn't give her. He hadn't meant to be so snide, hadn't meant to insult her work or mock her choices. And he sure hadn't meant to hurt her.
Or maybe he had. Maybe his subconscious had figured that the best way to be with her was at a distance. Maybe he'd thought that if he angered her, he would be safe from her. Maybe he'd believed that if he hurt her, she would quit caring what had happened that April night a year ago; Russell would have no reason to suspect anything, and maybe she would stay safe.
Feeling the faint warmth of the steam rising from the sink, heturned, bent and splashed warm water over his face. Lathering up with only one good hand was awkward, but he managed. It would have been easier if the scent of the shaving cream wasminty or medicinal instead of sweet, light and very feminine. It would have been much easier if he hadn't taken a deep breath that made him wonder if this same fragrance clung to Ashley's skin after she used it.
It would have been easier by far if he'd had sex sometime in recent memory so that everything he did, saw, smelled and touched didn't make him think about sex—and not just sex, but sex withher. That was what he wanted. Just her.
He finished and rinsed his face, patted it dry on her towel, then stared into the mirror again. It wasn't much of an improvement, he conceded. Maybesinister was gone, butshifty anduntrustworthy remained.
He had never cared much for his own looks. From the time he was old enough to notice, he'd known that the opposite sex found him appealing, but he'd seen too strong a resemblance to Alexander Waters to find much appeal in himself. After a lifetime of being denied by his father, he'd been tempted a few years back to visit Waterston, just to show everyone that neither blood tests nor an admission from Alexander was necessary to prove his paternity. Genetics had put the proof right there on Dillon's face forall the world—all the town, at least—to see.
But he'd gotten a job offer, and there was really nothing to gain by showing up in Waterston after all these years. There was nothing he wanted from the Waters family, nothing he wanted from the town. And so, instead, he had come toNorth Carolina. If he'd had any idea of the trouble he was walking into, he never would have set foot across the state line.
And he never would have met Ashley Benedict.
One last glance out the window showed that she was still seated on the stool, still bent over her work. He turned off the light and, knowing he shouldn't bother, knowing it would be better for both of them if he stayed over here and she stayed over there, he made his way around the furniture to the armoire near the bed.
From a rod across the top on the right side hung a few summery dresses and a number of skirts similar to the chambray one—long, full, casual. Shelves on the left side held lingerie, socks and a variety of T-shirts, sweatshirts and sweaters. The first one he picked up—a sweatshirt, black and bearing the teal-and-purple logo of the Charlotte Hornets—looked adequate. Removing his sling, he carefully tugged it over his head andvery carefully slid his right arm into the sleeve. The movement tugged at this morning's dressing and made his wound throb, but by the time the shirt was on and his arm was back in the sling, the pain had subsided.
The
shirt was a snug fit, washed until the colors had faded, until the cotton had gotten soft, and it smelled of her. For months after he left here, he was going to live with her scent. It was going to infuse every waking breath and haunt him every night.She was going to haunt him.
Scowling, he sat down on the hearth to put his tennis shoes on. They were mostly dry and stiff. Rather than trying to tie the laces with his one good hand, he yanked them out,then left the cabin. He walked as quickly as he dared across the muddy ground, breathing a sigh of comfort as he stepped onto the small porch, out of the rain, then another as he opened the door and felt the first rush of heat.
Ashley didn't even look at him, but she was obviously aware of him; her scowl matched his own. She had finished with the trays in the past few minutes and was now measuring lengths of cotton wicking. Boxes of candles sat in front of her, hand dipped, rich colors—red, green and deep translucent blue. The reds and greens, when he picked up their boxes, smelled simply of wax, but the blues… They had a fresh, clean, wintry scent that he couldn't begin to identify.
"You told the sheriff that you have to send six dozen of these toSouth Carolina. To sell?"
For a long time she ignored him, concentrating harder than necessary on the easy task of measuring and cutting. Hell, this was the woman who could effortlessly lace together a rustic tray, weave a basket, dress a wound or whip up a few loaves of bread. This little job didn't need even a fraction of her attention. She just didn't want to givehim any of it.
And suddenly, foolishly, perversely he wanted it.All of it.
As he moved slowly around the table, she finally answered. "They're used in some of the historic house museums down aroundCharlestonand Beaufort."
"The blue ones smell nice. What is that?"
"A combination of roots and fruits."
Inwardly wincing at the cold disdain in her voice, he reached the end of the table, where basketry supplies were gathered, turned the corner and started up the other side. Toward her. "My grandmother quilted," he remarked, studying the quilt in the frame on the opposite side of the room. "I have—Ihad some of her quilts inAsheville. I guess they're gone now."
He had asked the deputy only one question before they'd reached Sadler's Pass: what had happened to the personal belongings left behind in his apartment when he'd fled the state? He'd broken the lease, Coughlin had explained, and under the law, the landlord was entitled to box up everything left behind and dispose of it however he wanted. Dillon hadn't had much and had cared about little of it, but he would have liked to have his grandmother's quilts, the family Bible that had passed to him on his grandfather's death and the family photographs. He wondered what the landlord had done with it all—kept or sold the quilts, probably, and tossed the rest. Who wanted a Bible documenting a family of strangers or snapshots of people they'd never known?
He stopped right beside Ashley. She pretended not to notice, but he saw the faint tremble in her hands. Was she uncomfortable because he was invading her space? A little nervous because she sensed that something was going to happen? Or uneasy because she meant what she'd said in the cabin?Don't touch me. It wasn't the words that had made an impression on him so much as the emotion behind them. Anger. Insistence. Revulsion?
She continued to work, continued to ignore him until he reached out and laid his hand over hers. Instantly she went still, as motionless and lifeless as the slab of wood in the middle of the table. She didn't move, didn't blink,didn't even breathe. For a moment he forgot to breathe, too. When the tightness in his chest reminded him, he drew a breath that was fragrant with her varied scents—honeysuckle from this morning's bath, almond from the shampoo they had both used, roses from the lotion on her hands. They were simple scents, homemade every one of them, and they were sweeter, more intoxicating, more enticing than the most expensive designer fragrance in the world.
He moved a step closer, so close that when he spoke, his breath stirred a strand of pale blond hair above her ear. "Ashley." He flexed his fingers, pressed them against hers,drew his fingertips across her hand. He felt the little shiver that rustled through her, starting in exactly the spot where his finger stroked the web of skin between her thumb and index finger and intensifying as he slid his finger between hers, over that skin, into the hollow formed by her loosely clenched fist.
This was crazy. Didn't he have enough fantasies to torment himself with without touching her? Didn't he already want her more than he could remember ever wanting anything? Did he have to add sensation to fantasy, to lust, to need? Did he have to torture himself further?
Why not? He'd learned as a kid that life was hard. Just once he wanted it hard in a way he could enjoy.
Finally shebreathed, aquavery little sound as erotic as any he'd ever heard, and her eyes fluttered shut. Watching her, he moved his caress from her palm to her arm, feeling her pulse, rapid and erratic, when he brushed across her wrist. Her arms were slender, tanned, strong, the muscles swelling and rounding to soften the straight lines. The few women he'd shared serious relationships with had all been petite and very feminine, and he had assumed that fragile, delicate and helpless was his type. In the past few days, he had discovered that strong, muscled and independent had an appeal all its own.
His fingers curved over her shoulder, glided across soft fabric to softer skin, followed the line of her throat to her jaw. It took just a slight pressure—and ignoring the voice in his brain suggesting that he stop—to turn her head toward him. Just the slightest bending to bring his mouth into contact with hers.
He half expected her to flinch, expected her eyes to flyopen, her feet to hit the wood floor with a thud and her demand—Don'ttouch me—toecho through the room with more loathing than he'd ever been treated to. But she didn't flinch, didn't stare at him, didn't jump to her feet and flee. She didn't do anything at all but open her mouth to him and raise one hand to his chest, bringing it gently to rest on his ribs, then letting it slide down until her fingers hooked in the waistband of his jeans.
So long.It had been so long since he'd kissed a woman, so long since he'd touched a woman, so long since he'd been intimate with a woman. So long that the sweet taste of her mouth was something new, never experienced, as intoxicating as the best aged whiskey, as full of promise as a spring morning. So long that her fingers, snug against his stomach, stirred an ache that spread until it threatened to engulf him. So long that he felt every bit as weak as she was strong. So long—and so good—that he had to stop.
For one brief moment she clung to him, seeking more of his mouth, tightening her fingers around his waistband. When he pulled, though, she let go. She let him go.
He wished to God that she hadn't.
She was looking at him now, her blue eyes curious, a little surprised,a little disappointed. He knew that if he kissed her again, that disappointment would go away, and sweet damnation, he wanted to make it go away. But if he kissed her again, he might not stop, not until it was too late. Not until they'd traveled to hell and gone beyond what was safe. Not until he'd learned all sorts of new meanings for the wordtorment.
As he forced himself to take the first step back, then the next and the next, her gaze never left him.It followed him the length of the table and back up the other side, where he'd started out, where he leaned against the solid table and finally returned the look.
After a time she spoke. She had to clear her throat first. "Well…that was interesting."
The droll evenness of her comment forced a choked laugh from him. "Interesting?" he echoed. "That's all?"
"How wouldyou describe it?"
There were a hundred ways to put that moment into words, but he settled on the easiest and simplest of them. "Nice. Very nice."
"I'd rather be interesting than nice."
"You're both," he said, suddenly serious. "You're a better hostage than I deserve."
"So that's your way of saying thanks?"
"No. My way of saying thanks will be to walk away from here and never look back. To leav
e you the way I found you—unharmed. Safe. Too trusting, but out of danger." Damned if he wasn't sure he could do it. Two days ago he'dknown that he could. All he'd wanted was shelter from the rain, heat to ward off the cold and a little precious rest to deal with his injuries. Today…Today he wanted Ashley.
And he couldn't have her. She wasn't the sort of woman a man could seduce, then forget, wasn't the sort a man walked away from. She and the sheriff had been divorced as long as they'd been married, but Benedict hadn't yet walked away from her. He still loved her, was still part of her life.
The only way Dillon could begin an affair with her was if he stayed long enough to let it run its course, to come to a natural end or go on forever, and he couldn't do that. He couldn't put her in any more danger than he already had. He couldn't risk getting caught for her. He couldn't risk getting both of them killed simply because he harbored this incredible lust for her.
She gathered the wicks and laid them off to one side, then rested her arms on the table and laced her fingers together. "You know, you could stay awhile," she said quietly.
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