Survive the Night

by Marilyn Pappano

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  Chapter 6

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  Ifthere were room to pace in the tiny, closed-in space of the bathroom, Dillon would be doing it, but he could hardly turn around without banging his head or his elbow or some other portion of his anatomy. He couldn't even see what made the room so cramped. The light was off, there was no window and the door was extraordinarily tight fitting. He was in pitch black—couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything, couldn'tdo anything.

  That was the worst part—being unable to take action—that, and not knowing. When the door opened, it could be Ashley coming to tell him that it was safe, or it could be a cop. An angry cop. One who believed that Dillon was far worse than just an escapedprisoner. One who would hold him responsible for the misfortune that had befallen Tom Coughlin. Just this morning Ashley had said that she would turn him over—if she were so inclined—to Seth and only Seth, that her ex-husband could be trusted to keep him safe from other officers. Sheknew those other officers. She believed they presented a threat not to be considered idly.

  Maybe, though, she had lied. Maybe she was out there right now, telling her rescuers everything that had happened the past two days, telling them exactly where he could be found. Maybe when that door opened, itwould be a cop, led straight to him by the woman he was trusting to…

  The thought trailed off, and he sank down on the only seat in the room, replaying the last words in his mind.The woman he wastrusting …

  Trusting…

  Oh, God, he was in trouble.

  He had trusted Russell Bradley, and now his good buddy wanted him dead. How much more dangerous could Ashley be to him? She could get him arrested. She could get him killed. Worse, she could make him believe in things he'd never believed in. She could make him want things he'd thought he would never have. Love. Respect. Acceptance. A family. A future.

  She could break his heart.

  She could destroy him.

  But only if he let her, he insisted uneasily. Only if he let himself trust her. Only if he let her get too close. He knew how to avoid it. He'd been running, in one way or another, all his life. He knew how to avoid involvement, how to keep people at a distance. He had learned by example from his mother, from his father and the entire town ofWaterston. He could do it with Ashley.

  Couldn't he?

  From the outer room came the sound of a door opening, followed by soft footsteps. Quickly he stood, moving the two steps necessary to reach the door. If it was one ofCatlinCounty's orNorth Carolina's finest on the other side come to arrest him… Hell, he'd rather end it here than bother with the farce of a trial that was sure to follow and prison. And if it was Ashley…

  She opened the door, then stepped back so he could leave the small room. "Are they gone?" he asked before taking that step out.

  "Of course they are."

  "It took you long enough to get rid of them."

  "I made them a cup of tea."

  "You're just little Miss Hospitality, aren't you?" he asked sarcastically as he left the bathroom's close, dark shelter. "First you invite the sheriff in for a cup of tea, then the search party."

  "It's what they expect of me. If I didn't offer, they would think it was strange." Her voice was strained but soft, controlled. "I think we'd better go back to the cabin and stay there."

  "Why?"

  "Jess and Toy Briggs are good trackers, but they're not the best. They lost your trail back in the woods at the bluff, so they had no reason to believe you might be here. If they don't find something soon, they'll bring in one of the best—Dub Collins, Zeke Henderson or Mac Haney. If even the slightest sign still exists out there, they'll find it."

  "So what does that have to do with staying inside? If they catch me there, I'll be just as screwed as if they catch me out here."

  She shot him an impatient look. "You've been outside three times already. Every time you go out, you leave new footprints.That's why I offered them tea—so I could blur the latest set. I guess it worked. They didn't seem to notice a thing."

  "What was it you were telling me just a little while ago? That once the search party comes here and doesn't find me, they won't come back?" He muttered a curse. "Now you're saying theywill be back."

  "Possibly. Probably."

  "To try to pick up a trail they lost?" He lowered his voice. "Or because you told them to come back?"

  She stared at him for a long time, her blue gaze softened by disappointment,then abruptly she turned away. Taking a big handled basket from a shelf, she began neatly placing materials into it: basket-weaving supplies, bolts of cloth, a gallon jug of something clear, small plastic bottles, smaller glass vials. When she was done, she left it all on the table, checked the fire, then picked up the basket, switched off the lights and waited at the door.

  He knew he should let it drop, knew in his heart that she hadn't betrayed him to those men. But it would have made perfect sense if she had. She could have confided in the searchers, could have told them to get reinforcements, to come back when they could take him by surprise. For all he knew, she could be leading him into a trap. The men could be outside, just waiting for him to step into the clearing. They could be in the cabin, ready to ambush him when he walked in the door. "Ashley." Her gaze met his, but he couldn't read anything in her eyes. "Did you tell them to come back?"

  She studied him for a moment,then slowly, coolly smiled as she approached him. "Yes, I did," she replied. "I told them to get Seth, to get all his men and all the troopers and all the guns they can carry. I told them to come back late tonight, when you're asleep. I told them I would slip into the bathroom and light a candle in the window when you were snoring away, that I would leave the door unlocked for them so they could sneak in and capture you before you knew what was happening."

  She was lying. Dillon knew it as surely as he knew he wanted her. She was telling tales to alarm and frighten him, and, damn it all, he deserved to be alarmed and frightened. "And how did you plan to get out of the handcuffs so you could light a candle in the bathroom window?"

  "I wasn't planning on wearing the handcuffs tonight." Now she was standing right in front of him, only the big basket separating them. She leaned across it, close to him, too close, and murmured, "I wasn't planning on wearing anything at all tonight."

  That was a thought too tantalizing to consider. Just the brief image that formed before he stopped it was enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut and bite down hard on a groan. "Just for that, youwill be wearing the cuffs tonight," he warned her. "I had been considering leaving you free, seeing that you've been so good lately, but now…"He shook his head.

  Her smile this time was also slow and cool, but it was a totally different proposition from the last one. In fact, Dillon feared, that wasexactly what it was: a proposition. She proved him right when she said, "You put me in handcuffs tonight,it'll be in bed, not on the floor."

  With that, she turned and walked out. Forgetting about search parties, guns and possible ambushes, he followed her. She latched the door, then set the basket down once more and walked out into the rain, checking to the south first, then the west, north and east. Raindrops staining her red sweatshirt crimson, she motioned for him to move and, head ducked, he made the short trip to the cabin. She followed more slowly, squishing in the mud, leaving nothing in each place he'd stepped but tiny hills and valleys that quickly filled with water.

  He stepped over one of her woven trays and a pile of broken glass near the door,then removed his tennis shoes at the door. He hesitated just a moment, though, until, with a knowing, chiding look, she came up behind him, reached around and opened the door, then slipped past and entered the cabin.

  "Look, Dillon," she said, turning in a circle, spreading her arms wide. "No cops."

  He went in, closing and locking the door. "What happened to the cups?"

  "Nerves," she said carelessly. "It's not every day I lie to the good guys."

  He leaned back against the door. If the cops were the good g
uys, then that left only one role for him: the bad guy. He always had been. The Boone bastard. The punk kid. The budding juvenile delinquent. The loser. The failure. The sucker. The fugitive. The target. The prey. They were roles he knew well, roles he played well. He was used to them.

  So why did it hurt to be cast in them by Ashley?

  She laid the basket on the table and began unloading it. "It wouldn't be a bad idea to figure out a hiding place in here," she remarked, not noticing his silence. "Seth will come back whenever he's got time, and the next time he might expect to come in."

  "So you'll have to stop him."

  His curt response made her look sharply at him. "If he asks to come inside, I can't very well refuse without arousing his suspicion, which is the last thing you want me to do."

  No, the last thing—and the first—he wanted her to arouse washim. "Fine. If he wants to come in, invite him. He can keep us company for a while."

  "You wouldn't take him hostage. You're not that stupid. He's the sheriff, for God's sake. He's trained to deal with this sort of thing. He's an expert shot, an expert at self-defense. You would be lucky if he didn't kill you."

  "He wouldn't do a thing." Joining her at the table, he stroked his hand lightly over her hair. "Not if he believedyou would be punished for it."

  A shudder rippled through her and into his fingers. "You won't hurt me. You promised."

  "He already believes I would hurt you," he explained. "That's why he was so anxious to get you out of here. He expects the worst from me. He thinks I'm a dangerous man, a desperate fugitive who almost killed a cop. God only knows what I might do to you if you get in my way." Those last were Benedict's words, merely rephrased.

  She was supposed to feel at least a little threatened,to stand utterly still, unable to move, or to tremble with fear. Well, she was trembling, all right, little shivers that intensified each time he drew his hand down her hair to her shoulder, but instinct told him there was nothing the least bit fearful about it. Her soft blue eyes, hazy now and barely open, confirmed it.

  "Let me get in your way," she murmured, "and let'sfind out what you'll do."

  He jerked his hand back and tooka half -dozen steps away from her. "Ash, I'm not going to seduce you."

  She smiled. "Actually I thoughtI might seduceyou."

  His breath locked in his chest, depriving his brain of the oxygen desperately needed to argue that point with her. Reason failed him, but imagination didn't. Without closing his eyes, without making even the slightest effort, he could see her, naked, lean, beautiful. He could feel her, soft and hot. He could smell her fragrances, light and erotic on her skin, between her breasts, on her belly, scenting her hip. He could taste her mouth, could savor the exotic forbidden flavor of her. He could…

  He could die an early death from wanting her.

  He could die a slow and very painful death from having her.

  "Not counting your precious Seth, how many men have you been with?" he asked harshly, already sure he knew the answer.

  "One."

  "Your friend's brother the accountant. Were you in love with him?"

  "No."

  "But you cared for him. You thought something might develop with him. You thought he might be the next great love of your life."

  Her head tilted to one side, she looked curiously at him. "Why do you think that?"

  "Because that's the kind of woman you are. You don't have sex with men. You haverelationships withsuitable men. You've never gone to bed with someone you picked up one night in a bar. You've never had sex with someone whose name you never bothered to find out. You've never had sex for its own sake, because you'd had too much to drink or you'd been alone too long." His smile was thin and bitter. "Well,that's the kind of man I am. I don't have relationships. I don't meetsuitable women. I meet women in bars, women whose names I sometimes never knew to forget, women who are interchangeable, who are just there for the using. You're not that kind of woman, Ashley. You're notmy kind of woman."

  "So you're saying that you don't want me."

  He gave a short laugh. "I've done without a long time, and I've been alone even longer. Of course I want you. But—no offense, sweetheart—I'd want just about any woman under these circumstances."

  "So what's the problem?" she asked stubbornly. "We're both adults. We're both capable of weighing the consequences and making the right decision."

  Swearing silently, Dillon crossed the room to tend the fire. There, with more than half the length of the cabin between them, he felt a little safer, but not much.

  God help him, she was going to kill him. She was absolutely going to destroy his good intentions, his resolve and, ultimately,him. He never should have touched her this morning, never should have kissed her … but he would sell his soul to the devil to do it again.

  He just might sell it to the sheriff for a chance to make love with her.

  "The problem, Ashley," he said, his patience severely tested, "is common sense—your lack of it. Women like you don't have affairs with men like me. Women like you don't have affairs, period."

  "What do we do?" she asked dryly. "Live alone and unsatisfied all our lives?"

  "You have relationships with men like your precious Seth. You get married. You have children and grandchildren, and you devote yourself to your family. Like your mother. Like your grandmother."

  She came closer, stopping at the sofa, sitting on its overstuffed arm. "Is that what your mother did?"

  "No. My mother picked up men in bars, men whose names she didn't bother tolearn , men she used to help her forget the pain of falling in love with asuitable man." He stared at her for a moment,then exhaled heavily. "You're not my kind of woman, Ashley."

  After a pause to let that sink in, he felt the bitterness cross his face in a smile again. "And I'm damned sure not your kind of man."

  * * *

  Theirproblem, Ashley thought as she got ready for bed thatevening, had nothing to do with her lack of common sense. Maybe it was bad timing. Maybe if they'd met a year ago, when he had first come toCatlin to work at the bank, he would have decided he had too much to lose to risk the bank job.

  But a year ago he'd had a woman in his life, and not of the pick-her-up-in-a-bar-and-never-know-her-name variety. She had been his neighbor, a nice woman, in Seth's judgment, one who'd had no idea at all what kind of man she'd gotten mixed up with. She'd had a silly name—Calla?Cilla ? No,Pris , short for Priscilla.

  After pulling her nightgown over her head, Ashley made a face at herself in the mirror. Could she simply claim an extraordinary memory for details, or had she been fascinated by Dillon Boone eleven months before meeting him? Was that why unimportant little things—like the photographs left behind in his apartment, the name of his former lover and the fact that the woman had red hair—were so clear in her mind?

  So what was the big difference between her andPris , other than the fact that Ashley wouldn't be caught dead answering to a nickname that, in other usage, was less than complimentary?

  Other than the fact that, while Ashley wasn't Dillon's kind of woman, MissPris obviously was?

  As she picked up her brush from the rim of the sink, a flash outside caught her attention. Switching off the light, she peered out the window into the darkness. There were often hunters in these woods, both in season and out, along with the hikers. She stayed locked up tight and ordinarily paid them no attention. After all, it wasn't as if she owned the mountaintop; her acreage was on the small side. The rest was private property or public parkland.

  But this wasn't an ordinary night, and the scene in the next room wasn't an ordinary sight, at least not inher house. That light could be a hunter or a hiker, or it could be a search party or a lone tracker hoping to bag a reward.

  Leaving the bathroom, she took the extra sheets from the armoire near the door, grabbed a hammer and a box of nails from under the sink and, giving herself a boost, climbed onto the counter that ran under the kitchen window.

  Dillon, lying on
the couch and reading, looked up. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." Kneeling on the counter, she tacked a corner from the first sheet to the window frame, scooted across and nailed it again in the opposite corner. "When I moved in here, I always intended to make curtains—yellow gingham, just like my granny had. But there was so much work to do that I never got around to it. In the first year I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to stay, that I couldn't earn enough money, that I couldn't barter enough services, and so I worked ten, twelve and fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. I figured nonessentials, like curtains, could wait. I mean, the place is so isolated. It isn't as if there are neighbors around to peek through the windows."