by Gayle Wilson
The whole churchyard was deserted. There didn’t even seem to be a parsonage nearby.
Satisfied that they would be undisturbed for the few vital minutes he needed to assure himself that they weren’t mistaken about the seriousness of Elizabeth’s wound, Rafe opened the back door on the driver’s side, slipping into the seat beside her.
She slid her suitcase over to give him room, but her eyes were still angry and cold. He wasn’t sure if that was because of what he’d tried to do back in the woods or because he’d demanded they stop here despite her repeated assurances that she was all right.
Not that he cared. All he cared about was seeing for himself whatever damage lay under that bloodstained shirt.
Without thinking, he touched her arm, slipping his fingers under it, right above the elbow. His intent was to lift it to get a better look at the injury.
An involuntary intake of breath brought his eyes up to her face. She had smothered the sound by the expedient of closing her mouth and setting her teeth tightly into her bottom lip.
Without warning, the features of the burned woman, her mouth opening in that terrible, silent scream, superimposed themselves over Elizabeth’s. The smell and the heat of the fire were all around him. He could hear someone screaming, but he didn’t know who it was.
As quickly as the flashback appeared, it faded. Once more Elizabeth’s face was before him. His hand was no longer around her injured arm, although he couldn’t remember removing it.
Instead of the anger he’d seen in her eyes, they were full of shock. He wondered if he’d said something or if he’d only jerked his hand away from her arm, hurting her in the process.
“I’m okay,” she said, the words thready. “It only hurts when I laugh. Or move. Or breathe,” she added shakily. “The truth is it hurts like hell.”
“Take it off,” he ordered, steeling himself for what lay beneath the cloth. He knew by now that this had been another mistake. He had no idea how he would react to the sight of Elizabeth’s flesh, torn and bleeding.
He had cut himself a couple of times in the workshop without any psychological aftershocks, but that had been his own blood. His own pain. This was entirely different.
“Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes puzzled and concerned.
Suddenly he knew with the clarity of one of those chilling flashbacks that he should get out of the car right now. He could go into the church, using the need for water and a clean bandage as his excuse.
Only the accusation Elizabeth had thrown at him last night held him immobile. He might make a fool of himself, finally exposing to her what he’d left six years ago rather than reveal. But if he did…
He repeated the phrase mentally, recognizing the significance. If he did, then she would finally understand why he’d walked out on her. She would know that what he had told her last night was the absolute truth. It had nothing to do with her.
“Move the damn shirt,” he said, his voice hard with a tension she couldn’t possibly understand.
Her teeth released her bottom lip, and her mouth opened slightly. Her right hand, the one holding Edmonds’s shirt, lifted the fabric away from the wound.
Immediately blood began to seep out of the torn flesh. Seeping and not pumping. Which was a very good thing.
Edmonds’s description of the injury had been accurate. The bullet had cut a furrow across the outer part of her arm. It was a raw, ugly gash and she was still losing blood, but it was exactly what they’d told him it was. Nothing more than that. Nothing worse.
“Okay,” he said, almost light-headed with relief. Relief that the injury was relatively minor and that he hadn’t gone off the deep end while viewing it. “Keep the pressure on it until we can find something to make a better pad. When we do, we can tie it on so you won’t have to hold it.”
“There are some things in my suitcase,” she said, putting the bloodstained shirt back over the wound. She winced as the cloth touched the gash, but she held it down tightly, ignoring the pain.
“Something cotton?” he asked, remembering that sheer nightgown.
“There’s a clean T-shirt in my bag in the trunk. I’ll get it,” Edmonds offered.
He climbed out of the car, closing the door behind him. Leaving them alone. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
“Rafe, what’s wrong?” she asked finally. The coldness had been wiped from her voice. And he knew this question wasn’t rhetorical.
“Nothing,” he said, and then, realizing how stupid that sounded, he amended it. “I was worried about you.”
She held his eyes, but she didn’t question what he’d just said. “I thought you’d decided you’re too old to play hero.”
“Me, too.”
“Don’t you ever do anything like that again,” she said, unshed tears shining in her eyes. “Promise me, damn it. I don’t need you to try to take a bullet for me. I don’t need to have to worry about that.”
“You don’t.”
“Then promise me.”
He thought about it for a couple of seconds.
“I’ve never lied to you. I’m not going to start now.”
“Damn you—”
“I don’t remember you cursing so much.”
He had deliberately lightened his tone, but she wasn’t buying the distraction. Her mouth tightened with frustration, and, seeing it, he smiled at her.
“Would you take a bullet for me, Elizabeth?”
Definitely a rhetorical question. And she made no attempt to deny what they both knew.
“How the hell did we get into this?” she asked, her voice plaintive.
“Since I’m not sure what ‘this’ is, I can’t answer that. Maybe Griff can.”
“I like him,” she said, glancing down to adjust the makeshift bandage.
Him? Obviously not a reference to Griff, which left…
“You trust him?” A far more important question.
Her eyes came back up and after a moment she nodded. “I liked the way he handled himself back there. I especially liked that he wouldn’t leave you behind.”
Now that it was over, Rafe could admit he wasn’t averse to being here rather than wandering around the woods, locked in combat with an adversary he couldn’t see. An adversary armed with a very powerful rifle.
“That’s what he was supposed to do. I told him to leave me.”
“I don’t think he recognizes the chain of command.”
There had been a quirk at the corner of her mouth as she said it. Although he had understood the words were a gibe at his tendency to assume control of every situation, that subtle movement of her lips had lessened their impact.
His reaction to it was an urge to press a kiss over that exact spot. He didn’t, of course. He had already revealed far more of how he felt than he’d ever intended.
Instead of getting better at hiding his emotions, he seemed to have gotten worse. At least where Elizabeth was concerned.
“Don’t let your guard down just because you think he’s one of the good guys,” he warned. “He may not be.”
“Is that what we are? Are we still the good guys?”
“As opposed to whoever that was out in the woods.”
“And whoever set off that explosion.”
“You think they’re two different people?”
She shook her head. “Not really. But…there could be more than one person involved in this, couldn’t there?”
She was right. Jorgensen had had a lot of followers. A lot of people as dedicated to the concept of violence as a political weapon as he was.
Or maybe that should be as he is, Rafe admitted, although he didn’t want to even consider the possibility that Jorgensen could be alive.
The front door opened and Edmonds got back into the car. He turned, handing Rafe the T-shirt he’d taken from his suitcase in the trunk.
“I couldn’t find anything I thought was really suitable,” Edmonds said, “but she’ll be more comfortable with a sling.”
It was a good idea. The arm would be less painful if it were stabilized.
“Why not use John’s shirt,” she said. “Unless you want it back.” The last was directed to Edmonds.
“You need it more than I do. I like the James Dean look,” he said, glancing down at the snow-white T-shirt he was wearing.
“I’m afraid it’s ruined.”
“I’ll buy him another one,” Rafe said, his tone reflecting his impatience with the whole conversation. What the hell did it matter if Edmonds’s shirt was damaged?
Elizabeth turned to look at him again, that same movement at the corner of her lips. It was too subtle to be called a smile, but it indicated amusement nonetheless.
He lowered his eyes, concentrating on folding the T-shirt Edmonds had handed him into a small, tight square. He couldn’t blame Elizabeth for being amused. He’d made such a frigging deal yesterday about how it had been better for them both that he’d walked away six years ago. Now, faced with the reality that Edmonds was interested in her, he was acting like the proverbial dog in the manger.
Elizabeth wasn’t his. Once she had been, and he had chosen to leave because he couldn’t handle what had happened to him after Amsterdam.
And he could tell himself until he turned blue in the face that it had been the right thing to do. He had been telling himself that since the day last week when Griff Cabot had walked into his workshop.
He’d said it again when Elizabeth had appeared in the doorway of her dining room, demanding to know what the hell he thought he was doing back in her life. And when he’d taken her into his arms last night, giving in to what he had wanted to do from the minute he’d seen her again.
Six years ago he had surrendered any rights he’d ever had to make love to this woman. Unless he wanted to explain why he’d left and to give her a chance to decide if the man he was now was someone she still wanted.
I thought you’d decided you were too old to play hero, she had said. That decision had been made a long time ago, and it hadn’t been a matter of age or lack of desire.
Griff Cabot had forged him into a weapon. After Amsterdam, he was as flawed as the dueling pistol he’d inherited. He gave the appearance of being the same person he had once been—controlled, efficient, deadly. He knew what a sham that was.
“I’ll need something to tie this on with,” he said.
“The belt of my robe?” Elizabeth suggested. “It’s in my bag.”
He reached behind her and unsnapped the suitcase, fumbling around in it until he located the belt. He pulled it free from the loops of the bathrobe, stuffing the garment back into the bag and refastening the locks.
Then he touched the fabric of Edmonds’s shirt, signaling that she should release it. Elizabeth turned her head, refusing to watch what he was about to do. She knew as well as he did how much tying the pad into place tightly enough to stop that slow seep of blood was going to hurt.
Edmonds put his hand over the back of the seat, reaching out for hers. “It helps to have something to squeeze,” he said, smiling at her. “It’s like biting the bullet.”
“You speak from experience?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I thought you guys just listened in on the occasional conversation,” she said, gripping his fingers gratefully as she talked.
Rafe was aware of the breath she took, preparing herself for the ordeal. He laid the pad over the gouge, which had begun bleeding again as soon as she’d removed the original bandage.
“Some of the things we got involved in were…a little more challenging,” Edmonds said, his voice relaxed, almost teasing. “Nothing like the excitement you CIA types manage to generate, of course.”
“Not anymore,” Elizabeth said as Rafe tightened the knot.
The last syllable was almost a gasp. As she had before, she cut it off by catching her bottom lip in her teeth. Her fingers gripped Edmonds’s almost spasmodically.
“That’s it,” Rafe said.
Let go of her hand, you bastard.
“Thanks,” she said, sharing a smile between him and Edmonds. Her relief that it was over was almost palpable. His probably was, too.
“How about the sling?” Edmonds reminded him.
Elizabeth released his fingers, handing over the bloodstained shirt that had been lying in her lap. He took it, folding the tail of it back over the body. Then he leaned through the opening between the front seats to tie the ends of the sleeves around her neck. As he did, his face was very near her hair.
Too damn near.
As soon as that knot had been secured, Edmonds leaned back. There was nothing in his expression that Rafe could take exception to. They watched as Elizabeth carefully eased her injured arm into the cradle of the sling he’d made.
“Better?” Edmonds asked.
“I think it will be,” she said, making minor adjustments to the shirt that was now supporting her arm.
“That’s it then,” Rafe said.
Both of them looked at him as if what he’d said made no sense. Maybe it didn’t in the midst of what was obviously a mutual admiration society.
“We’ve been here long enough,” he warned. “We may have lost our attacker, but we don’t want to give him an opportunity to pick up the trail.”
Edmonds nodded. “You riding back there?”
The smart thing to do would be to get out of the back seat and walk back around the car to the front passenger side where he’d started out. Of course, he hadn’t done the smart thing since Cabot had asked his question: Do you know where she is?
He didn’t do it now.
“I’ll stay back here for the time being,” he said.
Edmonds made no comment about that decision. He turned around and started the car.
Rafe was aware that Elizabeth was looking at him. As a form of self-protection, he didn’t allow his eyes to meet hers. He focused them through the front windshield instead. And finally, after a long moment, she did the same.
Chapter Eleven
“Almost there,” Edmonds said. “How’s she doing?”
Rafe looked down at the woman who was sleeping in his arms. He wasn’t sure how that had happened. They certainly hadn’t discussed it, but at some time during the long drive, he had ended up holding Elizabeth. As she breathed, her breast moved gently against his chest.
He had thought a couple of times about waking her to make sure she was all right. Her breathing was slow and regular, however, and, given the amount of blood she’d lost, her color looked pretty good. He had finally decided to let her alone, more than content to hold her as the long miles ticked off the odometer.
“I think she’s okay,” he said, watching her face.
Her eyelids hadn’t fluttered at the sound of his voice. He wasn’t sure how significant that was, considering that neither of them had had a decent night’s sleep since all this had started.
“I tried Griff again,” Edmonds said, “but there’s still no answer. There may be nobody there when we arrive. I’m not sure they were expecting us this soon.”
Rafe wasn’t convinced anybody was expecting them. In spite of Elizabeth’s willingness to trust John Edmonds, in spite of his actions at the summerhouse, Rafe was still wary of his role in whatever was going on. The question that bothered him most was why, considering all the people involved in the Phoenix that he knew, Griff would send a stranger to make contact.
“Everyone else was on assignment when your call came,” Edmonds said, almost as if he had read Rafe’s mind. “It may take a while to get in touch with the people Griff wants in on this.”
“You weren’t on assignment?”
“I’d just finished something. I’d gotten back into Washington the morning before you called. That’s why I was in the office so late. I was trying to catch up on things that had been accumulating on my desk.”
“You work out of the Washington office?”
Rafe knew Phoenix had two centers of operation, one in D.C
. and the other in New York. He had never known who was assigned to each.
“Most of the time,” Edmonds said. “When I’m in the office. Which isn’t as often as you’d think.”
Rafe didn’t comment, letting the silence settle back around them.
“You never considered joining?” Edmonds asked.
Rafe couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed his mind when Griff invited him. Considering the nature of the typical Phoenix case, as Griff had described it, he had realized very quickly that those unexpected flashbacks would place anyone he worked with in danger.
“No,” he said shortly.
“I know Griff thinks highly of you.”
At one time he supposed that had been true. It wasn’t conceit to believe he’d been valuable to the team. His success rate had been exemplary, and he’d never lost a partner. That record alone was enough to keep him from wanting to spoil what he’d accomplished.
When he’d heard that rifle shot today, instead of being able to lay down a protective fire, he’d been thrown back into the middle of an event that had occurred years ago. Maybe if he hadn’t been…
He looked down on Elizabeth’s face. Without his conscious volition, his fingers found an errant strand of short, sun-streaked hair and brushed it away from her cheek. She stirred, turning her head restlessly. He removed his hand at once, holding it slightly away from her face until she’d settled back into the sleep from which his unthinking action had been in danger of awakening her.
He had sworn he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Within a day of making that promise, he’d allowed whoever was behind this put a bullet through her arm.
Mea culpa. There were now far too many of those in their relationship. More than they could possibly overcome.
“Griff thought highly of everyone he selected for the team,” he said aloud. “Since he was the one who chose us, however, maybe he had a built-in bias.”
“And a success rate that was legendary. He didn’t make many mistakes.”
He hadn’t. None of them had, or they wouldn’t have been around long enough to tell about it.
