God, she missed her mother.
“Sky, we should go.” Cam had grabbed her bags and the garbage. She pulled on her coat and he helped her down the back steps toward a large, waiting black truck that looked more than capable of getting them through anything.
No more than fifteen minutes had passed since the men had broken in—although it felt like much longer, like everything was moving in slow motion.
It was so quiet outside. She thought about people in their beds, sleeping, or just rolling out for coffee, thinking about skiing and fireplaces and hot chocolate.
She was thinking about
bodies
. Fine for fiction, but freaking her out in real life.
Keep. It. Together
.
She pulled her jacket tight around her—the jeans and sweater underneath doing nothing to help keep her warm as she walked toward Cam’s truck, him right behind her.
“Be careful, it’s slippery,” he told her, his voice calm, cool and collected, like they were going on a morning drive. Like people hadn’t just tried to kill them.
Like he didn’t just hide three bodies in the snow.
Stop it, Sky
, she ordered herself, and stepped aside so Cam could load their stuff into the truck.
It was only when he turned his back to her to throw the bags in the backseat that she noticed the blood soaking through the back of his shirt—good enough reason for him not to be wearing any jacket at all.
He turned to her, motioned to the passenger’s side door. “Get in.”
“You’re hurt. Do you have a first-aid kit?”
He didn’t answer, just opened the door and waited. But she didn’t climb in. Instead, she put a hand lightly on his shoulder to try to get a better look at exactly how bad the wound was.
“At least let me help you stop the bleeding …”
“I’ll tend to it later. Leave it.” He ground the words out, and that pissed her off, because the wound looked bad. Bright red, fresh blood, and he was pale—although, granted, still capable of saving both their asses.
But Cam wasn’t having any of it. “I need to get you out of here. In from the cold, and away from whoever the hell is looking for you, Sky. And if I have to tie you up and throw you in the truck to do that, I will.”
His eyes blazed with anger—she was pretty sure her expression matched his as she pushed past him. “Fine. But I’m driving while you stop the blood. Because if you pass out while driving, we’re both screwed.”
He grabbed her biceps—an iron grip that somehow didn’t hurt—and steered her back in the direction of the passenger seat. “I’ve lived through much worse than this,” were his last words to her before shutting the door.
And then he was in the driver’s seat, pressing the gas on the massive machine, and she felt the power of the car surge under her. Indeed, it smoothly pushed aside the massive amounts of snow from its path and she felt much surer than she had before as he drove away from the townhouse and out toward the main road.
“If you want to, you can try to pack the wound while I drive,” he told her.
“Gee, thanks, chief,” she muttered, even as she rifled through his glove compartment, where he was pointing. She pulled out a first-aid kit and heard his low snort.
She looked up, saw many guests’ cars buried underneath large drifts, as her rental was. And then her brain began to work. “Wait, did those men have a car?”
“Yes. I took care of it.”
“Maybe if we ran the plates …”
He shot her a glance. “Good idea.”
Which meant, of course,
Been there, done that
. He’d gotten rid of the car and was trying to trace it and she wanted to ask him how he did it all so effectively and so quickly. “You had time to run the plates?”
That made him smile a little. “You’d be surprised what you can get done in fifteen minutes if you put your mind to it.”
“Something to strive for,” she muttered. “When will you know anything?”
He didn’t answer her for a long moment, just watched the road intently, and then, “They’ll come back as stolen.”
He turned right, out of the main complex and onto the service road that would lead them to the highway, and she unbuckled her seatbelt so she could get a better angle to help with his shoulder.
The heat blasted, enough for her to feel comfortable taking off her heavy coat. She put it in the backseat and noted that Cam’s truck looked and smelled brand-new. Clean, perfect and huge—big enough to put a mattress in the back once two rows of seats were down.
Cam was rifling one-handed through her bag. He pulled out her phone and began to dial.
“Who are you calling?”
“The manager of the resort. You’re going to tell him you’ve been called away for a family emergency. The last thing I need is the local police on our tail because a well-known writer disappeared on vacation.”
She nodded, because the resort sent out someone to check on the guests daily, and she took the phone from him. He’d put it on speaker. When the manager answered, she explained that she had a family emergency and had to leave last night, before the storm got bad. “I took the keys with me, by accident. I’ll mail them back.”
She managed to sound appropriate during the call, slightly panicked, fatigued, as someone having a family emergency might be.
“That’s not a problem, Ms. Slavin. We’ll go inside later when the roads are clear and check the place out. I’m sure you’ll get your deposit back. How much trouble could you get into in twenty-four hours during a snowstorm?” he asked.
“Right,” she said, choking back a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob and knew she had to end the call before she lost it. “Well, thank you.”
She clicked the phone off and handed it back to Cam but he reminded her, “You’ve got to call your publicist too.”
Of course; she’d forgotten about that. “What do I tell her?”
Cam thought for a second. “Ask her what the police found. Tell her that you’re fine and that she can reach you on your cell phone. Let her do most of the talking, okay? That way you don’t have to lie. Because you suck at it.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it, because she couldn’t decide if that was a compliment or an insult.
His expression didn’t give her any indication.
She pressed the speed dial key, the phone still on speaker, as he drove onto the highway, which was mercifully clearer than the side roads had been, although not by much.
As usual, Pam answered on the first ring, flying at one hundred miles an hour, which never did leave much room for Sky to talk. “Skylar, where have you been? Oh, my God, I’ve been freaking out about this—your apartment, they looked through everything. The police were here, they have no leads—they think it’s related to the notes, but they’re not sure …”
Pam kept talking and Sky shot Cam a quick look. He continued to stare at the road, but she swore his eyes had glazed over.
“Pam—Pam, I’m fine, okay,” she managed to break in. “Thanks so much for taking care of everything for me. Please keep me updated—I’m going to stay here and keep writing.”
“That’s probably a good idea, stay out of town,” Pam agreed.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” Sky said, and then ended the call with the press of a button. Her battery was just about dead and she turned her phone off and grabbed the charger from her bag, plugging it into the AC outlet on Cam’s dashboard.
“Is there anyone else who’ll worry?”
Her throat tightened. “Pam will tell the necessary people.”
There was silence for a few moments, then Cam said, “I wouldn’t have many people worried about me either, if that makes you feel any better.”
She nearly laughed at the unexpected comment. “It does … and it doesn’t. What about those men—what did you do with them?”
“No one’s finding them until spring thaw.” He was stripping off his shirt now, finally ready for her help. The car weaved a little as he shifted in order to get completely free, and she took the shirt from him and tossed it into the backseat.
It was then she saw the wound along the top of his shoulder. It looked like a ridge—canyonlike. Not pretty at all.
“That’s just the graze. Go lower,” he instructed, and holy crap, there was a hole. The skin around it was swollen and raw, clotted with blood.
“Deep breath, kid. We don’t need you fainting.”
“I won’t faint,” she muttered, and then wondered if you could actually will that.
She guessed she’d find out. As she went back to checking his wounds, she heard herself say, “You were shot.”
“Yes.”
She’d been hoping it was anything but a bullet wound. “Is the bullet … still in there?”
“Unfortunately. I’m clean, Sky—I get tested regularly for my job.” He was talking about his blood, worried about her again—when he should be worried about the freakin’ bullet in his shoulder.
She pressed gauze against it—thankfully, the bleeding had slowed. Shifting her gaze back to what was in front of her—a long, empty stretch of white—she asked, “Shouldn’t we find you a doctor?”
“Probably. But I’m not stopping right now.” He was checking the rearview mirror and she did so too, wanting to see if they were being followed, and that caused another surge of panic inside of her. She fought it, because there wasn’t time for crap like that. And still, the words escaped her before she could stop them. “You’re not going to die on me, are you?”
“You’re not going to keep asking me questions like that, are you?”
“I’m freaking out here. And I get that you’re all trained and stone cold, but you weren’t last night.” Sometimes, she really wished she could keep her mouth shut.
Cam handed her his water bottle. “Drink. And breathe.”
She did both.
“Pack as much gauze as you can, and then put the pressure bandage on it and buckle back in, okay?”
She nodded. Did what he asked. “It’s just that you put your life on the line for me. I know that’s why my father sent you … but I never expected this. Any of it.”
“It’s going to be okay, Sky.” His voice was still rough as gravel, but she figured that must be from pain and stress.
She wanted to ask him how the hell he knew they’d be all right, but didn’t. “How far are we going?” she asked instead.
“As far out of town as we can.”
“In this weather?” She glanced at him, saw his jaw clench. “You’ve got to get that shoulder looked at long before that.”
He ran a hand through his hair and then checked his GPS. “There’s a motel not too far from here. We haven’t been followed. We’ll stop there for the day so I can deal with the wound myself and then move out tonight.”
He mounted the portable machine to where she could see it and prepared to let it guide them through the snow-covered roads, toward their safety.
T
he drive to the motel took just under two hours. Sky’s hands were sore from literally white-knuckling it, even though Cam—and his truck—seemed in control of the road the entire time.
He appeared fine, but that didn’t stop her from continually checking to make sure he was okay.
“Why do you keep staring at me?” he asked at one point, his gaze straight ahead, focused on the seemingly invisible road.
“I’m just … looking,” she said lamely, and noted that a small grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, as if against his will. “Sorry. There’s not much I can do beyond sit here like some weakling who needed saving.”
“You’re not frail or weak, Sky. You handled yourself well at the house.”
“I held a gun on you. I didn’t trust you.”
“I told you not to trust anyone.”
Yeah, him and the great Gabriel Creighton
.
The GPS beeped, signaling they were approaching the motel. The lot was pretty empty, with large snow drifts indicating a recent plowing.
Cam parked in the small lot—pulling on his jacket while she noted fresh blood on his shirt and the seat—and checked them in while she waited in the idling truck.
The room was around back—ground level—small and not fashionable, but it was clean and warm.
He dropped their bags, locked the door behind them and headed straight for the bathroom, stripping his jacket off as he went. She sat on the bed, then realized she was too jacked up to remain still.
He’d left the bathroom door open and she caught sight of him—his back to the mirror, looking over his shoulder at the ugly wound and attempting to poke at it with a metal instrument that looked like a pair of curved tweezers.
He cursed, then cursed again, under his breath this time, when he saw her. And then he focused his attention on his shoulder.
She watched for a few moments before telling him, “You’re not going to be able to get it out that way.”
“Stating the obvious isn’t helping.”
He’s pissed because of the pain, not you
. She reminded herself how completely balls to the wall bitchy she’d been sometimes at the height of the kidney failure. In comparison, he was as tough as nails. Even when he seemed relaxed, she got the sense of a coiled snake, ready to strike if the need arose. But now he needed her.
She took the instrument from his hand. “No, but I will.”
He blinked, stared at her over his shoulder. “You’ve done this before?”
“No. But I seem to be your only option.”
He smiled. “You’re a lot tougher than the woman I met last night.”
“Amazing what nearly being killed will do to a person.”
“Does a kidney transplant hurt?” he asked suddenly.
“Like a bitch,” she said as she gazed at the wound, and then met his eyes again. “As I’d imagine this does.”
“Now I know where Violet comes from.”
She paused, instrument in the air. “You’ve read my books?”
“One of them.” He mentioned the title and she nodded. “So Violet’s in the book you’re having so much trouble writing?”
“Yes. She has to choose between falling in love with the guy or killing him,” she said, and then, “Now tell me what I need to do.”
“Get the bullet out,” was all he said.
She clenched her teeth, held her breath and braced her free palm on the curve of his shoulder while pushing the instrument gently into the wound. She noted the ends were thin and serrated like a large tweezer, and she kept them slightly parted as she delved inside the opened skin.