Samantha covered her face as metal scraped metal with a sickening shriek. The car spun around, once, twice, before shuddering to a stop on the soft grassy verge of the road.
All was still, except for the patter of rain on the roof and the low throb of the engine. Incredibly, the car was still running.
Even more incredibly, Samantha felt no pain, only a creeping numbness in her extremities as the overdose of adrenaline drained away. Prying her hands off her face, one finger at a time, she opened her eyes, swiveling her gaze to Tony.
He blinked a couple of times, then shifted his legs as if they, too, had gone numb. As his foot slipped off the clutch, the engine died with a rough cough. The wiper completed a final swipe across the cascade of rain and the dash warning lights flared red.
The car appeared intact, rear wheels in the ditch, headlights pointing across the empty road. The truck was gone, the landscape hazy and dismal, as mist closed in around them.
Tony sat with his hands on the steering wheel. His face was white, his lips pressed into a grim line. “Are you all right?” he asked tightly, without looking at her.
She stretched her legs. Feeling was returning to them, a fine trembling that made every muscle weak. Taking a deep breath, she laughed shakily. “Yes, I’m all right. Good thing we’ve got seat belts.”
“Yeah.” A single, abrupt syllable.
He restarted the car, putting it into gear and gently feeding it gas. The front wheels spun, futilely scrambling for traction in the slippery grass. He let up the accelerator. The rear slid and settled deeper.
With an angry twist, he turned the key and jerked it out of the ignition. “It’s not working. We’ll have to get help.”
Secondary reaction set in as Sam got out of the car. Her knees buckled and she grabbed the edge of the door to steady herself. For a moment the earth swirled around her, but the cold rain soaking her hair and running down her neck jolted strength back into her limbs.
“Here’s an umbrella.” Tony thrust it into her hands as he slammed the door and locked the car.
Sam opened the umbrella, finding that two of the ribs were bent. She twisted at them, in the process giving herself another drenching, this time from the top of the umbrella.
Tony came around to her side. He spent a moment examining the ugly black dent in the rear fender. “Damn.” Fortunately, the taillights were undamaged.
“It could have been worse,” Sam said faintly. Actually she was surprised that the fender was still attached. Judging by the noise of the crash, she’d expected half the car to be wrecked.
“Yeah. We could have been killed.” Taking the umbrella from her hand, Tony wrestled it into a semblance of its original shape and held it high to protect them both.
Resentment flared within her at his tone. “It’s not my fault,” she snapped. “I wasn’t driving that bloody truck.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault. Damn umbrella.” He glared at the tear in the fabric that allowed the rain to leak on their heads, then fixed his eyes on her. “You slipped again. You’re supposed to say lorry.”
“Truck, lorry. What does it matter?”
“What matters is that I’d like to know what the hell’s going on.” Tony bit off the words.
Frustration at his lack of progress with Samantha, and the strain of driving the narrow country roads in the rain had already put him in an irritable mood. And now this accident, that he wasn’t sure had been an accident. The rush of adrenaline had subsided, leaving in its place intense edginess and an irrational need to blame somebody for it.
“Come on, Samantha.” He forced himself to speak more calmly. “We have to get help. That car’s not going to get out of the ditch by itself.”
He swiped with his hand at the water dripping down his face. Tucking her arm under his, he brought them both into the dubious shelter of the umbrella and began to walk down the road.
“Samantha, when are you going to tell me who’s after you?”
Her heartbeat accelerated, and sweat broke out on her palms despite the chill that seeped into her bones. “What makes you think somebody’s after me? I had nothing to do with the accident.”
“No? Well, something’s not right. That blue Mini was following us almost all the way from London. You’re the one who won’t talk about her past. It sure as hell wasn’t following me.”
She stopped in her tracks, then skipped to catch up as the rain pelted her head. “So that’s why you were interested in the Mini.” She was proud of the steadiness of her voice even as a tremor shook her limbs.
“Yes. Now will you tell me the truth, Samantha?”
The truth? What was the truth? Threats and speculations? “I can’t, Tony. Believe me. It could be dangerous.”
“It’s dangerous now.” He stopped and faced her, tucking the handle of the umbrella under his arm as he grasped her shoulders. To her amazement, she realized his hands were trembling.
“Samantha,” he said, his voice husky. “Somebody tried to kill you. That truck was headed straight for your side of the car.”
Panic rose in her throat, but she shook her head, as if denial would alter the conviction in his statement. “No. No.”
“Yes, Sam. Yes.” His eyes probed her pale face, his hands gentle on her shoulders in a gesture that was not quite an embrace. “Samantha, when will you tell me everything? I want to help you.”
Numbly she shook her head again. “Tony, please—”
His mouth tightened, but he knew he couldn’t push her. “Never mind.” He held her gaze a moment longer, then turned, keeping the umbrella over her head. “Later. We’ll talk later.”
They resumed walking. They hadn’t gotten far when the sound of an engine sent them both spinning around, half expecting a new enemy to materialize out of the mist and rain. The small pickup truck seemed innocuous enough, despite the crate of pigs in the back. Pulling past them, the farmer braked, waiting until they ran up.
“You all right there? Need some help? Saw your car back there. Roads can be treacherous in the rain.”
“What we need is a tow,” Tony said, pulling out a handkerchief and blowing his nose.
They climbed into the truck, crowding close together. Sam winced as the gears ground raucously. Tony’s thigh lay along hers, his knee pressing against her. She could feel the heat of his skin through their wet jeans, and half expected to see steam rising.
Declining the man’s offer of a hot cup of tea, they huddled under the umbrella shivering as he drove a tractor out of the storage shed. “Hop on.”
They stood on the bar behind the seat, exposed to the full force of the rain, since it was impossible to hold the umbrella and hang onto the tractor fenders at the same time. Samantha ducked as the rubber wheels spun up mud around them.
Depression settled over her, as weighty as the heavy charcoal clouds above them. Nothing could make this day worse.
The tractor pulled the car free in short order, and they were on their way with a wave and a smile. All thoughts of scenic drives consigned to oblivion, Tony headed for the motorway.
He dropped Samantha off in front of her building, briefly touching her cold cheek with his hand before leaning over to open her door. “Samantha, we have to talk. I’ll be back in half an hour, after I go home and change.”
“Tony—” She faltered, knowing there was no escape. While she might have fought him had he demanded answers, she had no resistance to his honest concern.
Gently he ran his thumb over her bottom lip, his smile an odd mixture of solicitude and determination. “Don’t look so worried, Sam. I only want to help.”
She pushed herself out of the car, away from the seductive scent of his shaving lotion and the warmth in his eyes. “Tony, it’s better—”
“Later,” he said, pulling the car door shut. Her protest was lost in the roar of the engine as he drove off into the wet twilight.
Samantha entered the building, praying she wouldn’t meet anyone. Her shoes squelched around her icy feet as she trudged up the stairs. Mud dripped from her jacket and from her hair. She could only imagine what she looked like.
Bagheera was meowing at the back door when she let herself into the flat. She opened the door to let him out.
A hot shower restored her to bodily comfort. Dressed in a woolen sweater and soft fleece pants, she plugged in the kettle. If she kept her hands busy, she didn’t have to think. In the corner of the kitchen the washing machine sloshed rhythmically as it washed the mud out of her clothes.
The telephone rang, and she ran to it, thinking Tony had changed his mind, that she’d been granted a reprieve.
Lifting the receiver to her ear, she never got a chance to speak before the voice paralyzed her vocal cords.
“Next time I won’t fail.”
Chapter Five
Next time I won’t fail.
The strange, sexless voice rang in Sam’s head as she crouched, shivering, in her chair. Bagheera was still out prowling and she was denied even the comfort of his presence.
When the door buzzer sounded, she leaped up as if she’d touched a live wire. Teeth chattering, she hugged her arms around her chest, and pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
“Sam? It’s Tony.”
Tony? She shook her head, her brain woolly. Yes, Tony, of the gentle hands and warm smile.
To refuse him entry was a bigger decision than her mind could handle at the moment. She pushed the button, releasing the door.
She counted the minutes it would take him to climb the stairs. Even so, when he knocked, she began shaking again. She opened the door for him, glancing furtively up and down the hall before slamming it closed.
“Samantha.” Tony grasped her by the shoulders and looked into her face, his own skin paling. “Samantha, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”
All kinds of disasters tumbled through his mind. She’d caught flu or pneumonia from their walk in the rain. She’d been mugged in the hallway. Her apartment had been burglarized—that one was easy to discard as he saw the impersonal neatness.
He shook her a little as she stood in front of him, her body lax with a frightening passivity. “Samantha, say something. What is it?”
Her mouth contorted as she fought the need to cry, to fling herself on his chest and hold him—hold him. Tears spilled over her cheeks, and she gulped, still fighting, but finally giving in.
She buried her face against his coat, her tears soaking the fabric already wet from rain. “Oh, Tony, I’m so scared. First the note, then the thing at the supermarket, now this.”
He led her to the sofa, sat down with her, rocking her until the sobs eased. Awkwardly, he patted her back. “It’s all right, Samantha. I’m here. It’s all right.”
She burrowed closer and he wrapped his arms tightly around her, inhaling the delicate fragrance of her hair. It lay loose on her back, still damp from her bath.
Gently he kneaded the stiff muscles at the base of her skull. He tilted her face up to his. “Samantha, I’m sorry I was short with you this afternoon. But I was so upset. We’d almost been killed and I didn’t even know why.”
He stopped short. “What thing at the supermarket? Has there been something else?”
She realized all at once that, of course, he didn’t know. “Someone took a handbag from a woman who looked a lot like me, at a supermarket where I shop. The police questioned me about it.”
“Not as a suspect.”
“No, of course not. As the possible victim. My boss’s housekeeper saw the incident and mentioned my name. She’d thought it was me.”
“Someone’s trying to confirm your address,” Tony said. “Why?”
She ignored the question. “That’s what I thought.”
“Who, Sam?” His hands tightened as tension filled him. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I might have been prepared for what happened this afternoon.”
She opened her eyes. They were as cloudy as the mists that shrouded the dreary day. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“No, it wasn’t.” He felt only faint triumph that she agreed with him.
The intersection where the truck had hit them had not been a dangerous one. Both he and the truck driver would have had clear visibility, despite the weather. Unless the driver was drunk or crazy, Tony had to conclude that he’d been waiting for them. As to how he could have known which road they’d take, anyone returning to London would have had to use that route. A driver familiar with the area could easily precede them to a particular rendezvous by following farm roads.
“No, it wasn’t an accident,” he repeated. Sam’s face was pale, tear streaked, and his heart ached with a depth of emotion that startled him.
He hardly knew her, didn’t know if he could trust her, and yet he wanted to help her, no matter what the consequences. “But you insisted it was. You wouldn’t admit that you might be in danger. Samantha, what happened just now? Something else scared you.”
Her lips trembled. “The—the—phone—” She shook her head, unable to go on.
“The phone? Did someone threaten you on the phone?”
She gathered the tattered ends of her control, pulling away from him. She jerked a tissue from the box on the lamp table and mopped her face. Crying wouldn’t help, she told herself sternly. She should be calling the police.
Memories flooded back of Dubray lying in her father’s hall, the cold ruthlessness she’d seen in Bennett Price’s face as he’d wiped the floor. No, she couldn’t involve the police and give herself away. Not when she didn’t know for sure whether they’d found her.
But she had to tell somebody. The pressure was building inside her, hammering for release.
“All right, I’ll tell you.” Except for the slight catch in her voice, she sounded like her normal self.
“Yes, it’s time.” Tony leaned back, folding his arms across his chest.
“You were right, you know. I’m not British. I’m from Montréal. And my name is Smith, not Clark.”
Only the merest trace of a British accent remained in her voice. For an instant Tony had an eerie feeling that she was not one person but two, her demeanor had changed so much. But at once she regained the almost imperious dignity she’d displayed in the hotel lobby the afternoon they’d met. “I broke off my engagement.”
Tony’s brows rose. “That doesn’t seem a very compelling reason to run away from home. Who was the lucky man?”