Revenge (55 page)

She glanced up when the bell over the door tinkled. Sloan stomped snow off his boots, and when he looked at her, she felt her heart lighten a little. Silly. Just because he'd freed her, she needn't feel so dependent upon him. Just a week ago she was an independent woman used to making her own decisions, and though she'd reached a crossroads in her life about her future, no one who knew her would ever have dared accuse her of relying on anyone.

“Let's go,” he said as he approached the table. He picked up the bill and paid at the cash register as Casey grabbed the nylon bag and followed him.

Outside, the storm was raging. The wind raged through the trees surrounding the buildings and sliced through her jacket as she dashed across the parking lot to the U-shaped building with the flashing neon sign announcing cable TV and vacancies. Snow turned to ice pellets stung her face. “What about the truck?” she asked as he unlocked the door and flipped on the lights of a small unit.

“I asked the owner of the restaurant if we could leave it over there.”

“Why?”

“So that it doesn't give away what room we're in.”

“To whom?”

“Whoever might have followed us.”

“That's crazy. No one's chasing me in this blizzard.” She stomped the snow from her shoes.

He fiddled with the thermostat. “How can you be so sure? You're the million-dollar heiress, remember?”

“But Barry's truck is disabled, he's tied up, freezing his behind in the cabin, or maybe by now he's behind bars.”

“That would be my guess.”

“Then what do we have to worry about?”

He looked at her then, his dark gaze piercing hers, and her throat suddenly seemed to close and throb under the intensity of his stare. “His friends, for starters. As we discussed, we don't know how many accomplices he has and where they are. So for now, we'll take all the precautions we can.” Hooking his thumb toward the window, he added, “I've got some things in the truck. I'll be right back.” But he didn't move. He stared at her another few seconds and her heart knocked painfully. “And don't make any calls, okay? Not yet.”

Breaking away from his gaze, she glanced at the phone. “Not even my mother?”

“Especially not. No calls to the Rocking M. We'll work something out tomorrow, okay?”

“I don't see why—”

He grabbed her, his fingers digging through her jacket to find her shoulders. “We're going to do things my way. You may not like it, but that's too damned bad. Until you're back where you belong, I'm in charge.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” she demanded, her temper rising again. “Meekly agree and bend over and kiss your boots?”

One side of his hard mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “Now that would be a start.”

“In your dreams.”

His grin widened just a fraction. “You wouldn't want to guess about my dreams, lady,” he said, and for a fraction of a second, she thought he might kiss her. His eyes held hers and the breath stopped somewhere deep in her lungs. She swallowed and his smile faded. Time seemed to stand still. He reached upward as if to trace the edge of her jaw, thought better of it and dropped his hand. “I'll be right back. Lock the door behind me.”

“You're joking, right?”

His eyes flashed. “Just do it, okay?”

He disappeared through the door and slammed it behind him. Feeling foolish, Casey shoved the bolt into place and waited, checking out her surroundings. The motel room had seen better days. A dingy floral spread on the only bed matched the faded yellow curtains covering a single window. She wondered about the sleeping arrangements, but didn't let her mind wander too far. The rug was a faded brown that didn't quite hide the stains near the door. A small pedestal table with two sagging chairs had been shoved under a swag lamp in the corner. There was a tiny bathroom, an alcove that sufficed for a closet and a color TV propped on a low bureau that was marred by cigarette burns.

“The Ritz it's not,” she thought aloud, but decided central heating, television, phone service and freedom beat her accommodations of the prior week.

Sloan let himself in with his key and tossed his hat onto the table. He carried a small duffel bag as well as Barry's shotgun, knife and pistol. “Armed and dangerous,” he joked, and Casey felt a smile tug the corners of her mouth. So he did have a sense of humor.

“Is there a reason we ended up with a room with only one bed?” she asked. The heater had kicked in and she took off her jacket.

He sent her a look that turned her knees to water. “A good one. It's all they had. Two units available, each with one double bed.” She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “What? You think I'm cheap?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Maybe you think I planned to seduce you.”

She didn't move for a second, then tossed her head. “I just wanted to know, that's all.”

“You can have the bed. I'll camp out by the door.”

“Are you serious? You don't have to—”

“I would, anyway,” he said, his voice firm.

She let it drop. She knew arguing with him wouldn't do any good. “Fine.” Running her hands through her hair, she felt suddenly grimy and tired. “Look, if you don't mind, I think I'll clean up.”

“Fair enough.”

She grabbed the nylon tote bag before heading into the bathroom. It was cramped, the linoleum cracked, the single bulb bare, the shower stained by years of rust. She turned on the water and thought of the bubble bath she'd envisioned at the cabin. With a half smile, she decided that she'd have to wait for that kind of luxury.

 

Silently Sloan cursed the fates that seemed against him. The storm wasn't letting up; the weather service predicted another six inches by morning and highway crews weren't able to keep up with the cold white powder that wouldn't stop falling. Great. Just great.

He checked the chamber of the old shotgun, then unloaded it. He didn't like guns, had seen his share of destruction and death caused by handguns and semiautomatic rifles. He'd only been with the Los Angeles Police Department a few years—six to be exact—but in that time, he'd witnessed the ease of killing by gunshots.

Even Jane. And Tony. Hot pain seared through his soul and he closed his eyes. He had to quit thinking of them. For years he'd buried their memories deep in a private part. of him and rarely let them surface, but ever since chasing down Casey, thoughts of his wife and son had preyed on his mind. He didn't understand why these long-suppressed images were troubling him now or why Casey McKee made him remember the happiest years of his life as a husband and father. He was just tired and worried. That was it. Thoughts of family life had nothing to do with Casey.

He heard the water start to run in the shower and he imagined her stripping off her clothes and stepping into the steamy spray. In his mind's eye he saw the hot water running through her hair, past her shoulders and along the cleft of her spine. Drops clung to her chin and drizzled over her breasts... “Quit it!” he growled, furious at the direction of his thoughts.

He'd never been a ladies' man, never dated more than one woman at a time, and when he'd married Jane, he'd intended to be her husband for the rest of his life. He'd never wanted another woman, couldn't imagine ever cheating on her. Then suddenly, senselessly, she was gone, and he'd been left with his vows of forever still etched into his heart.

He wasn't a foolish man and knew that he couldn't live without a woman indefinitely, but he'd promised himself never to become emotionally attached to a woman again. Every time one got a little too close, he backed off.

And no one had ever touched him the way Jane had. With her, their physical relationship had been more than sex. A playful kiss, a secret laugh, a soft touch... Hell, he still missed that.

For years he'd been convinced no other woman would ever break through the emotional barrier he'd so carefully built, but now, as he cast a look at the peeling paint of the bathroom door, he wondered if the feisty little woman standing naked in the hot shower could break through his defenses.

But that was crazy. He barely knew her. She was a spoiled, rich brat who didn't have enough brains to figure out that Barry White was the enemy before jumping into his truck.

He double-checked the locks and windows, though he didn't really believe that anyone could have tracked them here. He'd been careful, and most likely, Barry White's accomplice, whoever the hell he was, was in Rimrock, waiting to hear from him.

He heard the squeal of ancient pipes, then silence as the water quit running. He glanced at the bed and wondered how many days he'd be forced to spend alone with her. “Get a grip, Redhawk,” he muttered under his breath. He couldn't allow himself to think of her as a woman. She was Jenner McKee's baby sister. She was a wealthy woman who could buy and sell him countless times over. And she was a job—his ticket to a hundred thousand dollars. He could think of her as any of these—but not as a woman.

 

Casey finally felt warm. In a soft flannel shirt, sweater and jeans, her hair still damp but clean, every crevice in her body washed for the first time in a week, she stepped out of the bathroom and found Sloan sitting in a chair by the door, his boots propped on another chair, the shotgun angled across his legs.

He glanced up at her as she folded a knee beneath her and sat on the edge of the bed. Self-conscious, she leaned against one of the pillows, then tossed the other to him. “You don't have to stay over there,” she said. “If you want to sleep in the bed-”

“Don't worry about it.” He didn't crack a smile. “Go to sleep.”

“But—”

“I'm getting paid for this, remember. When I get tired, I'll roll out the sleeping bag.”

“You're sure?”

“Wouldn't have it any other way,” he said, but the twist of his lips suggested differently. Sighing, she climbed gratefully under the covers and watched as he set down the shotgun and reached into his duffel bag. “I think you'd better use this,” he said as he withdrew a tube of antiseptic cream and tossed it onto the bed.

“I think I'm okay—”

“Let me be the judge of that.” He stepped into the bathroom, ran the water for a while and came back into the room, drying his hands.

“Really, Sloan...” she protested, though she had no sound reasoning to argue with. He was just being safe and she was defying him because she was tired of being told what to do.

But he wasn't about to be discouraged. He sat on the edge of the bed and uncapped the tube. Reluctantly she showed him her hands, which he took in his and surveyed with the cool professionalism of a doctor. Gently he applied the cream to her cuts and the burns on her wrists. “Doesn't look like any infection,” he said gruffly, though still examining her fingers.

“I told you.”

While still holding her hand, he stared straight into her eyes and her heart did a strange little flip. His gaze was black and intense as he reached into the front pocket of his jeans and extracted a ring. The room seemed suddenly close. “I think this is yours.” He placed the turquoise-and-silver ring in her hand. “White sent it to your family.”

“Oh... thanks.”

“I wouldn't wear it yet. Not until you're completely healed.”

“No...I won't.”

With one last look at her fingers and wrists, he seemed satisfied and walked back to his chair by the door. She told herself that he was just being thorough, that nothing had happened between them, but she couldn't stop her heart from pounding in double time.

“So tell me about your friend in Spokane.”

“Clarisse?” she said around a yawn.

He nodded.

“We were best friends in college when she started going out with Ray. She thought he was wonderful, but I didn't like him right off the bat. He seemed too stuck on himself. Kind of a dandy. A rich dandy. And critical. Jeez, he was critical. Of Clarisse's hair, her clothes, her grades, even her car. He seemed to enjoy picking on her, though he kept telling her it was just to help her, you know, that whole self-improvement thing through constructive criticism. B.S., if you ask me.” She shook her head. “Anyway, Clarisse thought he was perfect and she tried to please him. I quit trying to change her mind about him when they got engaged because it was too late. I was in her wedding party, and then they ended up moving back to Spokane, where they had a couple of kids and I kind of lost touch with her. She quit calling and answering my letters and it got to where we were only jotting a quick note on the bottom of Christmas cards.”

“But she called you,” he prodded as she sank back on the pillows, “when she was in trouble.”

“Yeah.”

“And you wired her a lot of money.”

“She needed help,” Casey said a little defensively.

“What about her family?”

“I didn't ask. They don't have a lot of money, though, and they also thought Ray was a great catch.” She snorted in disgust, then yawned as weariness settled over her.

“The FBI thinks she was in on the kidnapping.”

“No way.” She bit her lip thoughtfully. “I had a lot of time to think this past week, but I decided Clarisse doesn't know a thing about it. Barry bragged about tampering with my car—”

“He did. We found scratches on your distributor cap.”

“Scratches? That's it? Just scratches?”

“Looks that way. So the car ran for a while and then just stopped, right?”

“Yeah. I braked for a curve and everything went dead.”