Christmas Getaway (5 page)

“So no honeymoon?”

Fitzpatrick was leaning in the doorway, watching her. He was wearing only his jeans, which rode low on his narrow hips, and the bandage looked good. Hell, everything about him looked good, but that wasn't any of her business.

“No honeymoon,” she said with a shrug. “I think the realization came when it was a relief to be kidnapped at gunpoint rather than wear his mother's wedding dress. That's not the appropriate reaction.”

“And you're always appropriate?”

She looked up at him. Appropriate would be not to notice how damned good he looked in those low-slung jeans and a bandage. Appropriate would be not to notice his black hair was a little too long and curling down his neck, and that his
eyes were a bright winter blue. Or that his stubborn, sexy mouth looked like it could do amazing things to hers.

“Always,” she said. “You can take a shower if you think you're strong enough to stand. Just don't get your bandage wetter than you can help.”

“What if I fall down?” He looked about as likely to fall down as the Prudential Center.

“I can always help you bathe. I've done worse in my life.”

“Tempting though that sounds, I think I'll decline the kind offer. The sooner I get on the road the better, and you might prove…distracting. Hand me your phone.”

“Hey, I'm on roaming,” she protested.

“You're a doctor—you can afford it better than a cop,” he said. “Besides, my phone has got to be bugged. I don't want to do anything to lead them to me.” He paused, looking at her. “What's the expression for?”

“Richard called the police last night when he couldn't get through to me. He knew I'd been at Farnham's, and he was afraid something had happened to me.”

Fitz's reaction was brief and profane. “Did they blow him off or pay attention to him?”

“Paid attention.”

“Hell and damnation.”

“I'm sure he's going to call them back, tell them never mind.” At least, she hoped so. Richard had never been terribly concerned about the needs of those he considered his underlings.

“Did you tell him where we were?”

“I said I was in Vermont. Alone.”

“Thank God for small favors,” he said.

She rose, but the area was far too small, particularly considering how little he was wearing and how damned cold the
room was. “Take your shower and I'll go see about renting you an SUV.”

For a moment he didn't move out of the way, blocking the doorway, and she was acutely aware of his size, his strength. He was just a few inches taller than she was, with the kind of lean, wiry frame she'd always found sexy. But she couldn't afford to find James Fitzpatrick sexy—he was just too much trouble.

She waited, and for a brief moment he moved toward her, and she had the insane thought that he was going to kiss her again. And that she wanted him to.

But instead he pulled back, moving out of the way. “I can find my own car.”

“You mean, steal it? Hijack another innocent holiday shopper? I don't think so. If the car is rented legally by a woman, no one's going to think you had anything to do with it.”

“Unless the police find out that Eloise Pollard rented a car less than twenty-four hours after she went missing from the last known site where James Fitzpatrick was seen. They'll be on me like flies on manure.”

“How apt,” she said sweetly. “Take your shower and tell me what you want me to do.”

“I'd like you to go out and get in your car and get the hell away from here before you bring me any more attention.”

For some ridiculous reason that hurt. She could point out to him that he was the one who'd drawn her into it, mention that if it weren't for her, he'd be passed out behind the wheel somewhere, or dead in a hail of bullets.

But he was right. She needed to get the hell away from him as quickly as she could. “Fine,” she said briskly. “Take my cell phone—you need it more than I do. If you survive, you can always return it. Your antibiotics are on the beside table. I hope you make it to Maine.”

“I'll make it,” he said grimly. “Nothing could stop me.”

She waited until she heard the sound of the shower. She put on the heavy socks she'd bought, then slid into her turquoise rubber shoes. Her coat was still in the car, and she figured, what the hell, and grabbed his ruined leather jacket. He could damn well freeze as he made his solitary way to Maine.

Zipping it up, she pushed open the door to the cabin and started trudging across the snow-packed parking lot toward her car.

And then she looked up.

The black car blocking hers was unmarked, with Massachusetts official plates, and she had no doubt it wasn't a coincidence. Especially when two men got out, one tall and burly, the other a paler, weaker version of Fitz. It must be his cousin, Tommy Morrissey. The men who wanted to kill him.

She froze, wondering if there was a chance in hell she could run for it, get back and barricade Fitz and her inside the cabin, warn him that they'd been found.

Damn Richard! It was just too bloody easy to trace her car. Maybe she could bluff, tell them she was here alone.

But then the taller man started toward her. “Are you Dr. Pollard? Dr. Eloise Pollard?” he said, his voice firm and friendly. “We've been looking for you.”

Fight or flight? She still couldn't move. Fitz would have the brains to look before he decided to stroll out the front door the way she had, wouldn't he?

If she ran, they'd follow her, and find him. She really didn't have any choice in the matter. So she plastered her best smile on her face and started toward the approaching man. She hoped to God that he wasn't holding a gun in the hand she couldn't see.

Because as hot as James Fitzpatrick was, she had no intention of dying for him, or anyone else.

“Yes, I'm Eloise Pollard,” she said. “Can I help you, Officer?”

The man coming toward her frowned. “How did you know I was a cop?” he asked. And she waited for the arm to come up, and her life to be over.

And the only thing she could think of was,
I should have kissed him back.

F
ITZ SHOWERED QUICKLY
. The hot water ran out, thanks to the bride, and he cursed as he banged his elbow on the rusty tin stall in his hurry to get out of the suddenly icy blast. She'd bought him boxers with Christmas trees on them, probably out of sheer malice. He pulled them on, cursing. The jeans were too small for him—probably on purpose, as well—but he could get away with the black jeans he'd been wearing when everything had gone south. At least they wouldn't show the blood.

He prodded the skin around the wound. It was tender, but not agonizing. The bride was a pretty good doctor—he'd lucked out when he'd grabbed her. Except that she was a pain, and tempting, and he had too much on his plate just trying to stay alive to even be thinking about her that way.

But hell, he was a man. There was always time to think about sex.

He looked around for his All Stars. She'd had the presence of mind to put them by the space heater, and the canvas had dried out, at least for the time being. She was someone who paid attention to details—he liked that in a woman.

She'd also stolen his leather jacket, leaving him with nothing but a hooded sweatshirt, also with a freaking Christmas tree on it, and his appreciation faded fast. Shoving his gun in
his waistband, he started for the door, planning to catch up with her and get his damned jacket back, and maybe, just maybe, kiss the hell out of her simply because he wanted to and because maybe he wasn't going to make it through the day, when something stopped him.

The instincts that had made him spin out of the way when Barber raised his gun, the instincts that had kept his sorry ass alive for so long were on full alert.

They'd found him.

He moved toward the window, slowly, so that his shadow wouldn't be noticeable through the dingy curtains, and looked out. O'Bannion was there, towering over her, and Morrissey was skulking around the car.

She was on her own. They'd have no reason to hurt her, but if they thought she knew anything about where he'd gone, they wouldn't hesitate to…

He couldn't think about that. He backed away from the window, slowly. He'd already wasted too much time. He had to get to Maine, find out what kind of proof Spinelli had. Find a way to stop O'Bannion and Morrissey and clear his name.

The bride would have to fend for herself.

 

I
T WAS ALL
Ellie could do not to turn and run. The man was big, tall and husky, with a smooth smile and the eyes of a sociopath or a politician. “You've got official plates on your car,” she said reasonably. “And I'm a doctor—I've dealt with the police before when I've done work in the E.R. Am I wrong?”

“You're absolutely right, Dr. Pollard. I'm Senior Detective Connor O'Bannion and this is Detective Morrissey. Your fiancé has been very worried about you.”

“I've been in touch with him, Detective. He knows I'm
fine—he just overreacted when I decided to take some time away. It's awfully nice of you to go to all this trouble. How in the world did you find me?”

“We have excellent resources, Dr. Pollard. Now why don't you tell me where he is?”

She blinked. “Where who is?”

“There's blood in the snow under the car,” Morrissey called out. “I knew I'd winged him.”

“What are you…?” Her words trailed off as she stared into the barrel of a gun. This was the second time in twenty-four hours that a stranger had pulled a gun on her, and she didn't like it any more this time than she had outside of Farnham's.

“Let's not dick around, Dr. Pollard. Just tell me where he is and you can go back to your fiancé and never think about it again.” O'Bannion's voice was smooth, deadly. And she didn't believe him for one minute. “You don't need to worry—he's not going to hurt you again. We know Fitzpatrick carjacked you at the department store and forced you to help him at gunpoint. We're here to protect you.”

Yeah, right.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”

He hit her, slamming his hand against the side of her face, and he grabbed her arm in an iron grip before she could fall. “This isn't a game, Dr. Pollard. Where is he?”

“Her tracks lead to that cabin, Connor,” Morrissey said. “Just one set of tracks. He must still be there.”

“He's gone,” she said rapidly, trying to ignore the throbbing on the side of her face. “I got away from him last night, but I was too freaked to drive home, and I…”

“Don't lie to me, bitch,” O'Bannion snarled. “We'll just go see.” He started dragging her across the parking lot, ignoring her struggles.

“He'll have a gun,” the other man warned.

“That's why she's going to be our shield,” O'Bannion said grimly, pushing her in front of him, twisting her arm behind her back to keep her under control. “Come along, Dr. Pollard. You don't want to be interfering with a policeman in pursuit of a suspect, now do you?”

There were a hundred things she could say, but only one came out. “Get out of there, Fitz!” she screamed, a moment before O'Bannion's meaty hand slammed down over her mouth.

She bit him, and he cursed, jerking her arm up harder. A little bit more and he'd break it, which would be the least of her worries because he was already going to have to kill her. He hauled her up the steps, his partner close behind them. “I've got your hostage, Fitz!” he called out. “Now I can put a bullet in her brain or you can get your ass out here.”

No answer. O'Bannion kicked the door open, keeping her as a shield, but the room was empty. “Check the bathroom, Tommy,” he ordered.

“He's gone, Connor,” Tommy announced a moment later. “He went out the window. I can see tracks leading toward the street….”

“What are you waiting for? Go after him!”

“What about her?” He jerked his head in Ellie's direction.

O'Bannion released his agonizing grip, and she tore herself away, trying to rub the circulation back into her shoulder. “I think poor Dr. Pollard was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was taken hostage by a fugitive and murdered by him before the police closed in.”

“Sounds good,” Morrissey said. “You want me to cap her?”

“Cuff her for now, while we find the son of a bitch. We can use his gun just to make things neat and tidy. Put her in the back of the police car. She can't get into trouble there.” He
leaned down, breathing on her, nasty, coffee-drenched fumes. “And if you make any trouble, we'll just shoot you now and have things a little less tidy. You got that?”

“Yes,” she said, glaring at him.
He got away.
For some reason that mattered, even though there was a good chance she wasn't going to survive.

They force-marched her across the snow-covered parking lot and shoved her in the back of the unmarked car. The handcuffs were hooked into a bar on the back of the seat, so even if she could get the door open, she wouldn't be able to run. And considering there were no handles on the inside of the door, getting it open was an unlikely scenario.

“You want me to knock her out, Connor?” Tommy was just full of good suggestions, Ellie thought.

“We don't want her too bruised, now do we, Tommy? This is the back end of beyond—no one will be able to hear her if she screams, and even if they do, she's in the back of a police car. Everyone's gonna steer clear.”

“You son of a…” The car slammed shut on the beginning of her string of curses. She yanked at the handcuffs, kicking the seat in sheer frustration as the two men disappeared behind the cabins. Where was Fitz when she needed him? She couldn't think of half the bad words he'd come up with.

She'd seen enough in her years as a doctor to know that death could come quickly and unpredictably, and there was no rightness or sense to it. She might very well die today. But she wasn't going down without a fight.

It had to be very early in the morning—the December sun was barely visible, and the roads were empty, except for a battered-looking tow truck heading into the parking lot. She tried to pound on the windows, but her cuffed hands couldn't reach, and she angled back, trying to kick at the door to get
the driver's attention. Instead she slid onto the floor, wrenching her arms. She tried to get back up on the seat, but she'd somehow managed to get totally tangled up with her arms and legs going in opposite directions. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to…

There was a bump, and the car jerked forward, then began to slide sideways. She finally managed to get to her knees on the seat. The tow truck had hooked onto the front of the police car and was towing it out of the parking lot so quickly the back tires were fishtailing in the snow, throwing her back and forth in the seat.

She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. The bad cops were foiled by something as simple as a tow truck, probably moving the car out of the way for plowing. Assuming the idiot driver got her out of there in time and didn't end up losing the car off a cliff in the slippery conditions, she was going to make it.

She fell back against the seat, her arms stretched out in front of her as they sped along the empty highway. Whoever was driving wasn't used to a tow truck—this was possibly more dangerous than being trapped by two killer cops. She closed her eyes and prayed, she wasn't sure for what, but she kept at it until the truck took a sharp turn, sending the car spinning behind it like crack-the-whip on ice skates, and a moment later it crashed up against the back of the tow truck, throwing her onto the floor again.

She didn't know what she was expecting when the back door opened, exposing her sprawled on the floor, but somehow Fitz came as no surprise. “Stop messing about,” he said. “We have to keep moving.”

She managed to flip around enough to glare at him. “I'm in handcuffs, Einstein.”

Fitz swore. “They should have gagged you, too.” He un
fastened one cuff and pulled it through the bar, then undid the other one, shoving them in his pocket before hauling her out of the smashed car.

“What do you need those for?”

“In case you annoy me. Aren't you going to thank me for saving your life?” he said.

“Considering I wouldn't have been in danger if you hadn't pulled a gun on me in the first place, you'll have to forgive me if I'm a little less than grateful,” she said. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“In the tow truck. We'll drive up into Maine and ditch it first chance we get.”

“We?”

“Obviously I can't leave you alone. Look at the trouble you got yourself into.”

Within five minutes they were back on the highway, the smashed police car left behind in the woods. The heater in the truck didn't seem to be operational, and when she reached out to turn on the radio and find some Christmas music, he said, “Don't you dare.”

She looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment. “You didn't need to come back for me,” she said. “Why did you? Why didn't you just keep on running?”

She thought he wasn't going to answer. She'd already learned that James Fitzpatrick wasn't the talkative sort, and she expected nothing more than a grunt.

“Because even though you're annoying and bossy and a pain in the ass, you're still innocent in all this. And that's what a cop does—protect the innocent, even at his own risk. And I'm a cop, the son of a cop, the grandson of a cop. I'm going to keep you safe, and if the only way I can do it is to take you with me, then you're coming with me. Got it?”

“Got it,” she said. “How's your side?”

“Fine, thank you,” he snapped.

“Good.” She fastened the seat belt, leaning back and rubbing her wrists absently. In her struggles they were rubbed raw, and she tucked them into the overlong sleeves of his pilfered jacket. “Do you still have my cell phone?”

“It's back at the cabin. They'll be tracking that now, as well. Spinelli already knows I'm heading his way. I was calling him when Grady decided to pull a gun on me.”

“I don't suppose you're going to feed me?” Suddenly she was ravenous. Maybe running for your life did that to a girl.

“Eventually,” he said. “Right now I'm more concerned with saving your life. I should have known they'd plan to kill you. O'Bannion isn't the type to leave any loose ends.”

She reached forward again to turn on the radio, and this time he let her. Some sleazy lounge singer was crooning “Silent Night” and she resisted the impulse to turn it off again, instead leaning back in her seat. All is calm, all is bright. At least for now.

She had to admire his talent for grand theft auto. By the time they were halfway up the Maine coast they were on their third car, this one a muddy Jeep Cherokee, and she'd eaten the best fried clams she'd had in her entire life. And somewhere along the way they began to talk, really talk, as old friends do instead of natural enemies. He told her about his huge Irish Catholic family on the outskirts of Boston, his powerhouse of a mother, his seven brothers and sisters, his terrifying Aunt Agnes, better known as Sister Mary Joseph, his first girlfriend and his first dog. She told him of her years growing up outside of Sydney, of that dark time when her parents had been killed and she'd been left alone, with no one to turn to but Ruby, her very temporary foster mother. Ruby
was only set up for boys, and Ellie's stay with her had been short until her aunt could be found, but it had been long enough to forge lifetime relationships with Ruby and with fellow foster child Joe Cartland. She told him of the long years of slogging through medical school, her decision to leave the rough, beautiful country and the warm, practical people to find a new life in the States, and her recent longing to return. By the time they reached the tiny town of Hidden Harbor he knew more about her than Richard ever did. And she knew more about him.

It was pitch-dark and bitter cold, but at least the Jeep had decent heat and a CD player full of holiday music. “We're getting close,” Fitz said, the temporary lightness in his voice vanishing. “Spinelli lives three blocks over, but this town isn't exactly a bustling metropolis. I'm going to need to scout it out on foot.”