Gray, Ginna (12 page)

His other reason was less concrete, more a gut feeling he could no
longer ignore. Because, God help him, he was actually beginning to believe that
she was exactly who and what she claimed to be. Not totally convinced, but
getting there.

Sam cursed under his breath. He had pegged her as Carlo's woman
because everything pointed in that direction. It had seemed so obvious that he
hadn't seriously considered any other possibility. The way he should have. The
way he'd been trained to do.

But the longer he was around her the more he realized that there
were just too many little things that didn't add up. She was bright and
observant and willing to learn and insisted on pulling her weight. That, he
realized, stemmed from her determination to be independent. Who the hell ever
heard of an independent mistress?

And then there were those exquisite manners of hers. He could
easily picture her rubbing elbows with princes and prime ministers and
society's upper crust.

Not exactly the qualities you expected to find in a bimbo
mistress, or even a lounge piano player.

The trouble was, he hadn't
wanted
to believe her story. He
still didn't. Their situation was too precarious—and too damned close for
comfort. If they managed to survive, they were going to be alone together for
weeks, maybe even months—just the two of them.

As long as he believed that she was Carlo Giovessi's whore, the
sharp pull of attraction he experienced around her was an irritating nuisance,
but nothing he couldn't handle. If he accepted that she was the innocent she
claimed to be, he wasn't so sure.

In his fifteen years with the Bureau, he'd always kept a
professional distance between himself and the witnesses and suspects in all his
cases. Not only was it the smart thing to do, it was Bureau policy, and he'd
never had a problem with it...until now.

So what was it about this particular woman? What made her
different? No logical answer came to mind, and for Sam that just made the
situation all the more frustrating.

He was good at solving puzzles. His analytical mind liked to
examine all the facts and clues, all the various motivations and possibilities,
and piece them together into a complete picture that gave him, if not solid
answers, at least a good educated guess.

His reaction to Lauren, however, had nothing to do with logic.

Sam sighed and raked his hand through his hair. He could be in
trouble here real fast, he thought with a frown.

He strung the last fill-line and tied it off, giving the knot a
hard jerk. He put the finished snowshoe with the others and added more wood to
the fire. When it was blazing he looked over his shoulder at Lauren. Fatigue
had overcome her anger and she was fast asleep.

Sam tugged off his knee-high moccasins, removed the felt liners
and placed them in front of the fire, then lifted the edge of the sleeping bag
and slid in beside Lauren. Turning onto his side, he looped his arm around her
waist and fitted the front of his body snugly to the back of hers.

A curling strand of her hair tickled his nose. Sam captured it and
tucked it behind her ear. Sighing, Lauren wiggled her bottom and shifted into a
more comfortable position.

Sam groaned. He stared down at the top of her head. In the light
from the fire her auburn hair blazed. And it smelled wonderful, like
wildflowers and shampoo. And woman.

Sam's jaw clenched, and he focused his gaze once again on the
fire. Oh, yeah, he was definitely in trouble.

Sam awoke with a start. Like a stag in the forest, he raised his
head, listening.

Something was different.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers and a few weak flames,
its faint glow extending no more than a foot or so in front of the hearth. Once
again, Lauren lay sprawled half over him, sound asleep, but he knew that wasn't
what had disturbed him.

Sam lay motionless, alert, his eyes searching through the darkness
around them. Then he saw the patch of moonlight spilling in through the grimy
window, and he knew.

It had stopped snowing.

"Dammit!" He shoved Lauren off of him, jerked down the
zipper on the sleeping bag, and rolled out, bounding to his feet. Heart
pounding, he stuffed the warm felt liners into his knee-high moccasins. How
long ago had it stopped snowing? Jesus!

He paused long enough to give Lauren's shoulder a rough shake.
"Wake up," he commanded. Hopping on one foot, then the other, Sam
rammed his feet into the tall moccasins.

Lauren raised her head and blinked at him as he drew up the
drawstrings at the top of his footgear and tied them securely over his pant
legs.

"Wha...what is it?" She pushed her hair out of her face
and cast a bleary look around, confused. "It's still dark. What're you
doing up?" she mumbled.

"Get up. It's stopped snowing. We're getting out of
here."

Lauren sat up and looked around, her eyes growing wide and
frightened. "We're...we're leaving? You mean...right now?"

"Not right this minute, but soon. First I have to hike back
to the plane."

"You're going all the way back there? But... why?"

"I forgot something." He squatted down and started
lacing on a pair of the crude snowshoes. Dammit, he had to find and destroy
whatever homing device the saboteur had planted before he and his cohorts
located the wreck.

"But that will take a couple of hours."

"Not quite. I can make it faster on my own. While I'm gone I
want you to pack up all our supplies and gear. So haul your butt out of that
bed and get busy."

"All right, all right," Lauren grumbled. "You don't
have to be so obnoxious." Shivering she climbed from the limited warmth of
the sleeping bag and stuffed her feet into her boots and tied them.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded when she picked up
several pieces of wood.

"What does it look like? I'm going to build up the
fire."

"No. No fire. Let those coals burn down."

"No fire? Why not?"

"I have my reasons. Just do as I tell you."

"But it's
freezing
in here right now. Without a fire
it will just get colder. Anyway, how are we going to cook breakfast?"

"We don't have time for that. Just grab some jerky." He
stomped his feet to test the snowshoe bindings, then dug into the bag of jerky,
extracted a few pieces and staffed them into a pocket on his parka.

"You're going to be gone for hours. You expect me to sit here
in the cold?"

"Get used to it," he replied. He picked up the rifle and
headed for the door. "You're going to be even colder when we start hiking
out of these mountains. Anyway, if you stay busy you won't get that cold, and I
figure it'll take you hours just to pack. It does most women."

"Very funny. I still don't see why I can't build up the fire.
We have the wood right here. Anyway, since you're going to be gone so long, I
could use the time to heat water and have a bath of sorts."

The statement jerked Sam to a halt. He spun around. "Are you
crazy?
Dammit, woman, get three feet away from that fire and it's a deep-freeze in
here. You'd have hypothermia before you could finish."

"If I built up the fire really big—"

"No! Absolutely not."

"But I need a
bath!""
Lauren wailed.

Despite the urgency and worry that gnawed at him, Sam almost
grinned. It was the first time that she had whined about anything, and damned
if she didn't look like an adorable, pouty little girl, with her hair all
tousled, her chin stuck out, standing there glaring at him.

From the start, he'd expected her to give him nothing but grief
every step of the way, especially after the plane crash, but she'd gritted her
teeth and done what she had to do without complaint, and under the crudest and
most difficult of conditions. She'd even made herself useful.

Everyone had their breaking point, though, and apparently two days
without a shower was Lauren's.

"So do I, but it'll have to wait," he replied
heartlessly.

"But—"

"I said no. That's it. End of discussion. Just do as you're
told. I mean it." He clomped to the door and lifted it aside, but before
he stepped out into the fading darkness he stopped and jabbed one gloved
forefinger at her. "Remember what I said. No fires, no cooking. And
absolutely
no bathing.
You got that?"

"Yes. I've got it," she snapped back. "I'm not
deaf, you know."

"Fine. I'll be back as quickly as I can. Be ready to move
out."

Sam stepped outside and propped the door back in place, shutting
off the sight of her outraged face.

He took off at once, leaving the cabin behind within seconds.
Without Lauren in tow Sam traveled at a fast clip, alternating between rapid
walking and trotting in that unnatural, hopping gait made necessary by the
snowshoes.

He thought about Lauren as he went. He'd hated to be so hard on
her, but it couldn't be helped. There was no way of knowing when the snow had
stopped falling, and by now whoever had sabotaged the plane could already have
an aircraft out looking for them. He couldn't run the risk of them seeing smoke
from their fire when they flew over.

They would come. Sam had no doubt about that. They had to. The
only way to know for certain that their targets were dead would be to check out
the wreckage. When they found only two bodies they would fan out and start
searching.

But he didn't want to tell Lauren that. Not unless he had to. She
was frightened enough already.

He hadn't missed the flash of fear in her eyes when he'd told her
they were leaving, or the way she had paled. He even understood it. As crude as
the old derelict cabin was, as primitive as they were living, as harsh as the
conditions were—Lauren felt safe here, miles from anywhere, hidden by the storm
and secluded by the rugged wilderness. Plus, no one knew they were there, or
how to find them.

Or so Lauren believed.

No sense in taking that small comfort away from her unless he had
no choice.

She was no dummy however, and she had already figured out that
once they left this place and returned to civilization, she would be in many
times more danger of losing her life than she was here. More people meant more
risk of being recognized, and the higher the likelihood of Giovessi's people
finding her.

Without breaking stride, Sam pulled a stick of jerky out of his
pocket and bit off a chunk. Eating was a necessity—his body needed fuel—but he
chewed the tough meat without conscious thought, his mind occupied. Lauren was
the primary target, but Sam had a gut feeling that the saboteur had wanted him
dead, as well.

The whole thing had probably been orchestrated by their mole. Sam
knew in his gut that he was close to nailing the dirty agent, and the bastard
probably knew it as well. It was just a matter of time. No doubt he had seen a
golden opportunity to eliminate not only the witness against his mob boss, but
Sam, as well. Two birds with one stone.

If, as Sam suspected, the plane had been sabotaged, that meant
that the turncoat in the department was one of the five other men who had been
in on the meeting in Harvey's office.

Sam's eyes narrowed at the thought, but he pushed on at the same
rapid pace. He eliminated Dave right off. Not only had he been too new to the
job to have been corrupted, he'd been a gung-ho, true-blue type, full of
shining ideals that had not yet been corroded by the daily grind and the things
he saw on the job. Besides, no way would the kid rig the engine to fail, then
get on the plane. That left Harvey Weiss, Charlie Potter, Todd Berringer and
Roy O'Connor.

He didn't know O'Connor that well, but he'd always considered him
to be a straight-arrow. The same could be said for Sam's boss, Charlie.

Todd had a glib tongue and an eye for the ladies, but when it came
to the job he was a by-the-book kind of guy—an approach that Sam thought lacked
initiative and in his opinion was not always effective, but probably had his
friend on the fast track for promotion—something that Sam knew would never
happen in his case. He was considered a lone wolf. At times a rogue wolf.

Despite their basic differences, however, or maybe because of
them, he and Todd had been friends a long time.

That left Harvey.

Sam didn't like the guy, and he had to admit that made him lean in
that direction, but until he had proof, all four men were suspect.

Hell, every agent in the Denver office was a suspect. There could
be, and probably were, more than one man—or woman—working for the mob boss.

Dawn arrived so gradually Sam barely noticed. A golden glow
backlit the mountain peaks to the east and darkness gave way to a soft pearly
light, but it would be another couple of hours before the sun cleared the
crests.

The silence was absolute. Nothing else stirred. Sam's heavy
breathing and the rhythmic crunch of his snowshoes on the fresh powder sounded
shockingly loud in the pristine stillness. He pressed on doggedly, stopping only
twice to take a drink of water and check his compass.

Slightly over an hour after leaving the cabin, he cut through a
stand of trees and arrived at a spot about three hundred yards above the crash
site. Sam stopped, breathing heavily, his eyes scanning the clearing and the
ledge at its far side where the plane had gone over into a ravine. Cautiously
he moved to the edge of the trees. The silence was so magnified he was sure
that if it weren't for his own labored breathing he'd be able to hear a chipmunk
sneeze.

Finally, satisfied there was no one around, he stepped out of the
trees and started sidestepping down the steep slope. He'd barely gone a yard
when he heard the distinctive
whop-whop-whop-whop
of a rotary engine
approaching from somewhere behind him.

"Holy shit!"

Sam scrambled back up the incline and made a dive for the base of
the nearest spruce tree just as the helicopter rose up over the ridge above
him.

Hitting the snow with an
"oomph!"
he rolled
beneath the low-hanging branches, weighted down with snow. The thick spruce
needles shielded the ground at the base of the tree from most of the snowfall.
Sam scooted on his belly into the natural hollow, in as close to the trunk as
he could get and flattened himself into the snow.

Damn. Had they spotted him? Breathing hard, he lay perfectly
still, his heart thudding.

The chopper's engine roared overhead, barely clearing the
treetops. The tree above Sam and all the neighboring ones waved and whipped in
the rotor wash, dumping bushels of snow on him. For a moment it seemed to Sam
that the bird hovered overhead, and he hugged the ground tighter.

The chopper went on by and the earsplitting engine noise abated
somewhat. Sam wriggled forward on his belly and cautiously raised his head just
far enough to see over the rim of the shallow crater.

Through the spruce branches he watched the chopper circle out over
the deep ravine. It hovered for a time, and Sam could see men peering down at
the wreckage at the bottom. The ravine was too narrow for the chopper pilot to
risk flying down to the site. Sam waited, every muscle in his body tense,
hoping they would decide that no one could have survived the wreck.

"Yeah, right. You should be so lucky," he muttered to
himself when the chopper circled back and set down in the clearing, the blade
wash kicking up a cloud of snow.

Though he knew they could not spot him, Sam instinctively drew
back a bit when the chopper door opened. The first man jumped out and hit the
ground in a defensive posture, crouched, his rifle held at the ready against
his shoulder, the barrel sweeping the area. Four more men followed, all
assuming the same stance and spreading out in a semicircle, their backs to the
chopper and the drop-off beyond it.

The pilot killed the engine and the rotary blades slowed and
drooped, and the cloud of snow it kicked up began to settle. Moments later the
man joined the other five.

Sam watched and waited, his hand on his rifle, every muscle in his
body tensed. From that distance he couldn't see their faces well enough to recognize
any of them, but the chopper was FBI.

The first man out, the one who seemed to be in charge, swept the
area several times, then looked up the slope at the stand of trees.

Sam stopped breathing.

The man's gaze seemed to focus on the tree where Sam lay hiding.
He stared at the same spot for several seconds. Watching him through narrowed
eyes, Sam pulled his rifle closer.