Still Lake (16 page)

She hadn't cried that loudly, that long, for years. She couldn't even remember when. Crying was supposed to relieve stress, but all it seemed to do was wind her up tighter than ever. She was gulping for air in between sobs, having a full-blown anxiety attack.

“Smarten up, Sophie,” she muttered through her tears. “This isn't doing anyone any good.” She tried wiping her tears away with her full skirt, but it was already wet with blood, and she hated to think what kind of mess she was making.

She knew she couldn't stay there all night feeling sorry for herself, as tempting as the notion was. For
one thing, she'd run off the road before the fork, and she was, in fact, closer to the Whitten cottage than the inn. Too close for comfort. She needed to get home, soak for a long time in one of the claw-footed bathtubs, maybe have a nice cup of herbal tea, and crawl into bed. She'd gone through enough for one day.

She slid out of the car, into the rain, sending a mental note of thanks skyward that at least there was ground beneath her feet. She slid as she climbed up the embankment, going down in the mud, but she was beyond caring. If she'd had one ounce of energy left she would have run home. As it was, she could barely drag herself down the narrow drive.

She saw the beam of the flashlight through the rain, and she let out a low, miserable moan. She didn't want to see anybody. Not her family, not John Smith, not the Northeast Kingdom killer. She just wanted to get home. She halted, considering whether she could dive into a ditch again, hide from whoever was out on such a miserable night. It couldn't really be anyone dangerous, though in fact she'd rather run into a legendary murderer than the man she'd spent the night with.

The bright beam of the flashlight caught her, and it was too late to hide. She couldn't see who was behind the light, only a large, shadowed figure, dressed in a raincoat. Shades of teenage horror movies, she thought, standing her ground. If she tried to
run he'd probably catch her with some kind of grappling hook.

The ominous figure came closer in the rain-soaked darkness, till he was only a couple of feet away from her. He let the flashlight run over her bedraggled body with impartial interest. “I should have known it was you,” John Smith said in a resigned voice. “What the hell happened?”

She considered a Victorian swoon, a graceful faint, to avoid answering his question. Even a flat-out run would be preferable, but none of those options would work. She'd hurt herself if she flopped down into the mud; he'd probably either leave her there or throw her over his shoulder in an undignified fireman's carry, or he'd catch her if she tried to run. Assuming she didn't fall flat on her face.

Rancor might help make him keep his distance. “What do you think happened?” she shot back. “Someone tried to run me off the road.”

“They did a good job of it.”

“Not here. On Route 16. Down by Dutchman's Falls.”

She was vaguely aware of the utter stillness in his body. “How'd you manage to get away?”

“I'm kidding. It was just an accident. Some drunk driver nearly hit me, then drove off without realizing he'd run me into a ditch. Fortunately I was able to use the four-wheel-drive to get back on the road, but then I lost it when I pulled into the driveway. I'm
fine, I'm sure the car's fine, I just want to get home and get in a hot tub and get to bed.”

She could have cursed herself for saying the word
bed
, but he didn't seem to notice. The beam of the flashlight swung up the road to her bedraggled car tilted sideways in the ditch. The front fender was crumpled, and she wondered whether that had happened just now or if it was the result of her earlier encounter.

He turned the flashlight back on her, and she squinted through the rain and darkness. “You're bleeding,” he said, more an observation of fact than an expression of concern.

“I'm fine.”

“Sure you are,” he said, flicking off the flashlight, plunging them into darkness. Now was the time to make a run for it, she thought. Not moving.

He took her unresisting hand. “Your place or mine?”

“What?”

“I'm not going to let you wander around in the darkness like some gory lost soul. You're covered with mud and blood, you look like you just managed to escape from an ax murderer, and I doubt you're any more capable of finding your way home in this condition than your batty mother is. Therefore, I'm making sure you get cleaned up and get home safely. Your place or mine?”

“I can take care of myself….”

“I guess it's up to me,” he said, more to himself, and began pulling her along after him. She was too dazed to resist, though she knew she ought to run. “And don't think I'm going to carry you,” he added. “It's a treacherous night, and you're more of a handful than a sylph. You'll have to make it on your own two feet.”

It was enough to galvanize her. “Asshole,” she muttered, picking up her feet. “A gentleman would at least give me his coat.”

“Yeah? You're wet and bloody and covered with mud. The damage has been done, and if I give you my coat that just makes two of us wet. Besides, what in God's name ever gave you the impression I was a gentleman?”

She had to concede that point. Except where her mother had been concerned, John Smith was a mannerless pig. She was going to tell him that, as well as several other things, and she composed them in her brain, full, flowery insults of really impressive inventiveness like “sour-assed satyr” or “foul-hearted liar.” Then she realized they had somehow made it all the way to his front porch in seemingly no time at all.

He opened the door and pushed her through with his usual lack of courtesy, but she was past fighting. The room looked different in the lamplight, and he had a fire going, and for the first time she realized how very cold she was.

She had two choices. One, try to take him by surprise, knock him out of the way and run out into the cold rain again before he could stop her. Or she could move to the fire and let the blessed heat sink into her bones.

He was a lot bigger than she was, and even though he was occupied in taking off the enveloping raincoat he was still blocking the doorway, and he wasn't the type to be taken off guard. And she was so damned cold.

In the end it didn't matter. He took her icy-cold hand and pulled her over to the fireplace. “Stay there,” he ordered, and she didn't waste more than a moment considering escape.

There was nowhere else she wanted to be.

Oh, God, not the Curse of the Wilsons
, she thought somewhat crazily. Life was complicated enough. She should run away, back home, and lock the doors. Lock him out, lock her ridiculous fantasies inside, and maybe they'd go away.

But they wouldn't. She knew it with a depressing certainty. And she knew that all he'd have to do was come knocking on the door and she'd let him in.

She was doomed.

H
e'd never seen anyone look more pathetic in his entire life. Sophie had just stood there in the rain, staring at him out of whipped-puppy-dog eyes, and he'd had the absurd longing to put his arms around her and tell her everything would be all right.

He hadn't, of course. Not his style. And it would have been a lie. He'd made a crack about her weight, enough to jar her out of her pitiful daze and make her move. He had to be careful, though. He hadn't seen her in the light yet, but he'd come to the uncomfortable conclusion that her soft, luscious body was almost perfect. It would be a damned shame if he goaded her into starving away her curves.

He grabbed an armful of the threadbare white towels that came with the cottage and headed back into the living room. She hadn't moved from the spot where he'd left her, and the firelight flickered against her blood-streaked face. Her hair was clinging damply to her head, her dress was streaked with blood and mud, and if anyone had ever looked like a drowned rat, she did.

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to
wipe the blood and mud from her, strip off her ruined clothes and warm her from the inside out. Last night had only been a start, and he'd had a hard time concentrating on anything but Sophie all day long.

And here she was, vulnerable, full of possibilities, and he wanted to explore each and every one of them, slowly, thoroughly. He didn't want to think about murder, about the past, even about the future. He wanted to think about now, and Sophie, and the way she smelled like flowers and fresh-baked cookies.

He dumped the towels on a wicker chair. “Did you see what you look like?” he asked, trying to keep his hands off her.

She looked at him instead, numbly. “What?”

“Over the window seat. There's a mirror.”

She turned to look, obedient for a rare moment, and stared at her reflection. He'd half expected her to burst into tears.

Instead, to his surprise, she managed a rusty-sounding laugh. “Damn,” she said. “No wonder you're being nice for a change.”

“I'm always nice,” he protested, starting to dry her head with one of the towels.

“Yeah, right. Ouch!” She grabbed the towel out of his hand. “I hurt my head, remember? I'll take care of it.”

“Fine,” he said, reaching for another towel. “I'll take care of your body.”

She took a step back from him, shooting him a warning glance. “I'll break your hands.”

“You and what army?” She was cold—he could see the goose bumps on her arms, the faint shiver in her body. Damn, he really wanted to see her. The darkness had been a sensual treat last night. Now he was ready to get a good look at her.

But she was too miserable for him to push, at least for the moment. “Sit in the chair and I'll get you a blanket,” he said after a moment. “Then I'll see what I can do about that cut on your head.”

“I don't need your help.”

“You've got it, whether you want it or not. And you've made your head bleed again.”

“I didn't—you did,” she snapped.

At least she was still capable of fighting back. As long as he kept her pissed off she wouldn't start crying again. He was really hopeless with crying women.

By the time he returned to the living room, a quilt in one hand and a poorly equipped first aid kit in the other, she'd done as he'd told her, sitting closer to the fire as she tried to dry her hair while avoiding the cut.

“Wrap this around you,” he said gruffly, handing her the old quilt.

“I will not!” she said, horrified. “That's a double wedding ring.”

“It's a what?”

“Double wedding ring quilt,” she clarified, as if to an idiot. “It's probably from the 1930s. I'm not going to cover it with blood and dirt.”

“Wrap the fucking quilt around you or I'll do it for you,” he said between clenched teeth.

She pulled the quilt around her shoulders, gingerly, jumping when he touched her head. “Quilts can be washed,” he added prosaically. She had a nice little cut on her temple, one that had bled profusely, but the bleeding seemed to have slowed. He dumped some peroxide on a swab and began cleaning it, more gently than he would have liked. He didn't want to touch her gently. It would lead to other things, and he was coming to the belated conclusion that that was a very bad idea.

“It's an antique,” she said. “The fabrics start to break down. You have to use special care in cleaning a quilt like this. You'd better bring it up to the inn and I'll take care of it.”

“What the hell are you, Martha Stewart?” he grumbled. The wound was shallow enough, and it finally seemed to have stopped bleeding, but he put a butterfly bandage on it, anyway, just to be sure.

“You might say so. In a way. I write a column on housekeeping for a women's magazine.” There was just a touch of defensiveness in her voice.

“So how come you're not married?” Jesus, why did he ask a question like that? Was he asking for trouble?

Fortunately she was willing to avoid it. “None of your business.”

“True enough,” he agreed. He finished with the bandage. “That's the best I can do for now.” The towel was streaked with blood, and he tossed it in one of the empty chairs.

“Why were you out there in the rain?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “It's hardly the night for a moonlight stroll.”

“Considering there's no moonlight.” He pulled one of the chairs closer and sat. Close enough to reach her if he wanted to. He wanted to.

She turned her head to look at him. “Maybe you'd just come in from a drive up Route 16. Maybe you're the one who tried to run me off the road.”

“Now, why would I do that?” he inquired in a lazy voice. “Killing you wasn't exactly what I've been thinking about all day.”

She actually blushed. It wasn't just heat from the fire—her cheeks turned pink and she looked away from him, flustered. “Then why were you out on a night like this?”

“Your car's only a few hundred yards away from this place. I heard you take the corner too fast, heard the car end up in a ditch. For that matter, I heard you bawling your head off inside the car. At least
you'd stopped by the time I found you. Trust me, going off the road is not enough reason for crying.”

“I wasn't crying about going off the road,” she said, shutting him up for a minute.

Only for a minute. “Okay,” he conceded. “So what makes you think someone was trying to kill you?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Yes, you did. You said you thought I was trying to run you off the road deliberately. It wasn't me, so it must have been someone else. You been making enemies around here?”

“Only you.”

He laughed at that. “Honey, you are so naive.”

Her cheeks turned pinker, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to let her go tonight. Even if he knew it was the best thing for both of them, he just wasn't going to be able to let it happen.

“It wasn't deliberate,” she said. “It was a drunk driver, and he probably didn't even realize he almost killed me.”

“Maybe. What kind of car was he driving?”

“I don't know. He had his brights on, and it happened so fast I couldn't get a look at him. Or her, I suppose. I figured it would be a waste of time to go to the police. But maybe I should, after all.” She started getting out of her chair, but he put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down, gently.

“You can tell them tomorrow,” he said. “No
one's on duty this time of night—it would just be the state police in St. Johnsbury covering the area, and they're probably busy enough.”

She stared at him. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “St. Johnsbury's a small city with a lot of poor people….”

“No, I mean how did you know about the police coverage? For that matter, how do you know so much about St. Johnsbury?”

Shit. “I thought you'd already figured out I was a reporter. I would have done research.”

“You're not a writer,” she said flatly. “I was wrong.”

“Glad you figured that out,” he said affably.

“You're a cop.”

He blew out a disgusted breath. “Are you sure
you
don't write fiction?” he said. “Why don't you just accept the fact that I am who I say I am?”

“John Smith? Yeah, right. You have something to do with those old murders, I know you do, and it's a waste of time trying to deny it. Maybe you were a young cop here at the time, and you've always been bothered that the killer got off on a technicality. Maybe you're looking for proof that he really did it.”

“And exactly what good would that do? God knows where the poor kid is now. If he really did it, then I'd think he'd be suffering enough for what he did.”

“Well, that proves you're not a lawyer,” she said. “You'd be more interested in justice.”

“It proves nothing but that you're as innocent as a lamb about the way the world works,” he drawled. “Lawyers don't care about justice, they care about money.”

He knew he was annoying her by harping on her innocence. Too damned bad. He was still reeling from the fact that she was a gorgeous, thirty-year-old virgin. Or had been, until he got his hands on her. Hell, it had been almost as traumatic for him. He'd made an effort to keep his distance from vulnerable young women, preferring experience and emotional detachment. Somehow Sophie had managed to get beneath his skin.

“I need to get home,” she said.

“It's still raining.”

“That's all right. I'm already soaking wet.”

“I could dry you off.”

She moved then, fast enough so that she was at the door before he reached her. She opened it, but he pushed it closed, and she turned.

“I want to go home,” she said in a shaking voice.

“Then I'll take you home. If that's what you want. What did you think I was going to do?”

“It's what I want.” She didn't answer his other question; she didn't need to. They both knew exactly what he wanted to do. What she wanted him to do.

But she'd said no. And as far as he could remem
ber, there was never a time when he hadn't taken no for an answer. Unless maybe on a dark night twenty years ago. “Let me get my keys.”

“I can walk…”

“It's pouring rain, and I don't let women wander around in the woods alone at night, remember? Not unless they walk out on me when my back is turned, and I'm not turning my back on you again. I'll drive you. The more you argue, the longer it will take. And I might try to make you change your mind.”

She shut her mouth at that, no more objections. He would have been amused if he wasn't so frustrated.

No reason for him to be so edgy, he reminded himself, pulling his wet raincoat back on. It wasn't as if he hadn't gotten laid the night before, and very nicely, too, despite her inexperience. It wasn't as if he was insatiable.

Except when he looked at Sophie, and he felt damned near voracious.

There was a hooded sweatshirt hanging on a peg, and he handed it to her. “Put this on. It might keep away some of the chill.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Smart of her. He would have stopped her mouth with his, just to see if she wanted to change her mind.

He half expected her to take off and try to make
it through the woods on her own, but she dutifully ran from the porch to his car, ducking inside.

It started on the first try, damn it, and he put it into gear, backing out into the rain-swept night. She sat beside him on the seat, muddy feet pressed demurely together, hands tucked in her lap, her bedraggled skirt around her ankles, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to see her in something skimpy and slinky and sexy. She shouldn't cover up all that lovely flesh with goddamned ruffles.

He turned the heat on, and they drove up the driveway in silence, passing her car as they went. “Do you want me to call the garage tomorrow?”

“I'll take care of it,” Sophie said stiffly.

“Suit yourself.” He headed toward the inn, and the Jaguar slid briefly in the mud. He could see Sophie's hands fisted in her lap, and he was half tempted to gun the motor, just to see what would happen if they went into a spin.

He was too mature for that. He drove up the winding drive to the inn sedately enough, pulled up to the kitchen door and parked. He expected her to leap out of the car while it was still moving, but as usual she managed to surprise him.

She turned around to face him and held out her hand like a perfect little lady. Her grubby, bloodstained hand. “Thank you very much for taking me home,” she said, her voice stilted.

He could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he solemnly took her hand and shook it. “I live to serve.” He didn't release her hand.