Her Galahad (2 page)

Damn her for that.

She shouldn't be here at all. She should have changed by now, ensconced in a Harbourside mansion in
Sydney
, living the high life as the wife of a rich and famous barrister. Yet she was in Lynch Hill, a simple Outback teacher. Looking like she had at twenty. Shorts and joggers and a face a man couldn't forget.

Damn her for that, too.

He turned a corner heading into town, still watching her. There was a hint of a hunted doe about her: a wide-eyed wistful touch. The tense stance of her, always ready to bolt.

So what? He knew, none better, how deceiving her looks could be. The fawnlike, haunting fear in those gorgeous almond-shaped eyes of hers was as fake as her name.

With a hand shading her eyes, her gaze stayed riveted to his truck. Like she was reading the license plate.

She sure as hell didn't seem surprised to see him.

So he'd been wrong. She knew he was here. She'd probably known the whole time.

His lips twisted. "So that's how it is? The same old game. Damn stupid to even want to think differently of her," he muttered, slamming the steering wheel with a clenched fist.

That he could still hold any vestige of innocence after all these years was a joke. She was just like the rest of them. And to think he'd wanted to protect her … he'd actually thought she might need help. He must be going soft in the head! Fool. Jerk. Well, that was over. He was going ahead with his plan—all of it—and little Miss Respectable could take the consequences.

Damn her and her wide-eyed, haunting, crooked loveliness. Sucking him in with a look. Making a fool of him again. She was working with them to find and destroy the stuff he had—evidence that could put her precious family inside for ten to fifteen. No more illusions. No protection. He'd destroy them all.

He parked outside the town's only pub, bypassing the wet, malty-smelling bar, the smoky crowd watching Skychannel, playing pool or slots. He strode up the back stairs to his room, flung open the door and stopped dead. "What the—"

Torn, shredded, broken. Opened up and strewn all around. The room was trashed in a frantic search for what he'd never find.

"This time he's gone too far," he growled. "This is bloody war!" He grabbed what he needed, threw some notes from his wallet on the bedside table and bolted for the pickup.

An odd noise when he opened the driver's door—a burned-out sizzle—gave him two seconds' warning. "Run!" he screamed at passers-by, diving headlong on the road.

The truck exploded with a roar of fire.

His body lifted and flew with the force of the blast, landing with a sickening
whump
on the street. Smashing glass and shrill screams filled his ears as he rolled over and over on the gritty road like a flicked cigarette butt, the untarred mix of earth and gravel ripping his clothes and skin apart. He was almost relieved when he collided with something cold and solid—the makeshift red soil gutter on the other side. He slammed into the dirt wall and fell on his back, trying to catch his breath.

When the screams died down, a crowd gathered around him. "Call the police! This man's been injured!"

"No cops!" His voice croaked so bad no one heard. A kid went running to the tiny police station at the other end of town.

The game of hiding in the shadows was up. He lurched to his feet and staggered away, his left boot peeling beneath his foot, the afternoon wind stinging his cuts and burns.

"You can't go now, mister! You need help. The police and ambulance are on their way," a woman called. "You need a doctor. You have to give a statement. Someone bombed your car!"

"No duh, lady," he muttered and lurched ahead, bolting on unsteady feet to the dubious protection of the fields outside town. He had to get away. If the cops so much as asked him his name he was a goner, no matter what he answered.

There was only one way he could get out of here now—and she'd damn well better cooperate.

* * *

Could the whole world change in a single half hour?

Tessa walked home on automatic pilot. She didn't even notice she'd reached the faded gray weatherboard of Mrs. Savage's boardinghouse until she turned the knob to let herself in.

She looked at her hand in blinking confusion. Then she walked inside and wandered to the stairs, looking around her. The polished mellowness of the homey old place, the faded violet wallpaper, the scent of lavender suited the musty, old-fashioned loveliness of the latest Outback town she'd called home. She'd been happy at Lynch Hill … almost at peace. For a little while.

What am I doing? I have to get out of here. Now!

Time to go. Leave the money on the dresser and disappear. The same way she'd left the other four country towns in the past two and a half years, from
Queensland
to the Victorian border.

"Miss Honeycutt. Oh, Miss Honeycutt!"

She turned to her breathless, birdlike landlady coming in from the kitchen. Her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes proclaimed she had fresh gossip to pass on. Tessa schooled her features into a smile of polite interest.
Don't give her a reason to wonder about you. Don't leave her with any doubts or fear.
"Yes, Mrs. Savage?"

Mrs. Savage straightened her teased mess of gray hair, with her usual mixture of quick curiosity and cringing apologetic smiles. "I do hope you're not wanting to take a shower, Miss Honeycutt. I know how you like to rinse off after a hard day, but the water's off again, and won't he back on until tomorrow. I phoned the company for you—I know how much you like to—"

"It's all right, Mrs. Savage. I'm used to country ways now." While she smiled she mentally tallied what she could pack in ten minutes.

The old lady gave her a little, knowing smile. "Oh, but you must be wanting to freshen up and get yourself pretty—what with your date tonight with that nice man—"

Nine minutes—
Tessa's
hand froze on the banister. "What man?" she asked, very quietly.

Mrs. Savage's face creased with ingratiating innuendo. "Oh, my stars, you're a lucky girl. He came to see you today. I said you wouldn't be home till five-thirty, being one of your training days for young Matthew—heavens, you're early today, it's only
one forty-five
! Oh, of course, it's the Easter break. You let the children leave at lunchtime! Anyway, he said he'd come back at five. Oh, and he asked me not to tell you! He wanted to surprise you. Silly me—! You won't tell him, will you? What a handsome, charming man he is! That lovely hair—so wavy and tawny, like a lion's mane—and his eyes, like caramel toffee! He's so tall, so
debonair!
Just like Cary Grant on
An Affair to Remember—"

Tessa reeled back.
Cameron's here. Oh, God, it's too late, too late…
Then she came at her landlady like a drunken woman.
He can't find me. I can't let him take me!

"…and he was so kind to an old lady—"

Tessa grabbed Mrs. Savage by the arms, her hold deliberately gentle.
Seven minutes.
"You didn't see me. I never came home."

Mrs. Savage let out a squeaking gasp. "M-Miss Honeycutt?!"

Tessa pulled the old lady closer, eye to eye, not realizing she was all the more frightening because her hold was so very gentle.
"You didn't see me,"
she whispered right in her face.
"I never came home."

The landlady's rheumy eyes goggled. "But—Miss Honeycutt—!"

You're scaring her.
Tessa closed her eyes.
Think, think! You need time to get away, and Edna Savage can provide it!
With a lightning change of plan, she released her, and gave Mrs. Savage a deliberately pleading look. "Please, I need your help. Can you help me?"

Mrs. Savage nodded, looking doubtful but willing. "Of course, Miss Honeycutt. Anything at all."

"Thank you, Mrs. Savage. I knew I could rely on you."
Six minutes.
"Keep him waiting here as long as you can. Don't tell him I came home, that you saw me, or told me he came here. Do you understand?"

The elderly lady blinked. "But—he's such a nice man! Why would you want him to think badly of you?"

Tessa nearly screamed in frustration.
Five minutes.
"Please, I'm begging you.
I never came home!"

Mrs. Savage gave a doubtful nod. "All right, Miss Honeycutt."

She sagged in relief. "Thank you."

Run, Tessa. Now.

She tore up the stairs and shoved everything she'd need into an Indian-weave sack, throwing unwanted stuff on the floor in a frenzy of fear. "Shoes."
Cameron's here.

"Underwear."
North last time. Southwest before that. I'll have to head east or south—just nowhere near
Sydney
.

"Jacket—jeans——"

Oh, dear God, that man probably knows I came home. He must know where I live. If he tells Cameron—

"T-shirts. Windcheater."

Cameron's already been here, you idiot! Run!

"Toothbrush. Soap. Toothpaste."

What if he's outside now watching me? Or calling Cameron? What if he follows me? What if he makes sure I can't get away?

"Pyjamas."

If Cameron gets me—

"Hairbrush. Socks!" She flung them into the sack.

I'll kill myself before I'll go back.

She threw the sack over her shoulder, grabbed her wallet and keys and bolted back down the stairs, leaving a small, pitiful mess. The only visible sign of her time in sweet Lynch Hill.

A wailing voice halted her flight at the base of the stairs. "Miss Honeycutt! Please! What can I say to him to keep him here? I'm not clever, like you. I can't think what to say, and I—"

One minute.
She turned on the babbling woman, holding her skinny shoulders.
Human contact is nice to elderly people. She's scared. Reassure her.
"Just act normal, Mrs. Savage. Give him coffee. Talk about your life. Tell him I'll be home soon. Tell him I've gone to one of my pupils' houses after school, or there's a Neighborhood Watch meeting you forgot about, or Amy's day changed for art lessons. Make up something.
Anything
to keep him looking for me in Lynch Hill until tomorrow. Just don't tell him I came home, or you told me he was here!" She released the woman, hoping to God she could trust her. She picked up her sack. "Please. I'm begging you. Tell him nothing."

"Y-es." Mrs. Savage nodded, her eyes still bewildered. "I—I—y-yes. I understand. I'll do what I can to keep him here."

Tessa kissed her soft, wrinkled cheek, inhaling her violet-scented powder. Another memory to store, another scent to conjure regret. Another unwanted goodbye. "Thank you."

"He—won't hurt me, will he?"

She swung back, realizing with a pang what the dear old lady was willing to go through for her. "No. I swear to you he won't."
He'll save that for me.

She pressed a fifty-dollar note into her landlady's hand.
Do the drill fast.
"Can you clean up my room before he comes back? Make it look like I'm still here? Keep my things for a week. If you don't hear from me by next weekend put it all in a charity bin. And please, please don't talk to
anyone
about this."