Wild Hawk (18 page)

Jason grimaced. “Ask Ms. Chase. I’m sure she can tell you anything you want to know about me.”

He unlocked the car door and yanked it open. Then he slid into the driver’s seat. Browning watched him for a moment, but then walked back to his unit and got in. He picked up the radio microphone and spoke into it, listened for a moment, glanced at Jason, then spoke again before hanging the mic in its rack and driving out of the motel lot rather quickly.

Jason sat there, staring at the logo embossed in silver on the steering wheel of the rental car. He felt slightly rudderless, like a man who had spent his life heading for a certain destination only to arrive and find out it didn’t exist any longer. There was nothing left for him to do here. There was no reason for him not to do exactly what he wanted to do, just drive out of here to the airport and never look back. No reason at all.

Except for the image lingering in his mind of Kendall huddled on the edge of the bed he’d slept on last night, her hands clasped between her knees as if that was the only way she could stop them from shaking.

Some reckless driver almost ran her off Laurel Road.

She is in danger.

He shook his head vehemently and jammed the key into the ignition. He started the car, revving it unnecessarily. And still he sat there, that image of an uncharacteristically distraught Kendall haunting him.

“Damn.”

Irritation rang in the short oath. Determinedly he released the parking brake. He reached for the gearshift lever, thumbed down the button, and yanked it into reverse. He turned the wheel sharply, looking over his shoulder, ready to back out of the parking spot and head for the driveway.

He didn’t even realize he’d hit the brakes until the car halted with a little jolt. He looked back at the closed door of Kendall’s room, his jaw rigid. Uttering a string of self-condemning curses he hadn’t used in years, he slammed the gear lever back into park, stomped the parking brake pedal down once more, and shut the car off.

He shoved the car door open so hard it creaked as the hinges protested. He got out and slammed it shut just as hard. Damning himself every step of the way, he strode toward that closed door. Only the memory of how shaken she had been enabled him to knock instead of pound on the door. He ended up pounding anyway, when he stood there for several minutes and nothing happened.

Maybe he should head for the office, he thought. Make up some story about being worried about her health after the accident and get the manager to unlock the door. It wasn’t even a lie, not really. Not the accident part, anyway; he wasn’t really worried about her.

Then why are you here?

He ignored the nagging little echo in his head and pounded once more. He was about to turn and follow through on his idea when, at last, the door swung open.

She said nothing. She just stood there, staring up at him with eyes he could only describe as hollow. Although she was barefoot, she was still wearing the gray jumpsuit she’d had on this morning, but it was torn in a couple of places and stained in an oddly splattered pattern on the right shoulder.

Blood.

His gaze flicked to the heavy bandage at her temple, and he wondered how many stitches were beneath it. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, driven by an urge he didn’t understand, he took a step forward and gently put his arms around her.

Kendall stiffened and tried to pull free. Firmly, but also with a gentleness he didn’t quite recognize in himself, he held her fast. After a moment she seemed to give in. He moved one hand up and down her back in a soothing motion, much as his mother had soothed him as a child when he’d had a particularly ugly day. Slowly her head lowered, until she was resting it against his chest. He continued to stroke her, lightly, carefully.

“Don’t worry about it now, Kendall,” he said. “Any of it. It can all wait.”

Amazingly he found that he meant it. He, who never trusted anyone until he was certain what their angle was, couldn’t find it in him to believe that she had done this on purpose, gotten herself hurt like this, that this was part of whatever elaborate plan she and Aaron or Alice, or she alone, had concocted. Right now, he was having trouble believing anything except that this soft, trembling woman was exactly what she appeared to be.

“You just need to rest,” he said, still holding her with great care.

Her head came up off his chest, and he half expected some biting comment that that was what she’d been trying to do when he’d come pounding on her door. But no words came, and she lowered her head again without even looking at him.

“Come on,” he said softly, urging her back inside. She went without protest, moving slowly, as if she was still dazed. He shut the door behind them and, without taking his eyes off her, flipped the lock. He led her over to the side of the bed. When he released her, she simply stood there, as if not certain what she was supposed to do.

“Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” he asked, looking at her eyes. He’d had one once, when he’d fallen off that scaffold at old man McKenna’s diesel repair shop, and he’d felt exactly like she was acting. When she didn’t answer, he lifted her chin with a gentle finger. “Kendall?”

She seemed to focus then. “What? Uh . . . no. No concussion. They checked.”

“Did they give you something? Medication or something?”

“I . . . yes. I took some a little while ago.”

He saw a shiver wash through her. “You’d better sit down before you fall down.”

Her gaze shifted downward, as if she was only now realizing she was still dressed, and she lifted a hand to touch the stained shoulder of her jumpsuit with one trembling finger.

“I . . . I need to change.”

“Okay.”

She just stood there, staring at the grim pattern of drops left by the blood that had dripped from her forehead onto her shoulder. Jason smothered a harassed sounding sigh. What was he supposed to do, strip her himself? Not that the idea didn’t have great appeal, but not under the current circumstances. He’d been told he didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, and he didn’t doubt the assessment, but he wasn’t quite cold enough to take advantage of a dazed, injured woman.

“Kendall, are you going to change, or sleep in your clothes?” he asked, hoping she would move herself.

She did. Or she tried. Her hands moved to unfasten the buttons of her jumpsuit, as if he weren’t even there. But it didn’t matter; she was shaking so badly she couldn’t manage the buttons. He reached out and grabbed her hands. She looked at their hands, then, slowly, up to his face.

“Kendall, what’s wrong? What really happened out there?”

“I . . . I’m all right. The railing held. Just enough. The back wheels caught . . .”

A chill began in Jason’s stomach. His hands tightened over hers. “Caught? You mean you were just . . . hanging there? Over that drop?”

“It took them so long to get out there . . .”

He could just imagine. The nearest fire station was a good ten minutes away, down that winding road. Ten minutes that must have seemed like an eternity. That drop-off had to be a good seventy-five feet. The chill spread, sending an involuntary shiver through him.

“No wonder you’re so shook up,” he said.

“No.”

“What?”

“That’s not . . . why.”

“It’s enough,” Jason said grimly. “But what, then?”

She looked at him for a moment, with an expression he couldn’t read. Then she sighed and, lowering her gaze, shook her head. And pulled her hands free of his.

“You won’t believe me. You never do. Even the police don’t believe me, not really.”

“What don’t they believe?” When she didn’t answer, he lifted her chin once more, but she avoided his eyes. “What, Kendall?”

She let out a long breath. “It wasn’t an accident.”

The chill blossomed, and he shivered again.

In danger.

“What,” he said carefully, “do you mean? The cop said it was a reckless driver.”

“I told you they didn’t believe me. He wasn’t reckless. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Kendall—”

“I know. I’m hysterical. Wrought-up. And all those other labels men like to hang on agitated women. I’ve heard them all this afternoon. Well I’m not. I’m scared. But I’m not hysterical.”

Some of the life was coming back into her voice, but it felt wrong to him, like the last fierce glow of a light before it burnt out.

“I was only going to ask why you’re so sure,” he said quietly.

“He tailgated me all the way from the cemetery. When we got close to the curve, he nudged my rear bumper. When we reached the curve, he pulled out from behind me, and then swerved. To hit me. Deliberately. I saw his hands move on the wheel.”

Jason was silent for a long moment. There was no way she could have planned this, he thought. No matter how much the scam was worth, no one would take a chance of going over that drop, not when a much safer accident could easily be arranged. But if she was telling the truth . . .

“Why?” he finally asked. “Who?”

“I couldn’t see the driver, because of the sun, the glare.”

“What kind of a car?”

“I’m not sure. Brown, and big. That’s all I can be certain of.”

An image of the brown car he’d seen at the airport flashed through his mind. He tried to dismiss it, but it wouldn’t budge. But he didn’t want to frighten her, not now, she was already shaken enough.

“That’s the who,” he said. “So, why?”

“I . . .” Her voice trailed away, but he’d seen the flicker of suspicion in her eyes.

“You suspect somebody,” he said. “Who’s behind this?”

“Alice,” she said flatly. “She told me if I valued my life I’d leave this alone.”

Jason’s brows lowered. “She threatened you? Physically? You didn’t tell me that.”

She met his gaze then. “Nothing else I said seemed to make any difference to you. Why should that?”

He couldn’t answer that, because he didn’t know why it made a difference, only that it did. Then, as he’d feared, the brief burst of animation faded. She sagged, her normally straight posture vanishing. She swayed on her feet, and his hands shot out to catch her shoulders.

She was about to collapse, he thought. Her eyes were closed, she had lost what little color had remained in her face, and she seemed unaware of his presence.

This was ridiculous. He wasn’t a nursemaid. He didn’t know the first thing about taking care of people like this. He’d made some pitiful efforts as a child, on the rare occasions when his mother had admitted to being too sick to go to work, but other than that, he’d rarely dealt with ailments of any kind; he never got sick himself, and hadn’t really been seriously hurt in years.

But he had to do something. He couldn’t just leave her like this. Feeling a little like a character in a bad movie, he methodically unbuttoned her jumpsuit and tugged it down and off her legs. She never protested, just let him do it, her eyes still closed, her body still slack, barely standing.

A part of his mind that he’d been trying to keep under stern wraps noticed the lovely contours of her body, the narrow waist, and the gentle, feminine curves of hips and breasts. Too curved for modern fashion, he supposed, but he liked a woman who could never be mistaken, even from a distance, for a boy. And his body certainly liked this one. He tightened the controls another notch, reining in the response, and after a moment was pleased to find that he was able to look at her dispassionately. Well, dispassionately enough to get through this, anyway.

Plain, functional underwear, he thought. Cotton, in a pale blue, with just the barest touch of lace on the high-cut panties and the bra. His control slipped for a moment as he remembered when he’d wondered if her nipples matched the soft peach color of her robe. He clamped down on the urge to find out the answer. He gritted his teeth and reached past her to flip back the covers. He lowered her to the bed.

She relaxed with a tiny murmur, and he let out a breath of relief. Then he sucked it back in again as she moved, turning on her side, emphasizing the womanly curve of her hip as one leg moved forward, and the soft fullness of her breasts as they were pressed together by her arms.

With a grated curse, he pulled the covers up over her. It was going to be, he thought, a very long afternoon.

KENDALL WOKE slowly, feeling disoriented and oddly groggy. She lay quietly for a moment, fighting the muddled fog that seemed to have enveloped her. Where was she? Why did she feel this way, almost drugged, as if—

Her breath caught as a vivid image flashed through her mind, her car careening as she fought the wheel, the sound of rubber squealing on asphalt, the hideous thump and vertigo-inducing lurch of her car over the railing, leaving her staring down over a drop that seemed endless.

All grogginess vanished. She jerked upright. Strained muscles protested, and she winced. The movement pulled at the extremely tender spot on her forehead, and she remembered the three stitches the doctor in the emergency room had used to close the cut. Instinctively she lifted a hand to touch the bandage.

“You should leave that alone.”

Kendall smothered a startled cry. She turned sharply, wincing again as a sharp pain shot through her shoulders.

Jason sat in the chair he’d been in before, the chair she had used while he’d slept. The book sat once more on the table next to him, open to a page she couldn’t see from here. His feet were raised, resting on the end of the bed again, but there was nothing of insouciance in his manner this time, or in his face. His expression was utterly unreadable as he watched her steadily.

Under his scrutiny her awareness of various aches in her head and body faded, and she suddenly realized she was clad in only her underwear. And that her swift movement had sent the covers falling to her waist. Reflexively she grabbed at the sheet and pulled it up in front of her. Jason’s eyes seemed to follow the movement. Another image came back to her, of Jason carefully unbuttoning her jumpsuit . . .