Christmas Getaway (4 page)

“I'm going to have to check your bandages. I think you're bleeding again.”

He grunted, but made no effort to stop her as she pulled the layers of covers away. Blood had seeped through the white T-shirt, and she rolled it up, leaving it to cover his impressive chest and shoulders as she redressed the wound. It wasn't bad—the new bleeding had stopped, and she got him rebandaged in record time.

“Go away,” he muttered, shifting restlessly in the narrow bed.

“Dream on, Fitzpatrick. I don't abandon patients.”

“I'm not your patient, I'm your kidnapper. Abandon me.”

“Get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning.”

He continued to grumble under his breath, but eventually he stopped, and his breathing grew even as he drifted into sleep.

She sat down on the other bed, now stripped of everything but the bottom sheet. It was still cool in the room—she could strip off that last sheet and wrap it around her but it wouldn't provide much warmth. She leaned against the wall, pulling her knees up to her body and hugging them to her for warmth. It was just as well she didn't sleep—she needed to keep an eye on Fitz, make sure he didn't start bleeding again.

But damn, she was tired. She put her head on her knees, just for a moment, and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing.

She awoke with a start, to realize she was freezing. It was three in the morning, according to her watch, and Fitz wasn't much warmer. He was lying swaddled under all the covers, but he was shivering. Blood loss would do that to you, she thought. And there was only one thing she could do about it.

She stripped down to her bra and panties in the chilly room, her body shaking, and slipped under the covers beside him before she could chicken out. She eased off the rest of his bloody T-shirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” he mumbled between chattering teeth.

“Trying to warm us both up. Trust me, it works.” She wrapped her arms around him. She should probably strip off his pants as well, but that would require too much effort, and besides, the trunk of the body was more important.

He shifted slightly, groaning, as he made room for her on the narrow bed, and she burrowed her face against his shoulder, trying to will the heat to build between their bodies. She
unfastened his jeans, pushing them down his hips so more of their flesh could touch, and they could heat each other, when his voice broke her concentration.

“You know, this would probably work better if you took off your bra,” he said, somehow managing to drawl between chattering teeth.

“Shut up or I'll bite you,” she said, shocking herself. She was feeling elemental, physical, beyond rational thought. All that mattered was that they warm each other.

“I wouldn't if I were you.” He seemed to be shaking less. “I'd retaliate.”

Warmth was beginning to flood her belly as she pressed up against him. “Dare you,” she said.

Big mistake.

He moved fast for a man who'd just suffered a gunshot wound, and she found herself underneath him on the sagging, narrow mattress. And now she was finally warm, hot even, with the heat of his bed beneath her, the heat of his body pressing her down. His mouth was dangerously close, and for a moment the two were lost in time, frozen except for the heat searing between them.

“Bite me,” she said, finding one last comeback.

“I've got a better idea,” he said.

And he kissed her.

Y
EAH, HE WAS
thoroughly out of his mind, but right then Fitz didn't care. The heat from her body was sinking into his bones, and her gray eyes were calm and fearless. He just wanted to kiss her stubborn mouth and see what came next.

For a moment absolutely nothing happened. She lay trapped beneath him, warm flesh and cold lips, and he decided to put more effort into his kisses. He let his mouth trail to the corner of her lips, using his tongue to soften them, and a moment later she kissed him back, slowly, opening her mouth to him, responding. Her body flowed into his, and he was hard and needy and ready to tear the flimsy clothes off her when she suddenly shoved him, hard.

He was caught off guard, and he fell back, sliding onto the floor with a grunt of pain.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded. In the dim light she looked shaken, her mouth damp, trembling.

He sat up gingerly. His jeans weren't making his condition too comfortable, and his side hurt like hell, since the floor was cold and hard. “Kissing you. I must be out of practice if you didn't recognize it. Or maybe you're out of practice.”

“I'm not out of practice, I'm engaged,” she said. “And you had no business kissing me.”

“Then you had no business kissing me back,” he pointed out.

She looked like the kind of woman who threw things. Which wasn't a problem—he'd grown up with fierce women and an all-out brawl was good for releasing tension. Sex was even better, but the bride didn't look as if she were in the mood for sex.

Which was a shame, because she looked absolutely… No, he shouldn't be thinking in those terms. His sainted mother would smack him upside the head.

She said nothing, and still looked at him warily.

“Sorry,” he said finally, not sorry at all. “I was half-asleep. I thought you were someone else.”

As far as lies went, that was a pretty weak one, and she certainly wasn't about to believe it or forgive him, but there wasn't much she could do about it.

“Get back in bed,” she said finally. “You'll freeze your butt off on the floor. Did you tear your stitches?”

“I don't think so.” She wasn't moving, and the other bed was stripped. “You want me to get back in bed with you?”

“We don't have much choice. I don't want you dying on my hands, and with the blood loss you're in a weakened condition. If you start thinking I'm someone else again I'll slap you.”

He pushed himself up from the cold floor, wincing dramatically. In fact, the pain had subsided from burning to a dull throb, and his head was becoming more and more clear. He slid back into the narrow, concave bed, coming up against her almost-nude, blessedly warm body. He pulled her into his arms, pressing their bodies together, and the warmth began to build again, accompanied by a low, erotic burn.

She lay stiff in his arms, making everything a hell of a lot more uncomfortable. “Don't worry about it,” he said. “You're not my type.”

Another blatant lie. She was exactly his type—tall, strong, with lush curves and a full, rich mouth. She was a fighter, un
sentimental, practical and, he sensed, reluctantly turned on. Her body wasn't as obvious as his was—women were lucky that way—but he had no doubt she was as aroused as he was.

Why the hell did he always fall for the stubborn ones? Couldn't he once find a sweet, passive girl to fall for? Why was it always the difficult, powerful ones that got him going?

And the bride was one hell of a powerhouse. She was relaxing now, her skin up against his, her head resting against his shoulder, and he could move his head down and kiss her again, but he didn't want to risk having her punch him. She wouldn't pull her punches, either, even with a wounded man. Hell and damnation.

He was wide-awake, and even as her body softened against his he could still feel the tension that ran through her. “So tell me about your fiancé. What kind of man would make you wear such a monstrosity?”

“I'm not going to talk about Richard with you.”

“Why not? I need to hear something boring so I can fall asleep.”

“What makes you think my fiancé is boring?”

“Instinct. I bet he's old Boston money—safe and secure and docile.”

“Then you'd be wrong.”

He couldn't see her face, could only hear her muffled voice. “So what's he do for a living?”

“He's a doctor,” she said.

“What kind?”

He could feel her hesitation, and for some reason it made him feel good. He wanted her to have doubts about her fiancé.

“He's a plastic surgeon,” she said finally. “And don't say anything. I can feel you trying not to laugh, and I'm already annoyed with you.”

He did his best. “So you're marrying a rich doctor who pushes wrinkle filler for a living.”

“There's nothing wrong with keeping up your appearance,” she said, without the heat of a true believer.

“There's nothing wrong with letting your face show what you've learned in life,” he replied. Which made him want to look at her face again, but it was tucked against his chest, so he had to make do with his imagination. She had the softest mouth, once she relaxed, and a full lower lip that he really wanted to bite. Her curves felt lush and warm against his bare chest, which was almost as good as looking into her steely gray eyes and seeing whether she was really as unaffected as she wanted him to believe.

Odd that he could remember her eyes were gray. He'd hardly been in any condition to pay attention. But he'd noticed when she'd stripped off that ruined horror of a wedding gown, and even on his deathbed, with people out to kill him, he'd still wanted her.

His brothers would laugh. Fitz was notoriously picky when it came to women—he had the black Irish good looks and the soul of a Jesuit, his brother Brian had said. But Brian was wrong. He just had a tendency to take relationships seriously.

Which made his uncharacteristic lust for the pain-in-the-ass bride even more unlikely. “So where do you and your plastic surgeon plan to live?”

“He's got a house on Beacon Hill.”

Fitz snorted. “I told you, old money. Don't you think you'll be bored by all that silver-spoon crap?”

“After the last twelve hours I could do with a little boredom.” Her voice was tart, matter-of-fact, but he could sense a faint note of tension beneath it.

“Having second thoughts, are you?” he murmured against
her tangle of hair. He wasn't even sure what color it was—a sort of brownish blond with red streaks that were maybe put there by nature, maybe by a hairdresser.

Her body tensed against his again, and he waited for her to deny his question. “None of your business,” she said instead. “Now stop talking and go to sleep, or I'll take my half of the covers and let you freeze.”

“But then you'd freeze, too,” he pointed out with great reasonableness.

“It might be worth it,” she muttered.

She smelled like cinnamon and cloves, wonderful scents from his childhood, and while he wanted to keep arguing with her, bantering with her, annoying her, he found his energy flagging once more. And in the end, just holding her body in his arms was good enough. In the morning he'd be his rational self, and the hours of darkness in the narrow bed wouldn't have existed. She'd still be the same annoying woman, he'd still be on a run for his life. And the sooner they parted company the better.

But in the meantime…

He pulled her closer, letting his chin rest on her hair, and closed his eyes.

In the meantime…

 

S
HE WOKE BEFORE
he did, thank God, and slid out of bed, padding across the chilly room in her underwear. She grabbed the change of clothes she'd bought at Wal-Mart and headed into the bathroom, praying for hot water. For once the lousy motel came through, and she stripped off her underwear and stepped beneath the hot stream. She stayed in as long as she could, then dressed quickly in the tiny, steam-filled bathroom before moving back into the small bedroom. Fitzpatrick was still
asleep, but his color was much better now, and to judge by his friskiness in the middle of the night, he was no longer at death's door.

Which meant there was no reason to stay with him anymore.

Which was a relief, right? She could go back to Boston, finish getting ready for her wedding, with the added bonus of not having to wear that hideous concoction. So it was all good, right?

Wrong. Even Fitz knew she was having second thoughts about her marriage, which wasn't surprising considering the way she'd kissed him. She'd done her best to resist, to be virtuous and distant. But damn, that man knew how to kiss. And lying skin-to-skin in that narrow bed was enough to tempt a saint.

Who'd have thought being kidnapped was just what she'd needed? Once she'd known Fitz wasn't going to hurt her, she'd almost welcomed the breathing space. Her priorities had narrowed down to two—keeping him alive and safely out of the hands of the men who were trying to kill him.

He'd do better without her. She moved to the window, pushing aside the dingy curtain. The snow had stopped, blanketing everything with a coat of white, and her small car was trapped in a field of thick snow. Someone was going to have to shovel it out, and that wasn't going to be her wounded patient.

She pulled her cell phone from her purse. She'd turned it off when she'd been in the dressing room—Richard had a tendency to call her every fifteen minutes to check up on her. She almost hated to turn it back on, and prayed there'd be no signal at the back end of beyond.

There was a signal, all right. And seventeen messages. She didn't bother to check who'd called—Richard was getting
uneasy about the wedding, and his horror of a mother was pushing his buttons.

She took the phone back into the bathroom so she wouldn't be overheard, and dialed Richard's number. He came on the other end at a controlled bellow.

“Where the hell have you been, Eloise? I've been frantic! I thought you were off the road in a ditch somewhere, bleeding to death!”

“I'm fine, Richard,” she said in the voice she used for over-anxious mothers. “I just decided I needed a little time to think. I'm…” It was a good thing she didn't know what town she was in. She decided to lie about the state, though she wasn't quite sure why. “I'm in Vermont,” she said.

“You pick the night of a snowstorm to go for a drive? Do you realize how irresponsible that is? I was imagining all sorts of disasters. Jackie said you were at Farnham's when they had that terrorist scare—I was afraid you'd been kidnapped.”

“I didn't think you had that wild an imagination, Richard,” she said lightly. In fact, she hadn't thought Richard had any imagination at all. “Wasn't that jumping to conclusions?”

“The police took my concerns seriously enough,” he said, his voice huffy. “I called them last night, and they were very interested.”

Oh, crap
. “Well, you can call them back and tell them I'm perfectly fine. I just decided to go walkabout to consider a few things.” She threw in the little Australian slang in an effort to distract him. He tended to get annoyed when she did it.

“Drive-about in a blizzard is more like it,” he said, still sounding fretful.

“I'm fine, I told you. I just had to think a few things through.”

It was finally sinking into his thick, handsome skull. “Think what things through?” he asked, suspicious.

“I think we should postpone our wedding for a few months. Maybe next summer. We don't want to be rushing in to anything….”

“Don't be ridiculous! That's utterly impossible—everything's already planned. My mother has worked herself into a state of exhaustion seeing to all the details. The bridesmaids' dresses, the church decorations…”

“Those can be used in summer just as easily.”

“Don't be ridiculous! Bridesmaids can't wear dark colors in summer!”

“Richard…”

“And the gifts have already begun arriving. My mother would have a fit. You know she's never been all that enthusiastic about the marriage, and if you pull a stunt like this, she's going to be even more difficult.”

“Pull a stunt, Richard?” she echoed, her voice wintry.

But poor Richard didn't realize he was dancing on a razor's edge. “Really, Eloise, it's time you grew up and gained some sense of responsibility. Putting off the wedding is childish and ridiculous. I won't have it.”

Ellie slowly banged her head against the Sheetrock wall, quietly enough so Fitzpatrick wouldn't hear her. She took a deep breath. “You're absolutely right, Richard,” she said. “We're just delaying the inevitable.”

“I'm so glad you see it my way.” Richard's tones were plummy with satisfaction.

“I do. I'll have the engagement ring delivered back to you as soon as I return to Boston. I'm afraid there's been a little problem with your mother's wedding dress…”

“What are you talking about?”

“We're not getting married, Richard,” she said, using the worried-mother tone once more. “Not in a week, not this summer, not ever.”

There was a long silence at the other end. “And what has brought about this change of mind?” he said in a stiff voice.

“I don't think I'm cut out to be a doctor's wife, Richard. I'm not cut out for Beacon Hill, not cut out for private hospitals and paperwork. I'm thinking of moving to Canada.”

“That's socialized medicine!” he said in tones that equated it with devil worship.

“Or back to Australia. All I know is I'm not cut out to be your wife, Richard. I'm sorry. I just wish I'd come to my senses sooner.”

“You really expect me to just simply cancel everything?”

“Yes, I do, Richard. Goodbye,” she said gently. Because she had no choice. If she'd been on a traditional phone, she would have slammed it down.