Christmas Getaway (6 page)

That sounded reasonable. “Okay,” she said. “But I think I'd better check your bandages before you go walking into trouble.”

He turned right, following a narrow road. There were no lights on in the houses that lined it, no Christmas lights decorating the old cottages. Snow had begun falling again, drifting down gently, but this time they were in a four-wheel-drive vehicle and she didn't have to worry.

The road came to a dead end beside a closed and shuttered restaurant that looked out over the harbor. Fitz pulled up beside the old building and killed the engine. “Let's see what we can find. This looks like it's part of the vacation community—no one's driven down that road since the snow started yesterday. You should be safe enough here while I go check on Spinelli. They might even have some food, and I know how much you like food.”

“Hey,” she protested. “I don't always tend to order extra
large—today was the first time. I just haven't had a normal meal since you decided to abduct me.”

The grin flashed on his face for a moment, then vanished once more. “A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do,” he said with deceptive ease.

He was planning something. In the hours they'd spent together she'd gotten to know him very well, and all that calm signaled something devious going on. And he wasn't going to tell her until he was good and ready.

She slid out of the Jeep onto the light covering of snow. Maine hadn't gotten as big a dumping as Massachusetts and New Hampshire, but there was still enough to get between her Crocs and her socks, and a shiver ran across her. The salt scent of the ocean was rich and icy—she'd forgotten how much she loved the smell of the ocean. Even one surrounded by ice.

Fitz was as good at breaking and entering as he was at grand theft auto, and she wondered just what he'd omitted from his tales of his wild youth, but she was more interested in finding some heat than giving him the third degree. The inside of the restaurant was cold and empty. Chairs and tables were stacked in one corner, but there was a huge stone fireplace on one wall and enough firewood to last them for days if need be. After that they could start smashing the chairs.

“I'll start the fire while you find us something to eat,” he said, heading for the fireplace.

“Hey, I know how to start fires as well as any man,” she protested.

“Yeah, but I can't cook.”

The place was loaded—canned fruit and vegetables, industrial size—and the locked chest freezer was probably just as well stocked. There were even pillows and blankets in the corner closet—all the comforts of home. She grabbed a couple
of the blankets and headed back into the dining room to the bright warmth of a crackling fire. Fitz had dragged one of the big wicker chairs close to it, and he held out his hand.

“Come and sit for a while,” he said. “Get warm.”

She should have suspected him, but she'd been lulled by the long afternoon and evening on the road, and she sank down in the chair gratefully, trusting him.

He knelt in front of her and took her icy hands in his, warming them, and she felt the heat go straight to her stomach, a longing that she couldn't fight.

And a moment later he'd clamped the handcuffs back around her, and she was imprisoned once more.

E
LLIE'S REACTION WAS
immediate and angry. She tried to head-butt him, but he moved out of the way quickly, and she realized he'd threaded the handcuffs through the arm of the chair. “What the hell do you think you're doing, Fitzpatrick?”

“Keeping you safe while I go reconnoiter,” he said. “You can kill me when I get back.”

“Don't you think you could have just asked me to stay put?”

“I could have. But I don't trust you to stay out of trouble. I'm going to see if I can get to Spinelli, and you're going to sit there and behave…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes grew hard, his mouth grim. “What's wrong with your face?”

It wasn't like she'd forgotten. Her cheek had been throbbing from O'Bannion's blow during the long drive north, and she'd deliberately kept it turned away from him. “Nothing's wrong with my face,” she snapped. “I think it's quite a nice face. Maybe not classically beautiful, but not bad, all in all.”

“Don't play games with me.” He caught her chin in one hand, turned it to survey the damage. She hadn't had a chance to look in a mirror but she imagined the bruises had already begun to form. “O'Bannion do this?”

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. “I'm going to kill him,” Fitz said, his voice calm and flat. He grabbed one of the blankets she'd brought and tossed it over her, carefully.

“Fitz…”

“I'll be back in an hour or so. I built up the fire so you'll stay warm.”

“What if they come for me? I'm not going to be able to get away if I'm handcuffed to this bloody chair.”

“It's me they're after.”

“And if they kill you?”

He leaned over her and kissed her full on the mouth. “No one's going to kill me,” he said. “I've got too much to live for.” He kissed her again, and she felt her body rise into the kiss, wanting more. “I've got you.”

And then he was gone, the bastard, leaving her bound to the chair.

At least she was warm. She could sit there in relative comfort and figure out how she was going to kill him when he got back.

She looked at the fire. She should have put ice on her face, but for some reason she hadn't wanted him to notice. His furious reaction was probably part of his “protect the innocents” thing. It was nothing personal. He couldn't be feeling the extraordinary pull that she was. Of course, she wanted to kill him right now, but that was the least of what she wanted to do to him, with him.

Illogical as it might be, she knew he was just where she was. Wanting, no matter how crazy it was. He'd kissed her, and when he pulled back and she looked into his eyes she'd recognized that same longing, that same, crazy sense of belonging. Of finally finding her way home.

Her face throbbed with the heat, but her body began to relax. Too much adrenaline flooding her today, and there was no way she was going to be able to stay awake until he came back. In fact, it was better she be well-rested for his return, because she was going to kick his ass from here to Sunday.

And then maybe she'd kiss him back.

 

F
ITZ SLIPPED BACK
into the old restaurant as silently as he could. She'd fallen asleep by the fire, which was a good thing, since she was going to be as mad as a hornet when she woke up. He'd had no choice but to cuff her—she was just too damned stubborn. It was one of the things he liked about her, but he couldn't risk letting her follow him into trouble. The bruised face was a reminder of what he'd gotten her into, and he was damned if he was going to let her get hurt again.

“I'm awake.” Her dry voice carried to the doorway where he stood, hesitating. “Come and tell me what's going on and take these stupid handcuffs off me. I promise not to beat you up.”

He laughed. “I'm trembling in my boots.”

“You're not wearing boots, you're wearing runners.”

“Runners?”

“Sneakers, running shoes, whatever you call them. In the middle of a snowstorm, no less.”

She was sounding reasonable enough, so he approached her, still wary. Her head-butt had been impressive—she wasn't the type to pull her punches.

“Next time I'm shot and have to run for my life I'll try to plan better,” he said. Her hair was in her eyes and her mouth was set in a stubborn line, and he wanted a thousand things that he couldn't have. “You're not going to hit me, are you? Remember, I'm a wounded man.”

She snorted. “I have every confidence in my skills as a doctor. Your color's good, you aren't favoring your right side and you didn't scream when I whacked you.”

“I'll have you know I don't scream. I just manage a manly grunt.” She was holding out her cuffed hands, and he unfastened them, still ready to duck if she came at him.

She simply stayed in the chair, rubbing her wrists, and a
wave of guilt washed over him. “Why did you struggle and hurt your wrists? You knew I'd come back.”

“This was from earlier. When I was cuffed to the bar and then tossed all over the backseat of the police car,” she said. “Of course, you forgot to consider that.”

He sat back on his heels, looking at her. The fire was putting out waves of heat, and he stripped off the stupid Christmas sweatshirt and tossed it on the floor, his eyes still looking deeply into hers. Not believing what he saw, not caring. How could he be wanting this, so badly, when men were trying to kill them?

“Did you talk to Spinelli?”

“I didn't. There are two undercover cops staking out the place, and I couldn't just stroll up the sidewalk and knock on the door. The back of the house leads onto the beach, but it's private and fenced in. At least O'Bannion and Morrissey are out of the picture.”

“They are? How can you be sure?”

“O'Bannion's supposed to be getting married in Texas around now, and Morrissey's his best man. They were already cutting it close when they followed us to New Hampshire, and I'm willing to bet they're on their way to the wedding to keep from arousing suspicion. I happen to know the men who are staking out Spinelli's. They're in O'Bannion's pocket and they'll do what he orders, no questions asked. They'd shoot me even if they weren't ordered to—to them I'm a cop killer. But those two are dirty cops, and I'm betting they're part of the whole mess.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“I don't know,” he said wearily. “Figure out a way to get to Spinelli before the cops get tired of waiting for me to come to them and decide to search for us.”

She pushed away from the chair, moving closer to the fire. She was a big woman, tall and strong, no shrinking violet. He looked at her, silhouetted against the fire, and he couldn't think about O'Bannion and Tommy, about the two cops parked down the street from Spinelli's, about stolen diamonds and dead partners. For the moment all he could think about was wanting her.

He was going to hell for sure.

She, of course, was entirely oblivious to what he was thinking. “What time is it? It feels like the middle of the night.”

“Just after six. The sun sets early this time of year. There's a diner in town where we can get something to eat if it seems safe enough. The cops won't leave their stakeout and I'm starving. Otherwise we stay here until I come up with something.”

“Stay here?” She turned to face him. “Stay here and do what? Wait to be killed?”

He said nothing, rose to his feet and moved toward her. She didn't back away. She just looked at him.

“We're not going to be killed.” He had to be imagining the heat, the strong tide of longing that stretched between them like a lava flow.

“You can guarantee that?”

“I can't guarantee anything.”

She took a step closer. “Well, if I'm going to die, there's just one thing I want to do before that happens.”

“What?”

She closed the gap between them, put her arms around his neck and yanked his head down to hers, none too gently. “This,” she said. And kissed him.

It was crazy. It was dangerous. And he didn't give a rat's ass. He pulled her body tight to his, so that she could feel his
erection, and she tried to get even closer. In a matter of moments he had her down on the pile of blankets in front of the fire, in a matter of moments she'd stripped off his T-shirt and was reaching for the snap of his jeans. And then it was just a blur, of mouths and legs and hands and sweetness, and when he pushed inside her she was wet, and she arched beneath him as a climax swept through her, so fast and powerful that it almost brought him along with it. He pushed up on his arms, so he could look down at her while he thrust into her, and she looked so beautiful, so strong and passionate and fierce, and he wanted to keep on doing this forever, never stop.

And then she opened her eyes and looked up into his, gray into blue, with heat and possession and total abandon, and it put him over the edge, and when he came she did, too.

He wasn't quite sure what happened next. He must have collapsed on top of her, but his brain didn't return until he'd rolled off her, taking her with him, holding her against his body and flipping one of the blankets over them.

He kissed the side of her neck, the still-racing pulse beneath her skin, breathing in the scent of her, rubbing his face against her tangled hair. He wanted to sink into her, dissolve in her, and he was out of his freaking mind.

“This is crazy,” she muttered, kissing his shoulder. “We shouldn't be doing this.”

“Nuts,” he agreed, turning his head to kiss her mouth, slowly, lingeringly. He was getting hard again, that fast, and he could blame it on the danger, blame it on the circumstances. But he knew the truth. It was her. This was a hell of a time to meet his soul mate.

Unfortunately he hadn't realized he'd said it out loud. “Soul mate?” She went suddenly very still.

“Don't worry about it. Probably just temporary insanity,”
he said, not believing a word of it. “Danger's always an aphrodisiac.”

“Not to me.”

“Well, then gratitude,” he said, frustrated.

“That was gratitude? It felt like something else.”

“And what was that?”

She hesitated, and he wondered what she'd been wanting to say. Whatever it was, she'd thought better of it, and she shrugged. “Pure, irrational lust,” she said, sitting up, pulling the blanket around her in an infuriating and ridiculous show of modesty. He wanted to yank it off her. He wanted to push her back on the makeshift bed of blankets and show her just how impure his lust was. And that it was a hell of a lot more.

But right now the best thing he could do was shut the hell up. Maybe she'd be willing to listen later, once they were out of danger. He could even court her—bring her flowers, ask her on a date. If she said no, he could always kidnap her at gunpoint again.

Hell, he was turning into a stalker. He rolled onto his back, closing his eyes and groaning.

She was immediately on her knees beside him, the blanket still wrapped around her body, her clothes scattered on the floor. “Did you tear your stitches? Let me look…”

His bullet wound was the least of his problems. “It's fine,” he growled. “Why don't you get dressed and we'll pretend this never happened?”

He didn't catch her expression. “Fine,” she said briskly, rising again and scooping up her scattered clothes. He waited until she stomped from the room with her clothes and her blanket and her dignity, and then began to curse under his breath.

So he could be a total idiot at times. That was nothing new, as his brothers would be happy to tell him. And there was
nothing he wanted to do more than follow her into the darkened restaurant, strip off that blanket and tell her…

Tell her what? That he had the gloomy, irrational suspicion that he'd actually done the impossible and fallen in love for the first time in his life? Hell, no. If it was real, it could keep for the time being. Right now they had more important things to concentrate on. Like staying alive.

When she emerged, she was fully dressed, her hair tied back, her face freshly washed. Her eyes were slightly red, but he was going to ignore that for now. “You found a bathroom in this place? I would have thought they'd drained the pipes for the winter.”

“Count your blessings,” she said in a cool voice that only had the faintest note of strain in it. “And hurry up. I'm hungry and in a small town like this that diner isn't going to stay open forever.”

“Ellie…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind.” She wasn't in the mood to hear apologies, and he wasn't in the mood to give them. Once they were safe they could deal with what was between them. For now it could be ignored.

The moon was up, bright and full in the winter sky. She'd clearly decided on the silent treatment, which was fine with him. It made him feel guilty, and he deserved it, but for now it gave him time to think, to try to figure out how the hell he was going to get past the sentries and into Spinelli's house.

The diner looked like a thousand other diners, with great cheeseburgers and French fries and lousy salads. He and Ellie took a booth, eating quickly and without conversation. The place was fairly full—a surprise, and everyone was wearing some kind of festive gear, like reindeer sweaters and Santa
Claus hats. There was ketchup-splattered plastic holly along the counter, Christmas music played over the sound system and the waitresses were wearing elf hats. He wanted to groan.

But Ellie was loving it. She was a Christmas junkie, just like his mother, who decorated everything that wasn't moving and a few things that were, including the ancient springer spaniel with his very own Christmas sweater and Christmas collar. She'd love Ellie, and Ellie would love her.

And what the hell was he thinking of?

“We need to get going,” he said.

“You figured out how you're going to get inside Spinelli's?” Her voice was deliberately casual.