In The Arms of a Stranger (5 page)

“There's not much formula left,” she announced, her face pulled tight with worry. “How long do you think we'll be stuck here?”

Luke thought of the solid layer of ice that lay beneath at least ten inches of snow, of the downed trees that dotted the landscape. He'd intentionally made light of the situation when he'd told Dana they were snowed in for “a few days.” Everything depended on how quickly the temperature rose, but it could be longer than a few days before they could attempt to navigate outside without committing suicide. Much longer, in fact.

“At this point it's hard to say. How long do you think the formula will last?”

Dana glanced down at the diaper bag. “This is the last of the premixed bottles but there's a small can of powder we can use. It's only half-f, though. I really don't know how long it'll last.”

Luke nodded, determined not to make matters worse with any dire predictions. Surely there was something they could
do other than watch their options disappear with the formula. He pulled the cell phone from the diaper bag. “I'm going to try and get a signal outside.” He turned to Sam, then pointed at the foot of the bed. “Stay.”

Dana looked relieved when Sam obeyed the command and plopped himself down with a contented sigh. “Be careful,” she whispered to Luke.

He nodded, thinking how the situation would look to someone who didn't know them. A man, a woman and a baby tucked inside a cozy cabin with a greeting-card landscape outside. Hell, there was even a dog. Picture-perfect family.

The thought made him want to laugh. Luke knew better than anyone that there was no such thing. He'd learned that lesson at a tender age.

An old pain twisted inside him. The largest of the Sutherlin factories had burned the day of Luke's sixteenth birthday. Seventeen lives had been lost. Children of factory workers were left orphaned, husbands, wives, friends lost in an instant. But that hadn't been the worst of it for Luke. The worst part had been learning that his own father had chained and padlocked the factory's emergency exits. In a way, he'd lost his father that day. He'd certainly lost his innocence.

Luke gripped the cell phone as memories assaulted him. What warped code of ethics had his father used to justify what he'd done? When questioned, he'd denied the accusations. But rumors had abounded that the chains had been put there to keep employees from taking smoke breaks. Smoke breaks, for God's sake.

Luke had become a man that day. Not because he'd turned sixteen but because he'd seen who and what his father was with sickening clarity.

He'd refused his father's wealth from that point forward
and had gone into law enforcement to find honor in his own name. But in a twist of fate, his career choice had only fueled the town's resentment. A Sutherlin was in charge again, this time wielding a moral sword.

The son of a money-hungry murderer. How dare he.

The men of Sweetwater treated him with cool reserve. The women summoned him to their homes with complaints of fierce dogs and unexplained noises in the night. They asked him to stay for coffee and asked him to stay the night. He'd learned to turn down the invitations to their beds, knowing better than to expect anything more. Because nothing more was exactly what was offered in the light of day.

“Luke? Is something wrong?”

Luke blinked away the memories, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Dana and the baby. Nothing was wrong. At least nothing new.

“Stay right where you are,” he commanded. “I'll be right back.”

He stalked away from the too-cozy bedroom and through the cabin. Luke forced himself to take it slow as he opened the back door, scanning the milky landscape for any sign of life before stepping outside. What he'd told Dana was true. He didn't sense any immediate danger. The storm had built a barrier of protection around them.

It had also cornered them in.

And when the snow melted, all bets were off. He was damn sure going to get them out before they became sitting ducks.

Luke walked to the corner of the porch, flipping open the cell phone. He punched in the station's number and waited. No signal. He tried several more spots before abandoning the porch and walking into the thicket of woods that surrounded the cabin. Even with the shelter of the trees, his boots sank to midcalf in the snow. The wind whipped across
the face of the mountain, lifting the snow like shards of glass against his exposed face. Luke cursed, then tried the number again.

“Sweetwater Police Department,” a stern voice answered.

Luke was caught off guard by the official sound of Ben Allen's voice. “Ben, it's Sutherlin.”

“Chief…” Ben suddenly sounded younger than he had before, his voice cracking slightly. “Where are you?”

“Stuck,” he replied, then glanced at the cabin. He didn't exactly feel stuck, but that was as apt a description as he could come up with. “I put the Jeep in a ditch and got caught by the storm. I'm at the old ranger's cabin on the side of McCullough's bluff.”

“Aw, hell,” Ben spat, then added, “I'm sorry, Chief. It's just that all hell's breaking loose here. We've got most of the town in the dark. Old Man Hess has had a heart attack and died and Dolly Preston needs her meds from the drugstore…”

Luke winced at the news of Hess's death, then put it in perspective. The old man was in his midnineties and ill. And as far as Dolly's medication was concerned, the aging beauty queen wouldn't die without her Valium. Besides, he knew firsthand that she had ample access to more. After all, she lived only a few houses down from his father and Camille. If the town would just calm down and wait the storm out, there would be no reason to panic.

But calm was a rare occurrence when the Deep South got buried by snow.

“Ben,” Luke interrupted. “Listen up. I need your help. There's been an accident on the mountain and a woman's dead. A passerby was able to pull the dead woman's baby from the wreckage. The infant and the passerby are fine—they're with me—but someone took a shot at them.”

Static crackled on the line. “Did you say someone shot at them?” Ben asked.

“Yes. I need a unit to check the scene and the surrounding area as soon as possible.”

Ben was silent, and Luke knew from experience that the young man had gone chalk-white at the assignment. The cell phone chose that moment to beep and Luke looked at its face. A low-battery light was flashing. Damn it to hell and back.

“Lieutenant Allen!” Luke yelled into the phone. “I'm on a cell phone, dammit, and losing battery. Are you there?”

“Yes,” Allen answered. “Chief, I hate to tell you this but we can barely get the units out of the station, much less put them on the road. There's a solid sheet of ice from the South Carolina border to south of Atlanta. The road crews are digging out the downtown area but if you're sure the accident victim is dead…”

Luke cursed, but the words were ripped away by a harsh wind. “According to the witness, she's dead. Forget it. Don't risk it. I've got the woman and baby covered. Just keep your eye out for anything—anyone—out of place. Do you hear?” he yelled above an onslaught of static.

“I hear you. Listen, Chief, we'll get you out of there. Don't worry.”

Luke weighed the offer against the fact that a madman was probably lurking somewhere in his town. But Luke was already where he needed to be—at the scene of the crime and protecting the victims. The baby wasn't out of formula yet. They probably had at least two days' worth of powder. He'd think of something rather than ask his men to risk their lives.

“No, we're okay for now. There's a possibility…” He hesitated, despite a second low-battery warning from the cell
phone. “There's a possibility that the person who shot at the woman is Paul Gonzalez. Check with the Atlanta PD. The witness to the auto accident is Dana Langston.”

“The television reporter?” came the incredulous response on the other end of the line.

“There's apparently a connection between the two,” Luke added. “Check it with Atlanta,” Luke yelled as the signal weakened. “I've got to switch this unit off. I'm losing battery. I'll be back in touch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Ben—” Luke hesitated, caught in indecision “—do what you can to keep everyone calm. Keep a close eye on any missing-persons reports, but the last thing we need is for word of this fatality to spread.”

“Will do, Chief…” Ben Allen's voice was lost in a wave of static, and Luke switched off the unit and turned to face the cabin. Apparently Lieutenant Allen was a fan of Dana's. No wonder. Even under bad circumstances she dripped with sex appeal. He'd never seen her on camera but could imagine that her co-workers paled in comparison. With such a high-visibility job, she was bound to have her share of fans. And no doubt some of them weren't the type of fans a beautiful woman would want. Luke considered that before his thoughts returned to Gonzalez.

Apparently he was one of the few who hadn't known of Dana Langston's connection to Paul Gonzalez. The wind hit the mountain again, sending ice-coated limbs raining to the ground. He glanced at the cabin and saw the faint outline of Dana standing at the kitchen window, watching him. She'd given him all the details of the accident but little information about Gonzalez.

He needed to do two things: get the full story on Gonzales
and get a firsthand look at the accident scene. Maybe his cop's instincts were working overtime to waylay other, more base instincts where Dana was concerned.

Then again, maybe not.

D
ana opened the door before Luke reached it, the baby clutched against her shoulder. “Did you call for help?” she asked.

Luke stomped snow from his boots and slapped it from the shoulders of his leather coat before stepping over the threshold. His eyes grazed hers, then went to the baby. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and the softening of his features made him look less fierce, less like a predator.

Predator.
That was the word she'd been searching for, the one that best described his constant pacing, the scowl he wore when scanning the windows. He was like a predator watching for prey. But Dana knew differently. He was trying to make sure they didn't
become
prey.

Luke didn't say a word but walked behind her to get a better look at the baby. “Hey, you. How's it going?” he asked. There was no baby talk, no ooing and cooing. But that was the last thing she would expect from Luke Suth
erlin. She felt a gentle movement against her shoulder and realized the baby had lifted his head to get a better look at Luke, as well.

“I got a signal.” His interest in the baby was cut off as quickly as it had materialized and he stepped around to face her. “My men are checking with the Atlanta PD regarding Gonzalez.”

“Is that it?” she asked when he didn't offer any other news. “Did they say when they could get us out?”

“Actually, no.” He removed his jacket and withdrew his gun, checking the safety. “But it's going to be a while. We'll have to manage on our own.”

“But the formula…” Dana stroked the wisps of soft hair that covered the baby's head, jiggling him gently when he began to fret.

“Stretch it as far as you can. Dilute it.”

The command was stark, unfeeling. Where was the concern for the baby he'd shown a few minutes earlier? Dana pressed her hand between the baby's shoulder blades and felt his heartbeat steady and strong. Maybe Luke's plan was the only choice they had for now, but she wouldn't blindly follow his commands without putting the baby's needs first. She'd done that once. Lesson learned.

“Give me the rundown on Gonzalez,” he said abruptly. “What's your connection to him?”

“I've already told you.” She narrowed her eyes, wondering at the sudden change in his manner. “I'm a key witness. I'm scheduled to testify against him.”

“What, exactly, will you be testifying to?”

There it was again. The chance to tell Luke Sutherlin everything.

But the confession wouldn't come. Luke's very presence was intimidating, his professional scrutiny unnerving, but there was no condemnation in his eyes. That would change
if she told him the whole truth about Paul Gonzalez and his son. And the thought of being trapped with Luke and her confession was suddenly unbearable.

She closed her eyes. In her mind she could see Michael, could still envision his brown eyes brimming with tears as he begged her to become his mommy.

She'd wanted to say yes, wanted it more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. But she'd said no. Why? Her reasons had all seemed so logical at the time—maintaining professional distance, Robert's objections, fear of her own inadequacies. But none of that had mattered after the state located Michael's natural father.

Everything changed when Paul Gonzalez entered the picture. Michael was terrified of his father. And with good reason. When he confided to Dana, on camera, that his biological father had abused him, Dana knew she'd do anything to keep him out of his father's reach.

She'd been so certain that airing the interview was the right thing to do. She thought it would wipe out any possibility that his father could obtain custody. So she'd mailed a copy of the tape to the Deputy Director of DCFS, then gone public with the interview.

But Dana's plan backfired.

Paul Gonzalez had been enraged when the story aired, claimed that Dana had coached Michael in order to sensationalize the story. Claiming he'd been publicly humiliated by the accusations, he suddenly demanded custody of his son. Without hard evidence, the judge allowed Gonzalez to take Michael. There were miles of red tape and stipulations—heavy supervision by DCFS, unannounced inspections, pediatric exams. But the stipulations failed. The judge failed, the system failed.

Dana failed.

She knew in her heart that what Paul Gonzalez claimed
to be an accident was really murder. And it was up to her to help the district attorney prove it.

She shook her head, her gaze meeting Luke's as she searched for a simple answer to his question. “I covered a story involving his son. M-Michael confided in me that his father abused him.”

Luke looked skeptical and Dana had the feeling that he wouldn't rest until her darkest secrets were revealed. But he didn't say anything. Instead he offered her the gun. “Take this. I'm going to have to check the accident scene on foot.”

“No.” She took a step backward, refusing the gun. “You can't do that. You can't leave us here alone.”

“It's my job. The roads aren't navigable. There's no other way in, and no one else to do it.”

Tears of anger sprang to her eyes. “She's
dead.
There's nothing you can do for her.” But there was something he could do for them, she mentally added. He could keep them safe.

Luke walked to her, placing his hand against her shoulder. He caressed it a moment before he spoke, the innocent gesture sending waves of awareness through her. “If I thought for a minute that you couldn't handle things here, I wouldn't leave.”

His words stopped her short. That kind of trust coming from a man was foreign to her. Her uncle hadn't exactly been a driving force in her life but rather a pleasant addition. And he still treated her as though she were twelve years old. Her ex-husband hadn't trusted her with the checkbook, much less a gun. Luke was empowering her with his weapon. Trusting her. Expecting her to be both brave and strong.

So she would be.

Dana took the gun, her free hand wrapping around the butt. She bit her lip as her gaze slid to his. “Be careful,”
she said, then realized it was the second time she'd warned him today.

He grinned, that sideways half smile she'd only caught glimpses of before, then scowled as if he'd caught himself doing something wrong. Her overactive maternal streak was showing again. And obviously he found it confusing.

Luke straightened. “I want you to stay in the bedroom. Lock the door and keep watch at the window. There's enough space between the dresser and the window frame for your weapon. Shoot anything that moves if it isn't coated in two feet of snow. Come to think of it, shoot even if it is covered in snow.”

Dana nodded, then attempted to return the humor. “As long as it's not you, right?”

“Right.” He grinned and laid the cell phone on the kitchen table. “Did you know you're almost out of battery?”

“I don't have a charger for it.”

The scowl returned. “I'll identify myself when I get back. In the meantime, if anyone tampers with the bedroom door, aim a foot above the doorknob and pull the trigger. No hesitation. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You'll need to gather everything you or the baby might need in the bedroom,” he added.

Dana thought for a moment. “The baby didn't finish the formula, so I have half a bottle left. I'll need a way to keep it from ruining, though.”

Luke rummaged through the kitchen cabinet, eventually retrieving a beat-up soup pan. He stepped outside and returned with it filled with snow. “Refrigeration isn't exactly in short supply right now,” he said, sitting the pot on the kitchen table.

Given his change in mood, Dana wasn't certain if he was
joking or scolding her for her lack of ingenuity. “How long will you be?” she asked.

“I'm not certain. Just be patient and remember what I said. If it moves, shoot it.”

Dana nodded, suddenly feeling neither brave nor strong.

“I'll take Sam with me,” he said, glancing out the window at the dog. “Otherwise you'll have a hundred pounds of hissy fit to deal with. He can be pretty single-minded when he wants to find me.”

“Okay,” Dana agreed.

Luke took a step toward the door, then hesitated. “You're going to be okay.”

It wasn't a question but a statement, so Dana took a deep breath and nodded, drawing the baby more tightly against her shoulder.

“Go to the bedroom now,” he commanded, then walked out the door.

A hysterical laugh escaped her. Just her luck. A drop-dead-gorgeous man commands her to go to the bedroom, then abandons her for a dog. The thought made her laugh outright, reminding her of her ex-husband. Robert's wife was hardly a dog, though. She was a beautiful twenty-six-year-old redhead with enough ripe ovum to bear a house full of children.

When the last of the laughter threatened to turn to tears, Dana busied herself with what needed to be done. She carried the gun to the bedroom and laid it on the bureau, then settled the baby against the mattress, barricading the edges with the pillows. She made a quick trip back to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers, choosing a couple of trinkets that might amuse the baby—a bright green plastic cup and a woven potholder. Grabbing the snow-filled pan and bottle, she headed back to the bedroom and locked the door behind her.

A thousand possibilities ran through her mind. All of them bad. She closed her eyes, envisioning Luke, seeing in her mind's eye how he'd placed her hand against the steady rise and fall of his chest. Dana took a deep breath and turned to look at the baby. She could do this. She had to.

The baby began to whimper, and Dana went to him, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Please don't cry.” She handed him the plastic cup. His clever little fingers gripped it, examining it clumsily before dropping it against his nose.

“Uh-oh,” Dana exclaimed, removing the cup and kissing the tip of his nose.

She drew back, literally assaulted by emotions. She shouldn't have kissed him. She also shouldn't let herself melt at the sweet baby-powder scent that followed his every move or the dimples that appeared when he smiled. So far she'd managed to keep her care for him methodical, her emotions rationally distant. She was well aware of the void in her life that only a child could fill. That void was a dark and dangerous thing.

Capable of swallowing her whole.

The potholder turned out to be the baby's favorite trinket. He chewed it and wadded it up just to watch it spring back into shape. Finally, exhausted, he curled his body against one of the restraining pillows and popped his thumb into his mouth.

Dana felt tears well up in her eyes when he drifted into a peaceful sleep. She'd done this for him. Managed, despite her inexperience, to feed, diaper and entertain him.

Dana stood and walked to the window, alone with her thoughts since the baby had nodded off. Not good. She tried to focus on something positive. Work. She would think about her job, her career. Despite the breakdown, her career had been on the rise since she'd first entered the field of television journalism.

So why wasn't she happy about her promotion to anchor?

Clyde Jenkins, her news producer, had complimented her on her accomplishments at the station.
You deserve the promotion, Dana. You've taken risks,
he'd said.
Pushed the envelope and delivered the story as only you can do.

Then it hit her.

Dana should have recognized what Clyde
wasn't
saying instead of what he
was.
Her coverage of the Michael Gonzalez story, while tragic and controversial, had raked in the ratings. For a moment she thought she would be sick. Dana gripped the edge of the dresser. She'd known. In the back of her mind, she'd known. It had tried to come to the forefront yesterday evening, during the broadcast.

 

The lights burned against her skin as the station's makeup technician dusted her face with powder.

“I heard about the break-in at your apartment,” the young woman whispered. “You're lucky they didn't take anything.”

Dana clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. If only something had been taken. Then it would have been a common robbery. “It hasn't been the best of weeks.”

“Thirty seconds!” someone called.

John Miller, her coanchor, shifted beside her. “Ready?” he asked, his voice as neutral as his camera-friendly suit.

She nodded in response. John would have a ranting fit if he knew how ill prepared she was for tonight's broadcast. Instead of reading through the last-minute changes, she'd been on the phone with her OB/Gyn, learning that she would never become a mother.

“Three—two—one.” The producer pointed at John.

The top story was the storm, and John followed the TelePrompTer with maddening perfection.

The camera shifted to Dana and she focused on the
TelePrompTer. “In breaking news tonight, a Dunwoody mother has been arrested in connection with the violent death of her four-year-old daughter.” Dana's breath caught. She hadn't known about the story, hadn't read the last-minute additions. “History seemed to tragically repeat itself as facts of the abuse and death of little Ashton Taylor were revealed.”

A photo of the child, smiling and gripping a Christmas package, flashed on the screen. Despite years of training, Dana allowed herself to glance at the side screen. What horrors had the child hidden with that smile?

Belatedly Dana realized the camera had returned to her, capturing her frozen expression. “As you may recall, it was only one year ago that five-year-old Michael Gonzalez—” she faltered, then found her focus “—was killed, allegedly at the hands of his own father.”

Dana forced herself to continue, though the words on the TelePrompTer blurred. “Unlike the Gonzalez case, however, the mother of Ashton Taylor has admitted to the crime. Paul Gonzalez, accused in the murder of his son, Michael, is currently out on bond awaiting trial.”