Читать книгу Staying at Joe's - Kathy Altman - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

JOE’S GAZE WHISKED over her, as if checking for blood, then scanned the room. “What happened?”

“I um, saw a, um...mouse.”

His shoulders relaxed and he leaned against the doorjamb. She could see he was trying not to smile.

“It’s not funny. They’re...unhygienic.”

“Is that even a word?” She glared and he shrugged. “I’ve had an exterminator out here but the suckers are persistent.” He released the smile. “My guess is they’re all female.”

That smile took indecent liberties with her insides. When his mouth took on that playful curve, it reminded her of less-hostile times. Of blissful, sultry, between-the-sheets times.

Easy, Allie.

Her cell rang and she tugged off her gloves. Got a good look at what was left of her manicure and bit back a whimper. She plucked her phone from her pocket and peered at the incoming number.

“I should take this.”

Something flickered across his face and he jerked a nod. “I have to go, anyway. A friend of mine needs help. Why don’t you knock off for the day? Try the diner in town if you’re hungry, and I guess I’ll see you in the morning.” He glanced at the lopsided roll of carpet on the floor behind her, then at the phone in her hand. “Good job, Kincaid.”

She continued to stare at the doorway long after he’d left. He was as distant as he could be. Calling her by her last name, keeping himself busy with other projects so they wouldn’t have to work together. Exactly what she needed him to do, if they were going to make it through the next few weeks without any messy conversations, let alone power tool mishaps.

So why did she feel slighted?

It was almost as if the effort involved in yanking carpet and refitting pipes had chipped away at the bitterness they shared. Well, it had to stop. She needed her bitterness. She and her bitterness were BFFs.

When her cell started a second series of rings she closed her eyes and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“You talked to Sammy.”

Fine, Mom, thanks. And how are you?

Allison exhaled. “You and I agreed you wouldn’t see him, and he and I agreed he wouldn’t loan you more money. But you did, and he did, and I got a threatening phone call. I had to do something.”

“He cut me off.” As usual, Beryl Kincaid’s words were muffled—she did most of her talking around a mouthful of butterscotch candies.

“Mom. We’ve been over this. What happens if you can’t pay your rent and Carlotta kicks you out?”

The moment she asked the question she’d have given anything to take it back. She’d already had to make it clear—more than once—that she wouldn’t sacrifice her privacy. Not on top of everything else.

“I’m working on that,” her mother said, and Allison sagged against the nearest wall. “I wouldn’t mind a roommate who’s a little more appreciative. I made the cleverest centerpiece for the dining room table and you know what Carlotta said? She said it was tacky.’”

A crinkling sound. Her mother had popped another candy into her mouth.

“Tacky. Can you imagine? I spent hours on that piece. I put a little stuffed bear in a doll’s chair with a curved back—you know, kind of like a throne?—gave him a jar and a honey dipper and drizzled wood glue all over him. I wish you could have seen him, he looked so adorably messy. Oh, and I glued a bee to his nose and put a tiara on his head.” She paused, and sucked on her candy. “Maybe I should say her head. Anyway, I think the tiara glows in the dark.”

“That sounds...creative.” Poor Carlotta.

Her mother gasped. “Next time I’ll paint hearts on the jar and I’ll have the perfect Valentine’s Day gift. I could make a fortune, don’t you think? And ruffles. I should add ruffles.” Allison could hear her mom scribbling on a piece of paper. “Anyway, after all the time I put into the centerpiece, Carlotta didn’t want it. So I gave it to Sammy. He was thrilled. Well, not at first, but when I told him to give it to his girlfriend he perked right up.”

Allison turned and rapped her forehead against the wall. “You need to stay away from Sammy. He’s not your friend, Mom.”

“He’s a better friend than Carlotta.”

Allison sighed. “Aren’t your craft projects and your job at the mall enough to keep you away from the tables?”

“I get bored easily. You know I do. And when money’s at stake, hours go by like seconds.”

“Money has been at stake for as long as I can remember. The tables are killing you, Mom. They’re killing me. I can’t stand by while you dig yourself in deeper and deeper with that creep. One way or another, you’re going to end up in the hospital.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous. Sammy would never hurt me.”

“We stop paying and that’s exactly what he’ll do.” She pushed away from the wall and surveyed the room. As messy as it was, it couldn’t compare to the wreckage that was her life. But she was a daughter, with a mother who’d once risked everything to protect her.

She had to ask. “You making your meetings okay?”

“Of course I am,” her mother snapped. “And I wish you wouldn’t feel the need to ask every time we talk.”

“I care about you. I want you to get better.”

“You mean you want me to stop being a burden.”

“Mom—”

“But I think I’ve found a way to fix that.”

Oh, God. Oh, no. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out. How long will you be away?”

“Two weeks.” Because Joe Gallahan was determined to be an ass. “Mom. No more gambling. Promise me.”

“It’s not a gamble when it’s a sure bet.”

“Mom?”

“Trust me, Allie girl.”

“Mom.”

She’d disconnected.

Allison gritted her teeth and glared down at the phone. She really should have chucked the damn thing into the lake.

* * *

AN HOUR LATER she was combing her damp hair and trying to convince her empty stomach it could survive until morning when she remembered the packet of M&M’s she’d stashed in the glove compartment. She might be too tired and achy to check out the diner Joe had mentioned, but she could certainly limp as far as her car. When there was chocolate at stake, she’d crawl if she had to.

She shimmied into a pair of jeans and a black, short-sleeved shirt, wishing she’d had the chance to wash her new clothes. But at least she didn’t have to climb back into those grime-encrusted coveralls. Not yet, anyway.

After scooping up her keys she walked barefoot to her car. A sleepy gray haze had crept into the summer evening, heralding dusk. Cool air, crisp as a Granny Smith apple, had her thinking of porch swings, oversize sweatshirts and glasses of red wine. On second thought, scratch the wine.

She forced her mind away from the thought of alcohol and what it could do to a person—to a couple—and looked around. Crumbling asphalt, exterior walls that looked like someone had painted them with mashed-up peas, flowerbeds sporting more weeds than blooms, a construction Dumpster that was no doubt as practical as it was unsightly. But there was also a brand-new professional sign towering over her car, a gracious lobby and...her room. A room that had been more than renovated—it had been lovingly decorated.

By a woman? She hadn’t considered that before. That Joe might be involved. But why should she consider it? And why should she care?

She glanced again at the sign. Sleep at Joe’s. Clever. And something that two days ago she was certain she’d never do again.

The ball of her foot landed on a sharp-edged rock. She hissed in a breath, her limp more pronounced as she approached her car. Suddenly she caught a whiff of something fruity and her stomach perked up. She and Joe hadn’t talked about meals—they hadn’t really talked logistics at all. His earlier recommendation of the diner probably meant she was on her own, food-wise.

Though judging by today, she might be on her own. Period.

Supposedly Joe was looking for payback, but he hadn’t seemed to get much of a kick out of Allison on her hands and knees in filth. And she’d thought for sure he’d enjoy mocking her reaction to the mouse. Instead he’d taken it in stride. Well, mostly.

With a frown, she rummaged through the glove compartment. Nothing edible. She sighed. Next on the agenda? Find a supermarket. And put M&M’s at the top of her list. She needed all the help she could get dealing with not only Tackett and Joe, but her mother’s pleas for money.

And the next time Beryl Kincaid called, Allison would let voice mail do its thing. She might get more sleep that way. Because she knew that if her mother had her way, they’d both be living out of Allison’s car.

She shut the car door just as a dusty blue oversize pickup pulled into the lot and parked beside her. Joe. Allison curled her toes into the pavement, feeling suddenly naked. He rounded the hood of his truck, a mouthwatering package of muscle, denim and shadowed jaw. Considering he had eyes only for her Toyota, she obviously didn’t have the same pulse-pounding effect on him.

Which was good. Great, in fact. Things were complicated enough.

Still, it smarted.

“I meant to ask.” Joe hitched a thumb at her car. “What happened to the Beemer?”

She shoved her fingers into her back pockets. She didn’t want to lie. But she didn’t want to tell the truth, either. “Got something against Camrys?”

He looked as if he wanted to say more, then shrugged. “Didn’t see you at the diner.”

“It’s been a while since I last pulled up fifty-year-old carpet. I had a hard enough time getting in and out of the shower.”

Instantly she regretted her provocative words, but Joe didn’t take the unintentional bait. Though why should he? Their bantering days were long gone. He merely nodded, then turned back to his truck. Moments later he held up a crisp white bag.

“I brought you a sandwich.”

“Ham?”

“Extra pickles.”

Her mouth watered. She squinted. “In exchange for...”

“An answer. To one question.”

“Do I get to ask one, too?”

“Did you bring me dinner?”

They stared at each other over the roof of her car. In his eyes she could see that bitterness she’d been wondering about. She sighed.

“Let me guess. You want to know if it bothers me. That Tackett’s basically holding my future for ransom. Am I right?” An incline of his head signaled that she’d guessed correctly. Her gaze dropped to the bag in his hand. “You realize you’re doing the exact same thing.”

“There’s a difference between two weeks and an entire career. And unlike Tackett, I honor my word. After I’ve served my four weeks he’ll ask for more. He’ll offer a bonus if I stay, forget to pay me if I don’t. I won’t be staying. You shouldn’t, either.”

“So now you’re looking out for me. How very—” Wait a minute. She pushed away from the car, a blush of fury scorching her from head to toe. “You want me to quit. To get back at the old man. Or are you hoping you won’t have me to deal with once you’re there?” When he didn’t answer she swallowed against a pang of...something...and glowered. “You don’t like that question? Fine. Here’s another one.”

A muscle car drove past the motel, engine growling, radio blaring an energetic song. Allison blinked back inexplicable tears.

“Were you and Danielle lovers?” she asked.

Joe took his time positioning the bag on the hood of her car. When he looked back up his face had lost all expression. “We were barely friends.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. We were never lovers. I had you. I didn’t need anyone else.”

She released the breath she’d been holding, but the pressure in her chest didn’t ease. She turned away. “Good night, Joe.”

“You forgot your sandwich, Allison.”

It would be churlish to refuse, though her appetite had vanished. At least he’d stopped calling her by her last name. When he did that he sounded like Tackett.

She reached for the bag. So did he. He didn’t let go. Instead he held out his free hand. “Truce?”

“So this is a bribe.”

“More like a peace offering.” When she hesitated he wiggled his fingers. “Come on. I’m not asking to be friends. You don’t want to be here and I don’t want to go back. But we’re stuck with each other. And two weeks is a long time to trade dirty looks. So what do you say? Truce?”

“Well.” It was easier just to give in. She put her hand in his. “You did say extra pickles.”

* * *

“JOE?” NO ANSWER. Another rap of her knuckles on the glass, but the lobby remained dark. Damn. She had no way of knowing whether he’d already gone to bed or just couldn’t hear her knock. And she’d never thought to ask for his cell number.

She shivered in the cool night air and glanced around. At each end of the motel lurked a tall, skinny pole, the beams from the lights at the top casting broad puddles of pale yellow onto the broken pavement. The light glinted off the windshield of Joe’s truck. He was definitely here.

She drew in a resolute breath and marched around the side of the building. The sooner they got this settled, the better.

The dew-damp grass slicked her toes, making her feet slide in her flip-flops, every step a rubbery squeak. She hesitated at the corner—no lights back here but for the dim bulb over the door. A pair of moths flirted with the scrawny light, making tiny little pings whenever they connected with the glass.

She yanked at the hem of her top, skirted the wooden box that protected his garbage cans and stepped onto the slab of cement that served as a porch.

Nothing but darkness on the other side of the square window in the door. For God’s sake, it was only ten o’clock. He’d always been a night owl—surely he couldn’t have changed that much?

Then again, there didn’t seem to be a lot to do in Castle Creek. Especially after dark. Except maybe— Allison’s breathing hitched and a prickling heat swept across her skin. An image of what Joe could very well be doing in the dark had her snatching her hand away from the door and stumbling back a step.

After her encounter with the mouse, Joe had said he had to go help a friend. Maybe that friend was female? And maybe she was in his apartment at this very moment, in his bed, and they were shaking their heads at the idiot outside who couldn’t take a hint?

Embarrassment shoved her back another step and she started to turn away. Then suddenly he was there, looming on the other side of the windowpane. Not naked. Not from the waist up, anyway. The door swung inward.

“Come in before the moths do,” he said.

She hesitated. Something in his voice... His hair was rumpled, his feet bare and he wore sweatpants and a T-shirt—clothes that could be pulled on in a matter of seconds.

Or off.

She blinked away an unwanted memory. “I don’t want to interrupt...anything. You alone?”

“Mostly.”

She started to ask what that was supposed to mean when she heard the kitten, meowing softly in the background. Funny guy. She gave a half shrug and sidled past, holding her breath so she wouldn’t breathe in the scent of bed-warmed male.

He shut the door behind her and turned, hand still on the knob. “There a problem?”

“Could you turn off the light?”

“Come again?”

It took real effort to keep her mind from going in an X-rated direction. For God’s sake, Allie, grow up. “The outdoor light. Those poor moths.”

He stretched a hand to the wall. The room went black. Allison blinked and thrust out her hands, feeling suddenly off-kilter.

Asking him to turn off the light might have been a mistake. Still, she couldn’t get that pinging noise out of her head.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

Damn that “throw me to the floor” voice of his. “I know it’s late, but I hoped we could talk.”

“No.”

She frowned in the abrupt silence. Then the refrigerator gurgled and she found her voice. “It won’t take long.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Huh. So maybe “mostly” alone didn’t involve the kitten, after all. Maybe “mostly” meant his date was asleep. Or maybe Allison needed to remember that just because they’d declared a truce, it didn’t mean he was happy she was here in Castle Creek.

She clamped her teeth together. “Fine. We’ll talk in the morning. Sorry I bothered you.”

“My answer will be the same when the sun comes up.” A whisper of fabric—she imagined him folding his arms across his chest. “I mean, I’m assuming you’re here to wriggle out of our deal, right?”

“I didn’t come to wriggle out of anything. I came to have a rational conversation. But obviously this isn’t a good time.” She took a step toward the door. He didn’t move. She blew out an impatient breath. “If you don’t get out of my way I can’t get out of your hair.”

“I can offer more than conversation.”

A mingling of anger and longing sapped the strength from her knees. Had she considered him funny at one time? Try hateful. She sneaked a step to the left and sagged against the counter. Not one of her better ideas, coming here at this hour. Though she wouldn’t admit to it now, she actually had hoped to talk Joe into letting her leave. Now all she wanted to do was scuttle back to her room and lock herself in.

“If you mean coffee,” she managed, “I’m in. Anything else and you’re out of your mind.” Like me.

He grunted, but that was all the reaction she got. His breathing remained steady—unlike hers. She let her hands slap back against her sides.

“Are we really going to just stand here in the dark?”

“I like the dark. It hides a multitude of sins.” When she didn’t—couldn’t—respond, he laughed softly. “Follow me.”

He paused beside her, and ran his fingers down her arm to her wrist, the heat of his touch suggesting an erotic promise she almost wished he could keep. He tugged lightly. She let him lead her out of the kitchen and down the hallway, past a tiny bathroom to the seating area she’d caught a glimpse of before. He let go of her wrist and pressed a palm to her back, encouraging her to cross the threshold.

A rickety-looking card table sat in front of a pair of windows overlooking the field behind the motel. On top of the table sat a bronzed, bottom-heavy lamp, which shed its light on a thick book of crosswords, a mason jar full of pencils, a clear glass tumbler and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. A cold, crawling bleakness filled her belly. She wandered into the center of the room then slowly turned. He watched her, his mouth forming an arrogant slant, his navy eyes glazed with a falseness she’d learned to despise a year ago.

“You’ve been drinking.” Inwardly she winced at the accusation in her voice. None of your business. Not anymore. Still, she couldn’t help mourning the day-old hope that just that moment unwound itself from around her heart and slunk away. She took a breath and added quietly, “I thought you’d given it up.”

“I gave up getting drunk. Drinking? Not so much.”

She jerked her chin at the bottle of Glenlivet. “This is what you meant when you said you weren’t alone.”

He shrugged. “I’m guessing I don’t need to hunt up a second glass.”

A mewling sound. They both looked down in time to see the kitten launch herself at Joe’s leg. He bent and plucked her free of his sweatpants, cradled her in his arms and scratched her belly. A soft, satisfied rumbling filled the room.

Allison swallowed, but the ache in her throat refused to recede. An overwhelming sadness crowded her chest, pressing painfully against her heart, and she shook her head.

“I can’t do this again. I won’t do this again.”

“If you’re talking about renovating it’s obvious you’ve never done it before.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She strode back to the doorway but Joe stayed put. Why hadn’t she realized the moment he’d opened the door? The moment he’d spoken? She could have left then, instead of finding herself in the position of having to bluff her way past him.

“Excuse me,” she said briskly. “I have to pack.”

“You leave, I stay.”

Damn him. “You gave your word.”

“So did you.”

“When I thought you were sober.”

“Does it matter? We made no stipulations.”

“We did, actually. Something about keeping your hands to yourself?”

He took his time looking her over, from her flip-flops to her brand-new jeans to the baby doll pajama top she hadn’t bothered exchanging for a shirt. His gaze seemed to settle on her shoulders, and she found herself wishing stupidly that she’d taken the time to brush her hair. She was worse than pathetic.

“Just so we’re clear,” he drawled, “the same doesn’t apply to you.”

Despite herself, despite...everything...a heated thrill of remembered pleasure zinged straight from her heart to her belly. Stop that. She struggled to focus on all the long-ago nights she’d been desperate to touch him, to lose herself in his caresses, but instead had lain frozen and aching on her side of the bed. Why? Because he’d been too drunk to realize she was there, let alone to make love to her.

Did he really think it would be that easy? Did he think it was even an option?

You’ve thought about it, too. She had. Of course she had. At one time they’d been good together. Very good. And as different as he’d seemed to be...

Now she knew that only his appearance had changed. And that he’d found a new hobby. Everything else that counted had stayed the same.

“Is this part of the plan? Seduce the woman who plotted against you? Make her fall for you all over again so she’ll beg you to let her stay? Then of course you’ll respond with, ‘Sorry, my sweet. Offer expired. Let me get the door.’” She tipped her head. “I can see the poetic justice.”

“Nice touch, that thing with the door.” He leaned over and released the cat onto the sofa. When he straightened, brushing the orange hairs from his T-shirt, his expression had loosened. “No plan. Just fond memories. I miss the look of stunned bliss on your face when you come.”

She sucked in a breath. “Damn you and damn that bottle, Joe Gallahan. What you miss is your old life. You’re just too proud to admit it.”

“I am not drunk. I’ve been drinking, yeah, but it takes more than a few swallows of hooch to knock me on my ass. And you’re wrong, slick. I sure as hell don’t miss my old life. Right now? I’m missing my beauty sleep. So unless you want to join me...”

“Haven’t we punished each other enough?”

“Hardly.” He yawned, then scrubbed a hand over his hair and headed toward his bedroom. “Lock the door behind you. Don’t forget we start at seven tomorrow.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said to his back. “There’s no reasoning with you.”

“Yet you persist.”

Because that’s what idiots do. She sighed. “Why is it so important for me to stay?”

At the door to his bedroom he turned. “Because I can make you. I may not wear a suit anymore, but I still like to call the shots.” He bared his teeth. “Almost as much as I like to drink ’em.”

* * *

JOE LAY ON his back, one hand cupped around the kitten sprawled on his chest, the other pressed to his head. The cat was snoring, every fur-coated rumble like a buzz saw ripping through Joe’s brain. How the hell could something so small create such a massive sound? And why hadn’t that handful of pills kicked in yet?

Gingerly he raised his head high enough to aim a one-eyed squint at the clock. Almost time to roll. Yeehaw. He lowered his head again, and groaned when it connected with his hard-ass pillow. If he weren’t expecting Allison he’d stay in bed, at least until he could blink without sending pain shooting through his skull.

Then again, if he weren’t expecting Allison he wouldn’t have polished off that bottle of whiskey last night.

Two weeks. Damn. He’d better stock up.

He closed his eyes, pictured her in her borrowed getup and shifted on the bed. Who knew a determined woman sweating through an oversize pair of coveralls could be such a turn-on? Too bad she’d never let him anywhere near that zipper. He let loose an aching moan.

And then, of course, there was the outfit she’d showed up in last night. Tight jeans and some silky, floaty, barely there top with short sleeves. Pale pink, like the polish on her naked toes. When they’d stood in the cool darkness of the kitchen, where he could hear the excited hitch in her breathing, and smell the familiar spicy peach scent she’d stroked across her skin, all he’d wanted to do was strip her, push her against the wall and lick every inch.

But he hadn’t wanted her to smell the booze on him. Because he’d known she’d react...well, exactly how she had reacted. Which was why he’d led her to the living room after all. Where she could see for herself what he’d been up to.

As often as he’d fantasized about taking a horizontal trip or two down memory lane the last couple of days, he knew it would never happen. Allison Kincaid had never been the type for casual encounters. And shame on him, anyway, for lusting after a woman he didn’t trust any more than he trusted Vince Tackett.

What he should have done was get up early this morning and hit the treadmill. An hour-long run would have helped take the starch out of his libido.

Who you kidding, asshole? He’d had to practically crawl to the bathroom to get the ibuprofen.

He exhaled, deposited the kitten on the bed beside him and pushed himself up. The pounding in his head didn’t get any kinder, but at least he no longer felt the need to hurl.

I don’t want to be here. Haven’t we punished each other enough?

So much for a truce. Not that either of them had really wanted it in the first place. Damn it, why’d she have to go all judgmental on him? It was no surprise she hadn’t appreciated his comment about calling the shots. But he deserved some payback of his own and he was going to get it.

He sure as hell wasn’t going to get anything else.

He stroked a palm down the length of his hard-on, his groin somehow managing to out-throb his head. He imagined Allison sinking to her knees in front of him, licking her lips and humming deep in her throat....

He called himself one of the names he’d considered for the cat, peeled off his boxers and staggered to the shower, desperate for the temporary relief of a hot water massage and a personal hand job.

He was showered and dressed and considering a little hair of the dog when the buzzer sounded. Allison called out then appeared in the doorway wearing jeans and a bright green top, the grimy coveralls over one arm, her pale blond hair neatly gathered in a plastic clip. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her ivory cheeks still flushed with sleep, and it was all he could do not to flash back to the rare mornings they’d awakened in the same bed, him reaching out, her instantly arching, pressing close and hot against him—

Judas Priest. How the hell could he still want her, after everything she’d done and who she’d become? He angled away from her. Busied himself pulling mugs out of a cupboard.

“You stayed,” he said curtly.

“You didn’t give me a choice.” She looked around, probably for the kitten, and draped the coveralls over the back of the nearest chair. “Are you feeling as miserable as you look?”

“Just about.”

“Good.”

He banged the mugs down onto the countertop, then flinched.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, with just the tiniest trace of smugness. “I know there are...things we don’t like about each other. Things we both did that we’re finding hard to get past. Simply put, if we have any hope of getting this job done, we have to overlook these things—all of them. For now.”

“You mean, so Tackett can have his way.”

“So we can all move on.”

“To D.C. Where I get to be Tackett’s lackey. Got any pointers for me, Kincaid?”

Her lips went tight and she shook her head. “Got any coffee for me, Gallahan?”

It was like they were playing Go Fish. He set his jaw and slid a mug across the counter, hiding a wince at the loud scraping sound. “Help yourself.” He watched her, wondered what she’d do if he offered her a little Irish to go with her brew. As she hefted the pot, her gaze veered to his yolk-smeared plate in the sink and he closed his throat against an instinctive invite. She already had him by the short hairs. Damned if he’d offer up his balls, too.

And anyway, he didn’t have any eggs left, though where the hell they went, he had no idea. The loaf of bread seemed shorter, too. He hadn’t had that much to drink. Maybe he’d started sleep-eating? Wouldn’t be much of a stretch, considering what he’d dealt with over the past few days.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she murmured.

“Bring it with you.” He grabbed his own mug and headed for the door. But she didn’t move, didn’t even seem to hear him, her attention focused on the microwave he kept on top of the chest-high refrigerator. The kitten bounced into the room and was headed for the food dish when Allison suddenly reached out and stabbed a button on the appliance. The high-pitched ping startled the cat. Tiny claws scratched feverishly over the linoleum as the kitten scurried out of the room.

All Allison had done was zero out the remaining seconds on the display, but she was smiling as if she’d set the thing to detonate the next time he used it.

An hour later they had the carpet in #5 rolled up to within four feet of the far wall. They knelt in opposite corners, each working a hammer into the space between the carpet and the tack strip. As awkwardly as Allison handled her tools, she worked faster than he did. It was the damned hangover.

And his tendency to stop every minute or so and look over at her.

She’d shocked the hell out of him when he’d ordered her to wrestle a carpet lined with decades of grime and she hadn’t told him to go screw himself—because she sure had every reason to. She was used to wining and dining clients in high-end restaurants, facilitating million-dollar contracts and shopping for PR party duds at cutesy designer boutiques in Old Town. Yet here she was, wearing ill-fitting, stain-resistant cotton and big-ass boots, helping him renovate a country motel without giving him anywhere near the grief he deserved.

Which would be more impressive if it weren’t so obvious that the job—the money—meant everything to her. And he was dying to know why. What was the something she needed so desperately? Or was it a someone?

He shifted, relieving the pressure on his knees. How many times did he have to tell himself—?

Suddenly a wolf spider with a body the size of a goddamned golf ball popped out from under the carpet. Joe yelled and fell back on his ass. He stared at the spider as it scuttled toward the door, then over at Allison, whose eyes were rounder than the fried eggs he’d forced himself to eat for breakfast.

He started to laugh, and she started to laugh, and at the sight of her dirt-smudged face lit with unrestrained humor, the late morning sun gilding her hair and gleaming on her pale skin, he realized that he had screwed himself. Big time.

Because at that precise moment, what he wanted most in the world was the freedom to pull her into his arms, kiss her breathless, inhale her sweetness and absorb her heat. And that freedom was the last thing she’d ever grant him.

He jerked to his feet. “I have paperwork. We can finish this later.” He motioned with his chin at the nearest wall. “Next step is tearing down the paneling. Feel up to tackling that yourself?”

She rose more slowly, her face adopting the polite and professional mask she’d always worn for T&P clients. She nodded. “My trusty hammer and I won’t let you down.”

“Don’t forget your goggles,” he said, and got the hell out of there.

* * *

HE HOVERED AT the edge of the tree line, his gaze sharp on the open window. Surprisingly the meathead who’d convinced himself he could run a motel had had the sense to ventilate the room while painting it. Kind of a shame, really. ’Cause with all those fumes trapped in that tiny space, one flicker of flame was all it would take to burn the whole place down.

Whoosh. And a hellish history would be...history.

He shivered, glad that despite the bright morning sun he was wearing his hoodie. Not that he had much choice. If he had to make a run for it he’d just as soon nobody got a good look at him. An inhale rewarded him with a whiff of the lake—seaweed roasting on summer rocks. An answering ache in his stomach. He distracted himself by concentrating on the task at hand.

Pay attention.

Meathead must have finished painting because he’d moved on to the next room—and he had a partner now. Pulling up carpet—how much help could that skinny blonde be? Didn’t matter. What did matter was that his chances of being caught had just doubled. Uneasiness sparked at the base of his spine. He worked up a mouthful of saliva and spit.

He’d come too far, waited too long to back out now.

Keeping his eyes on that fifth window, he loped toward the only door on the back side of the building. Locked, of course. Meathead was smarter than he looked. But not smart enough to install a keycard lock, like the ones on the guest room doors. With the help of a torque wrench and a paperclip, he was in.

He carefully closed the door behind him, shoved back the hood of his sweatshirt and looked around. Three times, now, he’d broken into this dump. Still, he took a moment to bask in his accomplishment, to enjoy his triumph over the new owner and his cheap-ass locks.

At least, that’s what he let himself believe. The real reason for his hesitation was too complicated—too painful—to think about.

At the end of a long, narrow counter was a once-white stove, now yellowed with age, pushed into the corner. On the other side of a faded strip of linoleum crouched an undersize refrigerator. Beside it stood a small sink and a square of countertop big enough to support all four feet of a stainless steel toaster, the gleaming mass of which mocked the rest of the kitchen.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and curled his fingers into his palms, fighting the desperate need to bash, to bellow, to burn the whole godforsaken pile down to the goddamned ground. One shaking hand went to the pouch at his belly, pressed against the slim bulk of the lighter he kept there.

Not yet. He didn’t understand why, but he just knew he had to wait.

He opened his eyes, inhaled, yanked open the refrigerator door. Milk, cheese, apples, salad stuff. And the ever-present beer. He rubbed at the sudden tightness in the center of his chest.

The dude needed to shop. And he’d eaten the rest of the eggs, damn him. But he still had potatoes. And ketchup.

His belly let loose a pleading gurgle as he contemplated hash browns and toast. But he couldn’t risk taking the time to cook again, let alone wash up. With a grunt he grabbed an apple and hit the cabinets next. Not much he could take that wouldn’t be missed. Finally he eyed the loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter and sighed. Peanut butter and jelly it would have to be. Again.

He was drying the knife he’d used when the buzzer in the hallway sounded. Shit. Luckily the pocket doors were closed, but he should have thought to check them before.

Someone mumbling. It was Meathead. And he sounded pissed.

Soundlessly he set the knife on the counter, wrapped a paper towel around his sandwich and backed quietly down the hall and into the bathroom. He wedged himself into the narrow space behind the door, the backs of his legs mashed up against the toilet. Meathead would definitely see him if he poked his head in—or if he had to use the john.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

A muted rumble as the pocket doors slid along the track. Footsteps pounded on the linoleum. A frustrated sigh, the slam of a cabinet door, the soft rush of water as Meathead held a glass under the faucet.

The thick smell of peanut butter rose up around him, and his belly begged loudly for a bite. He held his breath. A clack as the water glass was put on the counter, more muttering, then footsteps coming closer, and closer.

Even as he fought to hold his breath, to keep quiet, the memories crowded in. Ugly, aching, relentless snatches of the past. Sweat dribbled from his scalp and into his ear. A rushing sound, punctuated by the echoing thud of his heart. He pressed his left fist to his mouth while the fingers of his right hand curled into the sandwich. If Meathead found him, he wouldn’t get another chance. He’d have to run, lay low and wait a hell of a long while before coming back.

A soft sound, near the floor. His stomach went into free fall. He looked down and saw a little orange tabby looking back up at him and almost pissed himself as his muscles loosened. The dude had a cat? Since when?