Lost in Shadows (8 page)

Fool, he cursed himself. The woman’s life depended on reading people. That’s how she’d stayed alive during her years working undercover. He wondered what he’d done to give his feelings away.

“No,” he said with a stony face, eyes forward, “because I’m not. As second in command, it’s my responsibility to the Team to ensure she doesn’t risk her life needlessly. That’s all.” A lie mixed with a truth, but KC seemed to accept it.

“Sorry, my mistake. Guess while I was attending all those briefings and observing you guys during my orientation, I was impressed by the way you and Rose seem to function as a unit. Finishing each other’s sentences, you always looking at her when you think no one else notices, the way you are alert whenever she comes into a room even if your back is turned—guess my woman’s intuition went haywire. Chalk it up to pre-wedding jitters, okay?”

Billy had to smile. Not only had she given him answers to questions impossible for him to ask, she’d also given him a gracious out. He was going to like working with this one, could well understand why Chase Westin had fallen head over heels so completely.

“No problem,” he assured her. They passed through security and pulled into the underground garage at the STR building. He put a hand on her arm, and she turned to face him. “KC, I’m really sorry about the wedding.”

Her laughter surprised him. “Tell that to Chase, it was his idea to formalize things. I didn’t need any kind of ceremony to confirm what I already knew.” She rolled her eyes. “Men, they’re so sentimental.”

Billy shook his head as he got out of the car, and they walked over to the staircase. She was right, she and Chase had no need of a piece of paper as proof of their union. Anyone who saw the two of them together would know they were bound for life.

He felt a dull ache in his gut as he wished that it could be that simple for him and Rose. But Rose was already married. To the Job.

CHAPTER 10

“Here we are,” Ryan announced about forty-three days and nights later in Lucky’s estimation. Or maybe it was only forty-three minutes—at least that was what his watch said. “Home sweet home.”

He looked at the rough-hewn log cabin she indicated. Maybe ten feet by ten, he’d been in closets that were larger. 

“There’s a chemical toilet ‘round back.” She indicated with a nod of her head. “I’ll get a fire started.”

Lucky went to use the porta john, embarrassed by how difficult such an ordinary process became when one hand was immobilized. To hell with it. 

He eased his arm from its makeshift sling. He could use it as long as he mainly moved from the elbow down. But the extra hand helped move things along as far as undressing and dressing again. 

By the time he floundered through the snowdrifts back to the cabin, Ryan had a nice sized fire blazing in the small prefab metal fireplace. He looked around the cabin—it was generous to call it that. It had a plank floor, a low ceiling and a shelf that jutted out about three feet off the floor along the two walls not taken up by the door and fireplace.

“What’s that for?” He nodded at the shelf as he began to shed his layers of clothing.

“Sleeping.” 

Lucky was afraid of that. People did this for fun? He leaned against the rough-hewn wall and kicked off his boots. He hoped the snow didn’t mess them up—he loved those boots. Had had them for years, ever since a misbegotten trip with some grad school friends to Vegas. Roper style they were called. All he knew was that they were comfortable and you could easily get into them even when you were dead drunk.

“We’re the first in the system to have these European style shelters instead of the three-sided open ones like those along the Appalachian Trail.” She gestured enthusiastically. “Cozy, huh? All the comforts of home.”

“Look, Smokey,” he said. “My home comforts include a microwave, cold beer, cable TV, and a king-sized bed.” 

He tugged with frustration at the rain pants stuck halfway down his legs, finally gave up and sat down on one of the benches—beds, he corrected himself—and tried to kick them off, hopelessly snarling his foot instead. 

“Let me,” Ryan said, kneeling at his feet.

“I can do it.” All the frustration and pain of the day emerged with his words. Ryan raised her hands in surrender as he floundered for a few more moments. “Ah, to hell with it.”

“Just hold still for a moment, will you?” 

He slumped back, caught himself before he could actually regress into pouting, and allowed her to pull them off for him. Jeez, how much good was he going to be when The Preacher’s men came calling if he couldn’t even undress himself?

When he looked up he saw a look of wounded pride in her face. Aw hell, what had he done now?

“I helped build this shelter,” she said, laying the rain pants flat to dry near the fire. “If you have someplace better in mind or if you’d rather go build yourself a snow cave, feel free.” 

She squatted before him, the fire at her back, silhouetting her, its shadows accentuating her high cheekbones and the fierce expression in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “I’m tired, my shoulder hurts like a sonofabitch, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to stop The Preacher when I’m trapped here in the middle of nowhere.”

Vinnie bristled as his calling her mountain, her home, her sanctuary, “nowhere.”

Then she shook her head and chuckled. It
was
in the middle of nowhere. That was why she had come here. Away from the city, away from people, away from everything except the beauty of nature and a lot of peace and quiet.

And the occasional blundering idiot to rescue. 

She passed him the water bottle. “Finish this,” she told him. “I’ll melt some snow.”

He frowned at that. “Is it safe to eat snow? What about all the animals, uh, relieving themselves in it?”

She couldn’t stop from laughing again. City boy. “Safer than that crap you city folk call water. I just wish I had some milk and vanilla—then I’d make you some snow cream. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Snow cream? Like ice cream?”

“That’s like comparing Bud Lite to Guinness.” She sat back on her heels, eyes half-closed as she remembered her mother’s deft touch in creating the winter delicacy. “My mom used to make it for us when we were kids. Had to do everything just right or it would turn into slushy soup. Use a metal bowl, set it outside to chill before you start, fill it with fresh powder—had to have fallen that day, no packed crystals.”

He nodded as if he shared in her memory, his gaze locked on her face. She smiled. “Slowly add the cream as you gently, so very gently, whisk the snow, then drizzle in the vanilla—just a touch. And then,” she sighed, closing her eyes, “heaven as it melts on your taste buds, vanishes before you can even swallow, leaving only the memory of that delicate texture and flavor.”

“Wow,” he said, his voice a sigh barely heard over the wind outside.

She opened her eyes wide, saw that his were now transfixed on her lips. At first she flushed, enjoying the warmth of his attention. It had been a very long time since any man had taken an interest in her.

Then her stomach rumbled and she realized it had nothing to do with her as a woman—he was starved. What was she doing, sitting here talking about food when she should be getting some ready for them? 

Vinnie felt herself blush as she broke away from his gaze and stood up, grabbing a pot from her pack before heading outside to gather some snow to melt.

Once outside she cleared her head, inhaling air so cold it made her head rush. Or maybe it wasn’t the cold air. Maybe it was these feelings newly awakened inside her. 

She filled the pot, packed down the snow and added more. The night was quiet, the snow had slowed but the wind off the gorge came in quick bursts sending whirling dervishes of snow spiraling around her boots. She blew out her breath, tried to ignore the heat she felt when she thought of Lucky or the way he looked at her or the way his hands felt in hers.

Tried and failed. She darted a glance towards the cabin. It had been a long time since she’d felt this way—so long that she’d forgotten how good being with a man could feel. She wanted to feel that way again.

Adrenalin and its aftermath, she told herself. Driving her hormones, fueling a biological imperative to mate, to celebrate life after nearly dying. That’s all this feeling was. 

Still, talk about your perfect one night stand—he’d be gone, off to save the world in the morning once she got him off the mountain. She’d probably never see him again. 

Her wicked thoughts sent a tingle through her veins. No. He was injured. She couldn’t take advantage of him. Could she? 

Vinnie’s grin widened. She stood up straight and strode back to the cabin. For the first time since she’d met Lucky she felt like she was in control of the situation.

Damn, it felt good.

When she returned inside, he was immersed in the computer. 

“This is very bad,” he said, his fingers tapping the keys with increasing agitation. He looked up at her, his forehead wrinkled in concern. “You really do think we can get off this mountain, right? Because there’s a lot at stake. Thousands, maybe millions of people could die if we can’t stop The Preacher.”

CHAPTER 11

“The Preacher’s tied into every fanatic group from Al Qaeda to PETA,” Lucky explained. “And he’s coordinating them in simultaneous attacks two days from now.”

Vinnie sat the pot of snow on the fire. This wasn’t the time for hormones or biological imperatives. This was the real deal—even though it felt like something out of a bad Steven Seagal movie. “I thought The Preacher was a constitutionalist. Considers himself Thomas Jefferson’s reincarnation, here to protect and defend the Constitution, wants to reshape the government the way the founding fathers meant it to be. What would he want with Al Qaeda, much less PETA?”

“How do you know so much about The Preacher?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

“Relax, Cavanaugh. Even us hillbillies know how to read. I go down to Goose Creek once a week and pick up the Post and the Times, the local papers and any books the library van drops off. I’m not totally out of touch with the rest of the world. I just prefer my corner of the world to be traffic and,” she glanced pointedly at the Glock lying beside him, “gun free.”

“Guess you’ve got a point there.” He looked back at the computer. “I’m almost finished with these. Once I do, I’m going to give you the hard drive to carry. In case we get separated.”

She looked up at that. “In case? Never play poker, Cavanaugh, you’re a bad liar. What’s your plan?”

“Busted.” He grinned at her like a schoolboy. “You said we had two options, cross the gorge to your cabin or go down the mountain. I thought we’d have twice the chance to get this information out if we split up. I’ll go to your cabin, you head down the mountain.”

“Bad idea.”

“Why? You can move faster than I can, you know the terrain, it would be easy for you to avoid The Preacher’s men, get down to Goose Creek. I can create several diversions up here to keep them busy, give me time to cross the gorge, get to your place.”

She placed the steaming pot of oatmeal and raisins between them, offered him the spoon first while she took the topo map out, spread it on the bench beside him, kneeling in front of him so that they could both see. 

“We’re here.” She indicated the shelter on the map. “This red line is the trail.” She traced her finger along the circuitous route of the steep and winding Lost River Trail. “My cabin is here.” She moved her finger west, across the gorge.

“So close? Why didn’t we go there tonight?”

“This blue line between us and my cabin is the Lost River. All those tiny lines stacked one on top of each other on either side of it represent the vertical drop.” 

Vinnie waited as he glanced at the map scale, counted the lines and did the math. A yawn came over her, and she was tempted to close her eyes for one second, rest her head on his lap. Just for minute or two, let him deal with the outside world and all the craziness that came with it. She could sink into oblivion, a man’s strong arms wrapped around her, protecting her—God, she missed that feeling so very much.

Lucky must have been good at math. Only a moment passed before he exhaled a bitter, “Sonofabitch.” 

Vinnie jerked upright, pushed her fantasy aside. 

“You said something about a bridge.”

She tapped another spot on the map. “Here. It’s a suspension bridge—the old fashioned kind. You won’t make it across, shape you’re in. Not alone, there’s no way.”

“Says who?”

His face was beside hers, almost touching as they studied the map. Vinnie pulled away, giving herself breathing room. He didn’t wear cologne, but something about his scent, his warmth was intoxicating. “It would be suicide, Cavanaugh.”

He shrugged with his good shoulder. “I’m not all that easy to kill.”

Vinnie felt cold sweat bead the back of her neck and remembered her premonition earlier. She stood and turned from him, pretended the fire needed tending.