What's in a Name? Page 8

  She shrugged. “I’m working on it. If someone wanted to get in touch with you, where would they look?”

  This time he opened his eyes. Wide. “Me? They’d call my cell. I have a place in Chicago, but I’m away a lot. I stay in hotels.”

  “Check your cell for missed calls, but don’t use it.”

  “How? You took the damn thing—along with everything else.”

  Right. Everything was in her bag behind the seat. With the thirty-eight. “I’ll get it for you next time we stop.”

  “I don’t suppose that can be at a gas station. Soon? Please?” He gave her a puppy-dog grin. “You said fluids. I’ve been a good boy, but I’ve reached my limit.”

  * * * * *

  Bladder straining, Blake had his seat belt off and the door open as soon as Kelli slowed the truck by the restrooms behind the gas station.

  She gave him an impatient eyebrow raise. “Go. I’ll drive around to the pumps, fill up and come back for you.”

  Standing at the urinal, tears of relief stung his eyes. It seemed like Kelli had hit every pothole in the road and kept to the speed limit once he’d made his needs known. He swore she’d done it all to torment him. And that tractor she’d followed at twenty-five miles an hour for the last ten minutes! Too bad the driver hadn’t heard Kelli’s little lecture about not hugging the center line when someone was behind you.

  He washed his hands and stepped out into the overcast daylight. For the time being, he didn’t care who the hell she was. The way she had her act together spoke of experience. She’d been cool when he threw Casey’s name in her face, though. No reaction. But the fact she hadn’t stopped to call the cops at the first opportunity meant she didn’t want to get involved. Not that he minded, since Dwight sure as hell wouldn’t be pleased to have one of his associates implicated in something as messy as an attempted rape.

  His headache had toned down to a dull throb, and he was hungry. By tomorrow, he figured he’d be able to put two thoughts together. Meanwhile, this was Kelli’s show and he was stuck with it.

  Kelli parked the truck near the restrooms and got out. Ignoring him, she opened the door to the ladies’. Blake wandered over to the F-250 and found the doors locked. So that’s how much she trusted him. Not that he blamed her. He wondered if she expected him to stay hidden in the john until she was ready to drive away. There was a tree at the edge of the parking area and he leaned against it, legs shaking, afraid if he lowered himself all the way to the ground he might not be able to get up. He pressed against the bandages under his shirt. Sore, but not on fire anymore. He’d put his money on the concussion, not the knife wound, causing most of his misery, and it seemed to be wearing off. At least Kelli’s clone had stopped showing up.

  When Kelli emerged, he studied her while she strode to the truck. Her short hair framed her face in auburn waves, giving her a more confident look. No longer the timid recluse. Even her walk had changed to a nonchalant swagger. She unlocked the driver’s door, slid in and backed the truck to where he stood. He pulled himself in and she wheeled away almost before he closed the door. He didn’t have his watch, but he’d bet the entire stop hadn’t lasted more than five minutes.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” he asked.

  “No.” She picked up a cup from the holder and held it to her mouth. He smelled coffee. His mouth watered.

  “We going to stop for lunch? Or dinner?” The glare coming through the windshield obscured the clock. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Food’s in the back. You can make a sandwich.”

  He twisted around and found an assortment of plastic bags. She’d shopped for more than breakfast and hair dye earlier. One bag held clothes. In another, he found Power Bars, a loaf of bread, some apples and a jar of something called Nutella. Thank God it wasn’t more peanut butter. He read the label. Chocolate and hazelnuts. He twisted open the lid and sniffed. His stomach begged. He dug a little more and found napkins, plastic utensils and paper plates.

  Blake slathered a slice of bread with the dark, rich spread and took a taste. Heaven. He devoured it, then made a true sandwich. “Can I fix you one?”

  “Yes, please. Thanks.”

  He took a swig of water. A small one. “I wish you’d trust me. I’m on your side.”

  After a long pause, she looked at him. “Maybe you shouldn’t be,” she whispered. The pain in her eyes wrenched something inside him.

  He made her a sandwich and she ate it as they drove in silence. She extended her coffee. “It’s black.”

  “No tranquilizers?”

  One corner of her mouth lifted. He took the cup and let his fingers touch hers a second longer than necessary. She gave him The Shake. Oh, yes, he definitely liked it. That was Kelli. Although he kind of liked not having to handle this new Kelli with kid gloves.

  What the hell was he thinking? She’d held a gun on him. Twice.

  He swallowed some of the coffee. It was gas-station-scorched from sitting on the burner too long, but it trickled some life through him. “You said something about checking my cell phone.” He handed the cup back to Kelli.

  “On the seat.”

  He looked, moved a sweatshirt aside and found his phone lying alongside his wallet. Only one missed call. He checked the number. Hollingsworth. He asked Kelli what she wanted him to do.

  “If it were me, I’d ignore it.”

  His thoughts moved through his brain like someone slogging through a mudslide. “The ranger. He didn’t just happen to see the cabin and take his chances someone might be there for him to—”

  She whipped her head toward him. “Give the man a gold star. He showed up, knew exactly who I was and knew enough to tell me Peterson sent him.”

  “So you think Dwight Hollingsworth sent him?”

  “Makes as much sense as anything else. Two people show up looking for me. Seems like there’s got to be a connection.”

  “Hey, I’m not the bad guy here. I can’t see Dwight sending me to check on you and then sending someone to … you know—”

  “Oh, say it, Windsor. Rape me. Kill me too, most likely. You saw the knife.”

  “I’ve never known Hollingsworth to condone the kind of thing.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Condone. Any other ten dollar words to make the man look like a saint? Who else could it be? She glanced at him, then fixed her eyes on the road. “Would you bet your life that he’s not behind it?”

  He fingered his bandaged torso. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if there was any truth to what Kelli was saying. And if maybe he’d been a target, too. For now, she was right. He’d ignore the phone call.

  Kelli rubbed her eyes, and he noticed again how exhausted she looked. She needed a break. He manipulated his shoulder, pleased that it felt looser. “I’m feeling a lot better. Want me to spell you?”

  “I’m good for a while longer.” She drained the rest of the coffee.

  He gave her another hour.

  Wiping his hands across his face, he groaned in what he hoped was a convincing tone, embarrassed when he realized it wasn’t all a put-on. “Umm … I hate to slow you down, but I’m not feeling so hot.” Truth be told, he was starting to ache again. The truck’s bench seat didn’t recline and Kelli had pulled it forward to reach the pedals. Now that he’d spoken the words aloud, the misery he’d been ignoring pushed its way to the front of his consciousness.

  No exasperated head shake this time, but concern. “Head? Stomach? Should I pull over?”

  “No, not that. I think … maybe … been sitting up a long time. I need to lie down for a while.” He squirmed in his seat, pulled the seat belt away from his lap.

  “I guess we’ve gone far enough. Not much we can do until tomorrow.”

  Ten minutes later, she swerved the truck into a small strip shopping center. “Hang on a little longer? A couple of things I need to do here.”

  He nodded. He waited while she went into a small internet café, then checked his
wallet. She’d left him twenty dollars. Nothing more. His ID, credit cards, everything else was gone. He stepped out of the cab and tried to loosen muscles that had stiffened on the drive. Tomorrow would be even worse, he knew. Everything always hurt worse the second day. After peeking in the windows of a camera shop, a bicycle repair shop, and a used bookstore, he wandered into the internet café where Kelli sat at a terminal, clicking through sites, stopping every now and then to key in information. She glanced up when he came in, but from the way she immediately went back to the computer, he figured they weren’t supposed to know each other.

  At the counter, Blake ordered a cup of coffee, loaded it with cream and sugar, and took it to a small table. From there he could watch her, even if he couldn’t tell what she was doing.

  He’d finished half his coffee when she got up and left without acknowledging his presence. When he heard the truck door open, close, and the engine turn over, he abandoned his coffee, nonchalantly making his way toward the truck, although his painful, lumbering gait was anything but casual.

  Kelli glared at him when he’d hoisted himself into the cab. “I thought you needed to lie down.”

  “I thought maybe walking around would help. Everything gets tight when I sit.” He waited. When she didn’t say anything, he pressed. “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

  “Later. Now I’m going to see if the motel down the road has a room, assuming you still want to lie down.”

  He stared at her face, pale and drawn and her red-rimmed eyes. “I do.”

  Within five minutes, she’d pulled into another fleabag motel, telling him to stay in the truck. When she returned, she climbed in and started the engine.

  “No rooms?” he asked.

  “In back. I’ll drive around.”

  Kelli parked in front of unit twenty-six and got her gym bag and backpack from behind the seat. He let her go inside, waited two full minutes, then followed. He saw the two double beds, standard motel issue, saw Kelli glance from one bed to the other. For a fleeting moment, she was the frightened, insecure woman he’d met when he’d arrived at Camp Getaway. He wanted to tell her everything would be fine. Hell, he wanted to tell himself everything would be fine.

  Then she straightened and went back to the truck, returning with the shopping bags he’d seen behind the seat. She plopped them on the sagging easy chair in the corner, then disappeared into the bathroom with her gym bag. He heard the shower running.

  “What were you doing at the internet cafe?” he asked when she came out, wearing sweats and towel-drying her hair.

  “I made a plane reservation to Atlanta and booked a room at the Marriott for three nights.”

  “Plane reservations and hotel rooms? After the lecture on not doing anything that can be traced?”

  She sank to the edge of one of the beds and lowered her head into her hands. He wasn’t going to get The Shake this time. He waited, standing above her.

  Her words replayed themselves. Plane reservation and hotel room. Singular. His heart lurched into his throat and he didn’t know why. Hell, if she wanted to go her own way, so much the better. He would tell Hollingsworth she wasn’t Casey Wallace and be done with it. “I see. Well, thanks for patching me up. I should be fine on my own by tomorrow.”

  She looked up at him, totally confused. “What? I told you, until I figure this out, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  “So we’re both going to Atlanta? When?”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Windsor, use what brain cells you have left. I made the reservations, yes. But we’re sure as hell not going where someone thinks we’re going. This way, if they’re tracing me, they’ll be looking in Atlanta. We’re going to keep driving.”

  She rummaged in one of the bags and pulled out four cell phones. “Prepaid. Virtually disposable. Almost impossible to trace.”

  “Oh.” His face flushed hot. “Even without a concussion, I think I’m out of my league. Were you a spy in another life?”

  Chapter Eight

  Another life, Blake had said. How close he was to the truth. Kelli rubbed the towel over her hair, momentarily taken aback at its shortness. At the sound of water running in the tub, she hoped Windsor wouldn’t soak his bandages. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to change them now.

  Her eyes burned, and she had the bone-weary ache and general nausea that demanded sleep. Now. Eating something would probably be sensible, but she didn’t have the energy to chew.

  She crawled under the covers and closed her eyes, but tired as her body was, her brain was running like a hamster in its exercise wheel. How had some Chicago businessman connected her to Casey? If he’d been sure, someone would have dragged her back or had her arrested. No, for now she believed Windsor. And for now, she’d have to trust him. How did Ned Decker connect? Had Hollingsworth sent him, too? Her mind couldn’t untangle all the swirling thoughts.

  Light filtered under her eyelids when the bathroom door opened. Darkness returned and she heard Blake’s quiet footfalls enter the bedroom, sensed his presence at the foot of his bed. She half-opened her eyes. Light from curtains that didn’t quite close let her see his form bend over his duffel. In the shadows, his bruises disappeared and she watched the muscles of his back ripple when he picked a pair of briefs out of the bag. He let the towel fall from his hips. Nice ass, was her last thought before she drifted off.

  Later—she didn’t know how much later—she awoke to the sounds of frenzied breathing. Hers. Robert hovered above her, gripping her shoulders. “No!” She thrashed with her arms and legs, saw the glint from his eyes and struck out. A strong hand held her wrist.

  “Shh. Kelli. It’s a nightmare. It’s Blake. Come on, Kelli. Wake up.”

  Oh, God. Heart pounding, drenched in sweat, she looked up into Robert’s face and watched him morph into Blake Windsor. He held her with one hand, the other clutched his midsection. She found her voice. “Okay. I’m okay. Go back to bed.”

  “Give me a minute.” He turned on the bedside lamp and she threw her arm over her eyes.

  She heard his breathing even out, realized what she’d done. “I hit you? I’m so sorry— I thought you were— I didn’t mean it—are you all right?”

  He pulled his hand away from his middle. “No big deal. Caught me off guard. You pack quite a wallop.” He smiled, but his eyes glistened with unshed tears of pain.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You already said that. It’s not enough.”

  “What are you talking about?” She dragged her fingers through her hair, surprised again at the new feeling. Then the memories fell into place and she shuddered.

  “Your nightmare. You need to talk about it.” Blake’s voice was quiet, almost soothing.

  “I … can’t.”

  He turned off the lamp and the parking lot lights filtered through the curtain gaps, leaving the room in shadows. “I think you should. Talking helps.”

  “No. Please, go back to bed. We both need to sleep.” Even in the patchy light, she saw his eyebrows lift. But he shrugged and turned away, leaning toward his own bed.

  “Blake?” As if her hand belonged to someone else, she felt it reach out, her fingers brushing his. So warm, so strong. She felt hot tears drip from her eyes and nothing stopped them. He turned around, sat on the edge of her bed and stroked her hair.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Those words seemed to be the permission she’d needed. The sobs burst forth—wet, sloppy and hiccupy. He pulled her against him. She buried her face in his chest and listened to soothing tones of his voice. His hand moved up and down her back. The hairs on his chest tickled her nose. He smelled like the motel soap. For the first time in far too long, she felt safe.

  “Scoot over,” he said.

  She started to protest, but obeyed and adjusted the covers over herself. Blake pulled the covers from his bed. He sat against the headboard, legs outstretched next to her and covered himself with his own bedclothes. A perfect gentleman. She gave hi
m a half-smile.

  “That’s better.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “I like your smile. Are you warm enough?”

  She nodded, leaning into the crook of his shoulder. She felt heat radiating from him, felt him wince and she jerked away. “I’m sorry. That’s your bad shoulder, isn’t it? And you’re hot. Fever?”

  He pulled her back against him. “If you apologize once more, I’m going to have to get ugly. I’m fine. Now, that iodine, or whatever you poured into my belly—that hurt. This was a twinge.”

  She almost laughed and rested her head against him again. Things seemed to settle inside.

  “Who’s Robert?” he asked.

  * * * * *

  Blake felt Kelli stiffen at his question. He gripped her just enough to keep her close to him. She was right—his head throbbed, his wound burned and his fever was back. But there was nothing he could do about any of that, and she needed help.

  Her chin lifted and she looked him in the eyes. “Robert? Who’s Robert?”

  “That’s what I asked you. You were calling his name. Screaming, more like it.” He rubbed his thumb down her cheek, wiping away the tears. “Did he abuse you? Are you hiding from him?”

  “Hiding? Good Lord, no. Robert is dead.” She paused, twisting the blanket in her fingers and lowering her head. “I killed him.” Her voice was barely audible. “I guess someone figured it out.”

  His pulse quickened at her words. He tucked his finger under her chin, demanding she meet his gaze. “Talk to me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “We’ve been through that. Yes, you can. It’s one in the morning. Neither of us is getting back to sleep for a while.” He waited. Her silence filled the room and he finally broke it, staring at her when he asked, “You’re Casey, aren’t you?”

  She didn’t respond but he was right. Everything alive had drained from her face.

  He summarized the information Hollingsworth had given him—the newspaper story and magazine photo, how he’d been sent to check. Kelli sat, unmoving, while he explained, and for a moment he feared she’d withdrawn the way she had when Scumbag attacked her. When she finally spoke, it was more of a whimper.