Crash Into You (11 page)

             
As they came inside and put up their coats, Mark said, “How about some ice cream?” as he headed to the kitchen.

             
Aimee followed.  “You eat ice cream even when it’s cold?”

             
He flashed a smile from the sub-zero door that made her knees wobble.   “Sure.  There’s a fire.  I can get you a blanket.  There should be a throw over there on the sofa.”    Mark pulled out two flavors.  “Butter pecan or mint chocolate chip?”

             
“Those both sound terrific.   Mint chocolate chip.”

             
Mark filled a bowl for her, and then chose butter pecan for himself, and took both bowls to the sofa.  

             
“How is your rib? Do you need a pillow to brace it?”

             
“I’m fine, honestly.”

             
Even so, he took a small throw pillow and handed it to her.   “Just wedge it between your rib and the sofa.”

             
She did as he said.  “There, happy?” she asked, with a sweetly exasperated roll of her eyes.

             
He smiled and sat down beside her.  “Yeah, actually, I am.  And you will be too when you can walk without feeling like a shank is stabbing your ribs.”

             
“Honestly, it isn’t that bad.”  She took a bite of the ice cream and moaned with pleasure.  “This is delicious.”

             
“Carrie, in town, makes desserts.   She sells cakes, pies, all kinds of pastries really.  And she just added ice cream this summer.”

             
“Tell Carrie she is a genius with ice cream.”    She looked around the spacious living room, smiling at May lying on the rug in front of the fire, and feeling altogether snug and safe.  “This is nice,” she mused.  “I can see why you’d want to stay.”

After ice cream and conversation, Aimee waited at the bottom of the stairs while Mark turned off the downstairs lights and set the alarm.  They then walked upstairs together.

At the landing,
Aimee turned to say goodnight, but was too quick.  She bumped into Mark, feeling a hard chest and the impressive length of his body against hers, sending a current of shock and pleasure through her traumatized body.  She stumbled back, and he easily grabbed her arm to steady her.

             
“Sorry,” she muttered, a little too breathlessly.

             
“No problem.”

             
“Well, um… see you in the morning,” she said. 

             
“Goodnight.”

She walked
to her room, shutting the door behind her.

             
The room was dark and cool.  Digging in the bureau she found another of Mark’s old soft t-shirts.  They were good for sleeping; they smelled vaguely of him.   She slid it over her body, enjoying how it softly skimmed her breasts and hung down to her mid-thighs, almost as if she were naked.   She crawled into the wide, comfortable log post bed, waiting for the cool sheets to warm up.

             
A soft knock at the door surprised her.  “Come in,” she said.

             
Mark opened the door holding a glass of water and something in his other hand.   “Sorry to disturb.  Take two of these.  They’ll help you sleep and help with any soreness tomorrow morning.”

             
Aimee sat up and swallowed the two tiny pills with the glass of water.   “Thank you.”

             
“Are you doing okay?”

             
“I’m great,” she whispered.

             
“Okay.   Goodnight.”   

She said his name when he reached the door.   He turned back to her.   “Yes?”

              In the negative light, his face looked impossibly beautiful, like a sketch with sharp cheekbones and slashing brows.  She was blown away by the male energy he emitted, that vital, vibrant life force that left her fluttery and giddy.   A very female feeling.  She had never experienced anything like his gale force sex appeal.  Resisting it was going to be a full-time occupation.

“I just wanted to say thank you for all this.”

              He smiled at her.   “It’s no problem.   Sleep well.”   He shut the door, leaving her in darkness.   

Aimee
shut her eyes as the familiar images formed in the darkness: her sister, then Seth and the money.  But they didn’t linger.   The old images were gradually replaced with May and Mark and how beautiful and stark the mountains looked, in this safe, hidden pocket of the world. 

Adrenaline
catapulted him into consciousness.  Mark jackknifed up in bed, his fevered gaze stabbing wildly through the dark, momentarily unsure where he was.  He’d kicked the damp covers to the foot of the bed in his tormented sleep, and when he brought his hand up to his forehead, he was sweating profusely.

             
He breathed in the cool air, trying to reclaim his own mind.  The dream was always the same.  He was pressing the stethoscope against the man’s chest.   The heartbeat started out normal, then increased, until it became one long pitching tone.   The masked interrogators with blank eyes grabbed him with leather-gloved hands and shoved his face under the water.  He couldn’t breathe.  His lungs were burning, deprived of oxygen.  His whole body was burning.  He twisted and writhed and tried to get up, but death clawed deep into him.  Finally, his body followed its desperate, instinctive commandments and inhaled, and water rushed into his nose and mouth, drowning him.

             
Then he bolted awake, heart pounding, face sweating, his world spinning out of control.

             
Mark scrubbed his face with his hands as reality began to slowly come back into focus.   He was in his bedroom at the ranch.   A sanctuary he had designed in the midst of the scandal, when he was attempting to scratch out some little bit of his own tranquility in a world that was suddenly brutal and illogical.   His home.  And Lauren was asleep down the hall.   That was a comforting thought, for some reason.  Her female energy permeated the space with comfort and fresh optimism.   

             
Mark’s emotional defenses seemed to be melting – a possibility that left him confused since he had not been aware he required any defenses.  But now he thought of Shelby and realized that had been exactly what she was: a defense against progress.   A tattered link back to life before it had spun out of control. 

             
Lauren didn’t make him feel like he was clutching at a life had left behind.    She was a completely new experience.  The days had a little more color and meaning now that she was here.  He felt a little bit alive inside of him for the first time in a long time.  He regarded that development with mingled terror and awe.   

             
He glanced at the clock.   4:04am.   Knowing he would not sleep any longer, he got up.             

Mark walked down the corridor to Lauren’s door and paused.   Quietly, he cracked open
Lauren’s door and peeked inside her room.   Beneath the downy drifts of covers, she appeared to be deeply asleep, her chest rising and falling with every breath.   Her tangle of brown hair had fanned out on the pillow beneath her, and her face was tilted back.  High cheekbones, fully lips, long white throat.  His crimson Harvard t-shirt was very loose on her slight frame; the neckline dipped over her fluted collarbone to reveal the luscious curves of her breasts.

             
He looked away.  There was no sense thinking about her in that way.    Neither of them was in any condition for a relationship, despite their close quarters and the attraction he felt for her.   Looking after someone in your own home had a way of compressing the sense of intimacy.   It was rather ironic that Shelby had so passionately wanted to move in and he’d refused, then he’d insisted Lauren stay in his house, where he looked after her, fed her, gave her medication.   Strange. 

Besides her physical bumps and bruises, there
were still some deep emotional wounds for her to attend to. Whatever mess she’d left behind in Idaho would need to be cleaned up.  Or where-ever she had come from.

             
He was certain that she was lying to him.   That little show she’d put on at dinner about deciding to save money had been pathetic.  He had to force himself not to laugh.  She was the worst liar he’d ever seen – she blushed and fidgeted, and looked so uncomfortable that he almost felt sorry for her.   But why?  She was so young; what could she have done that would shame her?  What was she running from?   

             
Aw hell, he had his own secrets to worry about.

Eight

Aimee awoke at dawn to the utterly peaceful sound of nothingness.   She took in a deep breath and sank into the blissful silence.  

Peeping under her heavy lids, she looked out the window to the dramatic white-capped peaks, against the sky, broad and deep, colored a rich glowing blue.

It looked so freaking marvelous, like the whole world was beckoning her to get out there and enjoy it.  She wanted to frolic through the wildflowers, stand on the peaks with her arms thrown wide, and inhale the silky, dry, flower-scented air. 

It had been such a long time since she’d woken up feeling good, her mind clear and unburdened by a checklist of things she had to do, to be, in order to keep the peace.

She sighed contentedly.   Beside her on the floor, May stood up and put her face on Aimee’s shoulder.  Aimee loved the puppy’s intelligent, icy blue eyes.   The dramatic markings around her eyes made her look like she was wearing a pair of designer shades.  

“Hello puppy,” she said, and pet May’s
ears that sat like triangles on top of her elegant head.    “I guess it is time for me to rise and shine, right?”

             
Her body still felt stiff and bruised, but as she shuffled to the bathroom mirror, she was no longer horrified by what she saw.  Most of the bruises on her face had faded and the swelling was gone. The pain in her ribs was becoming a dull bruise.

In the mirror, t
he large, comfortable room was reflected behind her. High wood-beamed ceilings, with west-facing windows opened to staggering views of endless mountains. It looked like a fancy resort. The bright colors, the rough-hewn post logs of the bed, all conjured an upscale western oasis.   It was so different from anything she’d known.   It was like a fantasy or some wonderful dream.

M
aybe, her conscious tugged, it was time to wake up.  Since she was feeling better, maybe it was time to say goodbye to Mark and get on with the business of her new life. She could ask him to take her to a hotel so she could finish convalescing.  Or the airport to rent a car so she could start driving.  She could hide out for a month or two, until she was sure Seth had given up on her, then she could make her way to Portland.

The thought punctured her good mood.   She was torn between being a hard-headed realist and letting herself sink into this stupendous dream.  The inevitability of leaving Spanner Ranch – and Mark – left her feeling a little upended.

              She started a shower.    It wasn’t as luxurious as the master bathroom, but it was comfortable.  She noticed a shower radio and turned it on while she soaped up.   A woman newscaster yammered on with news of the war, followed by gridlock in Washington.   “And the investigation into Flight 134 continues.”

             
Aimee dropped the shampoo bottle she’d been holding, and bent down to pick it up.

  “The NTSB found the black box this morning and it is being sent to Washington D.C. for analysis.”

              Aimee tensed, waiting for more.  But the announcer moved on to sports scores.

             
That’s it?   Nothing else?  No mention of a missing girl?

Relief flooded through her
, almost enough to restore her good mood. If Seth knew she was on that flight, he had to believe now that she was dead.   She couldn’t exactly call him and ask if he thought she was dead, or if he was searching for her, but this was the first bit of good news she’d had since the crash.

She dried off, careful of her incisions.  The
band-aids were peeling off.  She tossed them in the trash.  Mark had left a tube of Neosporin on the counter for her, and she gently swabbed two coats to all three of her small surgical wounds, then replaced the band-aids with fresh ones. 

             
She dressed in some of the clothes Mark had bought her, noting that even her shoulder was feeling better.  It all felt so normal, so comfortable, in such a short period of time. 

             
Come to think of it, when was the last time she felt comfortable around anyone?  She wasn’t very good to yielding to comfort and pleasure.   The barriers she erected to defend herself against Seth’s onslaught of criticisms and outright hatred had ensured that any gift of kindness was repelled.   She’d become frozen inside; she’d forgotten who she was.  Her life in Adams Morgan had been empty and small; she’d morphed into an automaton, tasked with carrying out Seth’s wishes.