Over the Line (34 page)

As fragile as she felt when she waded back to shore, pulled her skirt up over her hips, and slipped into her shirt. Her thong was lost forever, sunk to the bottom of the sand pit. At least she hoped it was at the bottom, not floating somewhere where someone would find it and have a good laugh.

She kept her back to him when she heard him wade back toward the beach. Didn't think she could bear to watch him rise up out of the lake like some water warrior, naked and splendid and wanting to ... talk, she thought morosely.

"Sit," he said, when she headed for the embankment. "Let's just sit a minute, okay?"

He was dressed again, wearing his T-shirt and jeans and tugging on his boots when she turned to look at him. His expression was sober as he sat in the sand, his knees raised, his forearms draped across them, his hands clasped.

She almost felt sorry for him as she eased down on a thick stump he'd pulled up for her to sit on. Might have reached down and smoothed the worry off his brow if she wasn't so wary of what came next.

"You know," he finally began, "you know this can't go anywhere."

Her heart sank. And her disappointment sent her anger simmering to life again.

"This," she repeated. "What is
this
exactly? You say we have to talk about
this. This
can't go anywhere. Spell it out for me, would you please, because I want to make certain I know exactly what
this
is."

"Now you're being obtuse," he said with a weary sigh.

"Obtuse? Oh my, that's a big word for a country boy. And you're pointing that finger the wrong way.
You're
the one who's obtuse. And dull witted. And thickheaded. And... and stupid and slow."

He tipped his head back, looked at the night sky, and blew out a breath through puffed cheeks. "Don't hold back. Tell me what you
really
think."

She snorted. He wanted to hear it? Fine. "I already told you what I think. I think you're a coward. I think you're so afraid there's something good going on between us that you're determined to shoot it down before we have a chance to figure out what's happening."

"What's
happening
,"
he countered grimly, "is that I can't look at you without wanting to rip your clothes off and lay you down on the closest flat surface."

"And this is bad because?"

"Jesus, Janey." He clenched his hands together, glanced toward the sky like he was appealing for patience before pinning her with a hard look. "You know why it's bad. I'm supposed to be taking care of you."

"You took care of me just fine," she said, hurting even more and feeling nasty with it.

"You know what I mean."

"This is what I know," she said, deciding to risk it all. "I know that when I'm with you, I feel... alive. And I'm not just talking about the sex. I'm talking about how you make me feel. As a person."

He looked up at her, his blue eyes troubled and curious and, if she read him right, a little bit hopeful.

"Why do you have to make this so hard?" She knew it came out sounding like a plea. She didn't care. She was past pride. "It doesn't have to be. Can't we just let things take their course? See if what we're feeling isn't something worth hanging on to?"

"What we're feeling?" he repeated with a weary frown. "Janey, you can't possibly
know
what you're feeling right now. You've got a convicted stalker terrorizing you. Your mother has been murdered and we still don't have a bead on who did it—only a million dollars as a probable reason why but no clue who knows about it."

He shifted so he could look directly at her. "Your life is one big, ugly, dangerous puzzle with a million missing pieces. How can you know what you're feeling other than shock and fear and uncertainty?"

"Look, Dr. Freud, my life—regardless of stalkers and murders and mysteries—is
always
one big sloppy mess. Concerts, photo shoots, celeb appearances ... hell. Pick something. It's probably on the agenda. Give me some credit here. You think I can't sort the dimes from the dollars? You think, after six years of organized chaos, that I haven't learned to cope? Can't see what's good for me?"

"It's called compartmentalizing," she added, trying to drive her point home. "It's called multitasking. And I'm damn good at it."

When he looked unconvinced, she shook her head. "You're the one who can't get a handle on your feelings, Baby Blue. Don't lay that trip on me."

He blinked. Blinked again. "What'd you call me?"

She scowled at him. "What? When?"

"Just now. Baby Blue, was it?"

She rolled her eyes, gave a dismissive shrug. "Yeah. So what? You called me a brat. Earlier," she clarified when his puzzled look intensified.

"Well, you called me Opie."

"Oh for God's sake. What does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't know," he said, frowning. "I haven't figured it out yet. I haven't figured any of this out."

She stood, brushed off her butt. "Tell you what. When you do, we'll have another little chat... about...
this.
We can even talk about
that
if you want to," she said sourly. "Until then, I don't want to talk about
this
again. I just want to—"

She jumped, startled when a ping of a sound had the sand a few feet away flying in a showering spray.

"What the—"

The sand flew again. So close to her feet this time that it stung.

"Jesus." He scrambled to his feet, grabbed her arm, and pushed her behind him. "Some crazy sonofabitch is shooting.

"Hey, dickhead!" he yelled into the dark. "There are people down here. Do your target practice somewhere else."

A rapid succession of pings zipped into the night, making the earth jump and dirt spray all around them.

"Shit! Crazy bastard must be drunk. Come on. We're getting out of here."

He grabbed her hand and ran, pulling her along behind him. Her heart pounded like crazy as he tugged her up the steep embankment like their lives depended on it. It wasn't until she felt a warm, sticky wetness seep between their joined hands that it really hit home that their lives did depend on getting out of the line of fire.

Blood.

Blood ran down his arm like a river.

"You've been hit," she cried.

"Get in the car." He shoved her through the driver's door, then piled in behind her.

She scrambled over the center console, banged her knee on the gearshift, and fell face-first onto the floor. She was in the process of righting herself when he turned the key, revved the motor, and shoved the Mustang into gear. Tires squealed and gravel shot in a rooster tail behind them as he floored the accelerator and tore down the gravel road.

"You okay?" he asked as she turned herself around so her bare butt was on the floorboard. She lifted her hand to grip the passenger seat—and met with more blood. Not warm this time. It was cold. Cold blood.

She jerked her hand away and stared.

There, in the middle of the pristine white upholstery, two tiny, lifeless hearts lay in the middle of a bloodred cloth.

Chapter 19

"Grimm." Jase pounded the steering wheel as they flew down the gravel road, kicking up dust in their wake. "How in the
hell
did he find us here?"

Beside him, Janey scooped up the cloth with the hearts and chucked them out the window. "You're bleeding," she said for about the tenth time.

For the tenth time, he told her he was fine, yet she got busy trying to rip a piece of the pink ruffle from her skirt to use as a bandage.

"Forget about that." He glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted headlights bearing down on them. "And buckle up. We've got company."

She twisted around in the seat and saw the lights. "Oh, God."

"Buckle up," he repeated in a cold, steely voice, and laid on the gas.

The Mustang responded, roaring down the gravel road like the muscle machine it was, all 360 horses running at checkered-flag speed.

He'd like nothing better than to face off with the sick bastard—and he would. But not yet. Not until he had the advantage. He couldn't risk something happening to Janey until he did.

Behind them, the headlights closed in. Jase braked, whipped the Mustang around a curve, and damn near spun into the ditch when the car fishtailed.

He gunned it, righted them, and glanced at the tach needle as it spun to the top of the dial.

He swore after another quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed his fears. "He's gaining on us."

Janey, bless her, had to be good and scared, but she didn't scream, didn't cry, when he came to another four-corner crossroad and took the corner on two wheels.

He cut the lights. That finally made her gasp.

"It's okay. I know these roads. Grimm doesn't. And there's enough moonlight that I can see where I'm going. Hang on."

They sailed up over a rise, caught some air before all four wheels kissed the gravel again. He headed for the county park just a few miles up the road.

"I'm going to try to ditch him in the woods," he told her when he swung hard left and headed up the road to Clear Creek Recreation Center.

The forest was thickest at the opening to the park. He took advantage of the dark and his knowledge of the snowmobile trails he used to ride every winter. He headed straight for the Shimmac Trail. It was winding and narrow and, if he remembered right, had several little tributary routes closed in tight with scrub brush and sumac.

Still running without headlights, he turned onto the trail, drove for a quarter of a mile or so, then stopped and backed into an opening in the undergrowth just big enough to shelter the Mustang.

Then he cut the motor. And listened.

In the far distance, he could hear the engine of what he suspected was an SUV. Far enough distant to know that Grimm had lost them but hadn't given up.

Jase drew his first deep breath since the first shot was fired. "You okay?"

Janey stared straight ahead, one hand clamped on the dash, one on the console between them. "I'd pee my pants if I had any on."

Christ. That was so not the picture he needed right now.

But then she looked at him, all small and wild-eyed. "That was supposed to cut the tension." She gave him her gamest smile.

He groaned as much as laughed. "Mission accomplished."

He followed her gaze to his arm. A thick trail of blood ran down his right biceps in a slow, steady trickle.

"It's just a flesh wound," he assured her after checking it, even though the adrenaline had let down enough that it was starting to burn like hell.

"Call me crazy, but in my mind 'just' isn't a good fit in the same sentence with 'flesh' and 'wound.' My God. You're bleeding like crazy."

Not that much really, but when she went back to work on her skirt, getting nowhere on her attempt to rip the ruffle off for a bandage while he fished in his jeans for his pocketknife.

"Try this." He handed her the knife, then had second thoughts when she held out trembling fingers. "Never mind. I'll do it."

He set the knife to the pink cotton and made the first slice. She was able to pull the ruffle off after that, so he sat in silence as she busied herself bandaging his arm with it.