Doranna Durgin - Survival Instinct

She had brains somewhere. She’d find them before they reached the house. Somehow. For now she looked at his mouth with complete regret, raising a thumb to caress the damp corner. He closed his eyes and his nostrils flared and she had the feeling that thumb came this close to being nibbled.

“Ew!” she said, startling both of them. His eyes flew open; he looked almost relieved, if offended. Karin flapped her fingers, trying to get the stringy cobweb off her hand. Eventually she gave up and scrubbed her hand along her thigh-her thigh, because she had just enough mercy to spare him that, given the distinct remains of his erection.

When she looked at him again, he repeated with no little regret, “Not now.” He looked very much as if he was trying to convince himself…and was failing.

“Right,” she said flatly, and saw his head lift slightly with wariness. She leaned forward and added in tones of pompous import, “This must never happen again.”

He stayed wary, that shadow of hurt in his eyes, a crinkle of uncertainty in his brow.

This one would be so easy to play. But…she didn’t want to. “Do I look serious?”

“You look…” He paused. “Flexible.”

“Ohh,” she said, a purr of a word, “I am.”

Dewey, his timing impeccable, stuck his head through the hinged chicken door. Foamy white liquid lined his lips. “Oh my God,” Karin said, all one word, “You didn’t. You’re not coming into the house for a week, Dewey Lake!” A great big glut of goat’s milk and adult dog digestion. She’d need a gas mask.

But that’s right. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to be here. It didn’t matter that she intended to back this man into a tight corner at the first opportunity, the first moment they were safe enough so she could lose herself in what waited between them. Because at the first opportunity, she also intended to be out of here. Gone. Running. Being someone else for a while. Not likely ever to see Dave Hunter again.

And wasn’t that just perfect.

Dave’s feet encroached upon the end of the twin bed, a constant reminder of his unfamiliar surroundings. His mind raced toward morning, eager to get Ellen to the safe house. She’d made all the arrangements; she’d seemed resigned as she set her suitcase at the back door, but thoroughly convinced.

For Barret’s errand geek would be back. Whether Ellen recovered her memories or not, for now she needed to hide. He didn’t blame her for her anger. She was losing a year’s worth of crops, and losing her tidy little life as well.

Even if she no longer struck him as someone who was well-suited to a tidy little life.

He tried to imagine the Ellen he knew kissing him as she’d done him today-holding nothing back, not embarrassed or ashamed or reluctant-and couldn’t. Of course, thinking about the kiss at all was a big mistake. A huge mistake. Growing bigger by the moment. And the way she’d looked at him as they’d parted ways for the evening-no, don’t think about that, either. Not how she’d dropped her head and watched him with those smoky blue-gray eyes under those strong and expressive brows, licking the taste of their whiskey nightcap from the corner of her mouth.

I am an idiot.

Too true.

Think of the whiskey. It still warmed his throat, an intense, peaty twelve-year-old single malt. He hadn’t expected that of her, either-that they could small-talk the evening away with whiskey-tasting memories, or that they’d both been to that unexpected little shop in northern California, walking away with single malts neither could afford. Her voice matched the whiskey, he’d realized. It had that same slow burn.

She’d never inspired those thoughts before.

Of course, the last time he’d talked to Ellen Sommers, she’d been dating Barret Longsford. He just didn’t remember thinking he wished it were otherwise.

Okay, so thinking about the whiskey didn’t do any good. Thinking about the close calls they’d had today didn’t do him any good, either. His mind’s eye had a perfect view of Ellen facing those two men, no hint of her concern in her voice and then no hesitation when push literally came to shove.

He supposed he should be lucky she’d kissed him instead of wielding some other gardening implement at his head. Because she was right. He had brought this on her.

Then he’d just have to fix it. And while he was at it, they’d find Rashawn Little and put good old Barret Longsford behind bars. Perhaps he’d work on world peace next.

A pipe dinged somewhere below. She’d warned him that the house would settle, creaking and banging and knocking in its own little musical composition. “Don’t pay any attention unless you hear Dewey bark,” she told him, lingering at the bottom of the stairs, whiskey glasses in hand and her hair still damp from her shower. The regret in her eyes as they separated had been palpable.

Certainly it had become instantly palpable to Dave, who retreated up a few steps. “Be ready,” he’d told her, already turning away. “We’ll get an early start.”

“Oh, I’m ready.” She’d said it in that low voice she sometimes used, the one he hadn’t heard over a year earlier. She’d said it in a way that made her double meaning clear. And then she’d walked away, glasses clinking in her fingers.

I am an idiot.

But sleep was coming anyway. And even though he wanted to linger a bit on his plans for the morning, sleep claimed him, two modest fingers of whiskey hitting home at the end of a long day.

Hitting home…too hard…

Baseball bat. Check. Forged ID. Check. Clothes to match. Check. Amy Lynn, ready to feed tomorrow and for as many tomorrows as it would take, well compensated. Check. And there went a chunk of her hard-earned savings, too.

Karin leaned her forehead against the steering wheel of the truck, careful not to bump the horn. The darkness of the old cinder-block garage-set at the end of the driveway a hundred yards from the house-enfolded her. Made her doubt her decision.

She’d chosen this midsize cab-and-a-half Dakota to replace Ellen’s car-one of the few things that were now hers, and not Ellen’s. Most of her belongings had been ruined in the crash. Her new identity had come at a high price.

And that was what leaving was all about, wasn’t it? Protecting what Ellen had given her. It wasn’t as if she could help Dave’s quest in any event. She’d been through Ellen’s things when she first arrived, and hadn’t seen a thing about Barret Longsford.

She ignored the whispered mental suggestion that she might have missed something in her hurry to assimilate Ellen’s life. Or that with new context, she might see the importance of notes or photos or bills that had once been meaningless. It wasn’t a convenient suggestion. Not at all.

Get an early start, Dave had said, but the poor man had had no idea. She’d gone to her bedroom to wait for him to fall asleep upstairs. Between the whiskey and the drugs she’d added, he hadn’t stood a chance. Within the hour, she’d crept through the dark house, grabbing her things by the door. She’d had some things waiting in the garage-always waiting, her Just In Case kits-and though the truck was full of junk, she wouldn’t take the time to dump it. Rusty leg-hold trap, an old mattock, a roll of electric fence wire…no big deal.

At the garage, she pressed her lips together on another wave of regret. Sorry, Dave. What stood between them was potent…but it was all about possibilities. Karin knew to take the sure thing. And there was nothing she could do for the missing boy but offer rusty prayers. Saint Arthelais, indeed. If ever there was a kidnap victim in need…

She started the engine and hit the automatic door opener. But she didn’t turn on the headlights when she backed out onto the road. She put the truck into Drive and hesitated just long enough to give the house one last look. I can’t help you, Dave Hunter.