The Groom's Stand-In (Special Edition) Read online

  Apparently, she had learned not to expect a response to everything she said to him. Without waiting for him to speak, she motioned toward the bed. “You first. I want you off that leg.”

  “Actually, I’d like to wash up first. You seemed to feel a lot better after your bath, and I’m pretty grubby myself.”

  That argument obviously made sense to her. “Of course you want to wash. It really does feel better to be clean.”

  She hesitated a moment, then sat on the edge of the cot. “I’ll turn my back. Unless you need my help, of course.”

  He felt his mouth kick into another slight smile, though the thought of having Chloe help him bathe was anything but humorous to him. “I can handle it. And I’m not really modest.”

  It was hard to tell in the deep shadows, but he thought her cheeks went pink before she lay on the cot and turned her back to him. “I am,” she muttered.

  Definitely a good thing he hadn’t mentioned checking on her while she was bathing, he decided wryly, tugging his grubby black shirt over his head. He had to drag his gaze away from the sight of Chloe’s nicely rounded bottom as he turned to pick up the soap.

  She never glanced around as he washed as best he could under the circumstances, using the leaking pan of cold water, the hard bar of soap, and the last dry scrap from the T-shirt. When he was finished and fully dressed again, he pulled the two chairs close together.

  “What are you doing now?” she asked, turning around when she heard the chairs scraping against the wooden floor.

  He had come to the conclusion that it would be much better if he didn’t climb into a bed—not even this sorry excuse for one—with Chloe. “The cot’s not really big enough to hold both of us comfortably. I’ll sit in one chair and prop my legs on the other. You get some sleep, I’ll be fine.”

  Frowning, she wriggled into a sitting position on the cot. “There’s no way I can rest on our only bed while you’re sitting in that awful chair with a broken leg. You, I mean, not the chair. Well, both you and the chair. Oh, you know what I mean.”

  He couldn’t help smiling again at her disjointed tirade. Funny how often she made him smile, even under these circumstances. “I told you, I’m—”

  “Look, this cot is bigger than it looks. There’s room for both of us to get some sleep if we’re still.”

  The only way they would fit was to lie pressed together. And that position would most likely drive him insane by daylight. “I don’t think we should—”

  She didn’t let him finish. “Come on, I slept with my head in your lap last night. It’s no big deal.”

  Because he could still very clearly remember the feel of her head on his thigh, her cheek resting close to a very sensitive area—not to mention the sight of her bathing in that stream—he was even more certain he should stay right where he was. “I—uh—”

  She stood. After waiting for a rolling grumble of thunder to end, she said firmly, “This storm could go on all night. There’s no chance we’ll be able to leave before daylight, and little chance that anyone will find us here. If you’re really crazy enough to try hiking again tomorrow, you’re going to have to get some rest first. And I can’t sleep unless I know you do.”

  She had a stubborn set to her mouth that told him she wasn’t going to listen to argument. She was fully prepared to sit up all night if he did argue.

  The thought of climbing onto that narrow bed with her was unsettling—but he was tired. And, hell, with his leg in a splint, there wasn’t much he could do with her in that bed, anyway…not that she’d had anything like that in mind when she’d invited him over, of course.

  Since she needed rest and swore she couldn’t until he did, he would practically be doing her a favor to get into bed with her.

  Satisfied with his logic, he nodded and reached for the stick again.

  She sprang to his side. “Let me help you.”

  It had become apparent to him that Chloe was more comfortable taking care of someone else than she was being cared for. He paused to blow out the candle, plunging the room into near-darkness, then allowed her to assist him to the bed. He motioned for her to take the inside, next to the wall. And then he sat on the edge and lifted his legs carefully onto the cot, his right leg on the outside edge.

  It was a close fit, as he had expected, but not much tighter than the cave had been the night before. There were no pillows, of course, so he was lying flat on his back, as was Chloe. Pressed side to side, they lay so still and stiff they could have been plastic mannequins.

  This was ridiculous, he thought. Neither of them would get any sleep this way.

  “Relax,” he advised her. “You won’t bother me if you move.”

  “Donovan?” Her voice was very quiet in the darkness.

  He bent his right arm under his head, staring up at the rain-hammered metal roof. “Mm?”

  “How far do you think we are from civilization?”

  “Don’t know. I figure it’s quite a way, since the guy who built this place obviously didn’t care for company. It’s probably an all-day drive with a four-wheel-drive vehicle.”

  “And how long walking?”

  “More than a day.” Especially with his leg broken, he added silently.

  “How much more?”

  “I don’t know.”

  After a brief silence, she asked in a small voice, “Are you ever afraid that we won’t get out?”

  For the first time since they’d gotten away from their kidnappers, Chloe sounded scared. Vulnerable. She needed comforting—and while he wasn’t very good at that sort of thing, he would do his best.

  He shifted his weight, then slid his left arm beneath her and pulled her onto his shoulder. “We’ll get out,” he said gruffly. “It’s just a matter of not giving up.”

  Her hand on his chest, she burrowed into his shoulder as if grateful for the contact. But her voice was steady when she said, “I’m not giving up. I just wondered if you ever have any doubts.”

  “I’m only human, Chloe.” Human enough to have a decidedly physical reaction to her nestling against him—but he pushed that awareness to the back of his mind and continued, “I can’t help wondering if something else will go wrong. Believe me, I’ve thought of every bad scenario that could happen to us—from wild animal attacks to a fall from one of those bluffs. But we can’t let fear paralyze us if we’re going to survive.”

  He was half afraid his impulsive admission of weakness might increase her anxiety. Instead, she said, “It’s kind of nice to know you’re worried about those things, too. It makes me feel a little less cowardly.”

  “Cowardly?” He shook his head against the canvas beneath him. “Chloe, you’re one of the least cowardly people I’ve ever met, man or woman. After all we’ve been through, I wouldn’t blame you if you were a basket case by now, but you’ve handled everything that’s come our way without complaining once.”

  He wasn’t usually one to lavish praise, but he thought she should know he admired her courage and resilience.

  There were a lot of things he admired about Chloe Pennington.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you can be very sweet?” she asked after a rather lengthy pause.

  He couldn’t see her face in the darkness, of course, but he knew she was smiling up at him. “Sweet isn’t a description I’ve heard very often,” he muttered wryly, though he was pleased to note that she sounded more at ease now.

  “That’s because you come across so tough. But I want you to know how much I appreciate the way you’ve taken such good care of me throughout this ordeal.” Stretching upward, she brushed a light kiss against his jaw.

  The contact jolted him like an electric shock, coursing through his veins and spilling into his groin. His arm tightened reflexively around her, but he forced himself to loosen his grip.

  It was only gratitude, he reminded himself. And gratitude was all he had a right to accept from her.

  “Go to sleep,” he said, his voice more curt than he had inte
nded. “We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow.”

  He might have expected her to be rebuffed by his tone—or at least a tad annoyed. Instead, she laughed softly and burrowed more cozily into his shoulder. “G’night, Donovan.”

  Grunting a response, he stared up at the rain-pounded metal roof and prepared for another near-sleepless night.

  It was early Wednesday—before 8:00 a.m.—when Bryan Falcon knocked on Grace Pennington’s door. He’d called first, so he knew she would be expecting him. But he was still a bit startled by how quickly she threw open the door.

  “Good morn—” he began.

  “Where’s my sister?” she cut in, glaring at him.

  It always amazed him that Chloe and Grace were identical in appearance, yet so different in personality. Chloe was calm, courteous and serene, while Grace was impatient, impulsive and quick-tempered.

  He wasn’t looking forward to the next few minutes.

  “May I come in?”

  She moved aside, then barely allowed him time to step into the converted warehouse, loft-style apartment before she asked again, “Where’s my sister?”

  He motioned toward the colorful, contemporary furniture arranged invitingly around the big, airy room. “Maybe we should sit down.”

  “You’re avoiding my question.” She planted her feet and fisted her hands on her hips. “I’m starting to lose patience with you.”

  Patience? He wasn’t aware that she possessed any.

  As wary as he was of her temper, he softened when he saw the genuine fear reflected in her hazel eyes. She was doing her best to bluster and intimidate him, but, truth was, she knew something was wrong with Chloe—and she was terrified.

  Because he could understand those feelings, and because he shared them, he was able to keep his expression pleasant. “We need to talk, Grace.”

  Her throat moved with a hard swallow. “Just tell me,” she whispered. “Is she all right?”

  He set his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently toward a bright purple couch.

  “Sit,” he said, speaking more firmly now to penetrate the fog of fear that seemed to grip her. “I’ll tell you everything I know at this point.”

  Donovan must have been more tired than he had realized. Though he hadn’t expected to sleep, he did. Heavily.

  The dirty porthole of a window allowed enough sun to seep through that he could tell it was midmorning when he finally opened his eyes. Nine, maybe even ten o’clock, he surmised, startled by the realization. He never slept that late, no matter how tired he was.

  It must have been a combination of exhaustion, pain and the dim light in the cabin that had lulled him into sleeping for so long—not to mention the pleasure of having a warm, soft body snuggled against his, he thought, turning his attention to Chloe. He felt her stir, and sensed with a touch of regret that she was waking. They would have to start hiking again soon.

  Who would have thought he would find himself reluctant to leave this shabby excuse for a cabin?

  She opened her eyes and blinked up at him, taking a moment to orient herself. And then she gave him a sleepy smile that brought out the little dimples at the corners of her mouth. “Good morning.”

  Her voice was sleep-husky, her tone intimate. The sound of it did things to him that he was best not thinking of at the moment. He shifted his hips a bit, pulling away from her just far enough that she wouldn’t become aware of just how pleasant he found it to awaken with her.

  “Good morning,” he said, making an effort to keep his own voice brusque. “Sleep well?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Still obviously half-asleep, she stretched like a lazy cat, the movement brushing her against him again.

  Much more of this, he decided, and he was going to explode. He turned away from her, reaching for the stick he’d left on the floor beside the bed. “I’ll see what sort of fruit we’re having for breakfast.”

  “Don’t suppose you can stir up some coffee while you’re at it?” she asked around a yawn as she, too, rose to a sitting position.

  “I wish.” He’d just about break his other leg for a steaming mug of coffee, but since that wasn’t an option at the moment, he put it out of his mind and limped to the counter.

  His leg was bruised and swollen, so sore it required effort not to wince with every step. He knew there was a risk of infection with every break, even simple ones, but he hoped an infection would at least hold off until he and Chloe could walk to safety.

  Hearing Chloe moving around behind him, he stood at the counter mentally preparing for the next stage of their journey. His gaze fell on the box of matches they’d left lying on the counter the night before. He slipped that and a small knife into one deep trouser pocket.

  He wouldn’t be able to carry much and still keep his weight off his leg, but he’d take what he could. They would rig up something in which to carry the remaining few cans of fruit. He figured they had a couple of days of hiking ahead of them—if they were lucky and he led them in the right direction—and they needed all the supplies they could safely carry.

  Opening a can of peaches, he set it on the table. “Dig in,” he said, handing her one of the forks and taking the other for himself.

  The impending walk on both their minds, they ate the fruit quickly and without much conversation. “You’re sure you’ll be able to walk today?” Chloe asked, nodding toward his leg with a frown.

  “I’m sure I have no choice,” he answered with a shrug. “The longer we wait here, the more chance both of us have of being hurt again or coming down with infections from the injuries we’ve already sustained.”

  She sighed almost imperceptibly, but nodded with characteristic acceptance of logic. “I would like to wash up before we start out.”

  “So would I. Tell you what, why don’t I go first just to make sure it’s all clear outside. I won’t be long. While I’m gone, see if you can figure out a way to carry cans of fruit that won’t weigh either of us down too badly.”

  “I’ll see what I can find. But are you sure you don’t want me to walk out with you? I’m afraid you’re going to fall again.”

  He leaned on the heavy stick, demonstrating how sturdy it was. “I’ll be fine. I’m able to keep most of my weight off the bad leg.”

  “Just be careful,” she warned him.

  “I will.”

  Trying to minimize his limp for her sake, he made his way to the door and opened it, wincing at the shrill creak of rusty hinges. Someone needed to—

  The sight of the scruffy man standing on the other side of the door, holding a shotgun leveled directly at him, made Donovan forget all about the creaky hinges.

  Chapter Nine

  “What the hell are you doing in my cabin?” the armed man, whom Donovan judged to be in his late fifties, demanded in a harsh voice.

  Chloe’s gasp from behind Donovan indicated that she had seen the gun. He motioned with his left hand for her to be calm, even as he held the man’s gaze with his own.

  “I’m sorry for trespassing on your property,” he said, keeping his tone placating. “We got lost in the forest and we—”

  His faded blue eyes glittering in a weathered, whiskery face, the armed man cut in, “Who do you work for? IRS? CIA?”

  Donovan recognized that there would be no negotiating with this guy. He shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. We’re on the run. See those cuffs on your table?”

  The other man looked away just long enough to spot the handcuffs. Still pointed directly at Donovan’s heart, the shotgun never wavered.

  Without waiting for a response, Donovan added, “I took those off last night. The feds are out there looking for us now. They hear a gunshot, they’ll come down on this place before you can blink twice.”

  The other man frowned, then made a motion with the gun. “Get out. And then keep going.”

  “We’re going,” Donovan said, motioning for Chloe to join him. He wanted to get her out of here before the guy changed his mind about sending them away
.

  “But my friend is hurt,” Chloe protested, looking at the angry man in disbelief. “His leg could be broken. And we don’t know which direction to go for help. Couldn’t you at least—”

  The shotgun leveled directly at Donovan’s chest again. “Out,” its owner growled. “I ain’t giving you another warning.”

  “We’re going,” Donovan assured him again, leaning on the stick as he took a careful step forward.

  “And leave that here! That’s my good stick.”

  Donovan quickly set the stick aside, then held up both hands to show that they were empty. “No problem. My friend here will help me, won’t you, Chloe?”

  She still seemed to find it impossible to believe that this man wasn’t going to offer them assistance. “But couldn’t we at least—”

  His eyes on that steady shotgun, Donovan spoke sharply this time. “Now, Chloe.”

  Subsiding into a bewildered silence, she moved beside him and offered him her shoulder for support.

  Donovan made sure to exaggerate his limp as they made their way slowly out the door—not that he had to play it up much, since his leg really did hurt like the devil. He wanted to appear as non-threatening as possible to the other man.

  The scruffy man watched them suspiciously, staying on guard against any sudden moves. When they were outside, he stepped into his doorway as if to prevent them from going back inside. “Don’t come back here,” he warned. “You won’t be leaving again if you do.”

  “You won’t see us again,” Donovan replied.

  The door slammed shut. Then immediately opened again. “Get moving!” he shouted. “And stay off my road. I’ll be watching it. You know what will happen if I find you again.”

  “We’re leaving.” Donovan nudged Chloe toward the woods. “And don’t worry, we never saw you.”

  They made their way as swiftly as possible into the shelter of the trees. Donovan’s back itched with the awareness that there was a shotgun aimed right at the center of it.

  He heaved a slight sigh of relief when they reached the tree line and slipped into it, letting themselves be swallowed by the shadows. Only then did they hear the crash of the cabin door closing again.