Never Let Go (3 page)

The cab driver chuckled. "Where is that?"

"North Alabama. In the mountains near the Tennessee line."

"Yeah, you can get there. Whew! When you run from a man, you run a long way."

Dinah winced. She wasn't running
from
a man. She was running
to
one, the only one who could help her— but the one with the least reason to care.

Two

Rucker slammed his Land Rover into park by the small clapboard house he and Dinah had shared. All evening he'd been driving the mountain roads, just driving, wishing he could think of someplace to go and a reason for wanting to go there.

The darkness of the cloudy March night surrounded him as soon as he turned the headlights off. He put his head back on the truck seat, shoved the door open, and listened to the pine forest rustle in the wind. Rain pattered softly on the truck's roof. The night smelled wet, cold, and lonely.

He hadn't slept in the house since his return from Surador a few days ago. He knew abruptly that he couldn't sleep in it tonight, either. It had been Dinah's home before they married; he'd sold his sprawling house in Birmingham and moved up here. Everything about the remodeled farmhouse spoke of her warmth and class.

It was all a lie.

He gritted his teeth as he climbed out of the Land Rover and pulled the collar up on his aviator's jacket. He'd get a change of clothes and go back to the motel. He kept wondering when Jeopard's agents would locate Dinah and Valdivia.

His booted feet made hollow sounds on the porch's wide-plank floor. He swung the screen door open, unlocked the main door, reached inside, and flicked on the porch light.

"R-Rucker."

He whirled toward the unmistakable voice. Dinah sat on the floor by a window. Her teeth chattered and her wet hair clung to the collar of a black fur coat that cascaded around her like a luxurious tent. One hand grasped the window ledge. She looked frail and exhausted.

After a stunned moment, Rucker drew a pained breath and forced himself to recall the razor-sharp words she'd spoken to him in Surador. He moved slowly across the porch, then dropped to his boot heels in front of her.

"Lose your Latin meal ticket?" he asked bitterly.

"Yes. I need your help."

Disgust crept into his expression. He ducked his head and rammed a hand through his hair. "Lady, you've got a helluva lot of gall."

"I know." All that mattered was that she was home, where she had dreamed of being for so long, and that she loved him dearly, regardless of what he might do or say because she'd hurt him.

Dinah gazed hungrily at him—at the wavy auburn hair that feathered upward at the ends now that he'd ruffled it, at the width of his shoulders and at the way the faded jeans stretched over his long, powerful legs. She closed her eyes and cherished his scent—the leather of his jacket, traces of rich cigar smoke, the smell of masculine hair and skin.

His deep voice broke her reverie. "Where's Surador's poster boy for sewage control?"

"I don't know." That was true. She licked her chapped lips and his eyes went to the movement. He cursed viciously and looked away.

"Don't jerk me around. What happened to him?"

Fear for Rucker's safety made her very cautious. She pretended to study the sable coat pooled around her on the porch floor and said stubbornly, "You don't need to know. Look, I can't get up. My feet are n-numb. The bus station is two miles from h—here, and I didn't have any money left for cab fare. So I walked."

"What were you doin' broke and on a bus? Did good old Diego lose all his dough? Did the banana market go rotten?"

"I'm on my own now. That's all I can tell you."

Rucker's face was rugged. The dimples of his younger years had become creases on either side of his mouth. Stress and weight loss had deepened them in the months since she left him, giving his face an aged, angular harshness that tore at her heart. It was still, however, the kind of masculine face that hypnotized women. Dinah studied every nuance of his expression, aching to caress the sadness out of it.

"So what do you want from me?"

"I need ..." Dinah bent her head forward as bright pinpoints of light danced in front of her eyes.

"What? I thought you didn't need anything from me."

She hadn't eaten all day, she'd spent the past hour walking nearly barefoot in freezing temperatures, and her nerves were shot. But she'd learned to hide physical and emotional discomfort so well over the past months that it was a habit now.

"I just need some money," she finally managed. "I have to go somewhere."

"Where?"

"Can't tell you."

Frustration made his voice a hoarse whisper. "Then you can get the hell off my porch."

He stood up. Dinah tilted her head back. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she gripped the window ledge harder, shutting her eyes.

"Are you sick?" he asked, and she nearly cried at his undertone of concern. All the love was still there. She hadn't lost him entirely.

"N—no. Just cold." She opened her eyes and found him gazing at the sable coat with disgust.

"You can't be cold inside that thing. A present from Valdivia?"

She didn't give an answer because the look on his face showed that he knew the answer. Rucker pivoted on one heel and walked to the front door, his back rigid. "You can have twenty-five bucks. I'll call a cab and you can go back to the bus station. I suggest you head for Birmingham and pawn that coat. Get your butt up and come inside."

How could she pawn the coat when she was wearing only a sheer robe underneath? Besides, if she tried to, she'd raise suspicion. A pawnbroker might call the police.

Dinah stared after him wretchedly. And she couldn't bear to go inside their house. The memories would wreck her. They had made love the first time in this house. "I'll wait out here," she told him.

Rucker kicked the front door open, then turned and stared at her. "Can't take the guilt?"

"We'll both be happier if I just stay here." Her throat tightened. "Rucker, I know you don't have any reason to help m—me, but please. It's urgent. Just a few hundred dollars."

"I wasted a lot of money lookin' for you in the past months. I haven't written a column or worked on a book since you sashayed out the door of that damned beach house in Florida. If you think that I'm gonna toss good money after bad now, you've spent too many days in the hot jungle sun."

"It's a matter of life and death!"

"Whose? Yours?"

"N—no."

"Then I don't give a damn."

His brutality didn't wound her; it was an appropriate reaction, considering the situation. The man she remembered could be stubborn and macho and domineering, but never cruel. He believed in simple values but he was an intellectual in his own way, and a philosopher. No heart was more generous or kind.

She couldn't stand to hurt him anymore. She'd do whatever she had to do to get the money elsewhere. Her shoulders slumped. "All right," Dinah murmured. "Just call a cab for me."

She twisted around so that her back was to him, then reached inside the coat with one hand and rubbed her cold, stinging feet. The ballet slippers had lasted for less than a mile, then became more of a hindrance than a help. Pain spiraled up her legs. The muscles contracted in her back. She could feel him assessing her.

"You can either keep secrets from me or you can tell me the truth and maybe I'll help you," he said abruptly.

"All I can tell you is that I have a job to do, and there's going to be trouble if I don't do it."

"What kind of job?"

What you don't know can't hurt you, my darling
, she thought desperately. The cliché had never been more true. If she told him everything he'd undoubtedly interfere—and Valdivia would undoubtedly have him killed.

Dinah struggled to keep her voice steady. "Just call a c-cab before I freeze. There are only two cabs in all of Twittle County, as I recall. It'll take an hour for one to get here." Suddenly she couldn't be strong any longer. Her voice began to break. "Call. Please call. S-stop looking at me and hating me."

He went inside and slammed the door. Dinah hugged her head to her knees for a second, then turned fiercely and grabbed the window ledge with both hands. Enough self-pity!

She staggered to her feet and leaned against the wall by the window, wincing at the way her feet ached. She clutched both arms over her stomach and wished she'd eaten the fast-food egg sandwich Valdivia had brought to her that morning.

The front door banged open and Rucker strode onto the porch again, carrying a heavy quilt. She recognized it as one his mother had made by hand. "Here." He thrust it at her, his eyes trailing down to her newly uncovered feet.

"What the hell?" He threw the blanket onto a chair. "Why are you barefoot in weather like this?"

She swayed a little as fatigue washed over her. "I'm practicing to be an Eskimo."

Rucker studied her bare legs. "What are you wearin' under that coat?"

"Not much. Eskimo training is very strict."

The grimace around his mouth told her that he was imagining how she lost Valdivia and ended up wearing only a sable coat.

"It wasn't that way," she muttered, her eyes burning with despair.

Rucker watched a tiny trickle of blood run down the side of one calf. With a muffled curse, he stepped over to her and jerked the hem of the coat up. The color left his face. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing. I fell in some bushes. Training for life on the tundra ..."

"Put a lid on the back talk." Rucker looked at her shrewdly from under thick, expressive brows. "Who was chasin' you?"

She swallowed hard and obstinately shook her head. "Call the cab."

"I think I'll call the police."

Dinah stared at him in horror. The world became fuzzy and unbalanced; her legs collapsed and she realized that she was falling.

Rucker grabbed her, bent forward, and draped her over his shoulder. Dinah gratefully pressed her face against the cool, damp leather of his jacket. When he straightened up blood rushed to her head, clearing it. She chuckled painfully.

"Glad you're enjoyin' yourself," he muttered.

"You're the only man in the world who would toss a fainting woman over his shoulder as if she were a sack of horse feed."

"Yeah. I know my ways don't suit you."

Dinah winced. "I didn't mean it like that."

"You explained how you felt about me already. At the airport."

"I didn't mean it."

He started inside the house. "Then why the hell did you say it?"

Dinah gripped his jacket suddenly. "No! I don't want to go inside!" He clasped the backs of her legs with both big hands. She felt his hold tighten harshly.

"I hope you hate being here. I hope it hurts you the way it hurts me. Now shut up."

Dinah closed her eyes and clung to his jacket as he carried her into the living room. He knelt, let go of her legs, anchored a hand in the back of her coat, and pulled. Abruptly she found herself plopped on a couch.

She opened her eyes reluctantly and looked at the plush, white-on-white furniture and abstract art, the overflowing bookcases, the stone fireplace, and finally, her baby grand piano. A floor lamp cast muted shadows, making the room even cozier than she remembered.

Rucker stood over her, his hands on his hips. She whispered brokenly, "You took good care of everything."

Suddenly she gazed at him with fear. "Where are Jethro and Nureyev?" She had missed the pet possum and talking crow more than she'd ever thought possible.

Rucker's eyes glittered with revenge. "Gone."

"What did you do with them?"

He smiled thinly. With all the traveling he'd done in the past months, there'd been no way to take care of either pet. He'd loaned them to a petting zoo run by the state wildlife commission. Despite the best care, only Jethro had flourished. "Nureyev died. And what I did with Jethro is none of your business."

"Nureyev died?" she asked in a small, hurt voice.

"Yeah. His last words were a quote from your ol' favorite, Sartre. You would have loved it."

Rucker watched grief wash across her eyes. It jumbled his anger and he turned away, his hands clenched. He'd never tell her that he'd taken her cantakerous pet crow to one of the best veterinary specialists in the country, or that he'd sat beside the ailing bird for hours, stroking his head and asking him not to die.

"Will you call the cab now?" she asked, her tone weary.

Rucker swiveled toward her again. "Hell, yes."

He removed his jacket, slung it across a recliner, then strode to a phone on a sleek walnut end table. Dinah curled her toes into the cream-colored carpet and remembered a cold winter afternoon when they'd lain there in front of the fireplace.

Rucker had wrestled her new engagement ring away from her and given it to Nureyev. The crow had swooped around the living room with a four-carat diamond in his beak, perversely happy to be chased by a naked woman. Finally he dropped the ring into Rucker's glass of chocolate milk.

Roaring with laughter, Rucker had invited her to "go fish." She'd emptied the glass on his stomach, then used her tongue to clean him up and retrieve her ring. He hadn't minded the milk bath at all. And Nureyev had talked nonstop from satisfaction over his role in the antics.

"Can't get anybody," Rucker told her, and slammed the phone down.

Dinah wiped her eyes and cleared her throat roughly. She couldn't expect Rucker to believe her sorrow. "Could I have something to eat? Anything—a glass of milk, crackers?"

"Doesn't the banana king feed you?" He studied her face. "No, I reckon he doesn't. You look like you've lost about twenty pounds."

"You're thinner, too."

"I spent lots of time eatin' at bars. A diet of nothin' but booze and pretzels works like a charm." He went to the kitchen, angrily jerking the cuffs open on his plaid sport shirt. Dinah watched through the open door as he rolled up his sleeves. She got to her feet and shuffled after him, stopping in the doorway.

"Why don't you just drive me to the bus station?"

"I like holdin' you prisoner. It gives me a sense of revenge." He opened a can of soup and dumped it into a small pot on the stove. His knuckles were white from the force of his grip on the pot handle. "So tell me. Is it true what folks say about Latin lovers? Just how big
are
the bananas in Surador?"