Swept Aside Page 7

  She sighed. If only she wasn’t still recovering from the gunshot she would take her chances in the bayou, but she didn’t have the stamina. And making a break for it and getting caught scared her even more than staying put. Right now they were giving her some leeway. If she pissed them off, Tug had made it clear what her fate would be.

  Nick felt the tension in her body. He thought about telling her now, while they were away from the others, that he was an undercover agent, but his training and experience prompted him to keep quiet. As long as he could juggle her safety and his identity, he wasn’t going to take the chance.

  He swung the flashlight down the long hallway, then swept the light back up the stairs that continued to the third floor.

  “This is quite a place. What’s up there?”

  “It used to be the servants’ quarters. Now most of the rooms are empty, or used for storing furniture from past generations…nearly two hundred years’ worth.”

  Nick absorbed the matter-of-fact tone of her voice, marveling at what she took for granted.

  “Your family has owned the place that long?”

  “From the time the land was first purchased, it’s belonged to a Pope. Unfortunately I’m the last.”

  Nick swung the flashlight back at her, highlighting her face.

  “Why so sure of that?”

  She grimaced and pushed the flashlight to the side. “Because I’m a woman. No male heirs left to carry on the Pope name.”

  “So…when you marry, just don’t change your name,” Nick said.

  The answer was as out of sync with her expectations as the man himself. He was so tall Amalie had to tilt her head back to see his face; then, when she did, she couldn’t see his expression past the flashlight’s halo. All she could see was his looming silhouette, and the occasional glimmer of light reflecting from his eyes. The image of a cougar crouching in the dark flashed through her mind, and then she shoved it aside.

  “That’s a remark I would have associated with something of a liberated man, not a…a…”

  She stammered, then stopped.

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “What? A criminal? Are you saying only forward-thinking men wear white shirts and ties?”

  Amalie wasn’t going there with him. “I’m not saying anything,” she muttered. “I just want to get my pain pills and rest.” She headed for her bedroom, as sure of her footing here as she had been coming up the stairs. “This was Nonna’s room. Now it’s mine,” she said, wondering why she was telling him something that couldn’t possibly matter to him, and walked inside, leaving him to follow.

  Nick swept the flashlight around the room, taking quick note of the setup. There were two large windows with the drapes still open. He crossed the room and looked out. It was a long way down, with nothing to climb out on. He quickly checked the bathroom and the huge walk-in closet. He didn’t see any obvious means of escape and decided she should be secure enough in here.

  He turned just as she was shaking a pill out into her hand. The dejection in her manner was obvious. Even without the stress of their intrusion and her recent injury, it dawned on him that she would still be grieving the loss of her grandmother.

  “I take it you and your grandmother were close.”

  Amalie bit her lip. She wasn’t talking to him about Nonna. She wanted him out of her room and all four men out of her house, and because she was at her wits’ end, she snapped.

  “My parents died when I was younger. She finished raising me.” Then she turned on Nick. “I never thought I’d say something like this, but I’m glad she’s dead. At least she isn’t having to suffer the fear of having her home invaded.”

  Surprised by the unexpected anger, Nick realized the best response to what she’d said was silence.

  Amalie was shaking, both from exhaustion and rage, when she turned her back again and reached for the box of matches next to a candle she left here earlier in the day. The sharp rasp as she struck the match was followed by a fleeting scent of sulphur. The flame flared, then settled into a small, flickering tongue of light, casting ominous shadows into the corners of the room. She picked up the candle, then turned to face him.

  Nick found himself drawn to this woman in ways that were anything but wise. He was in one hell of a mess right now, and a woman, no matter how pretty or interesting, had no place in his life. When he realized she hadn’t moved, he fidgeted beneath her stare.

  “Aren’t you going to lie down?” he asked.

  “Are you going to stand there and watch me?”

  The fear was back in her voice.

  “No. Sorry. I’ll be outside the door. If you need anything, just call out. Okay?”

  Amalie still didn’t trust him to do what he said. “Look. If you’re going to wait until I’m asleep to pull something, do us both a favor and do it now while I’m awake. It’s apparent I could never fight you off.”

  The tremor in her voice was his undoing. He cursed beneath his breath and then strode toward the door, pausing on the threshold to look back.

  “Just go to bed, woman. I told you I’d keep you safe, and I meant it.”

  With that, he shut the door with a solid thunk.

  Amalie blinked. The knot in her belly was still there, but he’d surprised her. She began moving around the room, getting herself ready for bed. She used the toilet, although she couldn’t flush, and she had enough bottled water to wet a washcloth and clean her hands and face.

  When she came out of the bathroom, she thought of the nightgown she’d brought with her. It would be wonderful to get out of these clothes and into something comfortable, but she discarded the notion. No way was she taking off a stitch. She’d slept in her clothes before. It wouldn’t hurt her to do it again. She glanced at the door, then kicked off her shoes, pulled back the covers and lay down.

  The air outside was still and sultry, heavy from a lack of wind. And it had quit raining again. Without air-conditioning, the air in the house felt too thick to breathe. She thought about opening up a window but knew from experience that all she would get was an influx of mosquitoes—something she could do without.

  She closed her eyes, then found herself listening intently, trying to figure out what Nick was doing outside her door. She kept hearing thumps and dragging sounds, and tried to imagine what could be causing them, then decided that as long as he wasn’t coming inside, she didn’t care.

  Nick had gone across the hall into another room and dragged the mattress off a twin bed, then across the hall to her doorway.

  He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and would have liked nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep for at least a week. But he knew his running buddies too well. If Lou Drake thought he could get away with it, he would come up the stairs and slit Nick’s throat just to get at the woman, and that was something he couldn’t let happen.

  He lay down on the mattress, pulled off his boots, then rolled a pillow up beneath his neck to elevate his head. From where he was lying, he had a straight line of vision to the landing. Coming up, he’d counted the steps. He knew the ones that squeaked. And he’d learned long ago that being a light sleeper on the job was a good way to stay alive. Despite Wayman supposedly standing guard at the bottom, if someone started up the stairs, he would know it, and when they got to the top, he would be waiting.

  Nick was dreaming. In his dream, he was running. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the scream of sirens and the sound of thunder.

  Then all of a sudden his eyes flew open, and he realized someone was running up the stairs and that it wasn’t sirens he’d been hearing, it was screams—coming from inside Amalie’s room.

  He rolled off the mattress just as Wayman and Lou came flying down the hall, the lights of their flashlights bobbing as they ran.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Wayman asked.

  Lou pointed at Nick. “He did her, that’s what!”

  Wayman backhanded him, knocking him against the wall.

  “Shut up, stupid. Yo
u saw Nick lying on that mattress at the same time I did. He wasn’t inside her room. He was asleep.”

  “I dreamed I was hearing sirens,” Nick muttered. “I didn’t know it was her.” He kicked the mattress aside and pushed the door inward.

  The screams had stopped. Amalie was sitting up in bed with her hands over her face, sobbing quietly. When the door opened, she looked up. Even though she was still dressed, it was instinct that made her pull the sheet up in front of her. She pointed toward the door, her voice shaking as she spoke.

  “Get out of my room.”

  “You were screaming your head off, lady,” Wayman muttered.

  Amalie took a quick breath when she realized they weren’t leaving. When Lou took a step closer to the bed, her fear rose.

  “I was dreaming. I’m sorry I woke you up. Now get out.”

  Ignoring her demand, Lou took the opportunity to check out her room, fingering all the knickknacks, going through drawers, looking for valuables and the possibility of another way into the room. He saw neither. And since she was still in her clothes, it appeared he’d been wrong about Aroyo nailing her, too. He stopped at the foot of her bed, making sure she felt threatened, then stomped out of the room and back down the stairs.

  “Shit, lady, you need to keep it down,” Wayman said. “You might wake up my brother.”

  Amalie was still shaking from the dream and then the invasion into her room, but his indignant tone turned her fear to disbelief. What the hell? She was the one who’d been shot, taken hostage, scared half out of her mind, and they were worried about waking someone up?

  She laughed once—a sharp, strident sound that did not fool anyone into thinking she was happy.

  Nick’s gut knotted. She was on the verge of losing it, and Wayman didn’t have a sense of humor.

  “What the fuck’s so funny?” Wayman asked. “Tell her to shut her trap or I’ll do it for her.”

  Nick shook his head as he eased the big man out of the room.

  “You go check on Tug and keep Lou off the stairs. I’ll take care of this.”

  Wayman nodded grudgingly, glared at Amalie, then stomped out the door.

  As soon as he was gone, Nick closed the door and then walked over to the bed.

  Amalie’s momentary spurt of rebellion ended when the door shut. At that point, tears resurfaced, and once they started, she couldn’t seem to make them stop.

  Nick couldn’t stand it. His first instinct was to take her in his arms, but that would only freak her out again. Instead he sat down at the foot of the bed, careful not to touch her.

  “What can I do?”

  Amalie swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “You’re kidding me, right? You want to know what you can do? Take your friends and get the hell out of my house. Just go and leave me alone. I can’t call anyone. I can’t drive anywhere. You would be long gone before I could get help.”

  Guilt pushed hard at Nick’s conscience. He reached toward her, but she saw the motion and yanked her knees up beneath her chin.

  He stifled a sigh. “I wish that I could make that happen, but Tug isn’t able to walk anywhere, and without a telephone to call for help or a car to drive, we’re stuck.”

  “God,” Amalie groaned, and rolled out of bed and strode to the window, staring blindly into the dark.

  Nick followed her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her shoulders slumped as she leaned her forehead against the window, her voice little more than a whisper when she said, “Just go away.”

  “I can’t,” Nick said softly, and then took a chance and slid a hand across her back before stopping at her nape.

  He felt her jump, then the tension in her body as she waited for an assault that never came.

  “Talk to me,” he whispered. “Remembering good times is the best way I know to get past the bad ones.”

  Amalie turned, only to find herself mere inches from his face. His features were shadowed, but she could see strength in his gaze and what appeared to be tenderness in the curve of his mouth. She’d always prided herself on being a good judge of character, but this man was an anomaly. She should be as disgusted by his presence in her home as she was by the others, but that wasn’t the case. In spite of everything she knew about him, he was intriguing.

  Nick cupped her elbow. “Come on…go back to bed and get comfortable first.”

  Amalie sighed. “I don’t want to sleep. All I’ll do is dream about the shooting all over again.”

  Nick frowned. That explained the screams.

  “But if you lie down, at least you can rest…and we’ll talk. Okay?”

  “I guess,” Amalie said, and got back into bed, then pulled the sheet up over her breasts.

  As soon as she stretched out, her gaze slid to his face, making sure he wasn’t going to put a move on her when she was at her most vulnerable.

  Instead he sat down at the foot of her bed again and stretched his legs out in front of him. He was so close that if she extended her arm, she could touch his bare feet, and yet he didn’t move. He just leaned against the footboard and crossed his arms.

  “Where did you graduate high school?” he asked.

  Amalie rolled her eyes. “We skipped right past the first eighteen years of my life.”

  He grinned. “Yeah…birth, diapers, teething and potty training. I’ve got the picture. And I already know your parents died and your grandmother finished raising you, so where did you graduate high school?”

  Amalie didn’t want to like him, but his humor surprised her. It appeared he could be charming when he wanted to be.

  “I graduated in Bordelaise. Then I went to college at Louisiana State. I began teaching art in Dallas within a year of graduation, then moved to Jasper about five years ago.”

  “Did you always want to teach?”

  Amalie shook her head, unaware that she was smiling. “No artist dreams of teaching first. The dream is always about being discovered and getting famous, whether your style is Warhol, Wyeth or Picasso.”

  Breath caught in the back of Nick’s throat. Her smile lit up her face, turning her from pretty to beautiful. The urge to kiss her was strong, but he ignored it.

  “So, Amalie Pope…what is your style?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she shoved her hands behind her head.

  “I would say it’s more in the vein of Andrew Wyeth. I like the reality of a subject to come through in a big way, but with the focus on something you might otherwise overlook.”

  Nick frowned. “How so?”

  “Oh…you know…say the subject was a little boy and his dog sitting under a tree. You’d think it was an appealing scene until you realized the dog was old and at the end of its life, while the child’s was just beginning.”

  His eyes widened. “If you can paint with oils as well as you paint with words, you must be pretty darned good. That was an amazing analogy.”

  Again Amalie smiled, reacting to the praise without thinking.

  “Ah…the dreaded ‘if.’ Obviously I can’t, or I would be painting, not teaching.”

  “Maybe you didn’t give yourself enough time. It’s my understanding that everything gets better with age.”

  “That’s wine. Time does change everything, but not always for the good. People get old and die.”

  And just like that, the light was gone from her eyes and the talk was over.

  “I want to sleep now,” she said.

  Nick knew when to make a graceful exit. He got up and walked out of the room without another word.

  Once again, he’d taken Amalie by surprise.

  She’d expected an argument, or at the least another warning.

  Instead she found herself alone. She rolled onto her side, remembering the times when she would sleep curled up in Nonna’s arms. Only Nonna wasn’t here anymore, and the devil was in the Vatican.

  Nick resumed his post on the mattress, tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable. Finally he gave it up as a lost cause and sat up, his back aga
inst her door, and thought about a little dark-haired girl with green eyes who’d once laughed and played within these walls.

  Six

  Amalie woke up to sunshine streaming into the room, but the promise of a sunny day was marred by circumstance. She cast a nervous glance toward the door, half expecting the men to come charging in again like they had last night.

  Curious as to why it was so quiet, she got out of bed and tiptoed to the door to listen. The silence was comforting as she slowly stretched to ease sore muscles, then went into the bathroom. Out of habit, she tried the light switch to see if the power had been restored, and to her delight, the room was instantly bathed in light. That meant she would have running water again, as well.

  She ran back into the bedroom, grabbed a change of clothes and underwear, and then locked the bathroom door behind her as she went in. A couple of minutes later she was in the shower. The steady flow of warm water against her healing shoulder wound went a long way toward easing the morning aches. After soaping her body, she shampooed her hair, but she didn’t linger in the shower as she liked to do. She grabbed a towel and quickly dried before putting on fresh clothes. Once she was dressed, she began looking for the hair dryer. By the time she came out of the bathroom, she felt better prepared to face the day.

  She was straightening up the bed when it hit her. If the electricity was on, maybe the phones were working, too! She made a dive across the bed and grabbed the receiver. The lack of a dial tone put a damper on her mood. Reluctant to leave, she straightened her bed again, then reached for her sandals. Moments later she changed her mind and chose tennis shoes instead. Without knowing what lay ahead, being able to run swiftly might be the difference between life and death.

  Completely clean and completely dressed, she still hesitated. In here, she felt safe, even if it was a false sense of safety. Beyond the door, uncertainty awaited. Hopefully today would be the day the injured man got well enough for them all to leave.