Blank Slate (5 page)

When
he opened them, hours later, the weak sunlight of dawn had dispelled the
darkness. Erik rubbed his eyes, which felt like sand had been poured in them
overnight. Glancing to his left, he froze.

She
was gone.

E
rik
stared in amazement at the empty handcuffs still fastened around the bed
spindle. That was certainly unexpected. Who was she? Houdini?

The
sound of a car engine outside jerked his attention to the window. His hand
automatically went to his jeans’ pocket where the keys should be, but no longer
were. O’Connell must have taken them from him last night, and he’d slept
through it.

Damn.

He
launched himself out of bed, shoving his feet into his still-wet boots. Not
bothering to take time to put on a shirt, he threw on a coat and grabbed his
gun. Erik was a bit surprised she’d not taken the weapon too. Ten seconds after
hearing the car start, he was outside.

She
hadn’t made it far, the deep snow prevented that, but the chains on the SUV’s
tires were doing their job, moving the car farther away from the cabin.

Erik
took off after her, the snow hindering his efforts to move quickly, but before
long, he’d caught up to the vehicle.

“Stop
the car!” he yelled through the window.

O’Connell
ignored him, which only served to infuriate him further. Did she think she was
just going to drive out of here and leave him behind? His anger fueled his
strength, and Erik ran to the front of the car, taking up a stance and aiming
his gun squarely at the driver.

“Shit!”
Clarissa muttered. She knew she should’ve taken the gun. Unwilling to test how
serious he was about shooting her, and definitely not wanting to run him over,
she brought the SUV to a standstill.

Langston
looked furious as he stood with the gun trained on her. She really should have
cuffed him to the bed, but that seemed cruel, especially since she’d planned on…borrowing…his
car.

“Get
out,” he called to her, his words making puffs of cold in the frozen early-morning air.

Clarissa
turned off the engine with a sigh and opened the door. Sliding out into the
knee-deep snow, she was glad she’d found some boots and a coat in the closet
inside. Even with the garments, the chill wind made her shiver. Looking at
Langston, she noticed he wore only his coat and jeans. The skin of his chest
was bare to the cold. He had to be freezing. Guiltily, she chewed her lip as he
walked toward her, the gun steady in his grip.

“Keys,”
he demanded, holding out his hand.

Reluctantly,
Clarissa handed them over.

“Just
going to leave me here to rot, were you?” he accused.

“I
was going to send help.” Just as soon as she was well out of his reach.

“Sure
you were,” Erik replied. “Let’s go.” He motioned with the gun, and Clarissa
turned, leading the way back inside the cabin.

It
was irritating that she’d been so close to escaping and now she was right back
where she’d started. Clarissa threw herself onto the sofa, staring glumly into
the glowing embers of the fireplace. Getting the cuffs open hadn’t been that
hard — the tie pin she’d found in the bathroom had helped with that — but
getting those keys without waking the cop had taken her a long time.

She
watched in silence as Langston added more wood to the fire, stirring it back to
life. He disappeared into the bedroom, then reemerged while angrily jerking a T-shirt
down over his chest. Clarissa briefly mourned the loss.

Langston
went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards. A few minutes and much angry
clanking of pans later, Clarissa smelled food cooking. Her stomach rumbled. When
Langston sat down at the table with a bowl and started eating, she warily
approached him.

“Food’s
on the stove,” he said curtly between bites. “And I’d rather you not use the
pan as a weapon.”

Clarissa
scowled at him. As if she’d take him on. He was twice her size, for crying out
loud!

Langston
ate but watched her closely as she filled her own bowl, as though she were going
to hit him over the head with a frying pan. It looked like he’d heated up some
canned stew. Not something she’d have picked, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

It
seemed unnecessarily rude not to sit at the table, though Clarissa was careful
to sit across and not next to him. Langston’s gun lay on the polished wood
surface, close to where his hand rested.

They
ate in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Langston finished first and
remained at the table, watching her.

“How’d
you get out of the cuffs?” he asked finally.

Clarissa
shrugged, not answering. She didn’t want to tell him. She might need to do it
again at some point.

“Any
other hidden talents I should know about?”

“I
wouldn’t tell you, even if I knew,” Clarissa answered truthfully. She hadn’t
realized she could pick a lock, it had just kind of happened.

Langston
gave a derisive snort.

Clarissa
didn’t take the bait. She didn’t want to argue with him. Actually, he was
rather interesting. He’d seemed very tightly strung last night. She was curious
about him.

“How
long have you been working for the FBI?” she asked.

Langston
studied her, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer.

“Ten
years,” he finally said.

“After
college?” Clarissa prompted, doing some quick math in her head.

He
nodded. “Right after I got my criminal justice degree.”

Which
would make him about thirty-two, Clarissa decided. She abruptly wondered how
old she was but decided against asking. He’d just get all pissed off at her
again, since he didn’t believe her memory loss.

“Why’d
you pick the FBI?”

Langston’s
smile was devoid of humor. “You could say my father figured greatly into my
decision.”

When
he didn’t continue, Clarissa prompted him. “Your dad? Was he FBI too?”

“Did
I miss the part where we decided to exchange life stories?” he retorted.

“I
was just curious—”

“All
you need to know is that I’ve dedicated my life to finding criminals like you
and bringing them to justice,” he said, leaning forward in his chair to
emphasize his point.

A
chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the cabin ran down
Clarissa’s spine. It was obvious Agent Langston took his job very seriously and
would have no qualms about turning her in, whether she had any memory of her
crimes or not.

Her
appetite gone, Clarissa set down her fork.

“Well,
if you’ve been chasing me for as long as you said, then I must either be really
good, or you’re really bad.” Her jibe made Langton’s eyes narrow in anger and gave
Clarissa a momentary satisfaction.

“You’ll
have plenty of time to think about that where you’re going,” he replied evenly.

With
that parting shot, he rose from the table, grabbed his gun, and disappeared
back into the bedroom.

Absently,
Clarissa stood and cleared the table, washing the dishes in the sink. This was
a hell of a mess she’d gotten herself in. Despite what Langston said, she
couldn’t help thinking that he was wrong about her. She didn’t feel like a
criminal, though how would she know what that was supposed to feel like? And
whatever happened to being innocent until proven guilty? It seemed Langston had
already tried and convicted her.

The
running water from the faucet was loud, so she didn’t know the front door had
opened until she felt the chilled air. Turning, she sucked in a breath.

Two
men stood mere feet away, each holding a formidable weapon, both pointed at
her. Neither looked like he had just dropped by for a friendly chat.

“Looks
like you did not get far, Clarissa,” the bigger of the two men said with a smirk.
He had a thick accent. Russian? “Though you are more resourceful than Solomon
thought, it seemed. He is not pleased with you.”

Clarissa’s
mind scrambled furiously, searching her memory for a clue as to who these men
were and coming up empty.

“What
do you want?” she asked.

“It’s
what Solomon wants that you have to worry about,” the smaller guy said. He
smiled. He was missing a tooth.

“Fine.
What does he want?”

“What
you owe him, stole from him.”

“I
didn’t steal anything,” Clarissa protested, playing for time. She eyed their
guns. Langston had no idea they were here. If he appeared suddenly, unarmed,
they’d shoot first and ask questions later. She couldn’t let that happen.

“I
am sure he will be able to explain it fully to you himself. You are coming with
us.”

“Like
hell she is.”

Both
men turned at the sound of Langston’s voice. Dammit! If he’d only waited a few
more minutes! Her hand grabbed the only weapon available to her and swung.

Erik
saw O’Connell land a wicked hit with the metal pot he’d warned her about,
causing one of the intruders to drop his gun. They grappled, O’Connell getting
in another hit with the pan before he retaliated, and then they were on the
floor, struggling.

The
other man decided Erik posed more of threat, and a spray of bullets came his
way. Erik dived to the floor in front of the sofa, tipping it backward and
propping his gun on the edge to take quick aim. His gun spit bullets, and the
intruder dropped to the ground, lifeless.

O’Connell
and the guy were still fighting. He threw her off and went for the gun that had
skittered across the floor. Dammit! The bastard was going to shoot her. Erik leaped
to his feet, but before he could get off a shot, O’Connell had grabbed the gun
off the man he’d killed and turned, firing just in time.

It
had happened so fast, and now two men lay dead on the kitchen floor.

O’Connell
sat motionless, her chest heaving, staring at the men with wide eyes. Even from
this distance, her hands trembled. Erik hurried toward her, only to be stopped
in his tracks when the barrel of her gun swung his way.

“Don’t
come any closer,” she warned.

Erik
eyed the gun, then her. “So that’s how you’re going to play this?” he asked
evenly. Something close to disappointment churned in his gut.

“I
don’t want to go to jail.” Her voice was steady, but her hands were not.

“Then
you’re going to have to shoot me.”

Her
mouth was bleeding. The guy must have gotten a hit or two in before she’d shot
him. Erik took another step forward.

“Stop!”
she demanded. “I’ll do it. I swear I will!”

Erik
slowly holstered his gun. “You’d shoot an unarmed cop?”

She
didn’t answer, just watched him warily.

She
might very well do just that, but Erik was betting she wouldn’t. O’Connell
could have killed him this morning while he slept, but she hadn’t. He took
another step, and another, then held his breath as her hands tightened on the
weapon.

“You’re
not going to shoot me,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “You know
you’re not. If you’d wanted me dead, you would have let them kill me.” He took
a step.

A
gunshot shattered the quiet. Erik flinched as shards of wood from the bullet
tearing a hole in the floor hit his jeans. He froze.

“I
think you underestimate how much I don’t want to go to prison,” O’Connell said
evenly, and now her hands were steady. “Get on your knees. Keep your hands up.”

Clarissa’s
palms grew sweaty as Langston slowly complied, his eyes like twin shards of
ice. Getting to her feet, she watched him closely, not putting it past him to
make a move for his gun. She regretted having to do this, but it might be her
only chance of escape. The men had to have gotten here somehow. She could take
their car and leave Langston his.

Please
don’t let him try anything, she prayed, knowing she didn’t have it in her to
shoot him. He was just a cop doing his job. He didn’t deserve to die.

The
gun felt comfortable in her hands. The act of shooting the thug who would’ve
killed her was not that bothersome. Both were facts that scared her if she dwelled
on them. So she didn’t.

“You’re
bleeding, you know,” Langston said casually, motioning his head in her
direction. “All that fighting probably tore that wound open again.”

Alarmed,
Clarissa glanced down. The T-shirt she wore was stained a garish red over the
gunshot wound, the blood having leaked through the bandage. The thin cotton
stuck wetly to her skin.

“Oh
God,” she mumbled, the image blurring as her head swam.

A
sound made her tear her eyes away from the sickening sight of blood leaking
from her body. She looked up just in time to see Langston launch himself at
her.

Clarissa
cried out, the sound abruptly cut off as they crashed together to the floor,
his body landing on top and forcing all the air from her lungs. She tried to
bring the gun around, but his hands locked around her wrists, pinning them in
place above her head. He squeezed, the pressure increasing until she couldn’t
hold on to the weapon any longer. With a whimper, she was forced to drop it
from her grip.

“Christ,
you’re dangerous,” Langston huffed.

“I
wasn’t going to shoot you,” Clarissa said, struggling to breathe properly under
his weight.

“You
could’ve fooled me,” he growled, regarding her with suspicion in his pale-blue
eyes.

Clarissa
was abruptly aware of the fact that his body was pressed fully against hers. Lean
and hard, he was touching her everywhere. His thigh lay between her legs, the
breaths he took pushed his rib cage into hers, and his grip on her wrists
brought his face very near.

She
wondered how much blood she’d lost that she was again contemplating his
attractiveness, even when he was pissed off. The day’s growth of whiskers
shadowing his jaw gave him an untamed look.

The
atmosphere grew tense as they stared at each other and breathed. Clarissa could
feel the calloused roughness of his hands against her skin as the tight hold on
her wrists loosened ever so slightly. When his gaze dropped to her mouth, alarm
bells started going off in her head.