Morgan's Son (24 page)

Moving through back alleys, slipping between houses, Craig got them to Lahaina. A small motel, the Dolphin Inn, displayed a vacancy sign out front, glowing bright red in the darkness. Craig cautioned Sabra to remain in the shadows of the hibiscus bushes with the canvas bag at her feet. He brushed off his shirt and chinos the best he could before heading into the office. Sabra stood unmoving, her back against the wooden wall, well hidden by the lush greenery growing around her. It was three in the morning, and fog was rolling in off the Pacific, beginning to blanket Lahaina. She shivered, desperately wanting a hot shower. It was the kind of cold that went to her bones, and she knew she would take hours to really warm up.

She heard the door to the office open and close. Holding her breath, she watched the corner of the building. Craig came around it as noiselessly as a shadow.

He held up the key. "We've got a home." Picking up the bag, he walked back the way he'd come. Sabra followed warily, her gaze pinned on the driveway and highway in front of the small motel. There was hardly any traffic now, most of the island deeply asleep. He led her down to the end of the L-shaped motel.

"We're lucky," he said as he opened the door. "It was the last room he had."

She stumbled into the darkened room and flipped the light switch. Squinting against the sudden brightness, she put her hand up to shade her eyes. The room was dingy, with yellow paint peeling off the walls, the drapes old and thin, and the carpet scruffy-looking. But Sabra didn't care. In the middle of the small room was a double bed covered by a bright red quilt with white hibiscus flowers on it. Yellow and red. Not a great color combination, but at this point Sabra's only care was for plenty of hot water. She headed into the bathroom.

Craig closed the door and laid the canvas bag on the floor near the bed. He saw Sabra go into the bathroom. Taking out his pistol, he put a bullet in the chamber, flipped the safety back on and jammed the gun back into the holster beneath his left arm. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was 0300.

First things first. He went to the bathroom doorway. Sabra was testing the temperature of the water with outstretched fingers. Her hair sparkled with bits of glass still scattered among the thick strands. The left side of her neck was pockmarked with a number of tiny cuts.

"I'm going to locate a phone to call Perseus," he told her.

Sabra straightened. Seeing the darkness in Craig's eyes, she realized he was as exhausted as she was. "I can do it, if you want."

"No, you stay here." He smiled briefly. "You've got a nice goose egg on the right side of your head, did you know that?"

Frowning, Sabra touched it. "Ouch."

"Take your shower and get into bed. I'll be back as soon as possible. I think I saw a pay phone about two blocks away."

"Be careful?"

"Count on it." He gestured to the door. "Keep the lights out. When I come back, I'll knock three times. You let me in."

Exhaustion was sweeping over her. "Okay…."

Craig reached out, grazing her bloodied cheek with a finger. "Just take care of yourself, sweetheart. It's been one hell of a day."

Shaken by his unexpected warm, brief touch, Sabra watched him turn and disappear from view. The motel door opened and closed. Automatically, she forced herself back out into the room to slide the dead bolt into place. Next she dowsed the room lights. Craig was taking a huge risk of being spotted by going to the pay phone, but Sabra knew it was necessary. The sound of running water beckoned to her and she headed back into the bathroom.

The hot water pummeled the tense, sore muscles along her neck, shoulders and upper back. As she washed her hair, so many shards of glass fell out that she ended up cutting her feet on them. But the fear sweat was washed away and, with it, the last of her shivering. By the time Sabra finished, she felt unbelievably tired. She wanted only sleep.

She towel dried her hair. Then, looking at her soiled silk pants and blouse, she put them into a sinkful of cold water, glad she'd chosen washable silk. She wrapped a towel around herself, then scrubbed her clothes clean. These were the only clothes she had for now, and come tomorrow, she couldn't afford to have them looking soiled or bloody. For the next fifteen minutes, she washed them carefully, then rolled them up in a towel to press out the moisture. Finally, she found the room's lone closet and hung them on hangers.

Worriedly, Sabra looked at her watch. It was 0330; half an hour had passed. Craig should be back by now. A sudden lump formed in her throat as Sabra considered the possibilities. She stood in the center of the room, gripping the front of the towel that covered her, fear snaking through her.

Three sharp knocks sounded at the door. Gasping, she moved to the door. "Craig?"

"Yeah. Let me in."

Sabra breathed a sigh of relief and slid back the dead bolt. Her heart pounding, she opened the door, and Craig quickly slipped inside.

Craig stared down at Sabra. Her clean hair lay in damp strands against her face and shoulders. He saw the fear and worry in her eyes as he closed the door behind him and twisted the bolt. The white towel emphasized her olive coloring, and he had a tough time not staring. He'd never realized exactly how long limbed she was until now, her beautifully shaped calves and firm, curved thighs extending below the terry cloth.

"Did you reach them?" Sabra asked, breathlessly aware of Craig's hooded look, of his power as a man. Automatically, she stepped away.

He took off his jacket and shrugged out of the shoulder holster. "Yes. They don't know what went wrong either. Jake is sending the jet over with Killian and two FBI agents—they're going to join us."

"Good," Sabra whispered, relieved. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching as he unbuttoned his shirt. Despite everything that had happened, Craig looked unruffled with only a few tiny cuts on the left side of his neck to show for it. "It's a miracle we survived tonight."

"Tell me about it," he said gruffly, throwing the shirt on the bed. He started to unbuckle his pants, then hesitated. Sabra's eyes had widened, but it didn't look like fear. His mouth flattened and he allowed his hands to drop from the buckle. "I'm going to take a shower."

Gulping, Sabra nodded. "Go ahead. We can talk afterward." As she watched him turn and disappear into the bathroom, it suddenly hit her that they were going to have to share this small bed. Her fingers worried the top of her towel. She had no nightgown—nothing. And neither did he. Looking around, Sabra felt her heart picking up in beat. What could she do? The room was so small. There was no sofa, not even an upholstered chair—just a table and a straight-backed chair in one corner.

Her emotions were at war, a huge part of her wanting Craig's closeness and the sense of protection he gave her. She remembered how strong he'd been on the hill earlier. He seemed invincible. Whatever horror and nightmares he carried from his past certainly didn't interfere with his ability to act professionally in the present.

Sabra felt groggy. Her head hurt so much that it was troublesome to move. After a few minutes, she gave up. They were both so tired that it really didn't matter. Sleep was the priority, or they'd never be alert enough to cope with whatever was coming next. Slowly she pulled back the covers. The only light in the room was filtering through the thin, faded drapes. But it was enough to see by, and Sabra lay down. After tightening the towel around her the best she could, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders.

She closed her eyes and listened to the water running in the shower. Her heart pounded briefly at the thought that very soon, Craig would join her in bed. Or would he? He was as exhausted as she was. He couldn't sit up the rest of the night in that chair. Thinking of what it would be like sleeping in his arms, Sabra spiraled into a deep, healing sleep.

Craig emerged half an hour later after wrapping a towel around his waist. Shoving damp strands of hair off his brow, he quietly opened the bathroom door, allowing the steam that had built up to escape. Shutting off the bathroom light, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Sabra was in bed, the covers drawn tightly across her. She lay on one edge of the small bed as he approached soundlessly on damp, bare feet.

Tonight he needed her. Desperately. Was she awake? Uncertain, he sat carefully on his edge of the bed. The springs creaked in protest. The clock on the nightstand read 0400, and Craig felt tiredness claw at him. He wanted to hold Sabra. He needed her. He removed the pistol from its holster, took the safety off and laid it on the floor next to the bed, where he could reach it in a hurry if he had to.

Turning, he sighed and carefully inserted his long legs beneath the covers. Sabra didn't move. The bed creaked again, but he no longer cared as he stretched his length across the lumpy mattress. The motel was seedy, not a place he'd stay if he had a choice. But right now, despite the lumps and sagging springs, he had to admit this bed felt damn good. Pulling the covers up around him, Craig turned onto his right side. Sabra's back was to him, and he smiled to himself as exhaustion dragged him smoothly toward sleep. Well, he'd wanted her close. Now she was mere inches away. He could feel the natural heat of her body and longed to reach out and slide his arm beneath her neck, to gently turn her till she fit snugly against him.

Dreams. All dreams,
he told himself wearily as he shut his eyes. Tonight, he knew, the nightmare wouldn't strike. Tonight he could sleep. It was one of the few times in two years that Craig could know that for sure, and he knew it was because Sabra was next to him. She offered him protection in a way he didn't understand, but gratefully accepted. He was a man on the run. A man with a terrible past and no future. Yet she was here—next to him. Somehow, fate had been kind to him for once.

Craig didn't know what wakened him. Maybe it was the sunlight pouring through the dingy drapes. His groggy attention shifted and he became aware of someone lying against him, of warmth and soft breath caressing his chest as he lay on his back in the bed.

Sabra.
Her name flowed through him like hot honey. He realized that, as they'd slept, they must have naturally gravitated to each other. Keeping his eyes shut, he savored her length against him. One of her arms was thrown across his belly, her cheek resting in the crook of his shoulder. She was still asleep, he realized, monitoring her slow, steady breathing. Absorbing her nearness, he felt one of her long legs stretched across his. His arm was under her neck, curled around her shoulders to hold her close. His other arm lay across her, his hand resting on her upper arm. They were tangled together like two perfectly joined puzzle pieces.

Slowly, Craig senses awakened. His nostrils flaring, he caught a breath of her sweet scent. Her skin was firm and velvety against him, and a few dark strands of her hair tickled his cheek and nose. The rest of her hair cascaded over his shoulder and across his chest, surrounding her head like a halo. Her breasts were pressed against his chest and her hip seemed melded to his. She was only a few inches shorter than he was, and he marveled at how well her feminine curves fit against his harder planes.

Heat began to purl in Craig's lower body. The fragrance of her skin encircled him entrancingly, and he inhaled it like a dying man. He moved his hand gently against her shoulder, feeling the pliancy and warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. The urge to tuck Sabra even closer and love her flowed through him. It was more than a thought; it was a powerful, primal urge. For the first time in two years, he'd slept deeply, without interruption, free of the screams that so frequently haunted his hours of darkness.

Carefully, Craig eased away just enough to raise himself onto his elbow. He stared down at Sabra's sleeping features. Her lips were parted, her face without tension. In sleep, she looked innocent—and vulnerable. Her hair was softly tangled around her face, and he lifted his hand to touch those thick, silken tresses. He hadn't meant to touch her at all, but he couldn't help himself. They'd nearly died last night, and the only thing he'd remembered through that hellish escape was the importance of his feelings for Sabra.

The panic he'd felt for her safety, the fear that she could have been killed, collided within him. These were crazy, stupid thoughts, Craig realized as he gently stroked her hair. She didn't even like him! As he'd huddled in that shallow trench, all he'd thought of was her. Even now, they were in danger. They could die at any moment—he knew it with a certainty that shook him to his core. Every protective mechanism in him as a man was emerging; the urge to keep Sabra safe was paramount. But that, too, was stupid, since he knew she was just as capable as he was, and probably better at surviving this sort of situation because of her greater experience. For him, yesterday marked the first time he'd been shot at since Desert Storm. The feeling was ugly. Invasive.