Still Lake - Anne Stuart [74]
The ominous figure came closer in the rain-soaked darkness, till he was only a couple of feet away from her. He let the flashlight run over her bedraggled body with impartial interest. “I should have known it was you,” John Smith said in a resigned voice. “What the hell happened?”
She considered a Victorian swoon, a graceful faint, to avoid answering his question. Even a flat-out run would be preferable, but none of those options would work. She’d hurt herself if she flopped down into the mud; he’d probably either leave her there or throw her over his shoulder in an undignified fireman’s carry, or he’d catch her if she tried to run. Assuming she didn’t fall flat on her face.
Rancor might help make him keep his distance. “What do you think happened?” she shot back. “Someone tried to run me off the road.”
“They did a good job of it.”
“Not here. On Route 16. Down by Dutchman’s Falls.”
She was vaguely aware of the utter stillness in his body. “How’d you manage to get away?”
“I’m kidding. It was just an accident. Some drunk driver nearly hit me, then drove off without realizing he’d run me into a ditch. Fortunately I was able to use the four-wheel-drive to get back on the road, but then I lost it when I pulled into the driveway. I’m fine, I’m sure the car’s fine, I just want to get home and get in a hot tub and get to bed.”
She could have cursed herself for saying the word bed, but he didn’t seem to notice. The beam of the flashlight swung up the road to her bedraggled car tilted sideways in the ditch. The front fender was crumpled, and she wondered whether that had happened just now or if it was the result of her earlier encounter.
He turned the flashlight back on her, and she squinted through the rain and darkness. “You’re bleeding,” he said, more an observation of fact than an expression of concern.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are,” he said, flicking off the flashlight, plunging them into darkness. Now was the time to make a run for it, she thought. Not moving.
He took her unresisting hand. “Your place or mine?”
“What?”
“I’m not going to let you wander around in the darkness like some gory lost soul. You’re covered with mud and blood, you look like you just managed to escape from an ax murderer, and I doubt you’re any more capable of finding your way home in this condition than your batty mother is. Therefore, I’m making sure you get cleaned up and get home safely. Your place or mine?”
“I can take care of myself….”
“I guess it’s up to me,” he said, more to himself, and began pulling her along after him. She was too dazed to resist, though she knew she ought to run. “And don’t think I’m going to carry you,” he added. “It’s a treacherous night, and you’re more of a handful than a sylph. You’ll have to make it on your own two feet.”
It was enough to galvanize her. “Asshole,” she muttered, picking up her feet. “A gentleman would at least give me his coat.”
“Yeah? You’re wet and bloody and covered with mud. The damage has been done, and if I give you my coat that just makes two of us wet. Besides, what in God’s name ever gave you the impression I was a gentleman?”
She had to concede that point. Except where her mother had been concerned, John Smith was a mannerless pig. She was going to tell him that, as well as several other things, and she composed them in her brain, full, flowery insults of really impressive inventiveness like “sour-assed satyr” or “foul-hearted liar.” Then she realized they had somehow made it all the way to his front porch in seemingly no time at all.
He opened the door and pushed her through with his usual lack of courtesy, but she was past fighting. The room looked different in the lamplight, and he had a fire going, and for the first time she realized how very cold she was.
She had two choices. One, try to take him by surprise, knock him out of the way and run out into the cold rain again before he could stop her. Or she could move to the fire and let the