Still Lake - Anne Stuart [76]
“Wrap this around you,” he said gruffly, handing her the old quilt.
“I will not!” she said, horrified. “That’s a double wedding ring.”
“It’s a what?”
“Double wedding ring quilt,” she clarified, as if to an idiot. “It’s probably from the 1930s. I’m not going to cover it with blood and dirt.”
“Wrap the fucking quilt around you or I’ll do it for you,” he said between clenched teeth.
She pulled the quilt around her shoulders, gingerly, jumping when he touched her head. “Quilts can be washed,” he added prosaically. She had a nice little cut on her temple, one that had bled profusely, but the bleeding seemed to have slowed. He dumped some peroxide on a swab and began cleaning it, more gently than he would have liked. He didn’t want to touch her gently. It would lead to other things, and he was coming to the belated conclusion that that was a very bad idea.
“It’s an antique,” she said. “The fabrics start to break down. You have to use special care in cleaning a quilt like this. You’d better bring it up to the inn and I’ll take care of it.”
“What the hell are you, Martha Stewart?” he grumbled. The wound was shallow enough, and it finally seemed to have stopped bleeding, but he put a butterfly bandage on it, anyway, just to be sure.
“You might say so. In a way. I write a column on housekeeping for a women’s magazine.” There was just a touch of defensiveness in her voice.
“So how come you’re not married?” Jesus, why did he ask a question like that? Was he asking for trouble?
Fortunately she was willing to avoid it. “None of your business.”
“True enough,” he agreed. He finished with the bandage. “That’s the best I can do for now.” The towel was streaked with blood, and he tossed it in one of the empty chairs.
“Why were you out there in the rain?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “It’s hardly the night for a moonlight stroll.”
“Considering there’s no moonlight.” He pulled one of the chairs closer and sat. Close enough to reach her if he wanted to. He wanted to.
She turned her head to look at him. “Maybe you’d just come in from a drive up Route 16. Maybe you’re the one who tried to run me off the road.”
“Now, why would I do that?” he inquired in a lazy voice. “Killing you wasn’t exactly what I’ve been thinking about all day.”
She actually blushed. It wasn’t just heat from the fire—her cheeks turned pink and she looked away from him, flustered. “Then why were you out on a night like this?”
“Your car’s only a few hundred yards away from this place. I heard you take the corner too fast, heard the car end up in a ditch. For that matter, I heard you bawling your head off inside the car. At least you’d stopped by the time I found you. Trust me, going off the road is not enough reason for crying.”
“I wasn’t crying about going off the road,” she said, shutting him up for a minute.
Only for a minute. “Okay,” he conceded. “So what makes you think someone was trying to kill you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did. You said you thought I was trying to run you off the road deliberately. It wasn’t me, so it must have been someone else. You been making enemies around here?”
“Only you.”
He laughed at that. “Honey, you are so naive.”
Her cheeks turned pinker, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to let her go tonight. Even if he knew it was the best thing for both of them, he just wasn’t going to be able to let it happen.
“It wasn’t deliberate,” she said. “It was a drunk driver, and he probably didn’t even realize he almost killed me.”
“Maybe. What kind of car was he driving?”
“I don’t know. He had his brights on, and it happened so fast I couldn’t get a look at him. Or her, I suppose. I figured it would be a waste of time to go to the police. But maybe I should, after all.” She started getting out of her chair, but he put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down, gently.
“You can tell them tomorrow,” he said. “No one’s on duty this time of night—it would just be the