LITMIR.BIZ

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didn’t look reputable. He didn’t look like someone who’d be driving a minivan. Nor did he resemble a Nevada native—there wasn’t anything western about him. Dressed in a pair of faded, holey jeans and a sweatshirt turned wrong-side-out, he had at least two days’ razor stubble covering a strong jaw and chin, and windblown blond hair. It brushed the collar of his sweatshirt in back and fell unkempt across his forehead.

      “No answer?” he asked, shoving his hair out of his eyes.

      Sticking her hand in her purse, she searched for a little security—in the form of the small can of mace Carlos had given her when she met him to retrieve her luggage. “Not yet.”

      He opened the sliding door to his back seat, slung a black bag the size of a laptop computer over one shoulder and grabbed a large duffel. When he came toward her, his movements were well-coordinated, which allowed Emma to relax a little. He didn’t seem drunk or otherwise out of control. And when she could see him more clearly, she realized he didn’t look dangerous, exactly. He was far too handsome for dangerous. He had a straight nose, well-defined cheekbones and lips almost too sensual to belong to a man.

      “Maybe we’ll have to go somewhere else,” she said.

      He shook his head. “She’s here.”

      The way his hair moved, Emma could tell it was clean. He seemed oddly refined despite his careless attitude, his thick whiskers and worn-out clothing. His nails were neatly clipped; thanks to the floodlights on the building, she could see that as he gripped his bags. His teeth were perfectly white and straight. And he had a body like Manuel’s, lithe and lean with broad shoulders and a tapering waist—an ideal build for an expensive tailored suit.

      So what was he doing wearing such tattered jeans? Was he some kind of dot-com guy who’d lost his job and fallen on hard times? Why was he at this hole-in-the-wall motel in the middle of a Wednesday night?

      Whoever he was, he had a story. Emma wondered if most of the people who stayed at the Cozy Comfort Bungalows had a story.

      He didn’t bother ringing the buzzer. Opening the screen door, he used his fist to bang far more loudly and decisively than she would have dared.

      A moment later, an inside light snapped on and an old woman with white hair and arthritic hands came to the door. “Oh, Preston, I thought it might be you,” she said, peering out at them. The smell of cats and Mentholatum wafted out of the house behind her. “You’re back already, huh?”

      Emma released her can of mace and hiked her purse higher on her shoulder. He frequented this place? Somehow that seemed as incongruous as such a handsome man dressing like a bum.

      “Just for tonight, Maude,” he said. “I have to go to Iowa tomorrow.”

      “Iowa!” she cried. “Surely you’re not driving there.”

      “I drive everywhere.”

      “Well, at least you’ve got a lady friend with you this time.”

      His light-colored eyes focused briefly on Emma. “She’s not with me. I think she wants a room.”

      Emma cleared her throat and spoke up. “Yes, please.”

      “Sure, honey,” Maude said. “Let me get Preston his key. He likes the end unit, don’t you, Preston?”

      Maude didn’t seem to expect an answer, because she turned away. When she reappeared, she handed Preston the promised key and a Ziplock bag filled with homemade cookies. “Get some sleep. I’ll be making pancakes in the morning, if you’re interested.”

      “Thanks,” he said, but he didn’t refer to the cookies, as Emma would have done. His voice was so noncommittal she couldn’t tell whether he’d be joining Maude for breakfast or not.

      Emma watched Preston Whoever-He-Was walk away. Maude’s eyes lingered on him, too.

      “Poor guy,” she said. “From what I can gather, he’s really been through the wringer.” She adjusted the plastic cap she wore to keep her hair from getting mussed while sleeping. “Anyway, you’d like a room. Let’s see what we can do….”

      Because of her sleeping son, Emma waited outside while Maude handled the paperwork. Ten minutes later, she unloaded her suitcases from the car and returned for Max. He was difficult for her to carry, and she wasn’t sure how she’d get him into the motel without pulling a muscle, but she certainly didn’t want to wake him. She needed him to remain asleep so she could get some rest, too.

      “Boy, you’re getting big,” she muttered.

      “Are we home yet?” he asked, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t want to upset him by saying no, which turned out to be a good decision because he was asleep again as soon as his head landed on her shoulder.

      Just a few more steps, she told herself. Almost there…here we are… But her door was shut; the chair she’d used to prop it open had slid out of the way.

      She hoisted Max farther up on her shoulder and tried the handle. Locked. Damn.

      Bending one knee to help support her son’s weight, she leaned against the side of the building so she could get the key out of her pocket.

      “You have a son?”

      The voice startled her. The man Preston was standing in the shadows holding an ice bucket, but until he spoke, she hadn’t noticed him.

      “Yes.” She thought he might ask Max’s age, his name, maybe a few other details—typical small talk when confronted with someone’s child—but he didn’t. He stared at her and Max through his longish streaky-blond hair, his expression unreadable. Then he came forward, took the key she’d just pulled out of her pocket and opened her door.

      “Thanks.” She deposited Max on the bed and pivoted to find Preston looking in at them, key still in the lock, his hand on her door so it wouldn’t swing shut.

      “Good night,” she said, a little disconcerted that she and Max had suddenly claimed so much of his attention when he’d been completely uninterested in her before.

      He didn’t answer. Unless Emma imagined it, which could have been the case, a raw, almost savage expression crossed his face. An expression he quickly masked before tossing her the key and letting the door close with a quiet click.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ALTHOUGH IT WAS nearly midnight, Emma couldn’t sleep. She’d expected to drop off immediately and wake only once during the night—when the alarm rang at three and she had to get up to test Max’s blood. But her mind wouldn’t release the worries that kept her one-hundred-percent conscious. She kept reminding herself of their new names, frightened at the thought of forgetting. And, as if her preoccupation wasn’t enough, she could hear the television going in Preston’s room next door. Had he fallen asleep with it on? Probably.

      She sighed. It didn’t matter; she couldn’t relax anyway.

      Climbing out of bed, she pulled a sweatshirt over her T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and crossed the room to stare out the window. After putting Max to bed, she’d moved the Taurus to the far end of the lot, where it sat in almost total darkness, well hidden from the road. She probably should’ve asked Carlos if it was stolen, so she’d know whether or not to fear the police as well as Manuel. But Carlos had been so sweet about helping her, she didn’t want to offend him. Besides, she was desperate. She would’ve taken it regardless.

      Maybe in a few weeks she’d be living in a small town somewhere in the midwest, where Manuel would never think to look for her, and she could park the Taurus in her garage and walk to work.

      She smiled at the thought of owning a little yellow house with flowers in front, of teaching first grade at the local elementary school. She’d have her son, a new name, a new life.

      Another chance….

      Suddenly remembering the envelope in her glove box, Emma checked to be sure Max was still sleeping

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