Perfect

  25

  CARRYING THE SMALL BUNDLE OF clothes she’d just taken out of the dryer, Julie padded barefoot and wet-haired through the silent living room and into the room where she’d spent a nearly sleepless night. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and judging from the sound of rushing water, she assumed Zack had also slept late and was now in the shower.

  Squinting against a dull, throbbing headache, she went listlessly through the ritual of blowing her hair dry, then she brushed it and pulled on the jeans and sweater she’d worn three days ago when she drove to Amarillo. That morning seemed like weeks ago, because it was the last time everything had been normal. Now nothing was normal anymore, least of all her feelings about herself. She’d been taken hostage by an escaped convict—an event that would have made an ordinary, decent, upstanding woman hate her captor and despise everything he represented. Any other moral, respectable twenty-six-year-old woman would have fought Zachary Benedict at every turn while simultaneously trying to foil his plans, escape from his clutches, and get him recaptured and sent to prison, where he belonged! That’s what a good, decent, God-fearing young woman would do.

  But that wasn’t what Julie Mathison had done, Julie thought with bitter self-revulsion. No indeed. Instead, she’d allowed her captor to kiss and touch her; worse, she’d reveled in it. Last night, she’d pretended to herself she only meant to comfort an unfortunate man, that she was merely being kind as she’d been taught to be, but in the harsh light of day, she knew that was a complete lie. If Zachary Benedict had been some ugly old man, she wouldn’t have flung herself into his arms and tried to kiss away his unhappiness. Nor would she have been so damned eager to believe he was innocent! The truth was that she’d believed Zachary Benedict’s ridiculous assertions of innocence because she wanted to believe him, and then she’d “comforted” him because she was disgustingly attracted to him. Instead of escaping and getting him recaptured at that rest stop yesterday morning, she’d lain in the snow and kissed him, ignoring the very viable possibility that the truck driver named Pete wouldn’t have been hurt if a struggle ensued.

  In Keaton, she’d scrupulously evaded the sexual advances of good, decent men while hypocritically congratulating herself on the high moral standards she’d acquired from her adoptive father and mother. Now, however, the truth was glaringly and painfully obvious: She’d never been sexually attracted to any one of those fine, upstanding men, and now she understood why: It was because she could only be attracted to her own kind—social outcasts like Zack Benedict. Decency and respectability didn’t turn her on; violence and danger and illicit passion obviously did.

  The nauseating reality was that on the outside Julie Mathison might appear to be a righteous, dignified, upstanding citizen, but in her heart, she was still Julie Smith, the street urchin of unknown parentage. The ethics of society hadn’t meant anything to her then; obviously, they didn’t now. Mrs. Borowski, the head of LaSalle Foster Care Facility, had been right all along. Julie gave the brush a vicious tug while in her mind she heard the woman’s acid voice and saw her face, twisted with contempt and knowledge: “A leopard can’t change its spots, and neither can you, Julie Smith. You might be able to fool that hoity-toity psychiatrist, but you can’t fool me. You’re a bad seed just like that movie we saw on television . . . . You’ll come to no good, you mark my words . . . . You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and that’s what you are—a sow’s ear: Birds of a feather flock together, that’s why you hang around with trashy street kids. They’re just like you—no good . . . . NO GOOD.”

  Julie squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the painful memories and to concentrate on the gentle man who’d adopted her. “You’re a good girl, Julie,” he whispered in her mind, just as he’d whispered to her often after she’d come to live with his family. “A fine, good, loving little girl. You’re going to grow up to be a fine young woman, too. You’ll choose a good, church-going man someday and you’ll be a wonderful wife and mother, just as you are a wonderful daughter now.”

  Ravaged by the memory of his misplaced faith in her, Julie braced her hands on the dresser and bent her head. “You were wrong . . .” she whispered brokenly. She realized the ugly truth now: She wasn’t attracted to good, church-going men, not even handsome ones like Greg Howley. Instead, she was attracted to men like Zack Benedict, who’d fascinated her from the moment she saw him in the restaurant parking lot. The revolting truth was that she’d wanted to go to bed with him last night, and he’d known it then. Like birds of a feather, he’d recognized her as his own kind. That, Julie knew, was the real reason why he’d been angry and disgusted with her when she called a halt to the lovemaking—he’d been contemptuous of her cowardice. She’d wanted to go to bed with him as soon as he began kissing and touching.

  A leopard can’t change its spots. Mrs. Borowski had been right.

  But Reverend Mathison had specifically disagreed with that, Julie suddenly remembered. When she’d repeated that proverb to him, he’d given her a little shake and said, “Animals can’t change, but people can, Julie! That’s why the Lord gave us minds and wills. If you want to be a good girl, all you have to do is be one. Just make up your mind and do it!”

  Make up your mind, Julie . . .

  Slowly, Julie lifted her face and gazed at her reflection in the mirror while a new strength, a new force, built inside of her. She hadn’t yet done anything that was completely inexcusable. Not yet.

  And before she did do something to inexorably betray herself and her upbringing, she was going to get the hell out of Zachary Benedict’s clutches! No, she corrected herself grimly, she was going to get the heck out of his clutches. Today. She had to get away today, before her weak will and fragile moral fiber crumbled in the face of his dangerous appeal. If she stayed, she would become his accomplice in fact, and when she did, she would sink beyond social and moral redemption. With an almost hysterical fervor, Julie vowed to get away from him today.

  Walking over to the bedroom window, she pulled back the draperies and peered out at the gray, ominous-looking morning. Overhead, heavy snow clouds were piled high and the wind was howling through the pines, rattling the window panes. As she stood there, mentally retracing the route they’d taken up here, the first snowflakes blew past and she grimaced. In the past two days, she’d seen enough snow to last her a lifetime! Twenty yards away, beyond the wooden deck that surrounded the house, someone had nailed a big round outdoor thermometer onto a tree at the perimeter of the woods; it showed the temperature at twenty-eight degrees, but that didn’t take into account the wind-chill factor, which Julie assumed would surely reduce the temperature to near zero.

  She lifted her head, startled by the sudden sound of a radio. The man who had caused her all this misery was obviously dressed now and in the living room, probably waiting for the news to be broadcast.

  For a minute she considered trying to barricade herself in this nice warm room until he finally left for wherever he was going, but that was implausible and impractical. She’d still have to eat, and even if she barricaded the door, she couldn’t do anything about the window. Moreover, the longer she stayed with him, the less chance she had of convincing the authorities and the citizens of Keaton that she hadn’t been a willing accomplice nor the bedmate of a convicted murderer.

  With a nervous sigh, Julie faced the fact that the only route to “freedom”—and respectability—was outdoors, across an unfamiliar snow-covered mountain, in the Blazer, if she could figure out how to hot-wire it, or else on foot. If it was going to be on foot, which seemed likely, the first requirement was warmth.

  Turning away from the window, Julie headed for the large walk-in closet, hoping to “borrow” some warmer clothes. A few moments later she uttered a little cry of glee: Near the back of it were what seemed to be one-piece snowsuits for adults. They were both navy blue with red and white trim, but one was much smaller, and when she held it up to herself, she knew she could get into it. Tossing it over her a
rm, she returned to the bedroom and began searching through the contents of the drawers in the chest. A moment later, she suppressed another shout of delight as she withdrew a long-sleeved, long-legged set of insulated underwear.

  It was a struggle to zip her jeans over the bulky underwear she’d put on, and once she did get the zipper up, the jeans were so tight she couldn’t bend her knees, but Julie scarcely noticed the inconvenience. Her mind was on the best way to deceive Zachary Benedict into relaxing his guard long enough for her to escape and, if she had to leave on foot, to trick him somehow into not coming after her until she had an excellent head start. For that reason, she delayed putting on the snowsuit for the time being. At present, it seemed far wiser to make him think she was simply going outdoors for a few minutes to get some air.

  Fixing a polite, impersonal expression on her face, Julie tugged the bottom of her own sweater and jacket over her hips, hoping he wouldn’t notice that her legs looked—and moved—liked a pair of stiff, overstuffed sausages, then she opened the door and stepped into the living room.

  Her eyes went automatically to the sofa by the fire where she expected to see him. Instead he was across the room, staring out the windows at the falling snow, his back turned to her, his hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. Delaying the moment when she would have to face him for the first time since last night, she watched him lift his hand. As he absently rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck, her treacherous mind suddenly recalled how skillfully those long fingers had caressed her breasts and the exquisite pleasure he had made her feel. It occurred to her at that moment that he actually deserved some credit for showing a certain amount of restraint and decency last night. He had been as physically aroused as she, she remembered, feeling her face grow warm at the vivid memory of his rigid erection pressing against her.

  She had aroused him and then inadvertently insulted and angered him, and yet he hadn’t tried to resort to rape . . .

  He turned his head slightly and she saw the stern pride stamped on that rough-hewn profile, the mobile mouth that had kissed her with such soul-destroying passion. Surely a man who was capable of so much tenderness and restraint even in the throes of passion, and when he hadn’t been near a woman in five years, couldn’t really be a murderer . . .

  Julie gave herself an angry mental shake! She was being an utter fool again—standing there, feeling sorry for the villain, romanticizing him, simply because he was tall, handsome, and incredibly sexy and because she was an idiot—a spineless idiot who was disgustingly and helplessly attracted to him! “Excuse me,” she said briskly, raising her voice to be heard above the radio.

  He twisted around, his gaze narrowing on her outdoor clothing. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “You said,” Julie replied, matching his clipped tone perfectly, “that I could have the run of the house and grounds. I’m going crazy being stuck indoors. I intend to go outside for some fresh air.”

  “It’s freezing out there.”

  Realizing he was on the verge of refusing, she switched quickly to a calm, logical approach. “As you pointed out, I’d die of exposure if I tried to escape on foot. I just need some exercise and fresh air. All I want to do is explore the yard a little and—” she faltered, then inspiration struck and she tried to inject a childlike eagerness in her voice as she finished, “I want to build a snowman! Please don’t say I can’t,” she cajoled, “I haven’t seen this much snow since I moved to Texas as a little girl.”

  He wasn’t impressed and he wasn’t friendly. “Suit yourself, but stay where I can see you from these windows.”

  “Yes, warden!” Julie snapped back, instantly angered by his high-handedness. “But may I be allowed to vanish from view now and then—just to gather up branches and things I need?”

  Instead of answering, he lifted his brows and regarded her in cold silence.

  Julie decided to take his silence for assent, even though she knew it wasn’t intended as anything of the sort. She had made up her mind to get away from him, and to accomplish that urgent goal, she was prepared to stoop to almost anything, including pandering and placating. “I used to give my snowmen carrot noses,” she told him, and with an ability at acting and subterfuge heretofore unnoticed, she smiled a little as she added, “I’ll look in the refrigerator to see what we have.”

  The refrigerator was beside a drawer that she’d noticed last night contained some oddly shaped keys to unknown locks. With her left hand, Julie opened the refrigerator, and with her right, she silently pulled the drawer open, her fingers groping for the flat metal keys she’d seen. “No carrots,” she said over her shoulder, glancing up at him with another artificial smile, then she snuck a quick look in the drawer. She saw one of the keys and picked it up, but she knew there had been more than just this one. She saw them then—three other keys peeking out from under some spatulas and mixing spoons. With her eyes on the contents of the refrigerator, she managed to pick up another one of them, but her shaking hand and long fingernails made it impossibly awkward to pick up the other two, particularly without looking. Just when she nearly had one of them, she heard him move, and when she looked up, he was stalking straight toward her. She yanked her hand out of the drawer and closed it, two keys pressed in her palm, her voice shaking with nerves. “Wh-what do you want?”

  “Something to eat, why?”

  “I just wondered, that’s all.” She scooted past him as he rounded the counter. “Help yourself.”

  He paused, his gaze following her as she walked stiffly over to the closet. “What’s wrong with your legs?”

  Julie’s mouth went dry. “Nothing. I mean—I found a pair of long johns in a drawer and put them on under my jeans, so I could stay warmer when I’m outside.”

  “Stay close to the house,” he warned. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”

  “I will,” she lied, already opening the door of the hall closet where she’d seen some ski hats and gloves belonging to the owner of house. “What do you think I should use for his eyes and nose?” she asked, prattling about the details of her project in hopes of boring him into letting his guard down.

  “I don’t know and, to be perfectly honest, I don’t give a damn.”

  Affecting a look of guileless enthusiasm, she looked over her shoulder as she pawed through the boots in the closet. “Snowmen are very important artistic projects in some cultures,” she informed him, unconsciously affecting the same tone she used when she addressed her third-grade students. “Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “They take a great deal of forethought,” she added ingenuously.

  Instead of replying, he studied her in speculative silence for a moment then he rudely turned his back on her and returned to the kitchen.

  Julie would have dropped all further attempts at conversation, but she’d just thought of an excuse to disappear more often from his view and she instantly put it to use, shamelessly inventing her own facts as she went along: “I mean, in those cultures where snow and ice figures are considered meritorious art forms, there’s much more to a snowman than just three big balls of snow. You build an entire little scene around the snowman using branches and berries and rocks,” she said, pulling on a pair of waterproof ski gloves she’d found at the bottom of the closet. Glancing over her shoulder with a bright smile as she stood up and closed the closet door, she added, “Isn’t that interesting?”

  He took a knife out of the cutlery drawer and opened a cabinet. “Fascinating,” he mocked.

  “You don’t sound very fascinated,” Julie complained, determined to goad him into telling her to go outside and leave him alone, which was exactly what she wanted to do. “I mean, the least you could do is try to concentrate on the project. You could have some input. Think of how much fun and satisfaction you would get when the snowman scene is—”

  He slammed the cabinet door with a crash that made Julie lurch around, and her gaze riveted on the knife in his fist. “Julie,” he warned
, “shut the hell up!”

  His sudden mood swing would have been enough to remind her that Zachary Benedict was a dangerously unpredictable foe, but with a knife blade flashing in his hand and his eyes glittering with menace, he looked fully capable of committing cold-blooded murder.

  Zack saw the color drain from her face, he saw the way she was staring at the knife, and he knew exactly what she was thinking about him. His simmering anger built to a fury. “That’s right,” he taunted. “I’m a convicted murderer.”

  “B-but you said you didn’t do it,” she reminded him, trying very unsuccessfully to sound calm and convinced.

  “I said that,” he jeered in a silken voice that sent chills up her spine, “but you know better, don’t you, Julie?”

  She swallowed convulsively and started backing down the short hallway. “Can I go outside?” Without waiting for him to answer, she grabbed blindly for the door and opened it.

  Behind her, Zack stood perfectly still, fighting to calm himself and to block out the horror he’d seen in her face. He told himself it didn’t matter what she thought or that she’d looked adorable chattering about snowmen or that she was sweet and good and clean and that, compared to her, he felt inhuman and filthy.

  A few minutes later, the news came on the radio and his mood lifted considerably: According to the newscaster, Sandini was no better, but he was no worse either. He was holding his own. Zack changed radio stations and finally found one that was all news and no music. He’d just started into the living room when the commentator announced that a man whom Canadian officials now believed to be Zachary Benedict had crossed the border into Canada at Windsor two nights ago driving a rented black sedan.

  26

  “DAMN,” JULIE SAID SOFTLY AS she slid out of the Blazer, which was still parked at the back of the house, out of sight of the picture windows at the front and sides. In the fifteen years since she’d had her first and only lesson on hot-wiring a car, the wiring systems in them had obviously changed or else she hadn’t been a very adept student, because she hadn’t the slightest idea which of the fistful of wires she’d pulled from beneath the dashboard were the right ones.