Without a Trace

  The cabbie climbed into the front seat. Michael leaned forward and gave him the name of a hotel. "There's twenty in it if you make sure no one follows us."

  "You got it," the cabbie replied, tromping on the gas pedal.

  The tires of the cab squealed, and Sarah grabbed the armrest on her door. Michael turned to see her lift an ac­cusing eyebrow at him. That was another thing he liked about her. She took things in stride.

  Stepping out of the bathroom, Sarah tipped her head to one side, running a brush through her hair. A hot shower and her own cotton nightgown instead of something bor­rowed gave her a feeling of normalcy. Slipping her feet into her slippers, she went to the dresser to check her watch. She'd ordered room service forty minutes ago. Dinner should be along anytime.

  With a heavy sigh, she set the brush on the dresser and stretched her arms high, closing her eyes. In a city the size of Chicago, she and Michael would be as hard to find as fleas on a dog's back. In all that milling traffic, how could anyone possibly have followed them? For tonight, she felt fairly sure they were safe and she intended to enjoy it.

  Picking up their room receipt, she studied Michael's sig­nature, grinning. Mr. and Mrs. Lorenzo. It made her think of Lorenzo's Pizza Parlor back home. Of course, right now she was so hungry that anything might make her think of food.

  She smiled again when she saw that her mister had al­ready fallen asleep. He was sitting up in bed, propped by both pillows, chin on his chest. Closing the distance be­tween them, she pressed her hand to his forehead. No fe­ver. Just weak and understandably exhausted. He murmured something, frowning at her touch. Then he jerked awake, a wild look in his eyes as he shrank from her hand. She froze, staring down at him.

  "Michael?"

  At the sound of her voice, the tension seemed to leave him. He laughed softly. "Sarah...you scared me. I must have been dreaming."

  Her attention shifted to her outstretched hand, and she recalled him telling her about the clawlike fingers that reached for him in his nightmare. She dropped her arm, doubling her knuckles into a tight fist. Hearing about his dream and actually seeing the expression on his face when the horror of it touched him were two entirely different things. She noticed a flush creeping up his neck beneath the collar of his pajama top.

  "I, um, ordered dinner to be brought up."

  His gaze fell to her modest gown, then skittered away. "Great. I'm starved." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, propped his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. The corded tendons in his tanned forearms looked taut. "Sorry about that, Sarah. I didn't mean to startle you."

  She longed to touch his dark hair, to tell him he needn't feel embarrassed. She longed to, and she couldn't. Not once in the past week had he encouraged any sympathy from her.

  A light knock sounded. "Ah... dinner."

  She went to the door, fitting her eye to the peephole. A uniformed waiter from the downstairs restaurant stood in the hall, one hand on the trolley. As she turned the dead bolt, she heard Michael's change jangling and knew he was getting out a tip.

  "Room service," the waiter said in a monotone. He stepped back to push the cart inside. The next second, dishes and silver clattered as the trolley shot forward. Sarah flat­tened herself against the wall to avoid being hit, her gaze fixed on the two men who had lunged into the room on the waiter's heels. Even before she looked at their faces, she knew who they were by the blue and gray suits they wore. The men from the airport. The door shut behind them with a click of finality.

  "Freeze!" the hefty man hissed, brandishing a revolver.

  Michael stood near the dresser, still holding his pants. She threw a frantic glance his way, then closed her eyes. An al­most overpowering rush of fear washed over her as she en­visioned bullets plowing into their bodies. Lifting her lashes, she blinked to bring the room into focus.

  "Don't get trigger happy," Michael said in a soft, rea­sonable tone. "It's me you're after, so let the lady go."

  "Shut up!" the lean man barked. He stepped across the room, shoving the terrified waiter out of his way. When he reached Michael, he pressed the barrel of the .38 revolver against his jaw. "Get dressed, buddy." Glancing at Sarah, he snarled, "You, too, and hurry up about it."

  She pressed her palms against the wall, staring in frozen fascination as the hefty man rifled through her suitcase and threw a purple blouse and burgundy slacks at her. His fea­tures were seared on her mind, the crooked bridge of his nose, the squared angle of his chin, the winglike tufts of his silvery brown eyebrows. He looked like a kindly grandfa­ther except for his eyes, a killer's eyes, so flat and hard her skin felt icy everywhere they touched.

  "Get dressed." He aimed the black revolver at her fore­head. "Now!"

  She leaned forward and gathered her clothes with a quiv­ering hand. As she straightened, it hit her that they expected her to disrobe right there—in front of them all. A tingle of horror crept up her neck.

  "Hey, come on, fella," Michael interjected. "At least let her go in the bathroom."

  The waiter made a funny little squeaking noise, clearly terrified. The heavy man in blue threw open the bathroom door and gave the room a quick once-over. Motioning to Sarah, he said, "Step on it or strip out here, lady, your choice."

  Sarah scurried into the bathroom and pressed the door closed with her back, shaking uncontrollably. She heard Michael's change jingling again and knew he was pulling his slacks on. Think, Sarah, she commanded herself. You've got a few precious seconds and that's it. Shooting frantic glances around her, she saw nothing she might use as a weapon. She unbuttoned her nightgown and tugged it off over her head. As quickly as she could, she threw on her clothes and cracked the door to peek out.

  "Hurry it up!" the thin man ordered when he saw her.

  She stepped through the doorway and moved to the closet to grab her running shoes. Michael sat on the bed, pulling on his socks with exaggerated slowness. The waiter grasped the trolley handle as if the cart was all that kept him stand­ing. Michael's eyes met hers as he reached for his loafers. She slipped on her shoes and walked nonchalantly toward the dresser, picking up her hairbrush with one hand as she opened her overnight case with the other. Giving her hair a quick brushing, she curled her fingers around her can of hair spray.

  "Enough!" the thin man snarled.

  Sarah watched his approach in the mirror, steeling her­self to act. Even his features were thin and mean. She leaned forward slightly, turning her head as she spotsprayed her hair. Spiff-spiff. She saw the man reaching for her. Not too soon, Sarah, she cautioned herself. Timing would mean everything.

  His fingers bit into her shoulder as he jerked her around. "Enough, I said!"

  She lifted her innocent brown eyes to meet his gaze. His gun was pointed in her general direction but not precisely at her. It was now or never. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the spray nozzle toward his eyes. The can spewed lacquer. He reared back, gun hand wavering, his other flying to his face.

  "Now, Michael!" she cried.

  Throwing herself at the thin man's chest, she knocked him off balance. He staggered backward. Michael shot up off the bed and sacked the hefty man in a football tackle, the momentum of his thrust carrying them both across the room to crash into the wall. Drawing back his arm, Michael plowed his fist into the older man's jaw, the force of the blow snapping his head back. The waiter stood there in fro­zen horror.

  Knowing the hair spray would only blind the man for a few seconds, Sarah grabbed his arm and fought with him for possession of the gun. "Help me!" she screamed at the waiter. "Don't just stand there!"

  The waiter snatched up the silver coffeepot and swung it in a wide arc, clunking the man on the side of his head. Scalding coffee splattered the back of Sarah's blouse. The man bellowed with pain. Sarah wrenched the gun with all her strength, prying it from his fingers only to lose her grip on it. The weapon fell to the carpet and rolled under the bed.

  "Let's go!" Michael cried, seizing her arm.


  They hit the hall in a mad dash, the waiter right on their heels. Careening around the corner to the elevator, both she and Michael dived for the control buttons. Oh, hurry, hurry, Sarah pleaded, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, glancing frantically behind them.

  "The stairs... come on, we'll take the stairs," the waiter cried.

  Michael jerked her half off her feet, lunging after the waiter down the corridor. The next thing Sarah knew, she was plummeting down a metal stairway, her hand in Michael's, the sound of their footsteps thundering inside her head. Running, running, never slowing down. Pain snaked around her ribs, squeezing tighter and tighter until she could scarcely breathe. When they reached the bottom floor, the waiter threw open the stairwell door and the three of them jammed the opening, each trying to spill through it at once.

  When they erupted into the lobby, Michael jerked her to a halt near a potted palm, his chest heaving for air. For a moment she thought he was stopping to rest, but when she glanced up, she saw he was staring at the concierge's desk. Two men in dark suits stood at the counter, earnestly ques­tioning the man on duty.

  The elevator chimed, announcing its arrival in the lobby. Michael threw a panicked look at the trembling waiter. "A back door! We have to go out another way."

  The waiter stood there for an instant, indecisive, his mouth working and no sound coming out. Then he pivoted and ran toward the restaurant, waving at them to follow. Sarah heard the elevator doors open behind them. Foot­steps thudded on the rug. A deep voice barked, "There they go!"

  The sprint through the restaurant was a blur. The waiter darted around tables, weaving a zigzag path toward the back, Michael and Sarah flying along behind him. The two gunmen careened in their wake, followed by the two men from the concierge's desk. Dishes clattered. A woman screeched in dismay. A hotel employee yelled at them to stop. After they shoved through the double doors into the kitchen, the waiter whirled to look for something to block the gunmen's way. Spying a cart of desserts, he shoved it in front of the doors and took off running again.

  He led them through the kitchen to another set of double doors that opened onto an alleyway. Cold air blasted Sarah's face as she hurtled along behind Michael, her hand still clasped in his. The waiter angled left. "Get away from me!" he cried. "You're gonna get me killed!"

  Michael obliged and turned right, pulling Sarah along behind him. Ahead she could see car lights whizzing past on a main drag. Her heart pounded every time her feet hit the ground, faster, faster. Michael took a left when they reached the street. Neon signs blinked above them. The lines in the sidewalk seemed to blur, they ran so fast. She lost track of how many intersections they crossed. Her body became numb with exhaustion, her legs pumping beneath her from sheer force of will.

  When she felt certain she couldn't take another step, Michael faltered midstride and staggered to a stop, leaning his back against a building. With a limp arm, he encircled her shoulders and drew her against his chest, pressing his face into her hair. She gulped for air, grateful for the lean length of his body bracing hers.

  "T-tired, h-have t'stop," he wheezed.

  She swallowed, nodding in mute assent. When at last they were rested, they drew apart and looked around to get their bearings. She immediately stiffened. How they had done it, she didn't know, but they had run from a posh, upper-class neighborhood into a slum area with drunks lounging out­side doorways. Michael kept his arm around her as he pushed away from the building, his protectiveness confirm­ing what she'd already guessed; they could get into trouble here fast.

  The smell of food wafted on the damp night air. In spite of herself, she sniffed. When had they eaten last? He started walking, keeping her clamped securely to his side, his hip bumping hers. She sneaked a glance at his face. "How you holding up?"

  "Aside from expiring from hunger? Fine." He paused under a quaint sidewalk awning, gazing through a tavern window.

  She couldn't see over the cafestyle curtains. "What's it like?"

  "Murky. Just our kind of place." Stepping forward, he pulled open the door for her. "Ladies first."

  "Thanks a bunch."

  The inside of the tavern was dark and smoky, the air pul­sating with jukebox music from the sixties. She gravitated toward the darkest corner and slid into a burgundy vinyl booth. She scratched dried mustard off the tabletop with her fingernail. "This is a class operation if I ever saw one," she whispered.

  He leaned forward, giving her the bedroom eye. "Stick with me, baby. This is just for starters."

  Catching her lip between her teeth, she met his gaze, wondering how he could find the heart to joke. She wa­vered between hysterical laughter and tears. He reached across the table and put his warm hand over hers, his gaze shifting to the door.

  "I think we'll be safe here for a few minutes. We'll grab something to eat then find a place to stay the night."

  "Around here?"

  He cocked an eyebrow. "You have to admit, it isn't the first place they'd start looking."

  Her heart sank. There wasn't a chin in there, aside from Michael's, that wasn't sporting at least a week's growth of beard. Intermingled with the greasy smell of grilled cube steak, she detected the even less pleasant odor of stinky armpits. "I hate to tell you this, but I've got an aversion to fleas and body odor. If it isn't bug free and clean, this lady doesn't lay her head on it."

  His hand tightened around hers. "You can use my shoul­der."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sarah was no connoisseur of shoulders, but Michael's was definitely the nicest she had ever come across, solid but not too hard with a hollowed place that seemed carved espe­cially to fit her cheek. Add the wonderfully strong circle of his arm and the heat of his muscular body pressed to hers, and as far as shoulders went, she felt certain his was the ul­timate. The dingy hotel room, the lumpy mattress and the squeaky bedsprings didn't bother her at all.

  Through the drapes at the window, a neon sign flashed red and pink on the walls. She stared at the play of light, her limbs heavy, the patter of her heart harmonizing with the steady, resonant thud of his beneath her ear. The clean smell of his skin and shirt overcame the foreign odors of the room, making her feel safe and cozy. It wasn't rational, but for this little while, at least, she didn't care that killers chased them. She had Michael beside her, and that seemed enough.

  He was still awake. Every few minutes, he ran his hand up and down her back, the touch of his fingertips burning a trail through her thin blouse onto her skin. Each time, she closed her eyes, savoring the moment, filing the memories away so she would always be able to recall the pleasure of his touch. Michael. His name whispered through her head like the lyrics to a song, tugging at her heart, bringing tears to her eyes. How had she come to love him so desperately? After this was over, would she see him again?

  Would they even have an after?

  As if reading her mind, he tightened his arm around her, his hand pressed firmly to the curve of her ribs, his finger­tips grazing the beginning swell of her breast. "You know, all this past week, I've avoided sleeping in the same room with you."

  She stirred, raising her face to his. In the dim, ever- changing lights, his strong features were etched in shadow, his eyes luminous beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. "Why is that?" Her heart seemed to grow still as she waited for his answer.

  "I, um, didn't want you to see me when I had a night­mare."

  For a fleeting second, she felt like laughing. It was such a silly thing to worry about. But then she remembered the panic she had seen in his eyes earlier when she had awak­ened him from a dream. Not a laughing matter, she real­ized, not to Michael. "Are you self-conscious about going to sleep?"

  He hesitated before answering. "Yes."

  A dozen words of comfort sprang to her mind. She said none of them. His feelings about this subject ran far too deeply to be assuaged with pat phrases. She closed her eyes, remembering her nightmares after her adoptive parents were killed. "It's not easy, is it? I h
ad dreams for two years after the explosion. It helped when I found my natural mother. The dreams stopped once I developed a strong relationship with her."

  "What's she like?" His voice rang taut with emotion. "How did it feel to meet her?"

  A smile curved her mouth. "It was like finding a part of myself that had been lost. I was a funny kid, more sensitive than most, and I always felt sort of—" She paused, trying to put her feelings into words. "It was as if I didn't really fit where I was. My mom and dad were blond, I was dark.

  They were short, I was tall. I loved them dearly, but way deep inside, I knew we were ill matched. I'd sneak off into the bathroom sometimes and look at myself in the mirror, wondering where I had come from.

  "I wondered why my mother gave me away, if she ever thought about me. I didn't feel like a complete person. I had the most wonderful adoptive parents in the world. It wasn't anything lacking in them or the life they gave me that made me feel that way. It was me. I don't know why. I never told my folks. But I always felt I had to find my real mother and ask the questions that haunted me."

  "And why did she give you up? Did you find out?"

  "She was an unmarried teenager, the daughter of a min­ister in a small town. Her parents threatened to disown her if she kept me."

  "And did she ever think about you?"

  "When I called her, she cried so hard she couldn't talk. She had tried to find me for years. She had been forced to give me up and it had always haunted her. It's different for women who willingly make the choice, feeling in their hearts that it's what's best for the baby." She sighed and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. "From the beginning, she felt coerced into it and resented it all her life. I'm sorry, Michael. You shouldn't have asked me about my mom. I get carried away."