Page 6 of The Survivor
“We’ll do whatever it takes,” he said roughly, inwardly wondering why her impenetrable gaze made his palms grow damp. “We’ll get you a disguise, bring you into the hospital after visiting hours, anything to protect your identity.”
“My face will still be familiar—to most men, at least.”
Her tone was dry, almost comical, and Blake fought the tiny grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Your face is probably not as recognizable as you think.”
The comment, with its slightly lewd undertones, did not seem to faze her. Instead, she just nodded. “Quite true, Agent Corwin. But I’m not sure I’m willing to take that chance.”
They’d reached an impasse. Blake knew that pushing her any further would only make her less likely to cooperate. Helping them had to be her choice. The ball was in her court now.
Blake exchanged a glance with Rick before rising from the sofa. “All right, we’ll give you some time to think about this then,” he said. “But don’t take too long.”
She offered an odd little smile. “Time is of the essence, right?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He reached into his pocket and removed his card and a pen. He scribbled down both his and Rick’s cell numbers, then handed it to her. She seemed to make an effort not to let their fingers brush as she accepted the card, and, for some reason, that bothered him a little.
“Just give us a call when you’ve made up your mind. But if we haven’t heard from you by tomorrow afternoon, we’ll need to get back to Chicago and explore other avenues.”
The two men said their goodbyes and headed for the door. Samantha followed them, shotgun again in hand. After they’d stepped onto the porch, Blake heard all the various locks and safety mechanisms being clicked back into place.
As they descended the steps, Rick shot him a questioning look. “You think she’ll help us?”
The snow crunching under his boots, Blake simply nodded. “Yes, I think she will.”
* * *
“You really don’t need to worry,” Sam told her brother over the phone an hour after Blake and Rick had left the farmhouse.
She settled onto the couch and tucked her knees under her, then reached to flick on the lamp sitting on the end table. The late-afternoon sun was beginning to set and the absence of lightstreaming in from the windows made her muscles tense. Soon the sun would disappear altogether, leaving nothing but an inky black sky and menacing shadows.
She’d already turned on the main light. It bathed the room in a pale-yellow glow, but she didn’t feel at ease unless every light in the house was on, too.
The darkness still bothered her, ever since that warm May night when she’d walked into her bedroom and seen the dark figure looming in the shadows. She slept with the light on now. Scratch that—shelay in bedwith the light on. She didn’t sleep. If she was lucky, she got five hours of rest a night, spread out in twenty-minute intervals because every time the REM cycle kicked in, she’d jerk herself awake. The nights were the hardest, always bringing with them a threat that she couldn’t ignore.
“What do you mean, I don’t have to worry?” Beau replied. “At the moment, that’s exactly what I should be doing.”
She smiled to herself, knowing without having to see him that there was a telltale crease in his forehead. Most times Beau’s face was unreadable. Dark, stoic eyes, firm set of the mouth. But that little crease always gave him away. She’d seen it enough times growing up, and right now she heard it in his voice.
“Everything’s fine,” she assured him. “They were FBI agents, no danger to me.”
“I disagree. The very fact that they want you to go into the city is dangerous.”
“They said they’d protect me.”
“Do you believe them?”
Sam remembered Blake Corwin’s determined brown eyes. “Yes. I think they’ll do everything in their power to keep me safe.”
“And what if everything in their power isn’t good enough?” Beau countered, his concern palpable over the airwaves. “What if someone recognizes you and calls the press? If this guy findsout that you didn’t die that night…” He let his voice trail off ominously.
For the thousandth time in six months, Sam wished she’d never chosen such a high-profile career. Why hadn’t she gone into accounting? Why on earth had she decided to model swimsuits of all things? She’d always done well in school, her grades good enough to get her into any college, but it had been the excitement of stardom that appealed to her the most. It helped that she had a body that was, as her friends always told her, designed to make men drool. She’d never minded flaunting it, strutting in front of a camera and making herself a public figure.
But she regretted it now. Although the police had assured her that it was unlikely the guy picked her just because of her celebrity status, she still got the feeling that she might have gone unnoticed, flitted under the bastard’s radar, if she’d just chosen another field.
“It’s a risk, I know.” Her voice softened. “But I keep thinking about that woman, Beau.”
Compassion filled his voice. “I know you want to help her, but at what cost, Sammy? Goddamn it, I can’t let myself even think about losing you. I almost did once—I’d rather not go through that again.”
