The Getaway Bride
Blake was smiling, looking perfectly at ease, but Page saw the lines of pain still etched around his eyes and mouth, and the sallow cast beneath his lightly tanned skin. She knew what he was doing, and she was grateful that he wanted to take her mind off the danger for a little while. He must know how long it had been since she’d sat around a kitchen table and exchanged frivolous small talk. Maybe he even understood how much it meant to her to be able to do so now, if only for a few stolen moments.
Gabe’s hand fell suddenly on her thigh beneath the table. He squeezed lightly, in what might have been an apology.
“I know what flavor she’d be,” he said, obviously forcing a smile. “Strawberry. Page has a major passion for the taste and scent of strawberries.”
Blake wiggled an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Gabe turned a fierce, exaggerated scowl toward the other man. “No one is arousing my wife’s passions except me,” he growled, his hand still resting on her thigh.
Blake gulped loudly and held up his hand in surrender. “I hear ya’, boss.”
Page’s smile felt strained. Even through the fabric of her jeans, she could feel the warmth of Gabe’s hand, and she couldn’t help but react.
She’d once accused Gabe of being rather primitive when it came to his views on marriage. She’d found his “me-Tarzan, you-Jane” tendencies both daunting and endearing, but he had promised her he would never treat her as anything but an equal partner in their marriage.
She was beginning to understand now that possessiveness and protectiveness were as much a part of her husband’s nature as the passions that sometimes overwhelmed her.
He regarded himself as her protector, which was making it very difficult for him to accept that she’d viewed him as the one to be protected. She should have realized he would react that way. But didn’t he understand that she had the same primal, instinctive need to defend the man she loved?
IT WAS GETTING DARK outside. Blake had put in a call to the Springfield police, who, after asking more questions, had admitted they had no leads on his van.
He was asked again to come to the station; he stalled by claiming he needed to rest and recover from his injuries. He promised to go in the next morning. The officer wasn’t pleased, but Blake used his considerable charm to end the call on a conciliatory note.
“For all we know, the punk is watching the police station now,” Blake explained to Page and Gabe after disconnecting the call. “That’s what I would be doing in his shoes if I didn’t know where else to look.”
“We could set up a trap of some sort. Have the police waiting nearby,” Gabe murmured, his forehead creased with thought.
Page knew Gabe felt unprepared to deal with this ugly situation. The skills he’d developed running his construction company hardly seemed applicable now. And yet, oddly enough, she felt confident that Gabe could handle whatever he encountered during the next hours.
She had finally learned not to underestimate the man she loved.
“That’s an option,” Blake acknowledged. “But since we don’t know where Wingate is—or, for that matter, if it is Phillip Wingate who’s after us—we have to be careful about how we approach the police.”
“So what are we going to do?” Page asked, rubbing her hands over her forearms against a sudden chill in the cabin’s tiny living room. “We can’t hide here forever.”
“We don’t intend to,” Gabe assured her. “Blake and I are going to make some plans.”
“You aren’t leaving me out,” she protested.
“Of course not,” he assured her quickly. A bit sheepishly. “You’ll plan with us, of course.”
“Nice recovery,” Blake murmured with a slight smile.
Page glared at both of them.
Gabe shook his head and held up a hand. “Let’s call a truce,” he said. “We’re in this as a team. We have to work together, not argue among ourselves. Agreed?”
After a moment Page sighed and said, “Agreed.”
Gabe gave her a smile of approval. She had to look away to keep him from seeing her very feminine reaction to that quick flash of teeth and dimple.
Blake propped his feet on the coffee table and leaned his head against the back of the couch. Page could tell he’d used nearly all his reserves of stamina. He needed rest. He rubbed his head, as if it throbbed. Looking at the nasty bruise beneath the bandage she’d applied, Page was sure that he had a pounding headache.
“Blake, won’t you at least take an aspirin?” she asked. “I have some in my purse. The pain pills would help you more, but an aspirin will give you some relief without making you groggy.”
He gave her a faint smile. “Thanks, but I’m allergic to aspirin. I’ll be okay.”
“I have acetaminophen capsules in the glove compartment of my truck,” Gabe volunteered, looking at Blake in a way that told Page he shared her concern.