She looked away, unseeing. “I don’t know what I feel.” Turning, she headed for the spiral staircase that led back to her room, but she paused, turning back. “Thank you for helping us.”
Her appreciation stuck in his craw, but he used a lighthearted tone as he said, “Anytime.”
She moved swiftly across the grass and up the stairs, her body again visible through her gown as she stepped in front of the lighted sliding glass door and let herself into the bedroom.
He’d known her less than two hours, and already she’d aggravated and aroused him. But he was still going to take her—a wanted fugitive—into his truck and go on the run to help her. Not to mention the kid, and he was terrible with kids.
Indecision warred with self-preservation in his mind. This was no small thing that was being asked of him. He could be arrested. Lose everything that was important to him, his job with HERO Force, his future. He needed some assurance that Teslyn was worthy of such a risk.
He redialed Logan. “One more thing, Doc. I need you to get me a phone number for Ghost’s girlfriend, Rayne. If I’m going to play Clyde to this chick’s Bonnie, I need to know exactly who I’m dealing with.”
CHAPTER8
Teslyn dressed and zipped up her small bag before waking Ivy. The poor girl was exhausted, and it quickly became clear Teslyn wasn’t going to be successful. Putting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she threw back the covers and picked up her sister, carefully standing up. Ivy was surprisingly light for a girl her age, and Teslyn instantly wondered if Ivy was on her own in the food department, as she herself had been at that age.
Dealing with the struggles of her own childhood was infinitely easier than seeing another child struggle with the same things, and Teslyn gently kissed Ivy’s forehead before making her way down the wide pine staircase.
Wyatt was waiting for them. “I put your car in the backyard. They’re looking for it.”
“Okay.”
He reached for Ivy. “Let me take her for you.”
Teslyn pulled away. “I’ve got it.”
He held the door for them, and she carefully walked to his truck. It was high off the ground, and she struggled to get Ivy onto the bench seat in the back, still refusing his help.
“I’m going to grab some pillows and blankets,” he said.
“They belong to the rental unit.”
“We need them for Ivy.”
She looked torn for a moment before nodding her approval. She climbed into the cab of the truck as he ran back to get them. The inside of his vehicle was spotless, with leather seats and what looked like real wood on the dashboard. There was nothing to give her any insight into his personality, no fuzzy dice or travel mug with his favorite football team emblazoned on the side, and she thought of her own car, with its “Dogs welcome, people tolerated,” cup coaster and crystal blue jay hanging from the mirror.
Not everyone has a personality.
He certainly didn’t seem to have one, and not just because of his truck. For all he’d managed to eke out of her about her own life and the trailer fire, she knew next to nothing about him, and she vowed to rectify that while they drove.
Of course, not knowing him hadn’t kept her pulse from leaping when he’d grabbed her arm, and it hadn’t made her any less excited when his gaze had dipped to her breasts beneath her thin nightgown. She rolled her eyes. The fabric wasn’t that thin. She was kidding herself to think he’d even noticed.
It had been too long since a man looked at her with interest in his eyes, and maybe she missed it more than she wanted to admit. Images from her adolescence flashed in her mind, Marilyn’s boyfriends with their greedy eyes and even faster hands. She took a big breath in and held it, letting it go over a count of four like her therapist had taught her.
It didn’t help.
Growing up, her burgeoning sexuality had been a double-edged sword. Being attractive to men—and being attracted to them—brought up a lot of baggage she’d been using to avoid relationships in her adult life. She’d struggled enough with her sexuality in Osprey. The last thing she needed was to struggle with it now—Wyatt Sorenson’s smoldering hazel eyes be damned.
Besides, it was just her reliance on him that had her warming up to the man, not any real enjoyment of his company. It was like Stockholm syndrome or something, a kind of reverse Florence Nightingale effect, clearly psychological and borne of her desperate need for help. Satisfied with that answer, she let her eyes drift closed.
His door opened, startling her. “I got you some, too,” he said, holding out a pillow and a blanket so fuzzy she nearly moaned out loud at the texture.
“Thank you.”
He moved to the back door and tucked pillows on either side of Ivy, covering her with a puffy Thomas the Tank Engine comforter before closing the door as quietly as he could. He climbed in the cab. “You all set?”
She nodded, instantly struck by how much had changed since the last trip she’d undertaken less than twenty-four hours earlier. Then, she’d been alone, anonymous, and free. Now she was one of three, and wanted for crimes she hadn’t committed. The first trip should clearly have been the better of the two, but she wasn’t so sure, and that uncertainty had her rattled.
Maybe I’m out of my mind.
