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A sob burst from her throat. “Come on,” she said, turning the key, “come on, damn it. Start!”
“Taylor!” Another blow against the window. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
Getting away. That was what she was doing. Dante had destroyed everything she’d built over the last years. He’d taken her home with a stroke of the pen, her pride with a kiss she hadn’t wanted, her reputation with an X-rated scene she didn’t want to think about.
And all he’d proved was what they’d both already known, that he was powerful and brutal, that he had no heart. That he could still make her respond to him, make her forget what he was and drown in his kisses….
“Taylor!”
She turned the key again. Not even a cough this time. Calm down, she told herself. Take it easy. The engine needed work, she knew that, but it had gotten her here, hadn’t it?
The car wouldn’t start because of the cold, that was all. Or maybe she’d flooded it. You could fit what she knew about cars inside a thimble and have room for the rest of the sewing kit, but wasn’t there something about not giving a cold engine too much—
The station wagon rocked under the force of Dante’s fist.
“Damn you, woman, are you out of your mind? Get out of that car! You can’t drive in a blizzard.”
She couldn’t stay here, either. Not with him. And there was Sam to worry about. Was Sam safe at the Millers’? Yes. Of course. Sheryl and Dan were Sam’s friends as well as hers. Still, she’d worry until she reached home.
If there was one thing life had taught her, it was that anything was possible.
One last try. Turn the key. Touch the gas pedal lightly…
Nothing. Nothing! Tally screamed in frustration and pounded the heels of her hands against the steering wheel.
“Listen to me,” Dante said, calmly now, as
if he were trying to talk sense to a child.
How could she not listen? They were inches apart, separated only by glass.
“Come back inside until the storm is over. I won’t touch you. I swear it.”
She almost laughed. What could he possibly know of a New England winter? The storm might last for days. Days, alone with him? With a man who’d just promised not to touch her in a way that made it clear he was sure she was helpless against him?
“Taylor. Be reasonable. We’ll phone for help. This town has snowplows, doesn’t it?”
Of course it did. But would the phones work? The first thing that always failed in bad weather were the telephone lines.
“Damn you, woman,” Dante roared. “Can’t you be without your lover for a few hours? Would you risk your neck, just to get back to him?”
So much for logic and reason.
Dante cursed, yanked at the door and it flew open. Tally grabbed for the handle but he was already leaning into the car, gathering her into his arms and striding to the bank through the blinding snow, head bent against the shrieking wind.
When they reached the entrance, he put her down.
“Just stand still,” he said grimly. “Once we’re inside, I’ll call the police. For all I give a damn, you can lock yourself in the vault until they arrive.”
He reached for the brass handle and pulled.
Nothing happened.
He grunted, wrapped both hands around the handle and pulled harder. But the doors were locked.
He spat out a word in Sicilian. Tally didn’t need a translator to know what it meant. Here was one situation he couldn’t control. Neither could she. The doors were probably on a timer. They wouldn’t open until Monday.
People died in storms like this, and she knew it.
