The Getaway Read Free Page B

cupboard, Jazz eyed the mug suspiciously. Dandelion coffee, huh? She half expected to see little yellow petals floating in it. But it looked like coffee, and smelled like coffee. She raised it to her mouth and took a tentative sip.
    It tasted like heaven.
    “My God,” she murmured. Another swallow, and the taste coated her throat—silky smooth, nutty and sweet, better than anything Starbucks ever dreamed about serving. And somehow, familiar. “This is dandelions?”
    “Mountain grown. The best kind,” Seth said without turning.
    “It’s fantastic.” She’d tasted this before. Impossible, but she knew the flavor. She drank again, trying to remember. It seemed important.
    Her eyelids grew heavy. At once, she wanted nothing more than to stretch out, right here on the table, and close them. But she shouldn’t want that. “Seth,” she said thickly. “I think...”
    He turned, and his concerned features appeared to distort. “Maybe you should rest before we go,” he said. “Just for a little while. You’ve had such a hard night.”
    “Rest,” she slurred. “I need rest.”
    You need to get out! He’s drugged you!
    Even if her mind had managed to grasp the warning, her body couldn’t obey. She slid smoothly toward sleep, the mug falling from her fingers and toppling on the table. An errant phrase, stark and baffling, imprinted on her thoughts just before she dropped unconscious.
    The nectar of the gods.
     
    * * *
     
    S omebody was banging on the door.
    “Go ’way,” Jazz muttered, pulling a pillow over her sickly throbbing head. Good lord, what had she done last night? This was one killer fucking hangover.
    Killer. Last night, she’d crashed the car. Killed Donatti. And was in a remote, inaccessible cabin with a lunatic who’d drugged her to sleep.
    She bolted upright. Same bedroom, same French doors, still wide open on an expanse of woods that glowed a rich gold in the slant of late afternoon light. Seth hadn’t tried to lock her in. Probably because he knew she had nowhere to go if she ran. So he hadn’t been lying about the miles-from-nowhere thing.
    The pounding came again, from the front of the cabin. No sign of Seth answering the door. Maybe he was the one banging—but why would he knock at his own place? Sluggish hope stirred in her. She got up and headed out of the room, holding her breath. Maybe the rangers had found the car, and come back to see if Seth knew anything about it.
    The bastard knew a lot about it. Too much.
    She passed through a hall, the kitchen, a den, and into a living room. Didn’t see Seth anywhere. There, the front door. More knocking sounded as she approached it—shorter, weaker. Like whoever was out there had decided nobody was home, but they’d try one more time anyway.
    Halfway across the room, she froze. She had no idea who or what was on the other side of that door. It could be a friend of Seth’s, even an accomplice. She scanned the room for something useful and weapon-like, spotted a fireplace, and a neatly corralled set of iron tools beside it. Perfect. She crossed to it, grabbed the heavy poker and went back to the door.
    A thud from outside shook the house.
    Drawing the poker back for a quick strike, Jazz turned the knob and yanked the door open. For a split second she saw no one. Then she spotted a bedraggled figure leaning on the outer wall, just to the left of the jamb. Male, filthy, gasping for breath. Bruised and bloodied.
    Donatti. Alive.
    The poker fell from her numb fingers. She rushed out to him, unable to speak. Embraced him mud, blood and all. He was soaked, fever-hot beneath his torn clothes. But so real. So very not dead.
    “Jazz. Thank God.” He strained to speak, returned the embrace one-armed. “Knew I’d find you. Sorry it...took so long.”
    The thousand questions she wanted to ask would have to wait. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said. “Can you walk?”
    He gave a rusty laugh. “Walked here. Would prefer to stop walking