She shoved his shoulders, pushing him away. Scrambling from the bed, she grabbed her pants and put them on. She heard the strike of a match then smelled cigarette smoke.

She swung around and grabbed the cigarette from his mouth. It was bent and smashed, as if he’d found it under a sofa cushion. Thinking about it made her feel sick. Thinking about what they’d just done made her feel sicker.

Before he had a chance to get the cigarette back, she ran to the bathroom and tossed it in the toilet. It hit the water with a sizzle, the paper becoming transparent, the tobacco seeping out, turning the water a yellow-brown.

She reached for the lever to flush the toilet. She had to get rid of the slimy cigarette. Her stomach heaved. She squeezed her eyes shut, but that wasn’t any better. With her eyes closed, she could see the cigarette butt as if it were still there.

In the bedroom, Daniel ran shaking fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d wanted to get back at her for her stinging insults to his manhood and sexual prowess. He hadn’t wanted her to think he was softening toward her. And she was right, he’d wanted to get her out of his system.

Sure, she’d come there with the intent of taking the town of Egypt for a ride, but that didn’t justify his treating her like that. No woman should be treated like that.

She’d been in the bathroom quite a while. Probably waiting for him to leave. Instead of leaving, he got to his feet, knocked softly on the bathroom door, then pushed it open.

She stood with her back against the wall, her eyes closed. In the weird light cast by the small fluorescent bulb, her face looked colorless, except for bruises beneath her eyes. He started to reach for her, but his hand stopped a few inches from her arm. She’d probably prefer he didn’t touch her.

“Listen,” he began. How had this happened? What a hell of a day it had been. Or two days-it would be morning soon. “I’m sorry.”

“Go.” The word came on an exhalation of air, as if she hardly had the energy to get it out.

He frowned. How many days had she been in Egypt? Three? Four? It looked as if she’d lost weight in the short time she’d been there. He thought back to that first day, when she’d eaten with them. She’d thrown up.

Yeah, but she ate breakfast at the hotel, he told himself.

But had she? Really? Had he seen her eat anything? No.

His stomach plunged. Was there something wrong with her?

He reached for her again, and this time he touched her, his fingers wrapping lightly around her arm. “You’ve got to get some sleep.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. Like a zombie, she let him lead her from the bathroom to the bed. Once there, she sat down, then rolled away, her face to the wall, her back to him, her knees drawn close.

He pulled the sheet over her, then looked around for a spread and spotted a piece of orange fabric protruding from under the bed. He pulled it out and started to drape in over her when she said quite clearly, “Nothing orange. I don’t want anything orange.”

He looked at the spread clutched in his hands. You couldn’t get much more orange than that. He turned on the lamp, turned off the overhead light, and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.

It wasn’t long before he heard her steady breathing.

He should go home, he would go home, but he couldn’t make himself leave. He opened the drawer under the phone, expecting to see the usual Gideon Bible. A brown pill bottle rolled to the front. He picked it up and read the label. Cleo Tyler. Take one four times daily for anxiety.

The address was Seattle. He didn’t know she’d lived in Seattle. But then, he didn’t really know anything about Cleo Tyler except that she hated him. And had every right to.

Chapter Sixteen

Cleo came awake in stages, awareness gradually filtering in. The room was dark, but she sensed it was morning, possibly late morning. The air conditioner clanked away, blowing musty breath around the room. She remembered Daniel had been there before she’d fallen asleep, but he must have left sometime later.

She checked the bedside clock. 9:30 a.m. She let her head drop back on the pillow. Had Daniel said something about Jo wanting her to come in for another reading? She couldn’t go through that again. And she didn’t want to see Daniel. Ever.

She got up and showered, trying to keep her bare feet away from the shower drain. There was no telling what lurked there. Afterward, dressed in jeans and a black top, she didn’t feel a whole lot cleaner, the odor of the motel room having seeped into her pores. It was hard to say how long it would take to get the stink out of her system once she left, which would be soon.

Someone knocked. Through a crack in the louvered windows, she peered out. Daniel stood in front of her door, a cardboard carryout tray in his hands. Behind him, the sky was dark and threatening.

She pressed her back to the wall.

He knocked again. “Open up, Cleo.”

Why hadn’t she set the alarm so she could have gotten out of town before anyone was up? But she’d been so tired. She was so tired.

She heard the sound of a key slipping into the lock.

He had a key to her room! The bastard had a key to her room!

She was poised to dive under the bed when she remembered the orange bedspread. All she could do was stand there, back to the wall as the door swung open, sending a rectangle of gray light onto the smashed shag carpet.

He kicked the door shut behind him and put the tray down on the foot of the bed before he spotted Cleo standing in the corner.

“I thought you might want something to eat before we go to the police station.” He settled himself on the bed, gently so as not to tip anything over. “I was going to get orange juice, but then I thought-” His words broke off. His gaze dropped to the floor where a corner of the orange bedspread stuck out from under the gray mattress. “I got coffee,” he went on. “Muffins. Didn’t have much to choose from at the Quick Stop.”

“Milk?” she asked, moving out of the darkness, taking a couple of hesitant steps toward the bed. “Did you get any milk?” Something white would be nice. Something white and pure and clean.

“As a matter of fact, I did.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a small carton of milk.

He’d brought her milk.

He held out the carton, his arm stretched as far as it could stretch. Without moving any closer, she reached, and with trembling fingers took the milk from him, the cruelty of the previous night almost obliterated by his gift.

She struggled with the carton. It didn’t open smoothly, and now the place where she would have to put her mouth was a jagged, rough tear. She knew how it would feel against her bottom lip. Like stringy, soggy, saturated paper.

“Here.”

From somewhere, maybe the sack, he produced a fresh paper cup. He took the milk, poured, added a straw, and handed it back.

She put the straw in her mouth and began to drink. She felt the liquid run down her throat to settle, cold and comforting, in her stomach. “I love milk,” she told him.

“No kidding.”

She tipped the cup and sucked hard on the straw, getting every last drop.

“Want a muffin?’ he asked.

She looked up to see him holding a muffin, the top a smooth golden brown.

“What kind?” she asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know. It was the only one left.” He peeled the paper from one side and broke it open. Plain. Plain and white.

Before he could come up with a diagnosis, she grabbed it, broke off a piece, and popped it in her mouth. It melted on her tongue. “I love plain things.”

“Coffee?” he asked.

She shook her head. “You drink it.” The cup was white, which was good, but it was made of Styrofoam, which was bad. Small pieces of Styrofoam could break off and float on the oily surface of the coffee.