Darker Than Midnight by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

sweatpants she owned, a nightshirt big enough to serve as a T-shirt for him, and a big hooded sweatshirt with the Syracuse University logo in bright orange on the front. She yanked the blanket, pillows and comforter from the bed and still shivering, moved back down the stairs, trailing fabric behind her.
    He sat on the floor, naked, knees drawn up, arms locked around them, head resting against them. He was close to the fire, apparently soaking up the heat. For a moment, she hesitated, just looking at him. Sitting there like that, in the firelight, he looked like a sculpture. Man in Hell, she thought. Who was this stranger who’d just saved her life? And how smart was she to let him into her house?
    She sighed, left the bedding on the bottom step, then moved toward him, deciding it wasn’t smart at all, but it was necessary. She didn’t have a choice.
    He lifted his head, and those eyes pinned her to the spot.
    â€œHere,” she said, handing him a dry towel. “Wipe down and then put these on.”
    He took the towel from her, seeming wary. She set the clothes on the mantel, then turned her back to him, removing the towel from her head and using it to wipe up the spots of water they’d left on the floor.
    When the floor was dry, she took the comforter and spread it there, tossed the pillows on top and set the blanket nearby. Then she moved the fireplace screen aside and added more logs to the fire.
    By the time she had replaced the screen, he was dressed. The sweatpants were comically short on his long legs, but the hooded sweatshirt was roomy enough. He’d pulled on the thick socks and rubbed his wet, dark hair with a towel so that it stuck up like the feathers of a wet hen, and he stood there, looking uncomfortable.
    She picked up her wet jeans, hung them over the fireplace screen, then reached for his discarded clothes to do the same. But as she began hanging them, he took them from her rather hastily.
    She stood there, blinking at him as he clutched the wet garments in his hands. “What are you afraid of?” she asked softly.
    He averted his eyes, draping the items over the screen himself, with great care. “I’ll go as soon as they’re dry.”
    â€œYou’re on the run,” she said. “You’re in hiding.”
    He said nothing, just bent to pick up the shoes, and placed them on the hearthstone, nearer the heat.
    â€œListen, you just saved my life, okay? Stay here until morning. If you don’t want me to ask any questions, I won’t. I owe you that much.”
    He stared at her for a long moment. “I…can’t…no one can know I’ve been here.”
    â€œNo? Why not?”
    He lowered his head tiredly.
    â€œI’m sorry. I said I wouldn’t ask questions, didn’t I?”
    He drew a breath, shivered a little.
    Jax lay down on the comforter and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. “It’s up to you,” she said. “Stay or go.”
    He stared at her for a long moment. Finally, he said, “If you tell anyone…I’m here…I’m as good as dead.”
    She opened her eyes, met his. She thought he might be a cop. She knew he was in trouble, on the run, from what she didn’t know. But he had saved her life, risked his own to do so. And she wasn’t the least bit afraid of him. “I sure as hell won’t be telling anyone tonight,” she said. “No phones hooked up yet. Cell doesn’t get reception in this spot, either. You have to drive up the road a mile.”
    He hesitated a moment longer, then he crawled into her makeshift nest on the floor, curling under the covers beside her.
    â€œMaybe tomorrow,” she said, “you’ll feel more like talking. Maybe I can help you with…with whatever it is that’s wrong.”
    â€œNo one can help me,” he said. And his voice sounded utterly hopeless. It clutched at her heart. Then he went on. “Why do