She’d already closed the door, or she would have simply thrown herself out of it and run. As it was, she started to edge toward it, very slowly.
“Don’t do that.” The voice that came out of the darkness was laid-back, casual, making the order even more chilling. “Why don’t you take a seat on the bed and we’ll talk.”
She stopped moving. “I don’t want to talk,” she said. She should have been terrified, but she’d given up being afraid five years ago—she’d given up letting anything or anyone intimidate her after that debacle. “Whoever you are, I want you to leave. How did you even get in here?”
He leaned back against the banquette, his hand playing with the gun, and she got a better look at him. His blond hair was cut short, and he had several days of stubble that was either due to necessity or a fashion statement. For some reason she thought it was the former. He wore rough clothes—a denim shirt and jeans—and there was a certain implacability to his face that made Evangeline’s stomach twist. She wasn’t going to let him scare her, she thought firmly.
“How do you think I got in?” The man’s voice held no particular inflection or accent, making it even more unnerving. “When you were being harassed at the border. I needed a safe way to get out of Canada and your camper was the perfect vehicle.”
“Good. Now leave.”
He laughed, and the sound made her stomach twist more. Was it fear this time? Or something else?
“Afraid I can’t do that. I have things I have to do, and you’re the only game in town.”
She kept her back straight, her hands at her sides but curled into fists. “Are you an escaped prisoner?” she demanded flatly. With his clothes and his cool, expressionless face he could have walked off a work farm of some sort.
“Not exactly.”
That wasn’t much of an answer, but since he hadn’t threatened her yet, except to play with that gun, she felt her courage harden. “What do I have to do to get you to leave?”
She didn’t miss his slow grin. “What are you offering?”
She didn’t react to his deliberate taunt. “My dog will tear your throat out when he gets back.”
“I don’t think so. Otherwise he wouldn’t have left.”
“Is someone else with you? He might have gone after something in the woods.”
“So many questions,” he said lightly. “No, I’m alone. Why don’t you come closer?”
“I’m good,” she said, not moving from the spot in front of the doorway. She still hadn’t given up the idea of throwing herself at the door. If she managed it just right, she could hit the handle and the door would fly open, sending her tumbling to the ground. She could scramble to her feet fast enough, but he had a gun.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said, obviously reading her mind. “You wouldn’t even reach the door. Now come here before I have to come and get you.”
That idea sounded even worse. Maybe if she sat at the table and pretended to trust him she could talk him into leaving. The stranger was wrong about Merlin—he’d get the gun away, he’d get the man on the ground and hold him. She just had to
placate him for the next few minutes while Merlin did his nightly reconnaissance.
“All right,” she said, moving forward.
“And get me another beer while you’re at it.”
Her outrage grew. “You’ve been drinking my beer?”
“And eating your granola shit and anything else I could find. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to get to any food in the last couple of days, and I’m starving.”
She moved through the central galley, opened the tiny refrigerator, and pulled out a beer.
“Get one for yourself,” he added.
“I don’t want . . .”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you want. I told you to get yourself a beer.”
She recognized the real menace beneath the casual voice, and she wasn’t going to make the mistake in thinking he wasn’t a very dangerous man. She grabbed the second bottle, shoved the door shut, and somehow managed to stalk the few feet she had to travel to get to the table. He looked up at her, still in the shadows. “Sit.”
She considered balking, but he was holding the gun, and Merlin would be back soon. She sat, staring into the face of the intruder, getting her first good look at him.