“Six years.”
Garrett's sudden cryptic disclosure, startled Murphy. She took her attention off the road long enough to send him a curious glance. And immediately wished she hadn't.
He was staring at her mouth, staring at it hard, and his eyes had darkened to a lusty shade of midnight blue.
She felt a shiver of excitement trickle warmly down her spine as even the most minuscule memory of his kiss—the taste of him, the spicy male scent, the feel of her softer, smaller body pressed against his solid chest—came back to her with nerve-shattering clarity.
Swallowing hard, she tore her gaze from his and shifted it back to the road. The windshield had fogged up again. Wiping it vigorously with her sleeve turned out to be a good diversion from her otherwise disturbing thoughts.
“That's how long I've been with the EHPD. East Hartford Police Department,” he explained. “Six years. Seven come February.”
“Oh,” Murphy said, still not sure she believed him about that. Logically, she had no reason not to believe him. Except a duffel bag crammed full of unexplained money and jewelry. And a gun she'd purposely left behind. “It must be an, um, interesting job.”
“That's one word for it. Boring would be a better.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “You can only write out so many speeding tickets before the novelty wears off, Murphy.”
She grinned despite herself. “Ooo, you're modest! Garrett, I'm familiar with cops, remember? Comes with my"—she'd been about to say job, but quickly changed her mind—"with the territory. I know you do a lot more than write out speeding tickets. The life of a cop is anything but boring.”
From the corner of her eye, Murphy saw him grin. It took a second for her breathing to resume, and for her to realize exactly what that breathtaking smile of his meant.
A trickle of unease iced down her spine. The fingers of her left hand gripped the steering wheel, while her right balled into a fist. It was the fist Murphy smacked into his unbelievably hard shoulder. Her eyes narrowed, flashing accusation. “You rat! You tricked me!”
Garrett sneezed twice, then sniffled loudly. “Yeah, I did. Sorry, sweetheart, but I had to know.”
Murphy's posture became rebelliously straight. “You couldn't have just asked me whether or not I believed you? What you just did, Garrett Thayer, was unnecessary, underhanded and…well, it was just plain low!”
“Hey, calm down. I said I was sorry.”
“Sorry isn't good enough! I like it when people are up front with me. I don't like being baited, and I sure as heck don't like it when—!” Murphy stopped yelling abruptly. The cold night air stung her lungs and turned her breath to fog as she sucked in a deep breath, blew it out very slowly, then repeated the process twice more. When she felt sufficiently composed, she said contritely, “My turn to be sorry.”
Garrett glanced at her. “Why? What did you do?”
“I yelled at you, and I shouldn't have.”
“Why not?”
Murphy rolled her eyes. “Knock it off, Thayer. Accept the apology as it stands, no conditions, or I'll be tempted to yell at you again.”
“Fine, I accept it.”
Garrett laughed, a deep, rich baritone that filled the crowded confines of the Rabbit. It was, Murphy realized with a start, a pleasant laugh. One she wouldn't mind hearing again. Often.
THE PAIN WAS starting to get to him. Garrett felt every bump they drove over—and they drove over a lot of them—as though it was a knife cutting through the muscles in his thigh. Murphy had draped a blanket over his lap when she'd come back to the car with his duffel bag and her cat. Garrett now used his good leg to kick the blanket to the floor. He was hot. He suspected he had a fever. That was not a reassuring sign.
Talking helped. It gave him something to think about besides the pain. He found he enjoyed talking to Murphy. She was pleasant, intelligent, polite. Hell, she even yelled nicely…then, just as nicely, apologized for it.
That was rare. And fascinating. Oh, who was Garrett trying to kid? She was fascinating.
He'd had her pegged for a school teacher, but she wasn't. She was a social worker. That had thrown him, but only for a second. Once he'd had a chance to think about it, he decided the profession suited her.
What didn't suit her was the insinuation that she was going to either quit her job or be fired from it. For some reason it didn't sit right. Murphy wasn't a quitter—the way she'd stuck by him proved that. Yet somehow, he couldn't imagine her doing anything so bad that someone would want to fire her for it.
Something had happened at her job to upset her to the point where she was considering leaving it. Something big. He was sure of it. But what?
Whatever it was, he'd hit close to it earlier. Close enough to make the most even-tempered woman he'd ever met yell at him.