“We’re in Texas. You really think they have a law like that? They’re worse than Colorado. And you really think I’d give a flying fuck if they did? Bring me a beer and join me.”
“When pigs fly.”
“If you do, maybe I’ll answer some of your questions.” She knew he regretted the words as soon as he said them, but she also knew he’d stick to them. She was beginning to realize he had a peculiar sense of honor. He might have killed people—she didn’t want to think how many—but he wouldn’t go back on his word.
Opening the tiny stainless-steel fridge again, she pulled out another Guinness, opened it, and carefully made her way to the front of the camper. She dropped into the passenger seat, then glanced around her. The front of the Winnebego looked its age, though she knew that was deceptive. The vinyl seats were cracked and mended with duct tape, the dashboard was dusty, and some of the dials were cracked or simply not working. There was no such thing as a cup holder.
Without taking his eyes from the road, he reached out and took the Guinness from her, taking a long pull before settling it between his legs. Naturally her eyes followed, and she jerked them away, determinedly staring out the window. She didn’t want to be looking at his crotch, thinking about his crotch.
“I thought you were a dedicated believer in seat belts,” he drawled easily.
Of course she looked back, surprised to see he was wearing his, and she hastily reached for hers. She had no choice but to tuck her bottle between her own thighs, and the icy chill of the glass was an odd stimulation,
one she had no intention of letting him see. She leaned back in her seat, took another drink, and glanced over at him. At his face, not where he’d set his bottle of beer.
“You said you’d answer questions.”
“I did, didn’t I?” He sounded faintly disgruntled.
“So let’s start with the most obvious one. Exactly who and what are you?” She made it sound like he was an alien artifact or a lost species of snake, which wasn’t far from the truth.
“I think we’d better get some ground rules established. If you think I’m going to while away the next five hours telling you the story of my life and a whole lot of the kinds of secrets I’d need to kill you for, you’re mistaken. I didn’t go this far to protect you only to have to turn around and cap you myself. I’ll give you . . . let’s say five questions, which I’ll answer to the best of my ability, as long as it won’t put you in more jeopardy.”
She stared at him, his elegant profile so familiar and yet so different without that mop of dark hair. His short blond hair was growing out a bit, and the roots were darker, but not the mahogany shade his hair had been in Italy, and his scruffy beard was brown and flecked with bits of gray, which shocked her.
“Exactly what color is your hair?” she demanded. “Your eyes, for that matter? Sometimes you look like a complete stranger, and other times I know you far too well.”
“My real hair, last time I saw it, was a sandy brown and I’m not wearing contacts right now. What you see is what you get. That’s two.”
“Two what?” Of course he’d end up having gorgeous eyes. The deep ocean blue of them was almost unbelievable, but she’d somehow known they were the real thing.
“Two questions, Angel. You’ve got three more.”
“That’s not fair!” she said, outraged.
He shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
The cheating bastard. “I’ll take it,” she said, reaching for his beer bottle without thinking, planning to grab the beer back. Reaching between his legs.
He moved his hand so quickly, she had no time to pull back, and held her hand against the bottle nestled in his crotch, against his zipper, against a part of him that was indisputably hard.
She yanked her hand back as if it were burned, moving to unfasten her seat belt, ready to stomp back into the cabin, or as close to stomping as she could manage with her bruised leg, when his words stopped her.
“You still have three questions. You aren’t going to have this chance again, so you’d better take advantage of it while I’m still in such a cooperative mood.”
She stayed put. She had little doubt he could drink any number of beers and be unimpaired, but the same couldn’t be said for her. One beer was her limit—pathetic, but there it was—and hers was already half gone, relaxing her when she didn’t want to be relaxed.
“All right. But I don’t want you answering until I tell you it’s one of my questions. I need to think about this.”
“Take your time,” he said affably. “We’ve got miles of highway between us and our next destination, and your company is, as always, delightful.”
She didn’t give in to temptation and call him a nasty name, mainly because she believed, in a strange sort of way, he actually meant it. Or maybe she was just telling herself that, but she didn’t care.
“I want to know who and what you are.”
“That’s two . . .”
“I told you, no answers until I tell you what my actual question is. I want to know who James Bishop is. Who do you work for, and what in God’s name your job is that you’d know how to kill people? Are you CIA, FBI?” She realized her first guesses would immediately make him one of the good guys, and she quickly added, “Or are you a criminal, which seems more than likely. Don’t answer!”