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Barrie and Gray lay still, unwitting eavesdroppers to the sad parting of the illicit lovers. Finally the interlude ended when the man climbed into the cab of his truck and drove away.

Once they were in motion and the radio was blaring again, Gray yanked the quilt from over their heads. He avoided looking at Barrie. Now that it—whatever it had been—was over, he felt exactly as he had when the preacher caught his daughter and him beneath a peach tree, comparing the two best ideas God had ever had.

He lowered himself out of the loft. “Get down and get dressed.”

He knew he sounded brusque, but he also knew that he couldn’t afford to sound any other way. She’d made him forget all his training. He knew how to withstand enemy torture, to disassociate his mind from physical pain. The Marines hadn’t trained him to withstand Barrie Travis.

She managed to climb down from the bunk on her own. Garth Brooks was singing through the speakers about drinking whiskey and beer with friends in low places. Gray was grateful for the noise. It helped relieve the awkward silence between them as Barrie put on the nurse’s uniform. Gray put his suit coat back on, then stepped into the overalls, zipped them up, and put a cap on his head.

When Barrie finished dressing, she sat down on the bench. He passed her the satchel he’d retrieved from the bunk. In the semidarkness, he saw that her eyes were wide and watchful. “That’s the first time you’ve kissed me.”

“So?”

“So aren’t we going to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re about to attempt the kidnapping of the First Lady of the United States. We should be thinking about the operation.”

“The operation? I’m a woman, Gray. Not one of your recons.”

“You insisted on coming along. If you don’t like the way I command the mission, you can stay behind. But I need to concentrate, so—”

“One question? Please?”

“What is it?”

“Was it good for you, baby?”

He tried not to smile, but couldn’t help it. He even uttered a passable laugh. “Shut up, Barrie.”

“I thought so.” Then she gave him that soft, smug, knowing smile that a woman gives a man when she knows she’s got him where she wants him.

After that she obediently remained quiet. Not another word was spoken until the pickup began to slow down. The driver turned off the radio as he came to a stop at the guard gate.

Gray looked across at her and whispered, “Well, we’re here.”

Chapter Forty

Two of the three men approached the driver’s side of Daily’s car. The other moved around to the passenger door. They were opened simultaneously. “Mr. Welsh?”

“Who wants to know?”

He was taken by the arm and pulled from the front seat. He heard a pop and a swish of air and realized that Dolly was history, stabbed in the chest with a pocket knife.

“Hey!” Daily shouted. “Was that necessary? Who the hell do you think you are?” It was hard to sound tough when breathing was an exertion. He sounded so goddamn weak, he could have laughed at himself.

The three men weren’t laughing, however. In fact, they were the grimmest trio he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. One more and they’d have reminded him of that merry band, the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

“We think we’re the FBI.” They flashed badges at him.

“Yeah, right,” he said sarcastically, knowing them to be Spencer Martin’s heavies.

“We’ve been following you all evening, Mr. Welsh,” said the one who was obviously in charge. “Did you really think we’d fall for that stupid-looking doll? We’re not idiots, you know. A woman who never speaks, never moves?”

“Is that a legitimate question or a commentary on your sex life?”