Almost A Honeymoon. Susan Crosby

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СКАЧАТЬ momentary cease-fire helped Paige find her center of control again. She turned slowly to the driver and extended her hand. “Please call me Paige. And you are?”

      He accepted the gesture of friendliness. “Lloyd, Miss O’Halloran. A light snack awaits you, as you can see. I didn’t know your preference of beverage, so you’ll find a variety to choose from. If there’s nothing further?”

      “Not unless you can snap your fingers and have this mess disappear.”

      “Good night, then.” He touched two fingers to his forehead in salute. “Sir.”

      Rye roused himself to say goodbye. He was so tired he could hardly stand. And Paige wasn’t making his life any easier. He watched her lift the cellophane off a tray of fruit and grab a bunch of red grapes before seating herself on the couch. He eyed the sofa hungrily, starved for sleep. His gaze shifted as she crossed one leg over the other. She arched her foot until her shoe fell to the floor, recrossed her legs and rid herself of the other shoe, then bounced her foot rhythmically as she popped one grape after another into her mouth. Her chewing slowed as she caught him staring.

      “What?” she asked, the belligerent tone bringing him back to awareness.

      Ignoring her, he slid out of his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Slowly, he moved to fix himself a plate of fruit, cheese and crackers. He uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and poured a glass. “Want some?”

      No answer. He turned around and found her staring at the weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

      She lifted her gaze. “Where did you get that? You couldn’t have had it on the plane.”

      “Lloyd passed it to me as I climbed into the car. The holster’s in my bag. Why? Do guns bother you?”

      “I’ve never known anyone who had one. I guess it makes everything seem so real.”

      “I don’t waste my time on games, Harry. Wine?”

      “Umm, yeah. Thanks. I guess I should have offered you some food. Sorry. I can’t quite assimilate all of this yet.”

      He passed her the glass. “Just work with me, Paige. I’ll try to make this as painless as possible. Maybe after we’ve spent a few days together, we’ll find a way to—”

      “Days?” she repeated. “How many days?”

      “I couldn’t even guess.”

      “But what about...”

      He sat beside her and sipped his wine before placing it on the low table before them. “What about what?”

      “Christmas. It’s only four days away.”

      Her voice seemed suddenly small and faraway. He wondered at it, and at the expression that settled on her face, worry mixed with hurt. A Scrooge who likes Christmas? Deciding not to taunt her with the observation, he instead held his plate toward her. “Have some, if you want. We may have you back in time for Christmas. I can’t make any promises.”

      She absently picked up a slice of Cheddar and nibbled on it. “I have to be home for Christmas,” she said softly, adamantly, after a minute of silence.

      Rye shook his head. He really needed sleep. He devoured the rest of the food then stood and returned the empty plate to the table. “I can’t hold my eyes open. I’m going to sleep on the couch. Lloyd will be outside for tonight, so don’t worry about anything.”

      “I guess I’m being sent to bed.” She stood, sweeping up her shoes as she did so.

      He brushed by her to use the bathroom, and she filled her wineglass and fixed herself a plate of food while he was gone before retreating with it to the bedroom, elbowing the door shut as he dropped a blanket and pillow on the sofa.

      “Don’t use the telephone,” he cautioned just as the door clicked shut.

      She pulled it open after a few seconds, having divested herself of the food and wine. “Why not?”

      “There’s a lot of sophisticated tracing equipment out there. One call, and your location could be pinpointed.”

      “I want to call my father.”

      “It’s after one o’clock in Boston.”

      “So?”

      “Don’t you think he’ll be asleep?”

       “So?”

      Rye opened a suitcase Lloyd had packed for him and pulled out a T-shirt and sweatpants. “This isn’t his fault, Harry. He’s been notified we’re here. Let him sleep.”

      She took several long strides into the room. “Why should I? Why the hell should I? He’s treating me like a child! Why didn’t he tell me what was going on? He hired you without so much as a hint to me, his very adult daughter. And you, you dragged out the charade, letting me think I was in danger from you. I’ll bet you got a real kick out of that, didn’t you?”

      He stood there listening but not hearing. Promises of sleep buzzed in his ears then rolled in waves down to his toes. He pulled his gun from his waistband and set it on the table beside the couch. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

      She lifted her hands and laughed without humor at the ceiling. “I see. Another Patrick O’Halloran, are you? Your timetable. Your rules.”

      “Paige—” He dropped onto the sofa.

      “Your tone is quite clear, Warner. ‘Pity the poor emotional woman. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’ I’ve got news for you—I can damn well take care of myself.”

      One boot fell to the carpet, then the other. He stood and turned to face her squarely. Her belligerent pose almost drew a smile, but he held it back, figuring she would hurl another accusation at him. “Look, Harry, I’ve had about four hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. I can’t deal with you right now.” He peeled his turtleneck over his head; he moved his hands to his belt buckle. “Now, you can stay here and watch if you want. I’m not particularly modest. But it would kind of shatter our professional relationship, don’t you think?”

      Three

      Her gaze wandered over him, dispassionately at first, then with interest. He saw the change as it unfolded, was unwillingly flattered by it, but shoved it aside. Resolutely, he unbuttoned his jeans, expecting her to run off. She didn’t budge. Her steady observation began to burn him, a core of heat that pooled low and fiery and spread through his limbs. She swallowed; he battled a desert-dry mouth.

      He hooked his thumbs in the waist of his jeans and inched them down. “Sorry, I don’t have the finesse of an exotic dancer—”

      Her eyes widened, as if finally aware of what she was seeing. He shoved the jeans down and off. The black cotton briefs covered the essentials, although not for much longer if she didn’t avert her eyes soon.

      “Seen enough?” he queried.

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