Baby Dreams. Raye Morgan

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       Three

      Rafe Lonewolf, sheriff, and Billie Joe Calloway, con artist extraordinaire. This was going to be some night. He looked at her narrowly, and she looked right back. It was evident that whatever had spooked her a few minutes earlier was under control now. She had her confidence back, and her spirit.

      She plunked herself in the chair and he sat back down in front of the typewriter, and she watched for a moment as he filled in spaces on the form.

      He was just a man. And as the song went, she’d known a lot of men before. Now that her pulse had calmed and her nerves had steadied, she couldn’t imagine what had upset her so much a few minutes earlier. She couldn’t let this situation, this man, this night, get to her. She was woman, she was strong, and all that. And he was just a man.

      And she was no victim. She could hold her own, and she could act like an equal. She could, in fact, go on the offense. That was often the best defensive strategy anyway. Put him off his guard. Keep him guessing. She wet her lips and launched her game plan.

      “That’s quite a little Hitler complex you’ve got there,” she said, speaking softly, as though she were musing about an interesting detail rather than accusing him of being a world-class despot.

      He glanced up, determined not to take her too seriously. “No. I’ve got a cop complex. That’s all.”

      “Hmm,” she reflected, studying her fingernails. “Suspicious, cynical, mean. It can’t be much fun going through life like that.”

      He leaned back in his chair and looked at her as though she’d brought up speaking ancient Greek as a recreational activity. “Fun isn’t what life is all about,” he reminded her.

      She nodded. “You’re right. But it sure does help you get over the rough spots.” She glanced around the room. “What do you do around here for fun? Or is arresting innocent people the way you get your kicks?”

      “No. I work. I sleep. I read.”

      She stared at him. Suddenly she was really concerned. “That’s it?” she said incredulously. So that was the answer, that was what made him so mean. He was a grouch because he was badly socialized. Hope surged again. Cami was a can-do woman, and she liked nothing better than finding potential solutions to problems. She’d been struggling with this problem, this man, for about an hour now. And finally she saw light at the end of the tunnel.

      Nothing could be simpler. All she had to do was make friends with him, like you would a snarling dog, bit by bit, offering a snack, extending a hand…

      “Listen, you need to break out of your routine,” she told him kindly. “You need something new in your life.”

      “Thanks, but no thanks.”

      He didn’t look grateful for her sensitive suggestions. Still, these things took time.

      He typed another line in the form and she frowned, trying to think of something to offer him. “You know, I’m probably a faster typist than you are,” she said. “Would you like me to fill it out?”

      She could have sworn he was rolling his eyes, but he didn’t turn back to face her, so she couldn’t tell for sure.

      “No,” he said simply.

      “Could I get you a fresh cup of coffee?”

      “No, thanks.”

      Her mouth tightened. If he wasn’t going to cooperate, this experiment in the building of an understanding between them was going to be harder than she’d thought at first. A tiny doubt tugged at her. What if he were incapable of unbending? What if he were just born mean, and that was that? But she couldn’t accept anything so hopeless. She was made of sterner stuff. She pressed on, thinking hard.

      Suddenly she sat up straighter, struck with an idea. “How about this? How long has it been since you’ve had your fortune read?”

      That got to him. He turned and stared at her. “My what?”

      She stuck out her slim fingers. “Give me your hand,” she ordered.

      “What?”

      “Your hand,” she said impatiently. “Let me see it.”

      He shook his head. No way. Was she crazy? The prisoner did not act like this. Prisoners were scared and hesitant, or they were brash and unruly, in which case they had to be cuffed. One or the other. Prisoners did not offer to make you cups of coffee. Prisoners did not ask to see your hand.

      So why was it that he was extending that very same hand, palm up, and letting her hold it? He didn’t know. Forces beyond his understanding seemed to be at work here. They weren’t following the rules. Things were very close to spinning out of control.

      Her touch was cool and smooth and light. He felt a strange buzzing in his ears as she held his hand, like the fleeting high from a quick drink taken on an empty stomach. He was crazy to let this go on. But it sure did feel nice.

      His hand was in hers and she was studying it closely, noting its clean, hard lines, its strength. He had nice hands with straight nails and hard yet uncallused palms. She liked СКАЧАТЬ