Текст книги "Forever And A Day"

Автор книги: Ann Gimpel

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Cursing, Lars exited his door staying low, got behind the wheel, and took off. If luck was with him, the bad guys wouldn’t try again because Monaco was crawling with cops. Part and parcel of the casinos, there were almost as many of them as there were gamblers. Maybe that would work in his favor.

•●•

Tamara paraded slowly up and down their hotel suite, trying to mimic a stripper and feeling nauseated. Damn the luck! Jaret had waited on more heroin, saying he wanted sex for the first time since she’d begun hanging around with him. Fortunately, he was doing himself. She hadn’t offered, and he hadn’t asked. He’d get close, and then he’d go soft and curse her. “Look sluttier,” he gasped. “I’m almost there.”

She strutted, bumping and grinding her hips. When that didn’t seem to do the trick, she tossed her head, hiding behind a sheaf of dark hair. Tamara racked her brain, trying to think of some exotic dancer moves, when he panted, “Do yourself.”

“Huh?” She spun and glanced at him, something she’d been trying to avoid. His face was blotchy and he had his cock in a death grip, but at least it was still hard.

“Sit in that chair,” he flung an arm outward, “and frig yourself. I like to watch.”

She swallowed her surprise. This was a new development, but then everything since they’d returned to their rooms was. Why couldn’t he just shoot himself into oblivion and go to sleep? He reached over and slapped her ass with his free hand. “Move it, bitch.”

Tamara practically leaped away from him, settled onto the indicated chair, and closed a hand over each breast. She twirled her nipples into peaks before moving a hand between her legs. It was a long time since she’d come. She rubbed a finger over her clit, surprised to feel it swell beneath her ministrations. Maybe she wouldn’t have to fake arousal. She shut her eyes, called up an image of the fine-looking blond from earlier that night, and rubbed herself. In no time, her hips bucked against her hand as an orgasm rocked through her.

“Yes,” Jaret crowed from where he lay on the bed, jacking himself. “Do it again.”

Tamara caught her breath. She’d been so lost in her fantasy of the blond stranger sinking his mythical long, hot cock inside her and fucking her senseless, she’d almost forgotten about Jaret.

“Sure and you’re not wanting me to take care of you?” she asked, desperate to do something, anything, to get this over with faster, so she could get to the real business of the evening—killing him.

He shook his head. “No, I get hotter watching than anything else.” His hand moved faster and faster on himself. “Frig yourself, babe. I want to watch you when I come.”

She moved her fingers over her swollen clit again and shoved two fingers from her other hand inside her pussy. It felt damned good, too good. Her hands moved in a rhythm to match his as she thought of the blond again. She fingered her G-spot and shuddered against her hand about the same time he shrieked, and semen jetted from his red, swollen cock.

“We’ll have to do that again, sweetheart,” he crooned. “It takes time to get to know one another.”

You mean time to get comfortable letting your perversions swim to the surface. She bit back what she wanted to say and just smiled.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and headed for the bathroom. Thank fucking God. He’d dose himself now and be asleep in no time. She crawled under the covers and waited, feigning sleep. Sure enough, the bedsprings creaked, he rolled over, and was snoring within a few minutes.

She kept an eye on the clock. When half an hour had passed, she eased herself from the bed. Don’t think. Just do.

She’d formulated this a hundred times in her head. A thousand. The suite’s kitchen was fully stocked. She ignored its selection of knives and plucked her own from where she’d carefully hidden it in the bottom of her suitcase, gazing at the lethal expanse of steel. She’d purchased the six-inch blade right after they’d gotten to Monaco, during one of the rare occasions Jaret had allowed her out of his sight. Tamara brought the blade to her lips, murmured a silent prayer, and tiptoed back into the bedroom.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. She’d learned from her past attempts; if she took the time to do anything but strike, she’d lose her nerve. Jaret lay on his side, chin tipped, the vessels in his neck clearly outlined beneath his ruddy, Asian skin. The next few minutes would be hell. Would he attack her? It took time for people to die. Time for them to lose enough blood they were no longer a threat…

She sprang, plunged the knife deep, and swung it through jugular and carotid both. Jaret was slow, sluggish. He must have given himself a whopping dose of heroin, or else it had been stronger than he’d expected. Blood sprayed from his severed carotid, geysering several feet into the air. Shocked by the grisly scene, she hurtled off his body. He made a gurgling, whooshing sound and bounded off the bed right for her, driving her to the carpeted floor. She hoped the thud wouldn’t bring security running.

Her heart pounded. Sweat slicked her sides. She stabbed again and again with her knife. He closed his hands around her throat, cutting off her air. She writhed beneath him until her eyesight grayed around the edges. Frantic and furious, her cat took over, forcing her way through. When her vision cleared, she was on top of him, mountain cat fangs buried in his gushing neck.

Knowledge flickered in the depths of his dark eyes. He opened his mouth, tried to talk, but blood burbled past his lips. She loosened her grip and jumped off his body. He wasn’t quite dead yet, but it would be over very soon. Tamara reached for her human form, barely allowing herself to breathe. She had to get out of there, put distance between herself and Jaret’s corpse. Bloody cat tracks peppered the beige carpet. She wasted precious moments working on them with hot water and a sponge before she gave it up for a lost cause.

Tamara doused her blood-soaked body in the shower, dried off, and dressed as fast as she could. She stuffed her few things into her suitcase—along with her knife—grateful Jaret had never registered her as a hotel guest. If she were any judge of things, he’d probably used some name other than his own at the front desk. Also a good thing, if it were true. She was fairly certain Chen was his real name, though most of his men used aliases.

Tamara dragged a dark coat over her jeans and black sweater, tied a scarf over her hair, and picked up the handle of her carry-on. Purse in her other hand, she crept to the door of the suite, opened it cautiously, and glanced out. Thank Christ! Empty.

She walked down a back staircase and let herself out into the humid night. Tamara glanced around; relief that she was still alone weakened her knees. Maybe one of the goddesses really was watching over her. She plucked the knife from her suitcase’s outer zippered pocket, wiped it down carefully with her scarf, and dropped it into a hole in a thickly flowering hedge. So far everything had gone better than she could have hoped.

Tamara padded silently away from the bulk of the hotel, rejoining the sidewalk about twenty yards past its ornate front doors. Disgust filled her when she understood she could have taken care of business weeks before and spared herself the degradation of her days—and nights—with her sister’s murderer.

She waited until she was several blocks from the hotel before she hailed a cab and asked the driver to take her to the airport in Nice. Settling into the taxi’s back seat, triumph surged, hot and vital.

I did it.

Yes, but I’m not in the clear yet. I still have to get out of here.

Even if she escaped, she’d met enough of Jaret’s boys. They weren’t stupid. They’d put two and two together, figure out she’d killed him, and hunt her down. She squeezed her eyes shut as the enormity of what she’d done settled in her gut like a lead block.

One thing at a time. I can’t fight tomorrow’s battle until I get back home.

Her eyes widened. Maybe she shouldn’t go home. Ireland would be the first place they’d look for her.

I’ll figure it out when I get to the airport and see what my options are.

Chapter Three

Lars nursed the limo along in traffic that barely hit sixty-five kilometers an hour. The twenty-four kilometers between the hotel and airport had shrunk to less than eight, but his speedometer kept drifting left as one emergency vehicle after another sped past him. Every light, every siren, set his teeth on edge. He was certain the chauffeur had called someone by now and reported the shooting incident. Tightening his hands on the wheel, he hoped like hell the glass separating the passenger compartment from where he sat was bulletproof.

Another siren drew closer; lights flared in his rear view mirror, and he loosed a string of curses in German. It was obvious this cop car wanted him to pull over. Lars cut across two lanes of traffic to the accompaniment of blaring horns, and exited onto the shoulder.

He got his wallet, passport, and international driver’s license ready and rolled his window down.

“Sir?” A young, nervous looking man, one of France’s Gendarmerie Nationale officers judging from his uniform, walked to the car’s open window and shifted from foot to foot.

Lars stared at him, waiting, but the cop didn’t say anything else. “Tell me what you want,” he growled and waved his passport, driver’s license, and a business card at the policeman.

“You left the scene of a crime.” Accusation ran beneath the man’s words. Tall and rangy, he had dark hair and pale eyes, lending him an anemic appearance. He scanned Lars’ passport. When Lars decided he’d had it long enough, he snatched it back and handed the cop his business card. The cop started to reach in the window, intent on the passport in Lars’ right hand.

“Not a good idea.” Lars kept his voice mild and dropped his passport on the passenger seat.

The cop drew back, looking cowed. “You left the scene of a crime,” he repeated. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“This vehicle was shot at. One of those wrong place, wrong time things, no doubt.” Lars made an apologetic gesture with one hand. “I was unaware of any crime, certainly not one I had committed. My driver left. I still needed to get to the airport, so I drove.”

“Do you have airline tickets?” the cop asked. Lars shook his head. “What was the rush?” the cop blundered on. “If you didn’t have tickets for a specific flight…”

Lars blew out an impatient breath. Maybe he could stonewall this joker who looked barely old enough to be out of secondary school. “I have my own airplane. My business called. They require my presence in the United States immediately. I—”

“Did you file a flight plan? If so, I’ll need the number.”

“No. I planned to do that when I got to the airport.”

“What type of aircraft?”

“Excuse me?”

The cop narrowed his eyes. “You said you have a plane. What kind is it?”

“Piper Seneca.”

The cop’s frown deepened. “I wasn’t aware they were capable of crossing an ocean.”

What the fuck? Why am I having a conversation about aircraft capabilities in the middle of the night—with a cop? “They can, but not without long range tanks and augmented avionics. I have jets in Heidelberg, but I was considering renting one in Nice to save time.”

“Show me your pilot’s license.” Thinking this was getting stranger by the minute, Lars reached for his computer case, and then remembered it was still in the rear seat. “Keep your hands where I can see them, sir.” The young man’s voice held a slight tremor. Was this the first time he’d ever stopped anyone?

“Fine.” Lars gritted his teeth. “My pilot certifications and log book are in my computer bag.”

“Hand me the entire bag, sir.”

“They’re in the back.” Lars located the button that retracted the glass between the passenger and driver compartments. Twisting in his seat, he retrieved both his valise and computer bag and chucked them on the seat next to him. He activated the electronics to close the glass panel, resisting an urge to shove the hard-sided computer case into the cop’s solar plexus.

Behind the wheel again, he kept a hand on the computer bag but didn’t push it through the window. Something was wrong. No cop worth anything would be taking all the time this one was. Unless he was waiting for reinforcements. “Show me your identification,” he snarled.

“Excuse me, sir?” Something uncomfortable flitted behind the cop’s unnaturally pale eyes.

“Your identification. All cops carry something beyond their badge.”

The man swallowed. He was afraid. Lars smelled it. He’d never shut the engine off. Relying on intuition, he jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The powerful engine sprang to life, and the limo roared down the shoulder. He rolled up the window and merged into traffic that was moving faster than it had been.

“If I was wrong,” he muttered, “I will be in a world of shit.” He pounded a fist on the steering wheel, gratified when a sign flashed past telling him the airport exit was in five kilometers. The man who’d stopped him hadn’t been a cop. He couldn’t have been. No. His job was to delay Lars long enough for others to catch up to him, probably the same bunch who’d shot out the limo’s rear window. Taking his pilot’s license would have been brilliant, since he couldn’t do anything without it. Now that he considered things, he was fortunate he’d taken his passport back.

He activated a turn signal and took the airport exit. He’d ditch the limo in long term parking and that would be that. Like everything else, finding a spot to leave the oversized vehicle took longer than he would have liked. Every minute that passed without a siren reinforced that the man who’d stopped him had been an imposter. If he’d truly been part of the Gendarmerie Nationale, half a dozen cars would have converged on him by now.

Lars scanned the parking lot for threats before getting out of the car and glanced at the limo’s keys, debating. The kindest thing would be to leave them, so he stowed them beneath a floor mat, grabbed his valise and computer bag, and sprinted for the shuttle stop a hundred yards away. People were milling around it, which probably meant he’d be more-or-less safe. Lars shook his head. He didn’t get it. Sure, he’d sidestepped the booby trap in his hotel suite, but it felt as if the dogs of hell were breathing down his neck. Why? It wasn’t as if he’d taken out his target.

His phone vibrated. He fished it from his pocket, punched Answer, and held it to his ear. “Say something,” Garen snapped, “so I know it’s you.”

Lars blew out a tense breath and stopped walking. He was still far enough from the crowd at the shuttle stop, they couldn’t hear him. “It has been a rough couple of hours.”

“No shit. Why the fuck didn’t you do what I told you and get the hell out of Dodge?”

Lars shrugged, realized Garen couldn’t see him, and said, “Since when do we take orders from each other?”

Garen snorted. “We don’t, but you left a hell of a mess. Between the hotel room and the limousine—”

“Yes, well we can hope my airplane is still in one piece.”

“We’ll worry about the Piper later,” Garen cut in. “I’ve paid additional hangar rent for them to keep it two more weeks. Go to Ermstatter International. I’ve arranged for a Gulfstream G280—and a copilot. You depart in,” Garen sucked in an audible breath, “just over an hour.”

Lars chuckled to mask growing annoyance. “Did you also file my flight plan?”

“Now that you mention it—”

“Where am I landing?” Lars batted back irritation. He didn’t need Garen to take care of him, goddammit.

“New York. You have an eight-hour layover in the private pilots’ lounge at JFK, and then you’ll come on into Seattle and we can figure out what to do next.”

“You know more than you are telling me.”

It was Garen’s turn to laugh, but it held a chilly edge; he sounded as out of sorts as Lars felt. “Of course.”

“Is there anything else for now?”

“Miranda said to tell you she’s looking forward to seeing you.” He paused for a beat. “And congratulations on a job well done.”

Lars smiled, his pique blown away like sand in propeller wash. “Tell Miranda the same back.”

“I will.” Garen disconnected.

Lars dropped the phone back into his pocket and thought about Miranda, Garen’s mate. A stunning six foot tall brunette with sparkling blue eyes, she also worked for The Company. As lethal as any man, she’d gotten her espionage training in the Green Berets. Miranda was a wolf shifter, just like Garen. Lars nodded to himself. He’d been interested in her, but she’d only had eyes for Garen. He wished them all the best, had stood as best man at their wedding. Garen was his oldest friend. Their relationship went back hundreds of years.

He frowned. What was it that Garen had said after mentioning Miranda? Congratulations on a job well done? What the hell? He hadn’t done anything—other than rely on his wits to stay alive.

Lars bit his lower lip, thinking. He reached into his pocket and fingered the phone, half intent on calling Garen back, but curiosity wasn’t a strong enough reason to add yet another risky phone conversation to the one they’d already had. Still feeling puzzled, he took his place in line with the other travelers. When the shuttle arrived moments later, he asked the driver to drop him at Ermstatter International.

“I can take you to the main terminal, sir. You’ll need to catch a taxi from there. Ermstatter is half a mile from here, but they share our runway system.”

Lars nodded. Easy enough. He slung the straps of his traveling bags over his shoulders and hung on to a strap, since all the seats were taken. It only took a few minutes before the shuttle rolled up in front of the main terminal building. Lars trotted down the steps and headed for a bank of taxis, intent on hiring one.

Brakes screeched. A cab rolled past the line of taxis, cut in front of them, and slammed into the curb. It teetered for a moment, jumped the curb, and came to a stop only a few feet from him. Its driver was slumped over the steering wheel. What the hell? Had the man had a heart attack? Lars moved in for a closer look.

Bullet holes. Crap! This place was as lethal as Afghanistan’s mountains. He scanned the inside of the taxi. A woman hunched into a corner of the backseat. Was she hurt too? Or maybe dead? It was hard to tell just how badly wounded the driver was.

As if they sensed imminent danger, people had fled, leaving just him—and the taxi. Lars pulled open the driver’s door and shut off the engine. He laid a hand over the driver’s carotid and hunted for a pulse.

Dead, damn it. Poor bastard.

Lars sent his shifter senses spinning outward. Was the shooter still close? He’d pretty much have to be. Lars felt a familiar tightening in his gut and a prickling at the nape of his neck; danger was indeed near, but moving away, not toward him. Amazed airport security hadn’t stormed them yet, he yanked open one of the back doors, intent on finding out if the woman had met the driver’s fate.

He heard a soft sob. “Come on.” He kept his voice, low, soothing. “Give me your hand and let me get you out of here.”

She raised her face from her trembling hands; shock raced through him. It was her. The woman from the casino who’d been with Jaret Chen. What the fuck was she doing here at the airport by herself, with a dead taxi driver? There were only a couple of answers that fit; Lars didn’t care for either of them. Suddenly Garen’s congratulations took on a whole new meaning.

“Come on,” he repeated. “We need to get you out of here.” He closed a hand over her arm and dragged her from the taxi. She reached back inside and came up with a smallish suitcase and a shoulder bag.

“Who are you?” Her eyes were so wide with fear, only a small rim of blue showed around dilated pupils. Recognition apparently slammed home, and even the thin strip of blue disappeared. “I saw you,” she blurted, looking panicked. “In the—”

He shook his head, wanting to shut her up. “No time for that, fraulein. I am not on their side. That will have to do for now.”

She nodded mutely, suitcase clutched so tightly, her knuckles were white. She swayed on her feet; he hoped she wasn’t about to sink into shock—or worse, faint. Lars wasn’t sure quite what he’d do if that happened. He tucked a hand under her elbow and guided her a hundred feet to the first taxi in line, hoping like hell the driver wouldn’t tell him to take a hike. Surely he’d seen what had happened. To forestall being turned down, Lars flashed a five hundred franc note at the driver who palmed it and said cheerily, “Where to, sir?”

“Ermstatter.” Lars took the woman’s suitcase and handed it to her once she’d gotten in. He hustled in behind her and slammed the door. “There is another five hundred if you hurry,” he told the driver.

“You got it, sir.” The cabby’s accent was pure Brooklynese. Lars wondered what a New York cabbie was doing in Nice. No wonder he’d turned a blind eye to the cab that jumped the curb—and its dead driver. He’d no doubt seen worse on the streets of New York. As they cruised past the disabled taxi, Lars noticed airport security had finally dispatched agents to look into the accident. Thank Christ he’d gotten Chen’s girlfriend out of there in time. Lars glanced sidelong at her. Honed by years of fieldwork in every hellhole on Earth, his instincts sounded a serious alarm. Garen apparently believed Chen was dead. Had this woman killed him? Was that why things were turning to shit?

“Where are we going?” The woman’s voice was low, musical, and very strained.

“To a place that rents private jets. We are leaving for New York in about forty minutes.”

“But… But I need to go home.” Hysteria danced beneath her words.

Lars laid a hand over one of hers. “We can talk in the plane. Not here.”

“New York?” The cabbie sounded ecstatic. “Hey, take me with you.”

“Next time,” Lars said. He scanned neon marquees and located Ermstatter. “Right there.” He tapped the cabbie’s shoulder and pointed.

“I know where it is.” The man sounded aggrieved and pulled the taxi to a crooked stop near the curb.

Lars got out, handed money to the driver, and herded the woman and her suitcase toward the swinging glass door. Before he pulled the door open, he bent low. “You do have a passport?” She nodded. “Now would be a good time to get it out.” She rifled through her purse and withdrew an Irish passport, with its red cover. He snapped it out of her hand and opened it. “Tamara MacBride from Dublin.” She nodded and yanked her passport back. “Nice to meet you, Tamara. My name is Lars.” He bowed slightly.

“Sure and I don’t know yet whether it’s a pleasure or not.” Her voice carried the lilt of Ireland. It still trembled, but she didn’t look quite as terrified as when he’d hauled her out of the taxi. Even frightened half out of her wits, she was still a striking creature. He wanted to crush her to him, bury his mouth in her hair, kiss her full lips, and tell her everything would be all right.

Not now. Not the time, he chided himself. I am not even sure which side she is on.

“Do not say anything inside the terminal,” he instructed. “Just show the customs agent your passport when he asks for it. I will be busy for a bit signing paperwork for our airplane.”

“Y-you can fly?”

“Ja. No worries, fair fraulein. I will take good care of you.” He opened the door and herded her inside.

•●•

Tamara stood off to one side as Lars signed sheet after sheet of paper at the counter. How was it even possible the man from the casino had rescued her? There was much more at work here than coincidence, and she wished to hell she knew what it was. Trying to appear nonchalant, she eyed him warily and tried to figure out what to do. Odds were good he was one of Jaret’s men, but she’d never met him before. Never even laid eyes on him before earlier tonight. Death had stalked her since she’d left the hotel. Was Lars just one more manifestation of it? He’d said he wasn’t on their side, but he might have lied to pressure her into coming with him.

She shook her head, disturbed her brain felt like warmed over mush. The adrenaline surge from killing Jaret had long since subsided, leaving her feeling dragged out and not functioning on all cylinders. Tamara forced herself to focus. Whatever this Ermstatter operation did, they certainly weren’t busy. Two women tag-teamed, keeping paper flowing beneath Lars’ pen. A customs agent stamped her passport.

Too nervous to sit, she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She still wasn’t certain quite what had happened. They’d been nearly to the airport terminal, the driver slowing the cab preparatory to dropping her off, when she’d heard muted pops from a silenced gun. At first she thought she’d imagined it. The only place she’d ever heard a sound like that was on the telly or in the movies. She’d told herself her imagination was working overtime, that she was safe. She’d made the airport…

The night was warm, so the driver’s window had been open. He’d made a choking sound, slumped over the wheel, and the cab had jumped the curb. Truth had slapped her hard. Too frightened to do anything but cower, especially after she’d seen two men racing toward her out of the corners of her eyes, Tamara had tensed, expecting another bullet to plough into her. Next thing she knew, Lars was there…

“Fraulein?”

She hadn’t heard him move to her side. Tamara squared her shoulders and looked at him. “Yes.”

“We are ready. I called you from across the terminal, but you did not respond.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She knew she sounded surly, but part of her still thought she should make a run for it. Where would I go? How can I lose myself so Jaret’s men won’t be able to find me?

Desperate for information, she risked a sliver of shifter magic and directed it right at Lars. It pinged back clean. His eyes, which were focused on her, widened fractionally. Odd. He shouldn’t have felt her appraisal, but it made her feel confident enough to not bolt into the night. She might be wrong, but he didn’t feel like one of the bad guys.

“Follow me.” He led her through double glass doors that required a security code and out onto the tarmac. A gleaming, silver, twin engine jet waited. He motioned her up its stairway, followed after, and told her to sit where she wanted. “I need to help the copilot get us airborne,” he explained. “Once that is done, I will come back to the cabin to talk with you. The head is there.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “A well-stocked kitchen is across from it.” He swung his arm and pointed at a bank of built-ins. “Feel free to move about the cabin once I tell you we have reached cruising altitude.”

She giggled, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Sure and nothing is funny, except you sounded just like a stewardess on a normal flight.”

He smiled. It lightened the severe planes of his face and made him extraordinarily handsome with his ice-blond hair and gray eyes. “We aim to please, fraulein. Relax and enjoy the flight.” He tucked a cell phone into what looked like a computer case and drew out a larger item: a satellite phone, which he clipped to his belt.

Worry fluttered in her belly. What did she really know about this man, other than he’d coincidentally been in the right place at the right time? “Um, I didn’t think you could use phones in flight.”

He nodded. “That is true for passengers on commercial flights, but not for the reasons you might think. Cell phones that are visible to too many towers will not work, but even the smaller private planes frequently have sat phones in them.”

She snorted. In spite of strong reservations, she found herself relaxing a little. Something about Lars was hard to resist, and she appreciated him taking the time to answer what must have seemed like a stupid question. “I have a feeling this will spoil me forever.”

His grin broadened. “It will. No maybe about it. I still fly commercially, but only when there is no other choice.” Brushing past her, he hurried to the front of the plane and disappeared behind a door that closed behind him.

Tamara took off her jacket, settled onto a plush settee, and buckled her seatbelt. Her body felt electric where he’d touched her. She remembered her graphic sexual fantasies of him, and her face heated. The plane taxied, and then rose smoothly into the air. She peeked out a window and saw dawn lightening the eastern sky.

What have I gotten myself into?

Sure and I guess I’ll find out soon enough, a pragmatic inner voice answered.

She closed her eyes, battling waves of weariness.

“Fraulein.” Warm, sweet-smelling breath bathed her ear.

“I must have drifted off.” She opened her eyes; Lars sat next to her. How long had he been there?

“Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“Sure. Anything.” She yawned. “I’m going to wash my face and hands.”

“By the time you get back, I will have prepared something for us. I suspect it has been nearly as long a night for you as it has been for me.”

Darling, you don’t know the half of it. She undid her seatbelt and walked to the rear of the cabin and the small, neat head. Now that she wasn’t running on sheer nerves, she was intrigued by what Lars had to say and curious why he’d rescued her. He’d mentioned earlier they needed to talk. She grinned at her reflection in the small mirror and finger-combed her hair. Next she held the water spigot open with one hand, bent over the stainless steel bowl, and splashed water on her face with the other.

“Talk away,” she murmured, drying her face and hands with a paper towel. “I’ll be all ears.” It made no sense, but she thought she could listen to whatever he had to say forever.