store just after we escaped.”
Her forehead dropped to her knees. Everything gone. Not that she owned much. But there were photographs, small treasures her parents had left for her. The letter Chris had given her.
The pain wasn’t sharp, but a dull throb just under her heart. Or maybe she’d just gotten used to it over the years and didn’t notice the sharp edges anymore.
“Did you read my father’s journal?”
“Yes.” Actually, she’d read it front to back, twice, before she’d been satisfied she’d committed it to memory. “Chris sent it with a letter. He told me to read it then wait for you to contact me. He said you’d know what to do.”
“His message told me to find you. To protect you until I could decipher the information he’d given you. I had no idea the information was a book until tonight.” He walked over to the window, split the curtain apart barely an inch and peered out. “When I saw Scarface walk out of the store with it. I just knew.”
“You watched him?” Regina asked. “How long were you outside the store?”
The curtain dropped back into place as he turned back to her. “Not long. I decided to wait for you to lock up. I didn’t want any interruptions.”
“So you preferred to wait in a snowstorm rather than a warm office while I dealt with my customers? Which I didn’t have,” she rationalized, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense. Now if you were to tell me I was under surveillance, that you wanted to make sure I was legitimate before you approached me…”
He ignored her comment, simply because it hit too close to the truth. “The only lead we have now is the guy who left you for dead.”
“Not necessarily.” She shook her head, only to stop mid-motion, dizzy. “How well did you know your father, Jordan?”
“Bloody well,” Jordan responded, smoothly. “The question is, how well did you know him, Miss Menlow?”
“Bloody well,” she quipped in a perfect British accent, mimicking him. “Or at least I thought I did.”
“Well enough to sleep with?”
With his temper, came hers. “Do I look like the mistress type?” She snapped the question back, expecting the epiphany to dawn on him any moment.
His eyes raked over her, and Regina’s cheek’s flushed when the blue eyes lingered over her breasts, then her face.
“Yes,” Jordan drawled; the deep timbre of his voice set her trembling, but not from temper or fear, she realized. “You do.”
“Well, I’m not.” The fact that she managed to look down her nose at him surprised them both. “I was his friend.” She scooted to the edge of the bed. Her muscles protested with some aches and stiffness, forcing her to move slower than her anger demanded. But once her feet touched the floor, knowing she could run if needed gave her a sense of bravado.
“You’re lying,” Jordan bit out the words. “And you’re not very good at it.”
“I’m not lying. Because you’re right, I’m not good at it.” She turned away, not wanting to deal with the contempt that flashed in his eyes. Instead, she studied her surroundings, cringing.
Roses spattered on the wallpaper all four sides of the room—their image faded until the flowers were no more than red splotches on the walls. The only thing that broke the dizzying monotony was the black lacquered bed and matching nightstand, both scuffed and cigarette scarred.
“Where are we, anyway?” A shag carpet—crimson and orange-speckled—covered the floor, its traffic pattern worn bald from the door, to the bathroom, to the bed.
“We’re in downtown D.C.”
“I must have been out of it quite a while.”
“Almost two hours.”
“No wonder I’m dizzy.” On the nightstand, she saw the matches. “The Carltonesque? That’s catchy,” she murmured, suddenly grateful for the scent of her smoke-filled clothes. “Your father never brought me here, that’s for sure. Of course, if I had been his mistress, I would have insisted. Can’t beat a place that comes with a scarlet shag carpet and matching velveteen bedspread.” She plucked at the bedding to prove her point.
“If you’re trying to convince me, lady, that you’re telling the truth, you’re going about it the wrong way.”
“I’m not trying to convince you of anything, Jordan.” His attitude, his problem. Not hers.
He raised an eyebrow.
“I already told you the truth and I don’t have the energy to defend myself.” The pounding in her head picked up its tempo. “Could I get some aspirin?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Then your accusations are going to have to wait five minutes.” Regina sat cross-legged on the bed. She raised her right arm and bent her elbow. She found the pressure point two fingers above her elbow and pressed with her thumb.
“You have a bump on your head, not on your arm.”
With her eyes closed, she slowly turned her head from one side to the other. “I know that. But it isn’t the skull that hurts so much as the muscles at the neck that have tightened to fend off the pain,” she explained patiently, before returning to a simple form of meditation breathing.
“So holding your elbow will heal your neck—”
“Shh,” she ordered, only to regret the action when another jab of pain hit her head.
“Are you trying to annoy me?” he snapped.
“No, but if I’m succeeding, I’ll consider it a bonus. After all, you annoyed me first,” she pointed out.
“Of all the bloody—”
“Can you stop yelling? Please?”
“I wasn’t.” But his voice softened to a dangerous growl.
She let her hands drop to her lap and sighed. “What I’m trying to do is get rid of my head and neck pain. I need to think clearer. If I try to deal with you right now, my headache will only get worse and that won’t do either of us any good.”
“So your answer is yoga?”
“No, my answer is aspirin, but since there isn’t any I have to make do. And this isn’t yoga. It’s acupressure. I read this remedy in a book—”
“You read it in a book?” His opinion was short, pithy.
“The concept shouldn’t be much of a reach, even for a slow thinker like you,” she remarked. “Own a bookstore. Surrounded by books. Love books,” she added, then once again closed her eyes and continued the pressure. “Plethora of information, if you can read.”
Suddenly, she opened one eye again. “You can read, right?”
“Yes.”
