your father know about this?”
“Of course not,” she said. “He’d never have let me go.” He never let her do anything. Except work. Keep the resort spick-and-span for all his friends. He wouldn’t let her date, either. Said he’d find a man for each of his daughters when the time was right. One with money. Lots of it. Which is why none of them were married. The time would never be right in his eyes. Besides, she didn’t need a man with money. She had saved almost every dime she’d made working at the resort over the years.
Brock growled and slapped the side of the truck. “Are you trying to get me killed?”
A shiver raced up Ginger’s spine. “No.”
“Your father will have me pinched, or filled with lead.” He marched to the front of the truck. “Damn it, Ginger. Of all the stupid, idiotic things…”
Maybe she hadn’t considered all aspects of her actions.
A rumble had her looking down the road, where a cloud of dust was growing. Grabbing her purse out of the truck, she opened the passenger door. “A truck’s coming.”
Brock cursed aloud, but climbed in the driver’s door and started the engine. They’d barely made it onto the short grass next to the road when a larger truck swerved around them, honking as its speed threw rocks against their windshield.
Ginger released a sigh of relief. “Next time you stop to put gas in,” she said, shooing the dust out of the window with one hand, “I’d suggest pulling all the way off the road.”
“Next time—” Brock stopped midsentence. There wouldn’t be a next time. Roger Nightingale was going to kill him. He’d be shot. Stabbed. Poisoned. It didn’t matter which. He was a dead man. Which would leave his family with no hope. None. Zilch.
“What were you thinking?” he growled at Ginger.
She’d opened her purse and was gliding red lipstick over her bow-shaped lips. Once done, she smacked them together, replaced the lid on the tube and dropped it in her beaded bag. “Right now I’m thinking you should start driving or you’re going to be late getting to Chicago.”
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