Strangers in the Night. Kerry Connor
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Ross rubbed at the tension knotting the back of his neck. He’d taken in female skips before, enough that he should have known how to expect a cornered woman to behave. Usually by this point, when they had a chance to realize they weren’t going to get away from him, they reacted by either screaming or bursting into tears, as if a show of emotion could sway him into letting them go. Most included a sob story, some yarn about how they were framed or justified or otherwise blameless, little realizing he’d heard their story before in a million other forms, and no teary eyes or wobbly lips were going to make it any more believable this time around.
This woman did none of that. She sat there against the door, her free hand lying in her lap, and looked resolutely away. She said nothing. If it wasn’t for her ramrod posture and her too-studious show of nonchalance, he might have actually believed she’d managed to forget about him.
Under normal circumstances, he might have appreciated the peace and quiet. Instead, it made him uneasy. It meant she was thinking, planning her inevitable escape attempt, no doubt. He would have to put an end to that. He was too tired to put up with any more of her nonsense tonight. He could already feel a bruise forming where she’d elbowed him in the ribs before stepping into the truck.
He grimaced at the soreness. He didn’t used to be so delicate. Too old, man. You’re too damn old for this crap.
He cleared his throat. “You planning on saying anything on this trip?”
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