for a breath mint. You never know, I might get lucky later on. Man and wife, remember?”
“That’s low.”
“Is it?” He lifted his gaze, coldly meeting her angry eyes. “So, just how virtuous were you being, sweetheart, when you didn’t correct me? When you let me go on believing we were married?”
“That was wrong of me, I know, and I apologize for it. But I had a vital reason, and if you’ll just let me explain—”
“Later,” he cut her off. “Right now I have some vital business of my own.”
He found no weapons in the purse, nothing that she could turn against him. There was a cell phone, and this he removed and tucked into his pocket. Making sure that her wallet held an adequate supply of cash and that the purse contained her keys, he handed the bag to her.
“Now what?” she demanded, hugging the bag to her breasts.
He didn’t answer her. His mind was busy with a mental list, checking off the preparations for this flight to her houseboat. Once again, he was aware of old skills. Training from his unknown past that urged him to be thorough, to cover all the necessities before he went into action. He didn’t understand this instinct, but he was grateful for it.
“This friend of yours upstairs—Tia. She have an answering machine?” He remembered Eden telling him Tia was out for the day.
“Yes.”
“Call it. Leave a message for her. Tell her you’re going to be gone for a couple of days on a case. That everything is fine, including the patient, and she isn’t to worry about you. You’ll explain everything when you get back.” It wasn’t the most brilliant of remedies to a potential problem, but it would have to do. He just hoped her friend would be satisfied by it. “No details, Eden, and make it convincing.”
He handed her the receiver and stood close beside her as she dialed, ready to grab the phone away from her if she tried to communicate any warnings. But again she was wise enough to do just as she’d been told. In a calm voice, she delivered the concise message he had instructed.
Of course, she wasn’t calm at all underneath that composed exterior. Her lower lip continued to betray her. It was still quivering when she hung up and faced him. He didn’t blame her. He’d be shaken himself if someone was holding a gun on him. Well, he had no choice about it.
Damn, but she had one sweet mouth, as appealing as those pure blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes. Were the lashes real? he wondered.
“Do you have to stand so close?” she complained. Her voice was low and breathless, as if his nearness was robbing her of air. As if she was suddenly and unwillingly as aware of him as he was of her.
But his awareness of her on any sensual level was a mistake. He reminded himself that her blue eyes were not guileless and that her sweet mouth had lied to him. He stepped back away from her, forcing himself to be practical again.
“You keep any personal essentials at this houseboat? Some extra clothes for yourself, that kind of thing?”
“Yes.”
“Then we don’t need to waste time while you pack a bag.”
He was anxious to get out of here without understanding why. What was he running from? The police? Did the cops want him for something so bad that his mind, unable to deal with it, had shut down on him? The possibility worried him.
Or was it a much darker enemy that had his insides in knots? Someone he had to elude at all costs? An enemy for whom Eden Hawke might be working? Having her business card and the photograph of the boy, both of which had been a link that had brought him to her, didn’t make her a friend. He realized that now. Understood that she could be as treacherous as that generously endowed body of hers.
“Let’s go,” he ordered her gruffly, gesturing with the pistol in the direction of the parlor.
She preceded him from the office carrying her purse.
“Where’s the jacket I was wearing last night?”
“There,” she said, indicating a coatrack near the door.
“Get it.”
She snagged his jacket from the hook and a light coat for herself, draping them both over her free arm as she led the way through the kitchen to the back door that opened onto the alley.
“Wait,” he said, when she’d unlocked and opened the door.
He moved in front of her to check the alley in both directions. It was empty except for a dark green Toyota.
“Car keys,” he commanded.
She fished the keys out of her purse and passed them to him. He unlocked the Toyota, saw her settled behind the wheel, and rounded the sedan to install himself in the passenger seat. Only then did he return the keys to her.
“All right,” he said, buckling his belt, “let’s roll. And, Eden?”
“What now?” she asked, starting the engine.
“Don’t surprise me. Make sure it’s your houseboat that’s our destination. And if for any reason we get stopped, I’m your husband, remember. Your loving husband.”
She glared at him, but she offered no objection. Not when he reminded her of the consequences if she tried to trick him by patting the hard lump that was the pistol hidden beneath the jacket slung across his lap.
The houseboat, he thought as they swung out of the alley onto a side street. Only that wasn’t where he needed to go. It was somewhere far more important than that. This was what had driven him last night, the conviction it was urgent for him to reach something or someone. If he could remember just who or what it was…
WATER AND church steeples. They were what came first to Eden’s mind whenever she thought of historic Charleston.
The water was everywhere in the shapes of the broad harbor, countless inlets, tidal marshes and the Ashley and Cooper Rivers flowing on either side of the peninsula that embraced the original city. Clustered within its core, with their soaring spires, were Charleston’s famous churches, majestic Georgian structures outside whose doors basket makers offered their wares to passing tourists.
Radiating from this nucleus was a maze of lanes that boasted a wealth of traditional architecture with a strong West Indian influence. Narrow streets like Eden’s, where the air was scented with camellias and an exchange of Gullah could be heard by the strolling vendors from the sea islands.
It was a rich, wonderful culture, and Eden was never immune to it. Until this morning. She was far too angry to be aware of sights, sounds or smells as she navigated the Toyota through the Sunday traffic. Her current anger was directed not at her silent companion but at herself.
How could she have been so overconfident, so naive to totally misjudge this man? She was a private investigator. That meant she was supposed to be able to read people accurately, tell the good from the bad. She hadn’t. Not this time, not even when Tia had cautioned her against permitting her emotions to get in the way.
Nor had
