Let me drive.”
The look that crossed his face fell just short of horror. “Nobody drives my car.”
“Make an exception.”
“Why? You afraid I’m gonna leave you by the road first time we make a bathroom stop?”
That was exactly what she was afraid of. She hadn’t told him much, but it was enough to send him in the right direction, and he seemed just the type to leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere.
Her jaw set grimly, she went to the car, retrieved her backup pistol from the glove compartment and slid it into her purse, then returned. “My ‘gear’ is at the motel in town. We’ll have to stop there.”
The entire car literally rumbled with power when he started the engine. She settled into the passenger seat, purse in her lap, Logan just inches away, and wondered just how big a mistake she was making.
A short while later she got at least part of an answer to that when he almost stopped at a stop sign, then turned west onto the main street. She twisted in the seat to face him. “The motel’s the other way.”
He didn’t respond.
“Damn it, Marshall—”
That made him glance her way. “Hey, don’t blame me because you weren’t prepared.”
“It wouldn’t take me five minutes to pack!”
“You can buy new clothes.”
“I don’t want new clothes!”
When his only response was a shrug, she folded her arms across her chest and coldly said, “I want to pick up my clothes. If you don’t turn this car around right now, I’m not telling you one more damn thing about Pete MacGregor.”
The tires squealed as he jammed the brake to the floor and steered to the side of the street. “Then get out. I’ll find this Escobar on my own.”
“I’ll call him. I’ll warn him about you.”
His demeanor turned icy again. “You wouldn’t.”
Of course she wouldn’t. People should suffer the consequences of their actions, which meant Pete MacGregor should spend the rest of his life in prison…or die. She would never help a killer escape justice.
But while Logan might suspect that, he didn’t know it.
“Are you sure of that?” she asked. “Sure enough to put me out here? Sure enough to risk blowing your best chance at finding MacGregor?”
It took every bit of strength she possessed not to squirm under the intensity of his stare. Just as she’d been earlier, he was about ninety-nine percent certain she was bluffing, but that one percent worried him. He wasn’t going to call her bluff. Not this time.
An instant after she reached that conclusion, he glanced in the rearview mirror, then peeled out in a tight turn that left skid marks on the road and drove back through town to the motel. Pulling up in front of the room she pointed out, he scowled at her. “Five minutes.”
Smiling sweetly, she reached across, cut off the engine and snagged the keys before he began to guess what she was doing. She hopped out of the car, slid them into her jeans pocket, then headed toward the room.
She was hastily stuffing clothes into the suitcase open on the bed when he appeared in the open door. She’d come for four days this trip and had brought enough clothes for seven. What could she say? She liked being prepared.
He didn’t cross the threshold but stood smack center in the doorway and watched silently. No doubt he had some mental clock counting down and he would smugly let her know when five minutes had passed. She fully intended to be done before then.
After cramming everything into the suitcase that had come out of it, she zipped it, then grabbed a tote and went into the cramped bathroom, scooping makeup and toiletries inside. With that bag over one shoulder, she retrieved her laptop from the bottom dresser drawer and slung the strap over the other shoulder, then hefted the suitcase from the bed. A glance at the bedside clock showed she had seconds to spare.
“I’m ready,” she announced.
Finally Logan moved out of the doorway, but not to head for his car, as she expected. Instead he approached the bed, nudged the rumpled covers back with one booted toe, then bent to retrieve something from the floor. Bailey looked at the scrap of coral lace dangling from his finger and told herself she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Lingerie was a fact of life. He’d probably seen as much of it as she had. She wouldn’t snatch the tiny filmy panties away from him and hide them as if doing so could erase them from existence.
She took the garment from him in a calm, controlled manner, stuffed them in an outside pocket of the suitcase, then pushed past him with her load to head for the door.
“And here I would have figured you for white cotton,” he murmured behind her.
She pretended not to hear.
She strode to the rear of the car, fished out the keys and unlocked the trunk, then blinked. It was quite possibly the neatest car trunk she’d ever seen—spare tire out of the way, tool kit snugged into a corner, duffle bag tucked into another corner and gun cases neatly side by—
Gun cases. Two obviously held pistols; the other two were for longer guns. He didn’t intend to take any chances with MacGregor. And why should he? The man was a murderer. If he could kill that sweet old couple for nothing, he wouldn’t think twice about killing someone like Logan, who presented far more of a threat to him.
But logic aside, the weapons made her uncomfortable. Sure, she carried a gun—two of them at the moment—but strictly for self-defense. She’d never shot anyone and never would unless there was absolutely no other choice. But going looking for someone armed to the teeth—that was more like hunting, tracking prey, making the kill.
A dark hand suddenly appeared in her line of sight as Logan lifted her suitcase into the trunk, settling it next to the gun cases. He slid the tote bag from her shoulder and fitted it into the space next to it, then made room for the laptop case. Finally he closed the trunk, then held out his hand for the keys.
She started to hand them over, then hesitated. “You are planning to turn MacGregor over to the authorities when you find him, aren’t you?”
For a long time he gazed at her, but thanks to those damn glasses, she couldn’t see anything but a dim reflection of herself. Not that it mattered—even if she’d been looking directly into his eyes, she still wouldn’t have seen anything he didn’t want her to see. Finally his mouth relaxed from its grim set long enough to form an answer. “I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.”
Relief eased over her. She dropped the key ring in his palm, then opened the passenger door, sliding inside. The sun-warmed leather of the seat went a long way toward easing the chill the guns had created inside her. He’d served honorably in the Army and received commendations for his heroic actions in the war. Heavens, he was Brady’s brother. Of course he wasn’t a murderer.
But he also blamed himself for the deaths of two people he’d loved dearly. He wanted justice, needed vengeance. Even she, with no emotional involvement in the
