In the end, we did find a hotel, but only after we had crossed the border into Latvia.
I had hoped for some rompy time once we were snuggled into bed, even if the man refused to talk relationship. Dixon, however, had other ideas. When I emerged from a soak in the tub to warm up all my extremities (the misty rain had turned into a heavy drizzle that seemed to seep through my clothes to my skin), he was sound asleep, snoring up a storm. I stood looking down at him, wondering how I had started this adventure determined to find my wings at last and go my own way without ties to any family, and now here was a man who was so much a part of me, I couldn’t even imagine life without him. And I had no idea if he reciprocated those feelings.
“You are just going to have to see reason,” I said, snuggling into Dixon. He mumbled in his sleep and rolled on his side, his leg and arm over me protectively. I scooted in even closer to his chest, enjoying the scent and feel of him. “That’s all there is to it.”
We slept for almost twelve hours. Not intentionally, as I explained to Sam and Tabby, who had caught up to us by the following morning.
“Roger is about an hour ahead of us,” Tabby said when we got dressed, and stopped at the hotel breakfast area fora little food. “The Essex team had an issue this morning when two of their tires blew at the same time and they only had one spare left. Roger had ordered the remaining tires stockpiled in Germany to be driven to Daugavpils.”
“That’s close to us, isn’t it?” I asked.
“About forty miles,” Dixon answered, looking at the map pasted into our logbook. “Damn. I was hoping we were ahead of them after all that driving.”
“You were for a while. Then Roger mentioned how you’d driven to Moscow a day sooner than planned, and they drove all night to catch up.” Tabby shrugged. “I guess Dermott and Clarissa were really annoyed by that. Roger, of course, gets by without any sleep.”
Dixon and I exchanged guilty looks at the mention of the second camera team having to play catch-up. “We should apologize again for racing off without you,” I started to say, but Tabby waved it off.
“It’s all right. We kind of enjoy hunting you down. It’s just good you can’t go over fifty.”
I made a face.
Dixon asked, “How did the Essex team pass us if they were missing a tire?”
“They got a temporary one from a local car dealership. I guess it makes the car shimmy something horrible because it doesn’t fit right, and they can’t drive over thirty miles per hour, but Sanders refused to wait for the actual replacements to arrive, so they’re determined to be in Daugavpils when the spares arrive.”
“That sounds highly dangerous,” I said, glancing at the clock. “It shouldn’t take us long to get past them if they can only do thirty. Let’s see how much ground we can put between us and them.”
“You haven’t looked outside, have you?” Sam, a bagel in his hands, stopped by to comment. “It’s pouring buckets out there.”
“Ugh. We’ll have to put the top up on the Flyer,” I told Dixon.
“Worse, we’ll be sopping wet by the time we stop.” He rose and stretched. I was momentarily distracted by the sight of that movement on his chest, even though it was covered by an undershirt, shirt, vest, and coat. Really, the man was entirely too sexy for his own good. I narrowed my eyes on him, wondering if I was going to have trouble with women coveting him.
Tabby was chatting and joking about us needing to wear rubber suits in order to drive the Flyer when I turned my gaze on her. I knew from past conversations that she’d had both male and female partners, and now here she was with her hand on Dixon’s arm while she joked.
I stood up, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that she was handling my man—because I liked Tabby; I truly did—but I wasn’t about to put up with other women fondling him right there in front of me.
“What’s wrong?” Dixon asked me when Tabby turned to gather up some food to go.
“What makes you think anything is wrong?”
He cocked an eyebrow at me. It was my favorite eyebrow, too. “You’re glaring at Tabby as if she just took your favorite toy.”
“Good call, Mr. Sexy,” I said with much meaning, and went off to rearrange the storage boxes on the car so that we could put the convertible top up.
We’d had to use the top once in the U.S., but not since crossing the ocean. Putting it up required a complicated dance of turning cranks, hurriedly checking prop arms, and then cranking a bit more. One person had to guide the front part along its path until it was finally settled over the front seats.
“Do I want to know—” Dixon asked, following me out to the car.
“No. And I’m not jealous, just in case you were wondering, although you could keep your forearms to yourself, you know. You don’t have to go flaunting them everywhere, so women are forced to touch them because they can’t resist temptation.”
“Sweetheart,” he said in a drawling voice when I started to unsnap the cover that tucked the hood away. “I’m going to say this just once, but I hope you heed me: you have to stop smoking crack first thing in the morning.”
“Oh, ha ha, very funny.” I glared at him over the width of the car as we rolled down the cover. “I bet you’re eating it up, you man, you.”
“Eating what up? Hang on—this arm is stuck. There it is. Go ahead, both verbally and physically.”
“I bet you love Tabby throwing herself all over your person.”
