Pavel lifted an eyebrow. “But you know.”
Bishop laughed. The voice changer gave it an odd, tinny sound. “Don’t you get it? I knoweverything.” Before Pavel could respond, Bishop added, “If they went out the back way, they’ll have been caught on CCTV cameras leaving the city. Hang tight. Let me dig through some footage. I’ll call you back.”
When the line went dead, Pavel pushed up from the table. He needed a cigarette.
Whistling as he pulled his lighter from his pocket, he turned when the only other outdoor patron stopped him with, “The Fugees. Nice. Been a while since I heard that one.”
The fresh-faced American apparently knew little of music.
The Fugees? Please, Pavel silently scoffed.
“The song was written and originally recorded by Lori Lieberman,” he said disdainfully. “And later made a hit by Roberta Flack. You should investigate either version. They’re far superior.”
He didn’t wait for the young man to respond. Instead, he lit his cigarette and stepped off the curb, whistling “Killing Me Softly” between drags on his cancer stick.
A soft death was a nice thought. But impossible in practice.
Death could be slow or quick. It could be messy or clean. But soft?
Never.
12
State Highway 140,
north of Benton Harbor, Michigan
Hunter nearly dropped the hose to the gas pump. Watching Grace walk out of the station in those painted-on jeans made his hands go numb.
Made hiswholebody go numb if he was being honest.
Uh, except one part.
There was one very specific part of him that was experiencingallthe feels.
Not counting the night of the cocktail dress, it was the first time he’d seen her out of her FBI agent attire. And now he understood why she insisted on wearing those formless suits when she was on the job.
She wanted people to pay attention when she spoke, and a figure like hers was amajordistraction.
He hoped she didn’t notice how he missed the slot with the gas nozzle when he tried to return it to the pump. And he wished he had an excuse to continue staring sightlessly at the numbers glowing on the readout, but he wasn’t waiting on a receipt.
Rule number one when going off-grid was to pay for everything in cash. He’d already given the clerk inside the station two twenty-spots.
There was no reason for him not to swing back around to face her immediately. No reason other than he had to take a deep breath and gather himself or, as observant as she was, she’d see the unbridledluston his face.
He wanted to blame his fierce desire for her on three years of fantasies. Three years of imagining peeling that slinky cocktail dress off her body. Three years of daydreaming about all the parts of her he’d explore with his hands and tongue.
The truth was, however, he’d been drawn to her—hadwantedher—from the first moment they’d met. More than that, he’d wanted to protect her. Reassure her.Knowher.
She’d been so… He wasn’t sure what the correct word was.Sadwasn’t right, because she’d still been quick to smile and fast with a joke even though he’d been able to tell it’d taken more effort than she was used to.
Maybedefeatedwas the word he was looking for.
He’d only had to probe a little before she’d offered up the story of her then-recent divorce. She’d explained how her ex-husband had been the traditional sort who’d become unhappy at sharing his work life with his wife.
Traditionalhad been the word Grace had used. In Hunter’s opinion, the more appropriate term for a guy like that wasNeanderthal.
She’d gone on to tell him that her ex had grown envious when she’d risen through the ranks of the FBI more quickly than he had. And then she’d revealed that her prick-of-an-ex had taken out his frustration and jealousy by having an affair with a woman from the human resources department.
