“Surely Boverington, Louisiana isn’t so small that it doesn’t have televisions and newspapers?” Stash asked very, very slowly.
I rubbed my forehead. I needed my sunglasses to deal with this. I started searching again and ignored him. He was just being rude now. I thought I would return the gesture.
Brent walked in at that moment and I glanced up at him. And scowled. He was in the same getup as the rest – charcoal grey suit, white shirt, matching grey tie. And, you couldn’t even tell he had been drunker than a skunk the night before. He had always been that way. Give him thirty minutes and he appeared as perky as a blooming flower. It was downright annoying right now.
He walked over and kissed my cheek. I kept on glaring and blew my bangs out of my eyes in frustration. He didn’t pay it any attention, though, as he moved away. He grabbed two waters from the fridge and got aspirin from a cabinet.
Well, well.I perked up some.
“Boverington may be small, but they’re sure turnin’ over a new leaf. They just got their first printing press and brand new color TV’s. I think colored people even get to ride the buses now,” Brent spoke, laying his accent on real heavy-like. He gave Stash an awe-shucks smile, right before flipping him off. Sometimes you just gotta love the man. He knew how to stick up for the underdog with flare.
Brent tilted the aspirin bottle to my cupped hand, letting three drop into my palm. He leaned in close while handing me a water and whispered in my ear, “Darlin’, you have a bomb exploding on your shirt and we’re fixing to get on a plane.” He tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows before kissing my rapidly reddening cheek.
Oh. Now this was just embarrassing. I hadn’t even thought of that.
I immediately dropped my duffle on the floor and started rifling through it. I found a black knitted, long sleeved sweater that reached to my ankles and had three tiny, silver skull buttons right at chest level. I yanked it on and buttoned it up. It covered my shirt completely, flaring open at belt level. There. That was better.
I zipped up my duffle and stood, ignoring everyone. I hoped they would soon forget my moment of complete stupidity. No wonder Stash had acted that way. I would never be so ill-mannered, at least not on purpose, to show a shirt like this on a plane after 9/11. That would just be plain poor taste. Not to mention, I would be bullied by airport security like a tick of a fat dog.
I kept busy, swallowing down the aspirin andfinallyfinding my sunglasses. I put them on and was dumping items back in my purse when Cole leaned back against the counter next to my hip. He sat a toasted bagel with melted butter on it right in front of me. The smell of it didn’t make my stomach roll and it actually looked pretty darn good. I glanced up at him, but he was watching everyone else finish whatever chore they had.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
His head only inclined slightly in acknowledgement.
“Cole,” I started quietly, dumping my new prepaid cell phone I had bought at Wal-Mart in my purse. “I’m sorry for how I behaved earlier. I reacted like an idiot. I shouldn’t have gotten mad. You were right to question me again. I wasn’t thinkin’ straight.”
He did look at me then, just as I was fixing to bite into the gifted bagel. I lowered it self-consciously when he watched the movement. I have a “thing” about people seeing me eat. I tended to be awfully messy. I had come to the conclusion that the only things breasts were good for were catching crumbs and blobs of ketchup or tomato sauce. No matter what I did – and I wasn’t going to be caught dead wearing my napkin in my collar – I always ended up wearing what I ate.
Eyes still on my mouth, he lifted his hand. He slowly rubbed his thumb over my bottom lip, wiping away butter that had already dribbled there. I blushed. Yep, it never failed.
My blush didn’t get a chance to really flare, though. He placed his buttered thumb in his mouth, sucking it off. Leisurely. Slowly, he removed it from between his lush lips. Oh.Oh, my.
“Apology accepted,” he said softly, licking his bottom lip like he was savoring the taste of my previously worn food. “Next time, I’ll just have to remember your temper matches your hair.”
I stared. And really hoped my mouth wasn’t hanging open too far.
Brent strolled over, resting a hip against the counter on the other side of me. He stared daggers a Cole, but spoke calmly, “It’s time to go. We’re going to have to speed to get there as it is.” Ever so slowly he pried his stare away from Cole, eyes on me. “Didn’t you have another bag?”
I answered quickly, but calmly, shrugging. “I left it in one of your bedrooms. I don’t need it. It’s just got photos and books and such, in it. My clothes are in my duffle.” I patted said duffle.
He stared. “Ally told me your momma died.” A pause. Surprisingly, Cole didn’t seem surprised by what he said. “I assumed as much with you being here and all. When we get back, if you need a place to stay, you are more than welcome to my apartment.” He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “I would actually prefer it that way. Then we can get to know each other all over again, just like you want.” His lips quirked up at one corner, his eyes heated. The way he said “get to know each other” held more than a smidgen of sexual warmth.
Cole hadn’t backed away. He had listened – again, showing no emotion - with his head slightly cocked, missing nothing.
I glanced back and for the between the two of them. Cripes.
I gulped, and whispered, “We better go.”
I fled to Ally, knowing she would keep thetwowolves at bay for now.
The drive to the airport had been quick – thanks to Brent’s friggin’ crazy driving, but very informational. I had sat in the back, purposely, next the window and Zane. I had asked what in the Sam-hell last night’s art gallery events had been all about.
Evidently, Mr. Wong’s a friend of Stash’s, turned client. He had been receiving increasingly threatening letters by a previously unknown man - Spokesman. After a year of trying to deal with it on his own, Mr. Wong had finally asked Stash for his help. He had accepted, even if it was outside of their normal military and law enforcement dealings. They also workedprivately, but normally on a corporate level – like this trip to Orlando was – and sometimes for lone individuals if they could afford their fee.
Stash had come up with a way to keep surveillance on Mr. Wong by incorporating him into Brent’s gallery. Mr. Wong’s a very prominent figure in the arts and had jumped at the bit to work with Brent, along with accepting Lion Security’s – their business name – help. They had been working with Mr. Wong for a month with no new leads on who Spokesman was, so they had thrown a show for Brent with Mr. Wong flaunting and promoting the venue, hoping that would draw Spokesman out since he seemed particularly hateful in his letters about Mr. Wong’s city work for the arts district.
Cole had interrupted then, stating that the third person in Brent’s office had been a scout and possible kidnapper, if he had been able to get Mr. Wong alone, portraying a rich kid wanting to spend daddy’s money on an up-and-coming artist, they later found out, for Spokesman’s group. The scout/kidnapper had given the go for Spokesman’s team to hijack the party when he saw there wasn’t any security inside the building after a failed attempt – thanks to accidently timing by Sarah – at Mr. Wong. Spokesman had died from four bullet wounds to major arteries – all four guys had grinned evilly at that comment – when the gunfire had commenced.
