“Never mind,” he said. “Don’t answer that.”
She pointed at the dashboard. Her eyes popped. “There’s a cassette player.” She rummaged through the glove compartment with no success. From there she moved on to leaning forward and digging under the seat. “This is no good,” she huffed, undoing her seatbelt.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Looking for the cassettes.”
Suddenly, the truck swerved and Ceci hit her head against the window.
“Hey!” she cried, as they came to an abrupt stop.
“Did you hit your head? Are you okay?”
She shook her head, pulled her flask out of her parka pocket and took a swig.
He was staring at her mouth the way he’d stared at Boudica when she’d opened the front door.
“Do you want some?” She held out the flask. “It’s bourbon.”
“It’s not even noon yet.”
“Stop worrying … ‘It’s already tomorrow in Australia.’ Charles Schulz said that. He was the creator of—”
“Peanuts. I know.”
“That was rude. Interrupting me like that.”
“You’re right. I apologize.”
She bit her lip to keep from grinning. She didn’t care, but she knew he did.
“Now let me look at your head.”
“What? Why?”
“I just want to make sure you didn’t hit it too hard.”
“I wouldn’t have hit it at all if you hadn’t suddenly swerved like that.”
“I wouldn’t have swerved like that if you hadn’t taken off your seatbelt. You of all people should know proper protocol when driving.”
“But I’m not driving.”
“You’re not. And we should thank the gods on that point. Now let me look at your head.”
Before she could object, he leaned over, had his palms on her cheeks, turned her head, and ran his fingers gently over the side of her skull.
Definitely the Man in the Iron Mask.
He smells like cinnamon.
Like cinnamon baked in a roll with a glaze of sweet sugar frosting on top. His hands are warm, like his eyes with those long lashes. There’s something wrong about a man having lashes that belong on a pretty girl’s face. And how is it his hands are warm? In temperature like this? None of this is right. Or fair.
His touch was gentle, but the flesh on his palms was rough.
He has callouses. Just like the Man in the Iron Mask.
She would have expected Sir Clarke’s hands to be manicured, used only for raising a glass of fine wine, pointing out a fine painting, or holding up his pinky finger during high tea.
