The Bluest Eyes in Texas. Marilyn Pappano
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in her clothes wouldn’t hurt her—he’d done it for months at a time in the war. Neither would sharing half her bed with a suitcase. She’d just proven she could sleep damn near anywhere. And if she got cold, well, she’d wake up long enough to pull the covers over her.
Still, after locking the door and securing the chain, he moved the suitcase to the floor, then unzipped the clunky black boots and set them next to the bag. He pulled her purse strap from around her neck and over her shoulder—just so she wouldn’t risk choking herself in the night—and set it on the nightstand, then pulled the loose half of the bedspread up to cover her.
He wasn’t being considerate but, rather, selfish, he told himself as he stripped to his boxers and crawled into bed. She wasn’t the best of traveling companions under good circumstances; she was likely to be even worse without a good night’s sleep. He was just looking out for himself.
As he’d done since he was fifteen.
As he would always do. Just himself, and nobody else.
Logan had always been a light sleeper. Rita Marshall hadn’t liked it when her sons slept through the alarm, and the punishment for disrupting her morning routine had been severe. She’d also had a fondness for hauling them out of bed at odd hours of the night, using their disorientation at the abrupt awakening against them, so he’d learned over the years to awaken quickly and to come instantly alert.
The room’s quiet was broken only by the distant sound of traffic. Light filtered in through a crack in the drapes above his bed and sent a wedge of illumination across the floor and onto the opposite bed. That bed was empty at the moment; it must have been Bailey’s movement that roused him. He lay motionless on his left side as his gaze searched the dark room for the source of the noise. He located the shadowy form an instant before it disappeared into the bathroom. After the door closed, the bathroom light came on, seeping underneath the door to illuminate a patch of dirty brown carpet.
The bedside clock showed that it was three forty-seven. If he wanted to be a real bastard, he could be up when she returned and insist that they go ahead and hit the road. He didn’t move, though. He was still tired. She hadn’t deigned to share with him how much farther they had to go, but hands down, it was better to do it well rested. Who knew? He could drive into the town where Señor Escobar lived and see Mac right off the bat…or Mac could see him. Best to be sharp.
The bathroom light went off an instant before the door opened. When she approached the bed, the light through the curtains showed her feet, narrow and pale, with that silver chain wrapped around one ankle. It also showed a length of bare leg—she’d removed her jeans while she’d been up and had traded her shirt for a doll-sized tank top. It clung everywhere and ended well above the panties that hugged her hips. If he was interested in sex or in her, it would be torture to lie there in his bed the rest of the night while she lay in hers wearing so little.
But he wasn’t interested in sex or in her, he thought as he adjusted his erection to a more comfortable position. All he cared about was finding Mac and seeing that he paid for Sam’s and Ella’s murders.
Bailey slid into bed and tugged the covers high around her neck, gave a soft sigh and closed her eyes. He debated saying something—to let her know he wasn’t asleep, that he’d seen her—but decided against it. It would just embarrass her.
And then he wouldn’t get to see her like that again. His current lack of interest in sex aside, that would be cause for regret.
It was nearly noon when they stopped for lunch in a dusty New Mexico town. Esperanza was exactly how Bailey had imagined a small desert town to look—mostly shades of brown, not too prosperous, not too hospitable. The only green was on the occasional building or sign, and the only hint of friendliness was in…well, her. Neither the waitress nor the other customers in the diner showed any sign of welcome—or curiosity, for that matter.
“Esperanza,” she said thoughtfully as she removed the lettuce from her BLT and laid it aside. “That means ‘hope’ in Spanish, doesn’t it? Wonder how you say ‘lost hope’?”
“Why do you order a BLT if you don’t like lettuce?” Logan asked.
“Because if I asked for a BT, no one would know what I wanted. Do you speak Spanish?”
“Some.”
Which probably translated to fluently, she thought as she chewed a bite of crispy bacon and vine-ripened tomato.
“Do you?”
She shrugged. “I know the important phrases, like Where’s the bathroom? and I need chocolate. What other languages do you speak?”
“A little German, a little Korean, some Farsi.”
“What did you do in the Army?”
This time he shrugged. “How much farther?”
“Maybe twenty miles.”
“Twenty miles? Then why the hell did we stop here?”
“Because I thought we needed to discuss your plan.”
He squirted jalapeño ketchup over his burger, replaced the top half of the bun, then took a hungry bite. While he chewed, he looked everywhere except at her.
“You do have a plan, don’t you?”
He chased the food with a gulp of pop, then scowled at her. “My plan is to find out if Mac is in the area.”
“Which you can’t do by just showing up in town. This guy knows you. He’d disappear into the woodwork if he saw you snooping around where he’s hiding out.”
“If he’s hiding there.”
“Right. If. But we’ll never know if you go waltzing into town.”
His scowl deepened, but he didn’t admit that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. For months, Bailey knew, his search had been fruitless, going places Mac had been, talking to people Mac had seen, but long after the fact. Covertness hadn’t been an issue. Now it was. “So what do you suggest?” he asked grudgingly.
She smiled. “Simple. I’ll waltz into town.”
“And…?”
“Ask questions. Gather information. Find out whatever I can.”
“And you’ll be successful because…?”
“Mac doesn’t know me. I do this sort of thing for a living.” Just a little lie, she told herself. She did help locate missing people; she’d just never been out in the field before. “And I’m a woman.”
“And that gives you an edge?”
She filched a couple of his fries from his plate, dipped them in the spicy ketchup and enjoyed them before replying. “Men still have a lot of old-fashioned notions about women. They see them as weaker, more delicate, in need of their protection. They think we’re not as smart, not as capable, and they want to take care of us. I’m talking about most men, mind you. There are a few exceptions.”
Color rose into his cheeks, shading them dark bronze, but she thought it was from annoyance rather than embarrassment. “You didn’t need my help last night.”
“No, I didn’t,” she agreed. She’d handled the situation all by herself. On the one hand, it had been something of a triumph seeing all those self-defense classes pay off. On the other…maybe it was the wrong attitude for an independent career woman to have, but it would have been nice if Logan had cared enough to step in. Brady would have. Her other brother-in-law, Reese, definitely would have. Practically every man she knew would have considered it his duty to rescue her from Billy’s unwelcome attentions. But not Logan. He wouldn’t have cared if the jerk had thrown her over his shoulder and carried her out of the bar.
It made her think a little less of him.
“If you had needed help, I would have been there.”
That was