The Seduction Of Goody Two-Shoes. Kathleen Creighton
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longer the least bit quiescent, she struggled and tugged against his grip. “I said, let go of me.”
“I will let go of you when I’m damn good and ready. Which is when and if we get out of this hellhole with our hides intact, and you’ve told me exactly what in the hell you’ve got me mixed up in.”
She hissed at him like an angry cat. “What if they’re watching? They’ll think we’re quarreling.”
“Quarreling?” He didn’t know whether to laugh at her or yell. “We’re married, remember? I’m your husband. That’s what married people do, isn’t it? They fight.” They’d reached the car, so he figured it was safe to let go of her arm.
She eyed him sideways while he pulled his crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. She kept rubbing sullenly at the marks his fingers had left on her upper arm, and since he didn’t much like looking at those marks, himself, McCall shifted his gaze away from her and fixed a narrow-eyed stare on the door of the cantina instead.
“Don’t you think we should be leaving?” she asked after a moment, sounding nervous as her gaze followed his.
He deliberately waited until he’d finished lighting up, taking his time about it, then glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “We?”
Behind the cinnamon sprinkle of freckles her skin looked flushed, though he conceded that might have been from the sun. “You wouldn’t just…leave me here.” Her voice was flat, certain.
Which naturally made him contrary. He inhaled and held it, counting pulsebeats, then blew smoke. “Don’t tempt me.”
“But…they could come out of there any minute. If they see this car—”
He pretended to be affronted. “What’s wrong with my car?”
“Well, it’s not a tourist’s car, that’s for sure,” she snapped in that crusty voice of hers. “My God, how old is this thing?”
“Ancient—probably about as old as I am,” McCall muttered, and then, bristling, “Hey—it got me here, didn’t it? Good thing for you. And it’ll get us both out of here. That’s what counts.” He planted the cigarette between his teeth and hauled out his keys.
But she was staring at the Beetle as if seeing it for the first time. “How, exactly?” she asked in a fascinated tone.
McCall didn’t think that required a reply. He threw her a withering look as he opened the door. Then for a while he stood in silence, considering the piles of paintings wedged into the VW’s every nook and cranny, including the front passenger seat.
Ah, hell. What was he going to do? Much as he’d like to have done so, he really couldn’t go off and leave the woman there. Not after what he’d just gone through to rescue her. Growling to himself, he manhandled the stack of canvasses out of the front seat and leaned them lovingly, one by one, against the weathered fence nearby. I’ll come back for you, he promised, giving the outermost one a pat.
Just then the dog, who’d been watching all this activity from the middle of the street while lethargically scratching himself, trotted over to the paintings and lifted his leg.
“Everybody’s an art critic,” McCall muttered, as Cinnamon clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle either laughter or dismay. Since he couldn’t be certain which, he just jerked his head toward the open door and snarled, “Get in.” Then he went around to the driver’s side without waiting for her.
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