Читать книгу The Bluest Eyes in Texas - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 8

Bailey followed him downstairs. He stopped in the hallway, looking to the kitchen at the back of the house, where her purse was visible on the table through the open door, then at the living room to the side. She wasn’t surprised when he turned into the living room. According to the newspaper stories, Pete MacGregor had killed Ella Jensen in her own kitchen, leaving her frail body crumpled in a pool of blood. There were no signs of violence visible in the room—she’d looked for them—but there was a feeling there… And if she’d felt it, how much worse was it for Logan, who’d walked in on the scene with all its horror?

She went into the living room, homey and welcoming in an old-fashioned way. Lace doilies decorated the tables, a lap quilt was folded over the back of the couch and an oval braided rug covered much of the wood floor. When she’d first arrived, she’d studied the knickknacks that filled the flat surfaces, as well as the framed photographs that decorated the walls, focusing on one picture in particular. It was the same one Logan was looking at now—taken in the yard out front one sunny afternoon, him in his Army uniform; a tall, thin man with white hair and thick glasses on one side; a petite, delicate woman in a long skirt and apron on the other. Ella’s hand was resting on Logan’s arm, Sam’s on his shoulder, and they looked proud, all three of them.

Any idiot could guess that Logan blamed himself for their deaths and that he wanted justice. He had resources the local sheriff’s department lacked—notably time and money. Where the Jensen murders were only a small part of the sheriff’s investigative responsibilities, Logan could dedicate himself to nothing else and had ever since leaving the Army six months ago.

She sat down in a worn wooden rocker, sinking into the ruffled cushions that lined the seat and the back and set it rocking. Each backward glide caused a floorboard to creak. It wasn’t annoying, though, but rather comforting, like a soft snore or a tuneless whistle.

Finally he turned from the photo, looked around, then moved to the nearest window. There he brushed the lace curtains aside to lean against the sill, his hands resting on the wood on either side of him. “What do you know about Mac’s brother?”

“His name is Escobar. He lives near the border and he owns a ranch there.”

“What’s his first name? Where near the border?”

She smiled. “I’ll tell you that once we’re on our way.”

His corresponding smile was everything a smile should never be. “Aw, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I could throw you.”

The smile came again. “Remember that,” he said—warned—before he pushed away from the windowsill. “Let’s go.”

He was halfway to the door before she made it out of the chair. She hustled to the kitchen to grab her purse, then reached the porch about the time he hit the sidewalk.

“Hey,” she called. “I can pick a lock to open a door, but I don’t have a clue how to pick one to lock it.”

He didn’t break his stride. “Just press the button in. It’ll lock when you close it.”

She found the button he referred to on the inside knob, pulled the door up, then checked it. It was locked, though without the promise of much security. But even the most impregnable dead bolt in the world wouldn’t have protected the Jensens—not when their killer had been a guest in their home.

Logan was impatiently waiting next to his car, a pair of dark glasses hiding his eyes, when she walked out. “Get your gear.”

“I can drive—”

“You want to take two cars? Fine. Tell me where we’re going in case we get separated on the way.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request under normal circumstances, which these most certainly weren’t. No doubt if she gave him an honest answer, he would slash her tires or take her keys, then drive off and leave her in his dust. She would be lucky if she ever caught up to him again.

“I was suggesting that we leave your car here and take mine,” she said politely.

He looked at her car, and the disdain returned to his expression. “No, thanks.”

“It’s a perfectly good car,” she protested.

“Uh-huh. I bet it gets good mileage, has a half-assed stereo system and tops out at about eighty miles an hour. No way.”

She treated his car to the same disdainful look. “And I bet this guzzles gas like water, has a stereo that can blow out your eardrums at fifty paces and doesn’t even have air-conditioning.”

“Get your gear or stay behind,” he warned.

“Fine. Let me drive.”

The look that crossed his face fell just short of horror. “Nobody drives my car.”

“Make an exception.”

“Why? You afraid I’m gonna leave you by the road first time we make a bathroom stop?”

That was exactly what she was afraid of. She hadn’t told him much, but it was enough to send him in the right direction, and he seemed just the type to leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Her jaw set grimly, she went to the car, retrieved her backup pistol from the glove compartment and slid it into her purse, then returned. “My ‘gear’ is at the motel in town. We’ll have to stop there.”

The entire car literally rumbled with power when he started the engine. She settled into the passenger seat, purse in her lap, Logan just inches away, and wondered just how big a mistake she was making.

A short while later she got at least part of an answer to that when he almost stopped at a stop sign, then turned west onto the main street. She twisted in the seat to face him. “The motel’s the other way.”

He didn’t respond.

“Damn it, Marshall—”

That made him glance her way. “Hey, don’t blame me because you weren’t prepared.”

“It wouldn’t take me five minutes to pack!”

“You can buy new clothes.”

“I don’t want new clothes!”

When his only response was a shrug, she folded her arms across her chest and coldly said, “I want to pick up my clothes. If you don’t turn this car around right now, I’m not telling you one more damn thing about Pete MacGregor.”

The tires squealed as he jammed the brake to the floor and steered to the side of the street. “Then get out. I’ll find this Escobar on my own.”

“I’ll call him. I’ll warn him about you.”

His demeanor turned icy again. “You wouldn’t.”

Of course she wouldn’t. People should suffer the consequences of their actions, which meant Pete MacGregor should spend the rest of his life in prison…or die. She would never help a killer escape justice.

But while Logan might suspect that, he didn’t know it.

“Are you sure of that?” she asked. “Sure enough to put me out here? Sure enough to risk blowing your best chance at finding MacGregor?”

It took every bit of strength she possessed not to squirm under the intensity of his stare. Just as she’d been earlier, he was about ninety-nine percent certain she was bluffing, but that one percent worried him. He wasn’t going to call her bluff. Not this time.

An instant after she reached that conclusion, he glanced in the rearview mirror, then peeled out in a tight turn that left skid marks on the road and drove back through town to the motel. Pulling up in front of the room she pointed out, he scowled at her. “Five minutes.”

Smiling sweetly, she reached across, cut off the engine and snagged the keys before he began to guess what she was doing. She hopped out of the car, slid them into her jeans pocket, then headed toward the room.

She was hastily stuffing clothes into the suitcase open on the bed when he appeared in the open door. She’d come for four days this trip and had brought enough clothes for seven. What could she say? She liked being prepared.

He didn’t cross the threshold but stood smack center in the doorway and watched silently. No doubt he had some mental clock counting down and he would smugly let her know when five minutes had passed. She fully intended to be done before then.

After cramming everything into the suitcase that had come out of it, she zipped it, then grabbed a tote and went into the cramped bathroom, scooping makeup and toiletries inside. With that bag over one shoulder, she retrieved her laptop from the bottom dresser drawer and slung the strap over the other shoulder, then hefted the suitcase from the bed. A glance at the bedside clock showed she had seconds to spare.

“I’m ready,” she announced.

Finally Logan moved out of the doorway, but not to head for his car, as she expected. Instead he approached the bed, nudged the rumpled covers back with one booted toe, then bent to retrieve something from the floor. Bailey looked at the scrap of coral lace dangling from his finger and told herself she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Lingerie was a fact of life. He’d probably seen as much of it as she had. She wouldn’t snatch the tiny filmy panties away from him and hide them as if doing so could erase them from existence.

She took the garment from him in a calm, controlled manner, stuffed them in an outside pocket of the suitcase, then pushed past him with her load to head for the door.

“And here I would have figured you for white cotton,” he murmured behind her.

She pretended not to hear.

She strode to the rear of the car, fished out the keys and unlocked the trunk, then blinked. It was quite possibly the neatest car trunk she’d ever seen—spare tire out of the way, tool kit snugged into a corner, duffle bag tucked into another corner and gun cases neatly side by—

Gun cases. Two obviously held pistols; the other two were for longer guns. He didn’t intend to take any chances with MacGregor. And why should he? The man was a murderer. If he could kill that sweet old couple for nothing, he wouldn’t think twice about killing someone like Logan, who presented far more of a threat to him.

But logic aside, the weapons made her uncomfortable. Sure, she carried a gun—two of them at the moment—but strictly for self-defense. She’d never shot anyone and never would unless there was absolutely no other choice. But going looking for someone armed to the teeth—that was more like hunting, tracking prey, making the kill.

A dark hand suddenly appeared in her line of sight as Logan lifted her suitcase into the trunk, settling it next to the gun cases. He slid the tote bag from her shoulder and fitted it into the space next to it, then made room for the laptop case. Finally he closed the trunk, then held out his hand for the keys.

She started to hand them over, then hesitated. “You are planning to turn MacGregor over to the authorities when you find him, aren’t you?”

For a long time he gazed at her, but thanks to those damn glasses, she couldn’t see anything but a dim reflection of herself. Not that it mattered—even if she’d been looking directly into his eyes, she still wouldn’t have seen anything he didn’t want her to see. Finally his mouth relaxed from its grim set long enough to form an answer. “I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.”

Relief eased over her. She dropped the key ring in his palm, then opened the passenger door, sliding inside. The sun-warmed leather of the seat went a long way toward easing the chill the guns had created inside her. He’d served honorably in the Army and received commendations for his heroic actions in the war. Heavens, he was Brady’s brother. Of course he wasn’t a murderer.

But he also blamed himself for the deaths of two people he’d loved dearly. He wanted justice, needed vengeance. Even she, with no emotional involvement in the case, could make the argument that killing Pete MacGregor where he stood was indeed justice.

But it was pointless to worry about his intentions now. Before he could even be faced with the choice, they had to find MacGregor. She had to keep him from ditching her or from disappearing before he’d kept his end of the bargain. Those were her worries.

MacGregor was his.

Wind rushed through the car, keeping the temperature comfortable even though they were driving directly into the setting sun. Logan’s skin felt raw, as if the slightest touch might send sensations skittering all the way to his brain, and his throat was parched. If he was alone, he would have music blasting from the CD player, adding its own vibrations to those already supplied by the engine and the road, but with Bailey sitting there all prim and pissy, he figured adding music would only get him more complaints.

She hadn’t spoken since that question as they’d stood at the back of the car. You are planning to turn MacGregor over to the authorities when you find him, aren’t you? Fair question. A lie for an answer. He intended to kill Mac—maybe painfully, maybe slowly or maybe he would just put a bullet in his brain and be done with it. Whatever his choice, the bastard would never hurt anyone again when Logan was finished with him.

And then…then he had no clue what he’d do. The past year had turned his life upside down. He’d lost the only two people who mattered, had given up his career to track down their killer, had turned his life over to that obsession. Once it was over, what reason would he have to live? What would he do? Where would he go?

Not to Oklahoma. Not to Brady and his kids.

He’d never imagined his brother having kids. Whenever he thought of Brady, it was always in the past, as if he’d never aged beyond the seventeen he was when Logan left home. His parents had frozen at the point in his memories, as well. As if they had all died and only Logan had survived.

He couldn’t have been so lucky.

They’d reached Dallas in time for evening rush hour. Now, with the major part of the city behind them, he exited the freeway and pulled into the parking lot of a motel that advertised clean rooms and low rates. There was a gas station on one side, a burger place on the other. What more could they ask for?

“We’re stopping?” Bailey asked when he cut the engine under the awning that shaded the motel entrance.

“I’m tired.”

“But I can dr—” She broke off, no doubt remembering their earlier discussion. “Get one room.”

He opened his mouth to make a smart-ass remark, but she cut him off. “With two beds.”

“Aw, damn. And here I was hoping…”

She didn’t even grace that with a scowl.

Inside the lobby the cute clerk came on to him even though she had a good view of Bailey waiting in the car. He was accustomed to that, though it had been a long time since he’d taken anyone up on her offer. He would get interested in sex again sometime. He just didn’t care about it now.

She gave them a first-floor room at the back, away from the highway noise. After getting only a few hours’ sleep the night before, then dealing with Bailey today, he was so damn tired that even the Texas Motor Speedway couldn’t keep him awake.

They left their bags in the room—all three of hers plus his duffle—then at his suggestion, walked next door to the burger restaurant. After standing in line to place their order, they found a table away from the plate glass windows that radiated heat from the sun and sat down to wait for the pimply kid behind the counter to call their number.

On the drive it had been easy not to talk—too much noise through the open windows. Here in the relative peace of a restaurant where business was slow, he could have just as easily remained silent. When he chose, he was good at it. This time he didn’t choose.

“You don’t sound like you’re from Memphis.”

Bailey was playing with the paper wrapper she’d stripped from her drinking straw, flattening it between her fingers, then folding it into neat patterns. At his comment, she glanced up, then crumpled the paper and tossed it onto the table. “I’m not. I grew up in Kansas.”

“The great flat state.” He didn’t wait for agreement or argument. “How’d you end up in Tennessee?”

“I had just graduated from college and spent the summer before law school working for a law firm. I liked the P.I.s they contracted with and thought their job seemed a lot more interesting than the lawyers’. So I forgot about law school, put in some applications and got hired in Memphis.”

“That must have thrilled Mom and Dad.”

“Actually Mom didn’t care either way. She just wanted me to be happy. And my father…was dead. He just would have wanted me to be happy, too.”

He’d heard some parents were like that. If pressed, he would have said that Jim and Rita had just wanted him for their own entertainment. Neither of them had had a paternal bone in their bodies, or if they had, it had long since been broken, the way they’d broken more than a few of his bones. Truthfully, though, Brady had gotten most of the fractures. It had taken them a while to realize that there were plenty of ways to inflict pain without risking the kind of injury that attracted the attention of the authorities.

He wondered idly who they’d taken their rage out on once Brady had left home. It was probably too much to hope that it had been each other.

Steering away from that line of thought, he refocused on Bailey. “Are you a good enough P.I. that you attract clients in other states or are you so lousy that you have to go looking for business in other states where they don’t know you?”

Her smile was small and sarcastic. “The agency is good enough that they don’t have to go looking for business at all. It finds them.”

“Then how did you wind up working for a kid in Oklahoma?”

She toyed with one of the stack of napkins that had come with their drinks, folding it, creasing it with one long, slender finger, then smoothing it flat again. Finally she pushed it away and met his gaze. “Lexy’s my niece,” she said reluctantly, as if it might make a difference.

Did it? It certainly explained her willingness to threaten, coerce and blackmail. This wasn’t just a professional intent on keeping her promise to a client but an aunt determined to make her niece happy, which would make her harder to shake once Mac had been taken care of.

Harder. Not impossible.

The pimply kid called their number over the loudspeaker, and Logan left the table to pick up their tray. After a stop at another counter to add tiny paper cups of ketchup, he returned to the table, passed her food to her and unwrapped the foil paper around his hamburger.

So her sister was married to his brother. That made them almost…nothing. Hell, he didn’t even admit to having a brother. He sure wasn’t claiming Brady’s family, and by rights, his wife’s family didn’t even exist in Logan’s world.

Except Bailey did exist. She was all too real and all too big a pain.

“Is there anything you’d like to know about Brady and the girls?” she asked, her tone cautious as she dipped a thick-cut French fry in ketchup.

“Nope.”

“You know, he might be able to help you with this search. He’s the under—”

“Which part of ‘nope’ did you not understand?”

“Come on. A smart man accepts help when he needs it. This is a tough job to try alone.”

“I’m not alone,” he pointed out dryly. “I’ve got you.”

That made her fall silent for a while, long enough to eat half her hamburger and most of the fries. Then she looked at him again, wearing the expression he was coming to recognize as her stubborn, not-gonna-give-up look. “Aren’t you at all curious about him? About how he left home? About where he’s been and what he’s done these past nineteen years?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, gee, that hurts my feelings.”

“He’s your brother.”

“Like that means something. These are good burgers, aren’t they?” He dipped the ragged edge of his hamburger in ketchup, then took a big bite. Food was one of the few pleasures he’d found since returning from the war. Endless months of MREs—the prepackaged “meals ready to eat” that were the mainstay of combat troops’ diet—and the periodic hot meals they were served while in camp had left him craving old favorites like pizza, hamburgers and doughnuts. He’d lived off junk food for the last six months and could probably do it for the rest of his life.

Being the stubborn, naive type, Bailey didn’t get the message that he was through with the conversation. “It means something to Brady.”

He slowly chewed another bite while scowling at her. “You’ve got a sister.”

“Three, actually.”

“And you’re just the best of friends with all three of them.”

“We’re close.”

“Goody for you. You wanna be best friends with ’em, fine. It’s none of my business. I don’t wanna be best friends with Brady, and that’s none of your business.”

Her cheeks flushed a pale pink. “I just don’t understand—”

“You shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand.”

“What about your nieces? Aren’t you the least bit interested in them?”

He considered that while he polished off his burger. He’d never been a kid-friendly person, not even when he was a kid himself. Back then, pain, shame and the fear of discovery had kept him and Brady from getting close to other kids. As he’d grown up, he’d come to view kids as nuisances best kept at a distance. They started life crying, smelly and needy, before turning into a whiny, troublemaking subhuman species. Given a choice, he would never deal with anyone younger than eighteen. At least by then, they’d reached the point where they stood a chance of becoming a real person.

His silence brought a bit of hope to Bailey’s expression that he dashed when he finally answered. “No. Not the least bit.”

She scowled at him as she crumpled her wrapper with enough force that she was probably imagining it was his throat. “You’re a jerk—you know that?”

“A jerk,” he repeated, amused. “Now that really hurts my feelings. Is that the best you can come up with?”

Shoving her chair back so hard it would have fallen if not for the table behind them, she stood up, then leaned toward him. “No. You’re a selfish, self-centered, rude, cold-hearted, unfeeling bastard who doesn’t deserve to have someone like Brady, Lexy and Brynn in his life. You could go straight to hell for all I care, but I made a promise to Lexy, and you made one to me, and by God, we’re both going to keep them or I’ll kill you myself.”

With that, she turned on her heel and strode to the door. He watched her go as he finished his fries. If he was lucky, she would find her way back to Pineville, pick up her car and get the hell out of his life.

But he hadn’t been lucky in a long time.

He wasted another ten minutes before clearing his table and heading for the motel. As he rounded the back corner, the first thing he saw was Bailey, sitting on the sidewalk outside their room. It was hard to tell from her stony expression whether she’d cooled down. Not that he cared. Traveling with an unwanted companion was tough. Having her too pissed off to talk to him, though, just might make it bearable.

He unlocked the door, went inside and left it standing open. He was pulling back the covers on the bed nearest the door when she finally came inside.

“It’s not even eight o’clock,” she commented.

“You can tell time. Good.”

“You can’t be going to bed before eight o’clock.”

He bunched up the bedspread to one side, then untucked the sheets from under the mattress before facing her. “I got about three hours’ sleep last night and I’ve been dealing with a major pain in the ass today. I’m tired. I want to sleep. You can watch TV or read the Good Book—” he gestured toward the battered Bible on the night table “—or twiddle your thumbs. I don’t care. Just whatever you do, be ready to leave first thing in the morning.”

She yanked the pillows free of the spread on the second bed, mashed them against the headboard, then plopped herself down and switched on the television.

After securing the locks on the doors, Logan emptied his pockets on the nightstand, including his car keys. Bailey’s gaze instantly went to them, then away. Would she hide them as soon as she judged he was asleep? Probably. It didn’t matter. If he left her, it would be someplace a hell of a lot more remote than Dallas.

He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his T-shirt, then stripped to his boxers. When he turned to slide between the covers, he heard a gasp that started loud, then choked off, as if she’d clamped her hand over her mouth. Scowling, he turned to look at her and saw that was indeed what she’d done.

He held her gaze a long time, daring her to ask, but she swallowed hard, lowered her hand and said nothing. Satisfied, he eased into bed, shut off the lamp on his side of the center table, rolled over and went to sleep.

Bailey kept the sound on the television low so it wouldn’t disturb Logan, but she couldn’t concentrate on the show. He’d undressed so casually—something of a surprise considering that they were practically strangers while at the same time not surprising at all considering what an ass he’d been. She’d been trying not to watch—not an easy task when he was all smooth brown skin and hard, sinewy muscle—but when he’d turned his back to her…

His back was striped with scars, some no more than thin, pale lines, others thickened and white. They’d stretched from side to side, from shoulder to opposite hip, some disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers, and they’d looked…horrible.

She could think of only one way to get scars like that: torture. He’d been beaten with a strap of some sort, beaten until his skin was torn, raw and bloody. Her first thought was the war—the enemy wasn’t known for treating prisoners humanely—but he hadn’t been taken prisoner. Besides, these were old scars, existing prior to his time in the Army.

Which left his parents as the most likely source. That explained his hatred for them, his utter lack of interest in whether they lived or died. But why did he hate his brother? God forbid, had Brady taken part in the abuse?

She didn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. She’d watched her brother-in-law with Hallie and with the girls. He was far too gentle, too good a soul. He protected people. He didn’t hurt them.

More likely Brady had been the favored son, the elder who could do no wrong, and Logan resented him for that. She’d read enough about child abuse to know it was sometimes like that—the parents would single out one child for all the punishment, all the rage, while treating the others the way loving parents should.

It was the only explanation she could come up with.

Nearly two hours had passed when a yawn shook her out of her thoughts. She shut off the television and rose from the bed, lifting her suitcase into the space. Usually she slept in a tank top and panties, both so skimpy they were only a step up from being naked. Tonight she dug a T-shirt from the bag, then took it into the bathroom along with her tote bag.

She combed her hair, washed off her makeup, moisturized her face, then changed into the T-shirt. It was about four sizes smaller than she would have liked and eight or ten inches shorter, but unless she developed a fondness for sleeping fully dressed, it was the best she could do. Hesitantly she returned to the bedroom, slid hastily beneath the covers, then reached to turn out the lamp.

For a long moment she lay there, leaning on one elbow, the other hand stilled on the switch, her gaze fixed on Logan’s keys. It wasn’t likely he would leave her there. Surely his preference would run to some West Texas town miles from nowhere. Still, that one percent doubt made her switch off the lamp, then scoop up the keys and slide them under the covers with her. He would probably be smugly amused at this proof that she didn’t trust him, and she was getting tired of his smugness, but better safe than sorry, right?

She’d settled on her side, the key ring looped over one finger and tucked under the pillow that supported her head, and was concentrating on slow, even breaths when a gravelly voice came out of the darkness.

“You counting on me to be gentleman enough to not root through those covers for my keys?”

Damn. She would have sworn he was asleep. “A gentleman would be the last thing I’d mistake you for,” she replied, keeping her own voice quiet in the darkness. “I’m counting on waking up if you do start rooting.”

“You make me sound like a damn pig.”

“I was merely using your word. Besides, sometimes you act like one.”

His chuckle was mild. “Any other insults you want to add?”

“I’ll let you know as they come to mind.” She tucked the covers under her chin, making a tight little cocoon for herself, then plumped the pillow under her head. It would be best to end the conversation right there, to close her eyes and pretend to sleep until she actually drifted off. She doubted he would object.

But she didn’t close her eyes or let things drop. “Those scars on your back…did your parents give you those?”

This time there was nothing light about his chuckle. “The only thing they ever gave me that mattered.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She couldn’t take offense at his dismissal. An apology was such a little thing, and coming from a stranger, it meant nothing. Nothing could make right what his parents had done to him, except possibly knowing that they would suffer for it in hell.

She listened to his steady breathing for a while. With anyone else, she would take it as a sign he was asleep. With him, assuming anything was likely to prove that trite old saying about making an ass of you and me.

As the bedside clock rolled over to eleven, Bailey was convinced she would never fall asleep, but the next time she glanced at it for confirmation, it read six thirty-three. She was about to turn over and snooze again when her gaze slid past the clock to the other bed. Logan was dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt, his jaw was freshly shaved, his hair was damp from his shower and he was watching the morning news with the volume muted.

There was something incredibly disconcerting about the fact that he’d been up and about while she’d lain sleeping, dead to the world. It made her feel vulnerable, although clearly he hadn’t disturbed her. She’d slept through whatever noise he might have made, and her little cocoon was tucked as securely as it had been last night. More importantly—she thrust her hand under the pillow, searching until her fingers closed around cool metal—he hadn’t retrieved his keys and abandoned her.

Although she would have sworn she’d made no noise and no movement other than opening her eyes and locating the keys, he knew she was awake. Without glancing in her direction, he asked, “Are you planning to lie there all day? ’Cause I’m leaving in half an hour.”

Slowly she sat up, keeping the covers around her. “I need to take a shower.”

“Then get moving.”

Maybe he had zero modesty, but she did—and no robe either. “Couldn’t you wait outside?”

Finally he turned his head to look at her. His expression was as dry as the desert in August. “I saw you get into bed last night. Unless your panties shrank during the night, there’s not going to be anything new to see this morning.”

Scowling at him, she maneuvered the bedspread free of the other covers, then wrapped it around her before awkwardly rising from the bed. It took an effort, but she managed to make it as far as the bathroom door with her suitcase and tote bag before shedding the cover and disappearing inside. She locked the door, scooted her bags up against it, then tossed the car keys on top.

When she came out a short while later, showered, shampooed and shaved, he was sprawled in the same position, with the volume turned up on the television. He gave no sign of noticing her except to say, “You’ve got nine minutes.”

Brush her teeth, dry her hair, fix it, put on makeup and re-pack in nine minutes? Yeah, right. Even at her quickest, she needed a minimum of fifteen minutes before she would be ready to walk out the door.

She brushed her teeth first, then shoved yesterday’s clothes into an outside pocket of the suitcase. She was just finishing her makeup when Logan’s reflection appeared in the mirror. He came too close, reached around and patted her pockets to locate his keys in the right one. He was wiggling his fingers into the tight space when she spun around, slapping at his hand. “Hey! Stop that!”

He didn’t, of course. “Time’s up. I’m outta here.”

She used one of her self-defense moves, grabbing his hand, putting pressure on the sensitive spot, bending it back. He didn’t let out a squeal like the last guy she’d done it to and he didn’t back off—the last guy had dropped to one knee—but he did stop probing in her pocket.

“I’m ready,” she said in a warning tone.

His gaze flickered to her hair, still wet and combed straight back from her face. She neither wanted nor needed his confirmation that it wasn’t a flattering style, but she could take care of that in the car.

“Just grab my suitcase,” she went on in the same voice, “and I’ll be right behind you.”

“Grab your own suitcase, lady. I’m not your servant.” He yanked his hand free, snatched up his duffle and headed for the door.

Gritting her teeth, Bailey shoved everything but a comb into the tote bag, then rummaged inside for an elastic band and some gold clips. Feeling like a pack mule, she hauled her stuff to the car outside and, smiling the phoniest polite smile she could manage, handed him the keys.

“Are we stopping for breakfast?” she asked as they settled in their respective seats.

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

She did, but she wasn’t about to insist on it. If he wanted to be inconsiderate, let him. Eventually they would have to stop for gas, and when they did, she would stock up on munchies to get her through the quirks of his schedule.

The morning air was cool enough that they didn’t need the windows down more than a few inches, so she took advantage of the relative calm to French braid her hair. It was a job best done by someone else, in front of a mirror and not in the confines of a small car, but at last she was satisfied with the results, at least from the front. She couldn’t see how the back looked and decided it didn’t matter.

“You could just cut it,” Logan said when she was finally finished.

“Or, gee, you could have given me five minutes to dry it.”

He shrugged. “Thirty minutes is plenty of time to shower and make yourself presentable. It’s not as if you were ugly to start.”

Her gaze narrowed as she looked at him, then she offered a simpering smile. “Why, thank you for that gracious compliment, Mr. Marshall.”

Wonder of wonders, he actually shifted uncomfortably and color darkened his face. “I wasn’t offering a compliment—just stating the facts.”

She dropped the comb in her purse, then tilted her head back. It was a lovely morning. She’d slept well; her store of patience wasn’t dribbling away like sand in an hourglass—yet—and she’d made Logan Marshall blush. Things were going so well at the moment that she might even make an effort to be sociable.

Another wonder—the same thought had apparently occurred to Logan, because before she could think of anything to say, he spoke. “How’d you wind up with a name like Bailey?”

“Hey, Bailey is a perfectly respectable name.”

“Yeah, generally a perfectly respectable last name or man’s name.”

“Logan is generally a last name, too.” So was Brady, for that matter.

“Logan’s a family name.”

“So is Bailey…sort of.” When he glanced her way, she shrugged. “When my mother got pregnant the first time, she knew exactly what she was going to name her son—Lee Aubrey Madison the third. But she had a daughter, so she named her Neely. I came next and got Bailey. Then there’s Hallie and Kylie.”

“Good thing she stopped before she got to Holly, Molly and Polly.”

“At least if we all had to be lees, we got unusual lees.” Without pausing, she went right on. “You said Logan’s a family name. Whose?”

“It’s my paternal grandmother’s maiden name.”

“And Brady is…your maternal grandmother’s maiden name?”

His only response was the tightening of his fingers on the steering wheel. “Where do the other lees live?”

“Neely’s in Heartbreak, Oklahoma. She’s a lawyer and her husband’s the county sheriff. Hallie’s in Buffalo Plains, about twenty miles away. She’s a stay-at-home mom and her husband is—” she caught his warning breath “—not open to discussion. And Kylie lives in Dallas, where she’s happily single and breaking hearts every day.”

“Why didn’t you call her last night?”

“Oh, I don’t think that would have been a good idea. She would have asked a lot of questions and she’s not nearly as tactful as I am.” Besides, Kylie would have wanted to do something, and Bailey never could have relaxed with Logan out of her sight. The rat likely carried an extra set of keys to the car and would have been long gone before she returned.

“You’re the tactful one.” His words were heavy with doubt.

“No, actually I’m the smart one. People labeled us when we were kids to help keep us straight. Neely’s the determined one, Hallie’s the popular one, Kylie’s the pretty one, and I’m the smart one.”

“And the hardheaded one,” he muttered.

“Oh, we’re all pretty hardheaded,” she said easily. “Besides, you’ve got no room to talk. You’re about as stubborn as they come.”

He treated her to a dry, sarcastic smile and repeated her earlier words to her. “Thank you for that gracious compliment.”

“Hey, I told you I’d pass on any impressions as they came to mind.” She kicked off her shoes, propped one foot in the narrow space between window glass and door frame, then pressed the stereo on button. “Let’s see if we can agree on good music.”