laugh, which broke her single-minded concentration on the road—and that's when he got her attention, all of it. Her head came around, and her eyes narrowed in an offended glare. “My marriage isn't any of your—”
“Business. Right,” he said, cutting her off. “I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here, trying to figure out why a man would send his wife to Cisco alone, and—”
“I'm not a wife,” she interrupted him. “I don't have a husband. I make all my own decisions, including the very bad one to come to Cisco so I could get my car ‘dumped' somewhere and be practically kidnapped by a couple of—”
She cut herself off, obviously thinking better of what she'd been about to call him and Kid. He didn't care. He'd gotten the answer he'd wanted. It was all he could do not to grin.
Things were looking up.
T HINGS were going downhill fast, Regan thought, sitting back into her seat, her arms coming up and crossing over her chest. In truth, they could hardly look worse. She'd lost her car and was at the mercy of a . . . a speed freak in a muscle machine.
And to make things just that much more awful, he'd brought up her marriage.
Her defunct marriage, she reminded herself. Under normal circumstances, remembering she was divorced was usually enough to give her spirits a lift.
These were not normal circumstances.
She slanted the speedometer another glance, then wished she hadn't.
“Let's talk cars,” she said abruptly. Cars were her business with Quinn Younger, cars and Wilson.
“You mean the cars I stole from Vince Branson and sold to your grandfather?” he asked, downshifting around a curve in the road.
“Yes. Those cars,” Regan said, gritting her teeth. She couldn't help herself, as they went into the turn she clutched the door panel and held her breath, but the car stuck to the road, all four tires gripping asphalt, and she had to wonder how in the hell he managed to do it. He shifted up again, bringing them out of the turn, and by the time they hit the straightaway, he was running the Camaro at full throttle.
God, he drove like a . . .
a fighter pilot
.
Of course,
she thought, the realization coming to her from out of the blue. Whatever kind of lousy, low-life car thief he'd become—
if
that's what he'd become, and the jury was still out on that one—he was still one of the most highly trained and highly skilled pilots in the world. Surely he could drive a car better than most, even at a hundred and twenty miles an hour.
“What kind of cars were those again?” he asked, ratcheting the speed up another notch, so help her God.
She dug her fingers into the car's upholstery. “Huh?”
“The cars I stole, then sold to your grandfather.”
Oh, right. “A . . . uh, 1967 Dodge Coronet, with red paint and a red leather interior with hot pink piping.” Nikki had loved that car. Regan had thought it looked pretty cool, too, just not cool for her seventy-two-year-old grandfather who seemed to be losing track of some of his marbles. “And the Porsche he disappeared with, a silver one with a black interior. He only had the Coronet for a couple of days before trading it in on the Porsche.”
“Hot pink piping?” he repeated, sounding a little incredulous and none too pleased with the color scheme.
“It had a lot of power. He liked to sit in the driveway and run the motor.”
What in the world had Wilson been thinking?
she wondered for about the millionth time, to drag home a candy-apple-red car to their sedately historical, upper-middle-class neighborhood and then sit around in the driveway revving up the engine like some sixteen-year-old kid. It had been embarrassing and distressing at the time, but now she wished she were sitting in that driveway again, listening to the neighbors complain. She'd rather be embarrassed than dead, and that's what she was going to be if Quinn didn't slow down. She'd also rather have Wilson back. “The Porsche was a little quieter.”
“Yeah,”
“Business. Right,” he said, cutting her off. “I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here, trying to figure out why a man would send his wife to Cisco alone, and—”
“I'm not a wife,” she interrupted him. “I don't have a husband. I make all my own decisions, including the very bad one to come to Cisco so I could get my car ‘dumped' somewhere and be practically kidnapped by a couple of—”
She cut herself off, obviously thinking better of what she'd been about to call him and Kid. He didn't care. He'd gotten the answer he'd wanted. It was all he could do not to grin.
Things were looking up.
T HINGS were going downhill fast, Regan thought, sitting back into her seat, her arms coming up and crossing over her chest. In truth, they could hardly look worse. She'd lost her car and was at the mercy of a . . . a speed freak in a muscle machine.
And to make things just that much more awful, he'd brought up her marriage.
Her defunct marriage, she reminded herself. Under normal circumstances, remembering she was divorced was usually enough to give her spirits a lift.
These were not normal circumstances.
She slanted the speedometer another glance, then wished she hadn't.
“Let's talk cars,” she said abruptly. Cars were her business with Quinn Younger, cars and Wilson.
“You mean the cars I stole from Vince Branson and sold to your grandfather?” he asked, downshifting around a curve in the road.
“Yes. Those cars,” Regan said, gritting her teeth. She couldn't help herself, as they went into the turn she clutched the door panel and held her breath, but the car stuck to the road, all four tires gripping asphalt, and she had to wonder how in the hell he managed to do it. He shifted up again, bringing them out of the turn, and by the time they hit the straightaway, he was running the Camaro at full throttle.
God, he drove like a . . .
a fighter pilot
.
Of course,
she thought, the realization coming to her from out of the blue. Whatever kind of lousy, low-life car thief he'd become—
if
that's what he'd become, and the jury was still out on that one—he was still one of the most highly trained and highly skilled pilots in the world. Surely he could drive a car better than most, even at a hundred and twenty miles an hour.
“What kind of cars were those again?” he asked, ratcheting the speed up another notch, so help her God.
She dug her fingers into the car's upholstery. “Huh?”
“The cars I stole, then sold to your grandfather.”
Oh, right. “A . . . uh, 1967 Dodge Coronet, with red paint and a red leather interior with hot pink piping.” Nikki had loved that car. Regan had thought it looked pretty cool, too, just not cool for her seventy-two-year-old grandfather who seemed to be losing track of some of his marbles. “And the Porsche he disappeared with, a silver one with a black interior. He only had the Coronet for a couple of days before trading it in on the Porsche.”
“Hot pink piping?” he repeated, sounding a little incredulous and none too pleased with the color scheme.
“It had a lot of power. He liked to sit in the driveway and run the motor.”
What in the world had Wilson been thinking?
she wondered for about the millionth time, to drag home a candy-apple-red car to their sedately historical, upper-middle-class neighborhood and then sit around in the driveway revving up the engine like some sixteen-year-old kid. It had been embarrassing and distressing at the time, but now she wished she were sitting in that driveway again, listening to the neighbors complain. She'd rather be embarrassed than dead, and that's what she was going to be if Quinn didn't slow down. She'd also rather have Wilson back. “The Porsche was a little quieter.”
“Yeah,”
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