be made up. The decisions would be made for him. “Give over the fanny pack and let’s go.”
“Stiff-necked stuffed shirt,” she muttered, renewing her glare as she unclipped the fanny pack. “You deserve that haircut.”
As the BMW motorbike idled in front of a red light, Chandler turned his head just enough to shout at Beth. “Keep still,” he snapped at her.
She rested her chin on his shoulder, heedless of the way the helmet clipped him on the head. “I’m bored,” she said. “And you made me wear this helmet. I feel like a banana.” At least she had her parka. The sweater hadbeen fine in calm sixty-degree air at the waterfront, but even though the sun had continued to warm the day, the wind from their passage drew goose bumps on Beth’s arms.
He gritted his teeth as the light changed, resolutely turning his attention back to the traffic as they headed into Cape Town proper. She could see the muscle of his jaw twitch, squaring it even more. He took them through areas with incredible Victorian architecture with iron lace railings and exacting paint jobs and into the more modern part of the city until buildings rose high above them, ultramodern architecture gleaming of glass and steel.
Beth, her hands handcuffed around his waist, felt it the better part of valor not to pitch an escape attempt right here on the moving motorbike, leaving potential smears of herself all over the road. Work with him, Barbara had said. It didn’t look like she’d have a choice.
Or rather, the choices were such that allowing him to take her to a quiet place for a chat was the least of all the evils. And if she could break away somewhere along the way, so be it. Meanwhile, she snugged up against his back and let her hands rest on his belt buckle, tapping restlessly…and quite clearly getting to him. Good. The more she annoyed him with the little things, the less seriously he’d take her, the more distracted he’d become—and maybe that moment to break away would be hers for the taking.
They turned onto Strand Street and after a short jaunt through the traffic-filled lanes, swooped down a ramp into the cavernous parking garage below the towering Holiday Inn Cape Town. When he flipped the kickstand down and cut the motor, the resulting silence held the peculiar quality of underground garage acoustics everywhere.
“‘We are the Pilgrims, master, we shall go…’” Beth murmured.
He jerked around to look at her—or tried to, for he was still enclosed in her arms. He frowned at her, those glacial eyes searching hers. They were close enough for Beth to see how the edges of his irises were darker than the rest, as though someone had applied watercolor in a circle and the color slowly, dramatically seeped inward. In this lighting, his pupils had gone huge; it made him look more vulnerable…not so much of that chipped ice British exterior. “How’d you—”
“It’s on the clock, right?” she said. “The SAS memorial at Credenhill.”
“Hell bloody yes,” he said. “What are you doing with it?”
“Trivia. Just one of my many endearing qualities,” she murmured modestly. Not to mention it had the effect she wanted, which was to throw him off stride again. She really didn’t want him to start thinking efficiently. It might occur to him to search her, in which event he’d surely find her little S&W in the ankle holster.
He looked at her another moment and then gave a sudden little snort, turning away to abruptly lift her hands over his head.
She fumbled with the helmet, finally removing it, and when he took it, used her cuffed hands to first muss her hair slightly and then smooth it back. Then she held them out expectantly, palms up.
“Not a chance,” he said, hooking the helmet over a handlebar and bringing a leg over the front of the bike seat.
“You don’t think it’ll be a little obvious if you take me in there in cuffs? You don’t think I can find a way to make it obvious?”
“I think I
“Stiff-necked stuffed shirt,” she muttered, renewing her glare as she unclipped the fanny pack. “You deserve that haircut.”
As the BMW motorbike idled in front of a red light, Chandler turned his head just enough to shout at Beth. “Keep still,” he snapped at her.
She rested her chin on his shoulder, heedless of the way the helmet clipped him on the head. “I’m bored,” she said. “And you made me wear this helmet. I feel like a banana.” At least she had her parka. The sweater hadbeen fine in calm sixty-degree air at the waterfront, but even though the sun had continued to warm the day, the wind from their passage drew goose bumps on Beth’s arms.
He gritted his teeth as the light changed, resolutely turning his attention back to the traffic as they headed into Cape Town proper. She could see the muscle of his jaw twitch, squaring it even more. He took them through areas with incredible Victorian architecture with iron lace railings and exacting paint jobs and into the more modern part of the city until buildings rose high above them, ultramodern architecture gleaming of glass and steel.
Beth, her hands handcuffed around his waist, felt it the better part of valor not to pitch an escape attempt right here on the moving motorbike, leaving potential smears of herself all over the road. Work with him, Barbara had said. It didn’t look like she’d have a choice.
Or rather, the choices were such that allowing him to take her to a quiet place for a chat was the least of all the evils. And if she could break away somewhere along the way, so be it. Meanwhile, she snugged up against his back and let her hands rest on his belt buckle, tapping restlessly…and quite clearly getting to him. Good. The more she annoyed him with the little things, the less seriously he’d take her, the more distracted he’d become—and maybe that moment to break away would be hers for the taking.
They turned onto Strand Street and after a short jaunt through the traffic-filled lanes, swooped down a ramp into the cavernous parking garage below the towering Holiday Inn Cape Town. When he flipped the kickstand down and cut the motor, the resulting silence held the peculiar quality of underground garage acoustics everywhere.
“‘We are the Pilgrims, master, we shall go…’” Beth murmured.
He jerked around to look at her—or tried to, for he was still enclosed in her arms. He frowned at her, those glacial eyes searching hers. They were close enough for Beth to see how the edges of his irises were darker than the rest, as though someone had applied watercolor in a circle and the color slowly, dramatically seeped inward. In this lighting, his pupils had gone huge; it made him look more vulnerable…not so much of that chipped ice British exterior. “How’d you—”
“It’s on the clock, right?” she said. “The SAS memorial at Credenhill.”
“Hell bloody yes,” he said. “What are you doing with it?”
“Trivia. Just one of my many endearing qualities,” she murmured modestly. Not to mention it had the effect she wanted, which was to throw him off stride again. She really didn’t want him to start thinking efficiently. It might occur to him to search her, in which event he’d surely find her little S&W in the ankle holster.
He looked at her another moment and then gave a sudden little snort, turning away to abruptly lift her hands over his head.
She fumbled with the helmet, finally removing it, and when he took it, used her cuffed hands to first muss her hair slightly and then smooth it back. Then she held them out expectantly, palms up.
“Not a chance,” he said, hooking the helmet over a handlebar and bringing a leg over the front of the bike seat.
“You don’t think it’ll be a little obvious if you take me in there in cuffs? You don’t think I can find a way to make it obvious?”
“I think I
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