in the photos—her true appearance, so carefully hidden until now—had actually been different in person.
Except she’d taken too long to respond to him…given herself away. He might not know just what those photos meant to her, but he knew they meant something.
Didn’t mean she couldn’t still fake it. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re still full of crap.” She pushed past him, headed for the exit and her sloppily parked car.
Damned if he didn’t follow—making no bones about it, right on her heels. The kind of persistence she’d want on her side if she needed help. From a man who—despite the way he’d nearly been blown up, despite the way Sam the hooker had dragged him around and Sam—almost—I Am had bossed him and resisted him, despite the way he’d so far been thwarted at every turn—didn’t show any of the classic signs of frightening temper or inter-gender control issues. Persistent, yes. He wanted what he wanted, all right. But even in these strange circumstances, he’d been willing to work with her to get it.
And he’d kept enough of his wits about him to catch a glimpse of her most closely guarded secret.
But just a glimpse. He couldn’t truly understand. He was fishing.
He had to be.
She unlocked the car door with one stab at the remote button—driver’s side only. And when she looked up she found Jethro on the other side of the car, his hand at the door. Waiting. Looking at her with an interesting combination of trust and demand. He’d cleaned up somewhat while she’d been questioning Madonna under the guise of a young nurse’s aide. His mustache looked soft and groomed; his hair no longer entirely disheveled, but obviously finger-combed. No dried blood in sight,just a few fresh-looking cuts and a bruised bump on the side of his nose.
Waiting.
She unlocked the door. Dammit.
The car shifted under his weight as he joined her. “Thanks.”
“I just don’t have time to argue with you,” she muttered, starting the car.
“No, you could have simply driven off and left me there. I know you wanted to.” He tipped his head at her. “Although you do still have my gloves.”
“And I like them,” she said, putting the car into reverse and threading her way out of the parking aisle. “It’s a good look. Very chick warrior. Just what I need right now.”
“Do you?” He turned in the seat, putting his back to the door and straining the seat belt, so he could regard her more fully. “Now that I’m in the car and headed into chick warrior turf with you, is there anything more you’d like to tell me about your little talk with Madonna? Aside from how you got in there—in case you think I didn’t notice the way you glossed over that part the first time.”
She made a face without thinking, and quickly smoothed it away. “I don’t care if you noticed. You don’t need to know.”
He blew air through his mustache. “Strictly speaking, that’s true enough.” But he didn’t let her off the hook, not with his gaze riveted to her face as it was. He showed no concern for the fast corner she took. “But I want to know.”
And again, she ignored it. Glossed it over with other answers he wanted—answers she might as well givehim. At this point, the refuge houses were blown. “Madonna spent time in three houses before she hit the streets again. The first, you know about.” She slowed to take a red light, and glanced over at him. “This strikes me as a good time to mention again that too much time has passed for your sister to have been at the entry house, and that you’re far, far better off now than if you’d spoken to the Captain about finding her.”
Jethro snorted, unconvinced about that latter.
“Not kidding,” Sam told him, and hit the accelerator for the green, abruptly enough to rock his head back.
“Moot point, don’t you think?”
“Only if you don’t try to find Lizbet again.”
Silence. Then he cleared his throat. “Am I that
Except she’d taken too long to respond to him…given herself away. He might not know just what those photos meant to her, but he knew they meant something.
Didn’t mean she couldn’t still fake it. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re still full of crap.” She pushed past him, headed for the exit and her sloppily parked car.
Damned if he didn’t follow—making no bones about it, right on her heels. The kind of persistence she’d want on her side if she needed help. From a man who—despite the way he’d nearly been blown up, despite the way Sam the hooker had dragged him around and Sam—almost—I Am had bossed him and resisted him, despite the way he’d so far been thwarted at every turn—didn’t show any of the classic signs of frightening temper or inter-gender control issues. Persistent, yes. He wanted what he wanted, all right. But even in these strange circumstances, he’d been willing to work with her to get it.
And he’d kept enough of his wits about him to catch a glimpse of her most closely guarded secret.
But just a glimpse. He couldn’t truly understand. He was fishing.
He had to be.
She unlocked the car door with one stab at the remote button—driver’s side only. And when she looked up she found Jethro on the other side of the car, his hand at the door. Waiting. Looking at her with an interesting combination of trust and demand. He’d cleaned up somewhat while she’d been questioning Madonna under the guise of a young nurse’s aide. His mustache looked soft and groomed; his hair no longer entirely disheveled, but obviously finger-combed. No dried blood in sight,just a few fresh-looking cuts and a bruised bump on the side of his nose.
Waiting.
She unlocked the door. Dammit.
The car shifted under his weight as he joined her. “Thanks.”
“I just don’t have time to argue with you,” she muttered, starting the car.
“No, you could have simply driven off and left me there. I know you wanted to.” He tipped his head at her. “Although you do still have my gloves.”
“And I like them,” she said, putting the car into reverse and threading her way out of the parking aisle. “It’s a good look. Very chick warrior. Just what I need right now.”
“Do you?” He turned in the seat, putting his back to the door and straining the seat belt, so he could regard her more fully. “Now that I’m in the car and headed into chick warrior turf with you, is there anything more you’d like to tell me about your little talk with Madonna? Aside from how you got in there—in case you think I didn’t notice the way you glossed over that part the first time.”
She made a face without thinking, and quickly smoothed it away. “I don’t care if you noticed. You don’t need to know.”
He blew air through his mustache. “Strictly speaking, that’s true enough.” But he didn’t let her off the hook, not with his gaze riveted to her face as it was. He showed no concern for the fast corner she took. “But I want to know.”
And again, she ignored it. Glossed it over with other answers he wanted—answers she might as well givehim. At this point, the refuge houses were blown. “Madonna spent time in three houses before she hit the streets again. The first, you know about.” She slowed to take a red light, and glanced over at him. “This strikes me as a good time to mention again that too much time has passed for your sister to have been at the entry house, and that you’re far, far better off now than if you’d spoken to the Captain about finding her.”
Jethro snorted, unconvinced about that latter.
“Not kidding,” Sam told him, and hit the accelerator for the green, abruptly enough to rock his head back.
“Moot point, don’t you think?”
“Only if you don’t try to find Lizbet again.”
Silence. Then he cleared his throat. “Am I that
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