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She was still where he left her. Not that he hadn’t expected her to be, but it was always comforting to know one was right about these matters.
“Stay put,” he told her as he moved into the driver’s seat and stuck the key in the ignition.
“Wouldn’t want anyone to see you as we leave, now would we?”
He flipped the music on. AC/DC rocked through the cab of the truck as he held down the button to the windows, opening them all the way, and peeled from the parking lot like a man on a mission.
He lifted his hand to the state police officers in the front lot, and not for the first time was thankful that he had parked his truck alongside one of the abandoned buildings rather than coming in with the rest of the team later.
He and Natches had been posted to watch the area through the day and give the go-ahead when the team could move in. It was the one thing that had saved Crista’s ass. No one would be any wiser when Natches explained that they had come in separately and he pulled out in Crista’s Rodeo. They might wonder, until the gossip hit that one Crista Jansen was currently residing with one Dawg Mackay on his infamous houseboat, the Nauti Dawg.
As he put distance between the truck and the scene of the arrest, he let the muscles of his neck and shoulders relax before turning down the music and glancing between the seats to the long bench seat in the back.
Something inside him clenched at the sight of her pale face and wide, dark brown eyes. Chocolate eyes. She had big, dark, chocolate eyes, and he was a man that knew how to savor that particular sweet.
“You can come up here now,” he told her, turning his attention back to driving as he turned onto one of the curving country roads that wound through the county.
She moved slowly, uncurling from the backseat and moving into the empty passenger seat beside him before settling in and staring out the windshield stiffly.
“Put your seat belt on. ” Dawg propped his arm on the open window frame and scratched at his jaw consideringly as he drove.
Beside him, Crista clipped her seat belt, moving almost hesitantly, glancing at him every few seconds with silent wariness.
She knew she was fucked. She might not know just how well she was going to be fucked, but she was definitely fucked.
“Let’s play a game,” he finally drawled in amusement as he glanced over at her.
“We’ve been playing one for a year,” she retorted. “You just keep forgetting to forward the rules to me. ”
He grinned at that. That was Crista. Never without a snappy little comeback.
“This is an easy game,” he promised her. “A guessing game. Tell me, if you will, exactly what the hell you were doing in the goddamned warehouse. ”
He had to snap his teeth together as anger flamed with each word, overriding the amusement he had previously felt. Once again, he saw her, staring up at that damned terrorist, her eyes wide, her face pale, that gun rising steadily to her face.
She flinched.
“My things,” she answered then, her voice haunted. “Mark had the rest of my belongings shipped from Virginia. I have a note. The delivery company said they were at the warehouse in one of the lockers. I have the key here. ” She was digging in her purse, her voice shaking. “See. I have the key. ”
She held a key out to him.
Dawg took it slowly, glanced at it, then handed it back to her. It was indeed a locker key with the initials SIY, for Store It Yourself, stamped on it.
“Where’s the note?”
She didn’t go digging in her purse. Her teeth were biting nervously at her lower lip instead.
“Where’s the note, Crista Ann?” he asked her again.
Crista flinched. “I left it in the Rodeo, my car. Back at the warehouse. ”
Dawg shook his head. “Didn’t stick it in your pocketbook, huh?” He glanced at her suspiciously.
“It’s there. In the passenger seat. ” She was gripping her hands in her lap, her fingers twisting together.
She used to do that every damned time she got around him. From the time she was sixteen until just a few months before she left town a little over eight years ago.
“We’ll see,” he grunted.
