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“I can’t see anything coming when I’m with you,” he bit out, his voice frustrated and gravelly. The cords of his neck stood out as he loomed over me. His hands rose as if he was going to grasp my arms.
I stood, teetering on the edge of a choice. Let him touch me, give in to the strange skittering thrill his voice sent up my spine, or move and maintain my sanity.
I grunted, backing away. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted back.
“Fine!” I huffed, turning on my heel toward the motel. I’d had enough of this crap for one night. What gave him the right to follow me? Spy on me? Let him call Iris. Let him tell her why I had to save his butt from redneck bystanders. Heck, she might hire me full-time. At the moment, I just wanted to shower and get some sleep before we had to get back on the road.
Mr. Sutherland kept pace with me, checking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure we weren’t being followed. “How exactly did you manage to overpower a man twice your size, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I stopped, tilting my head toward him. “Iris didn’t tell you about my background, did she?”
“Your CV did not include mentions of your amateur cage-fighting career, no,” he said as I unlocked my room door.
“Can you keep a secret?” I asked, giving a sly little grin as I leaned closer.
His lips quirked, and for the first time, I saw what his face looked like without that mocking veneer. His eyes crinkled a bit at the corners, twinkling at me in mischievous pleasure. “I’m a vampire. Of course, I can.”
“So can I.” With a sharp smile, I slammed the door in his face.
Motel showers were always a crapshoot. The temperature always seemed to hover between “weakly warm” and “human lobster.” And there was always the chance that you could find new friends with more legs than you, scuttling out from under the shower curtain. I really hated that. But the Pine Heights showers seemed bug-free, if lacking water pressure.
The rush of smacking someone around had finally ebbed, and I was drained of all energy. I had to lean against the wall to wash off the road dirt with a washcloth that could have doubled as sandpaper. I slipped into boxers and a wife-beater, enjoying the chance to go braless after more than eighteen hours of being lifted and separated. I towel-dried my thick hair, humming the melody to a Lady Gaga song and reveling in the thought of sleep.
After digging lip balm and a paperback—my nighttime essentials—out of my shoulder bag, I tossed the towel aside. I coated my lips in Burt’s Bees balm and found my place in my Catch-22. I’d only read two paragraphs before the door connecting our adjoining rooms rattled under thunderous, rapid knocks from the other side. Forgetting my braless state, I opened the door to find Mr. Sutherland wearing emerald-green monogrammed silk pajamas and a stricken expression.
Had I fallen asleep and woken up in a Rock Hudson movie?
He glanced down, eyes widening at my skimpy sleepwear. I cleared my throat. “Can I help you?”
He grimaced, far more Tony Randall than Rock. “My wallet is missing.”
A DAY WITHOUT A SWORN AFFIDAVIT IS LIKE A DAY WITHOUT SUNSHINE
3
I laughed. There was no other choice. I could have sworn that Mr. Sutherland had just broken into my room wearing full-on Hefner PJs to tell me his wallet had been stolen. His wallet, which contained the credit card we were using to book hotel rooms and buy my meals, was missing. That was the height of fricking hilarity as far as I was concerned.
“Why are you laughing?” he demanded.
“Y-you’re wearing pajamas.” I giggled. “You’re not even going to sleep. You went to the trouble of packing pajamas, and you don’t—”
He glowered down at me. I realized that I was bent at the waist, hee-hawing like a fool, giving an agitated vampire a full down-to-the-navel view of my cleavage. I sobered and straightened, giving him an apologetic little smile.
“You’re sure it’s not in your room somewhere?” I asked carefully, wiping my eyes. “Or maybe in the car?”
“Do you think I would have knocked if I had not already turned my room upside-down looking for it?” he asked sarcastically.
I thought back to our run-in with Lanky and Heavy-Set. They’d had more than enough time to snake Mr. Sutherland’s wallet out of his pocket while they were wrestling around with him. Between the silver and the strange overtures, both of us had been pretty distracted. Had the whole “Good Samaritan Stooges” act been just that, an act? Had mugging my client been the point all along? Had they driven off, stunned and scared, only to pull into another parking lot and pretend to care whether another girl was being targeted as an easy mark?
I think that hurt my feelings a little bit.
“I’m sure it was in my jacket pocket when we were … out,” he said vehemently. Suddenly, an expression of indignant shock twisted his features. “I think those ruffians from the parking lot might have taken it!”
“You don’t say!” I groaned, scrubbing my hands over my face.
His expression was grim, and still somehow incredulous, when I tossed him my phone. “Call all of your credit-card companies to report the thefts. My phone has Internet access, so you can look up all of the customer-service numbers. They’ll probably require that you file a police report before they send replacement cards. If you call the police, wake me up, and I’ll give them a statement.”
