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He turned onto an entrance ramp for I-75, headed northwest—the opposite direction from Tara’s apartment.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“Somewhere safe,” he replied. “Someplace where we can talk.”
“Who are they, Blake? The man who was lying on the floor of that office. The man who grabbed me. The one who shot at us. What do they all have to do with your case?”
He didn’t know. And he knew she would find no reassurance in his ignorance. “We can talk more easily when I don’t have to concentrate on my driving,” he said, taking the easy way out.
Taking the hint, she fell quiet. But he knew his respite would be a brief one.
BLAKE TOOK TARA to a little motel in Marietta. The place was old, probably built in the early fifties, and the “rooms” consisted of individual small stucco cabins clustered around the office in the center. The paint was faded and peeling, and all the windows needed a good cleaning, but at least the motel didn’t seem to be in danger of imminent condemnation.
Blake didn’t bother to stop at the office, but pulled into a parking space in front of the cabin farthest from the others, at the very back of the compound. He slipped a key from his pocket and nodded toward the cabin door. “We?
?ll be safe here while I make some calls,” he said.
Tara looked doubtfully from Blake to the secluded motel cabin. He expected her to go inside with him, a man she hardly knew, after all that had happened to her because of him?
He shot her a quick glance. “Surely you know that you’re perfectly safe with me.”
No, as a matter of fact, she didn’t know that. Because of him, she’d been at the wrong end of a gun for the first time in her life. “I want to know what’s going on.”
“So do I,” he answered grimly. “But we aren’t going to get any answers sitting out here in the car. Trust me, Tara.”
She bit her lip as she considered all her options. All the reasons she shouldn’t trust him, considering everything. And then she reached for the door handle.
Maybe she was making a big mistake listening to him, trusting him at least a little...but it wouldn’t be the first mistake she’d made in the past few weeks.
The room was surprisingly clean. A double bed took up most of the floor space. In front of the single window sat a round table with two chairs. A long dresser was pushed up against the opposite wall, a small TV bolted to one end of it. A door at the back of the room probably led into the bathroom.
“This is where you’ve been staying?” Tara was a bit surprised that Blake, with his expensive-looking car and wardrobe, would choose such modest accommodations.
“Occasionally,” he answered with a shrug. “Are you hungry?”
She stared at him, wondering how he could possibly think she was hungry, under the circumstances. And then she scowled, wondering how she could possibly be hungry, under the circumstances. Because she was.
“A little,” she admitted.
“Me, too. There’s some food in the other room. Want to grab something for us while I make a call?”
He was acting as if they’d simply stopped off here for a snack after a pleasant outing at an art gallery, Tara thought in amazement as she watched him perch on the edge of the bed and reach for the telephone on the single nightstand. She wondered if being shot at was commonplace for this enigmatic P.L She wasn’t feeling nearly as calm about it as he looked. But then, she supposed it wouldn’t do any good for both of them to fall to pieces.
Trying to emulate his composure, she opened the door at the back of the room to find an unexpectedly roomy dressing area that led into the bathroom. A small refrigerator sat beneath the counter. Opening it, she found soft drinks and fruit juices, a package of lunch meat, cheese, mustard, bread, a jar of pickles and another of olives. A basket on the counter above the refrigerator held bags of chips and dried fruit, individually packaged pastries, paper plates and plastic cutlery .
This wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she’d agreed to have dinner with Blake, Tara thought with a sigh.
She gathered a few things to make a sandwich and carried them to the table in the other room. Blake hung up the phone just as she walked in.
“No answer,” he muttered.
“Who were you trying to call?”
“Information.” Without looking at her, he started dialing again.
Tara set to work making dinner, though most of her attention was on Blake, who seemed to be having no success reaching anyone by telephone. He finally slammed the receiver down with a muttered curse, and sat for a moment gazing into space, obviously lost in thought.
Tara couldn’t help staring at him. He seemed so different from the man she’d known at the law firm. She’d never seen him without his lazy grin, or a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes. With his laid-back manner and light-colored, loose-fitting clothes, she’d always considered him the antithesis of the grim-faced, steely-eyed private investigator of fiction. She’d certainly never thought of him as tough or dangerous.
