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“You’re right,” she told him. “Drive me back to Colton Oil headquarters and we’ll call it a night.”
He turned on the ignition and slowly retraced his route, quietly driving away from Selina’s home until he got to the main road.
“Why don’t we shake things up a little?” he suggested once they were headed away from the ranch. “Instead of you going back to the office so you can pick up your car and Bigelow, why don’t you give him the night off? You and I can get a late dinner, and then I’ll bring you home to the Colton compound afterward. You did say the place had security, right?” he asked, making sure that wasn’t something she’d said just to get him to back off when he’d suggested getting her a bodyguard.
“I did and we do,” she told him, adding, “but I don’t think dinner’s such a good idea.”
He slanted a look in her direction. “Still afraid to be seen with me out in public?” he guessed.
Marlowe drew herself up. “I am not afraid of anything,” she informed him.
“Right. I forgot. You’re fearless,” he said. “So then why this reluctance to be seen out in public with me?”
“It’s not you,” she said, “it’s dinner. There’s no point in paying for a fancy meal when all I can keep down these days are crackers and tea—and I consider even that a victory,” she added.
“Still getting sick to your stomach?” Bowie asked her. He’d thought that would have passed by now. Obviously not.
Just talking about it made Marlowe feel queasy. “That’s putting it mildly, but yes, I am.”
There was sympathy in his eyes as he looked at her again. “I’m sorry.”
She almost believed he meant that, but then that night they had spent together came back to her like a blaring movie trailer. “It’s not your fault. Oh, wait, yes it is—and mine, too,” she deliberately corrected herself.
There was no point in arguing over this part of it. He just wanted to take her to get something to eat, whatever she could successfully keep down.
“We can stop at a restaurant and get you tea,” he told her.
There weren’t that many places to eat in Mustang Valley. She was acquainted with all of them. “No restaurant is going to want to serve their customers just tea,” she told him.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Bowie contradicted. “They might be willing if they know that there’s a fifty-dollar tip coming.”
“A fifty-dollar tip?” she questioned. “For tea?” That sounded absurd to her.
The absurdity of that didn’t seem to bother Bowie because he said, “That’s right.”
“For tea,” she repeated in disbelief.
He nodded. There weren’t many cars out this time of night. They were making good time. “That’s what I said.”
She shook her head. “It’s a wonder you people have any money if you spend it like water.”
“Not water—tea,” he corrected with a straight face. “So, what do you say? You willing to go out and get some decaf tea and crackers and anything else that you might be able to keep down?”
The man was going to keep hammering away at this, talking her ear off until she agreed, Marlowe thought. With a sigh, she surrendered.
“Oh, all right. Let’s go and get some tea,” she told Bowie, giving in. Her stomach was really acting up and threatening to give her a hard time. Maybe having some tea would make her feel a little more human.
* * *
“Better?” Bowie asked her fifteen minutes later.
They were sitting in a small booth in Lucia’s Italian Café, and Marlowe was sipping a cup of tea very slowly. In between the sips, she was taking small bites of the plain crackers that were arranged in a small circle on her otherwise empty plate.
Marlowe nodded in response. She had to give him his due, she thought. “Better. Thank you,” she added after a beat.
“Hey, like you pointed out, this was all my fault,” he said, glancing toward her waist. “The least I can do is get you tea and crackers to make your stomach feel a little better.”
That made her feel guilty. Bowie had put up with her recriminations and her mercurial shifts in mood these last few days when he didn’t have to. Anyone else would have told her to get lost and then left. But he hadn’t. He was a good man—one worth a woman’s time and affection. Even if that woman wouldn’t be her...
