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The “Beast” in question was the love interest of a certain “Beauty". A set of sheets and a thick comforter, all graphically imprinted with the hero and heroine of a favorite Disney cartoon. Murphy ran her hands over the cellophane-encased offering, and glanced up at Garrett. “I'm sure he'll love them. But you didn't have to—”
“Yes, I did. It's the least I could do after I bled all over his. Besides,” Garrett added with a grin that made her stomach flip-flop, “you told me that I had to replace them. Ordered me, as I recall.”
Murphy had the good grace to look chagrinned. “I'd planned to do that myself.”
“Now you don't have to.” He nodded to the cushion on the other side of her hip. “Hand me the duffel bag?”
She did, with only a little trepidation. Murphy wasn't sure what kind of reaction Garrett would have when he saw
the bag again. Surprise that she'd kept her word and kept it safe? Relief? Something in between?
A second later she tossed away that train of thought and simply basked in the smile he cast upon her. A smile that said he hadn't doubted for a second that she would not only keep the bag for him until he could retrieve it, but that, if need be, she would do whatever it took to keep the contents in the exact same condition they'd been in when he'd placed the bag in her care.
His confidence in her was humbling, especially when Murphy remembered the way Tom had badgered her, trying to convince her there'd be no harm in opening the bag and rifling through “The Loot.”
“Who'll know?” Tom had prodded—rather, cajoled. “I will,” Murphy had replied firmly. She'd been unwavering in her refusal to even tell her brother where she'd hidden the bag. Eventually, he'd given up. That's not to say, however, that her own curiosity hadn't been nagging at her, or that she hadn't been tempted…
When Murphy had gone through the duffel bag back in Maine, her motive had been purely to find Garrett some clean, dry clothes and maybe some identification. It seemed an obvious place to look. What she'd discovered instead was the gun, the money, the jewelry, the antihistamines. Her first order of business was to remove the gun from the equation, something she'd done quite promptly. Afterward, she'd immediately zipped the bag shut and never looked in it again.
Prying was not her style. The contents of the duffel bag didn't belong to her, they belonged to Garrett; they where his to show her if he wanted to, or not if he didn't.
Of course, deep down she was hoping he'd decide on the former. She was only human, after all. And a woman, to boot. Curiosity being what it was…well, she had to admit the brief glimpse she'd had of the handful or more of antique jewelry in that duffel bag had whetted her desire to see more. But not, she reminded herself, unless Garrett offered to show it to her.
As she watched, Garrett ran his hands lovingly over the stained, wrinkled nylon. He had big hands; wide-palmed, thick fingers.
Capable. That was the word that sprang immediately to mind. Yet Murphy also knew how gentle those hands could be; she remembered vividly how they felt—hot, the skin slightly rough—skimming over her naked flesh, setting it on fire.
The whisper of the zipper being pulled back sounded loud in the ensuing silence. It must have attracted Moonshine's curiosity, for the cat meandered into the living and sat next to Garrett's feet. While the feline seemed to be occupied with licking the thick, ivory colored fur on his belly, the cat's big blue eyes never strayed from Garrett.
For that matter, neither did Murphy's.
Garrett was rummaging around inside the duffel bag. Judging by the frown creasing his brow, he wasn't having much luck. Mumbling something under his breath, he dug more deeply into the bag.
Murphy heard the faint crinkle of bills being shuffled around, and the delicate tink of jewelry knocking together.
She was aware of the exact second Garrett found whatever it was he searched for. It was when the furrow between his brows ironed out, and the corners of his lips tipped up in the smile that, without fail, had an unnerving affect on both her heartbeat and respiration.
Her breath clogged in her throat when she saw the piece of jewelry he pulled out of the bag. If she'd been able to string more than one coherent thought together, she might have grinned when Moonshine meowed; to Murphy's ears, it was the feline equivalent of a gasp of appreciation.
“These belonged to my great-grandmother,” Garrett said, handing the single string of pears to Murphy. “Harold Thayer, my great-grandfather, gave them to her on the day they were married. Helen, my great-grandmother, passed them down to my grandmother on her wedding day.”
Murphy's fingers shook when she took the string of pearls, her touch reverent. She ran the tip of her index finger over each bead. The clasp was studded with a half dozen, unpretentious-sized diamonds; the gems winked in the muted light of dusk. Age had discolored the pearls, but a good polishing would restore their luster.
A pool of emotion swirled in Murphy's stomach, and she felt her eyes water. Oh, how she would love to have something like this. A watch, earrings, anything to pass down to her own children—when she had some; or Tom's, if she didn't—the way this necklace would pass down from generation to generation of Thayers.
There was nothing, of course. Heirlooms were born of memories, and she had none, fond or otherwise, of Shirley McKenna.
“It's beautiful,” she whispered finally.
“You like it?”
Her gaze lifted, locking with Garrett's. Was it her imagination, or did she detect an edge of apprehension in his tone? “Like it? I love it. I know I only spoke to Elise once—on the phone, and briefly at that—but I think she's going to love it, too. Does she have a daughter to pass it down to?”
“Two,” Garrett acknowledged. “But Elise won't be passing this necklace down to either of them.”
“She won't?”
“No.”
