“And a box of plastic spoons.”
“I’m not hungry.” She turned her head to glare at him. Which was a mistake. Because it brought her face so close to his they were almost touching.
His flinty eyes sparked, then dropped their focus to her parted lips. “You sure?”
His whisper had the texture of fine-grade sandpaper. She felt it like a stroke low on her belly, and, for a heartbeat—much too long—every nerve ending sizzled with awareness of him. He was body heat, and tensile strength, raw masculinity and leashed power, and her breathy reaction to all that panicked her.
She averted her head and stepped away. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, her voice husky and lacking the forceful positivity she wished it had. Wished she felt.
He remained as he was for a five count, then shook a plastic spoon from the box of picnic utensils, took a can of food from the sack, and replaced it in the trunk.
He carried the items over to an empty wooden crate, upended it, and sat down. Wincing, he reached beneath the hem of his shirt, pulled the pistol from the holster, and set
it beside him on the crate. Then he peeled back the lid on the can and dug in. Hunched over, he spooned the food into his mouth with an aggressive efficiency meant to satisfy an appetite, not to savor, or even to taste.
Jordie backed up to the hood of the car and sat down on it. From that safe distance, she watched him. After a full minute had elapsed, she said into the silence, “Why haven’t you killed me?”
“Told you.”
“I don’t believe you’ll do it.”
Keeping his head down, he froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth and held it there for a beat before he completed the motion and took the bite. “Believe it.”
“I don’t.”
“Look, just because we nearly lip-locked—”
“No way in hell.”
He briefly looked up. “Whatever. You’re my bread and butter. Worth two hundred grand at least, and I think there’s much more to be had.”
“So why haven’t you called Panella?”
“If I contact him first, I lose bargaining power. He’s got to be worried over why he hasn’t heard from Mickey and why Mickey hasn’t answered his calls. I’m letting him stew.”
“How much are you going to ask him for?”
“None of your business.”
“My life isn’t any of my business?”
“Not the price tag on it. That’s between Panella and me.” He watched her for a second or two, then said, “You’ve known all along it was him.”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you let on otherwise?”
“I was in denial.”
“Dangerous place, denial.” He resumed eating.
“I don’t suppose he told Mickey where he is.”
He snorted at the absurdity of that. “No, but he doesn’t know where I am, either. Or, more to the point, where you are. His butt will stay chapped until he gets confirmation that you’re dead.”
Her thoughts were shifting and reshaping as rapidly as storm clouds, making coherency difficult. But she latched onto one word. “Confirmation? You no longer have to produce my body?”
“Never did. How could I deliver your body to him when I don’t know where he is, and he’s not about to divulge it? I only told you that to keep you…cooperative.”