by Julia Harper
If only her taste in music were as good as her driving.
“What is this stuff?” He frowned at the car radio, which was blasting something with a lot of twang.
“Where have you been living? Under a rock?” Zoey shouted over the moaning vocals. “This is the Dixie Chicks.”
“Great,” Dante muttered under his breath. Figured she would like country, possibly the sappiest music ever invented by mankind. Was there anyone who took banjos seriously?
Apparently there was. Zoey glared at him, somehow having heard him over the wailing. “That just shows how narrow-minded you are.”
Dante straightened. “I am not narrow-minded.”
“I bet you’ve never listened to country, have you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You just don’t like it because you don’t think it’s cool.”
“That and the banjos.” Dante glared out the window. They had taken the Dan Ryan south to I-57 and were now nearly to the outskirts of the southern suburbs. “We ought to stop to find something to eat before we get too far out.”
“Okay. Where are the wipers?”
He pointed.
She switched them on. “Where do you want to eat?”
“Pick a place.”
Twenty minutes later they were pulling out of another Culver’s.
“Isn’t it amazing how many of these things there are?” Zoey asked as she took the ButterBurger he handed her. She was eating as she drove, but she seemed to be handling the wheel okay.
Dante frowned down at his Mushroom & Swiss Burger. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to eat it without slopping it all over himself. “What? Fast-food places?”
“No, silly. Culver’s. I never noticed them before.”
He watched her take a big bite of ButterBurger and couldn’t help smiling. She was enjoying the burger so much. “Well, you’ve noticed them now.”
They ate in silence for a bit before Zoey wadded up her ButterBurger wrapper and threw it in the paper bag. “So, if you don’t like country, what kind of music do you like to listen to?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she answered her own question. “Alternative rock, right? I bet you listen to the bands that were playing when you were a teenager. Boooring.”
He felt his mouth twitch. “Now who’s being narrow-minded?”
She glanced at him, blue eyes sparkling under the reindeer hat. God, the woman loved to argue.
“I’m wrong?” she asked. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you like white-boy rap?”
He shook his head and gingerly bent forward to pull out a flat CD folder from under the passenger seat. He unzipped it and flipped through the clear plastic sleeves until he found what he wanted.
“Listen.”
He popped the CD in the car player. A rich baritone rolled out from the speakers, singing about Mack the Knife.
Zoey burst into laughter.
Dante frowned at her. “What?”
She gasped through her giggles. “Frank Sinatra?”
“It’s Harry Connick Jr.”
“Whatever. You have the musical taste of an eighty-year-old. Figures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. You’ve got senile taste in music.”
“You’re saying I’m an old man?”
“Yeah.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “Yeah, I am.”
Great. Just what a guy liked to hear: that the woman he wanted a relationship with thought he was a decrepit old man. It was enough to—
Dante blinked and backed up mentally. Wanted a relationship with? Where the hell had that come from? He’d known Zoey less than twenty-four hours. They had nothing in common, not even musical tastes. Sure, he was attracted to her—what guy wouldn’t be attracted to her softness, the goofy things she said, and her unabashed sexuality? But a relationship was a whole different thing.
Maybe he just wanted to get her into bed and his mind was trying to justify the urge by making it into a relationship thing. Didn’t most guys start wondering what it would be like to sleep with a woman when they’d been around them long enough? Like, ten minutes. And he’d been around Zoey for a whole lot longer than ten minutes. So, it was only natural to wonder if she’d be as enthusiastic in bed as she was about everything else. Or as verbal. ’Cause the thought of her chattering as he entered her soft, warm, slippery female flesh was oddly erotic to him and—
Christ!
Dante inhaled softly and glanced at Zoey. She was still babbling about Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack and seemed totally oblivious to his thoughts. Just as well. He flipped to another section of the CD holder and took out a different CD. He switched it with the one in the player.
Zoey watched him.
Another male voice, this one raspy and higher. She looked at him curiously.
“Sammy Davis Jr.,” he said.
She started laughing again. “Oh, God, he’s even worse! You’re stuck in the sixties. No, the fifties! All you need is a woman in pearls and a bouffant to serve you meat loaf when you walk in the door and yell, ‘Honey, I’m home!’”
“I don’t even like meat loaf,” he protested.
For a moment Dante saw Zoey in pearls and a funny reddish-blond bouffant—and nothing else. The weird part was that she looked really, really good that way. Maybe he did have a fixation on the fifties.
Hastily he flipped to the very back of the folder and took out the last CD. He inserted it in the player.
A sultry, clear soprano sang in lilting Spanish.
Zoey frowned, opened her mouth, paused, and slowly closed it again.
Dante smiled, leaning his head back and losing himself in the melody. The smooth feminine voice slid over him. The only sound in the car was her voice, the hum of the engine, and the soft shush of the windshield wipers.
The singer’s voice died away on a liquid whisper. Dante opened his eyes, pushed the stop button, and looked at Zoey.
She had her brows knit. “Who was that?”
“Doris Day.”
“No!”
He nodded, pleased at her incredulity. “Yup.”
“The one who did those dumb movies with Rock Hudson?”
He winced. “She recorded that before she was in the movies.”
“Huh.” She stared thoughtfully at him a moment.
“Want to hear more?”
“Sure.”
He pressed play and sat back, closing his eyes. He felt absurdly happy that she liked his Doris Day CD.
“How long do you think it’ll take to get to Cairo?” Zoey asked after a while.
He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Five hours.”
“Have you ever driven to Cairo?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it’ll take five hours to get there?”
He sighed. “Do you argue about everything with other people, or just with me?”
“I—”
“Or”—he opened his eyes and frowned—“do you just argue with men?”
“Hey!”
He glanced at her, eyebrows raised.
She glared back. “What’s that supposed to mean? I like men just fine.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t like men. I said that you argue all the time with—”
She grabbed the rearview mirror and twisted it out of shape, then leaned over to peer in it.
“Watch the road.” He reached over and caught the wheel to keep the car straight.
Zoey was still peering at herself, oblivious. “Do I look like a woman who doesn’t like men?”
“Would you keep your eyes on the road?”
She glared at him and returned her gaze to the road. “Well, do I?”
He shrugged, letting go of the wheel. “You are wearing a reindeer hat—”
“A what?”
“Watch the road!”
“I am watching the road!” she bellowed back at him. “And I’m not wearing a reindeer hat!”
“Whatever it
is, it’s not particularly attractive.” Actually, as he said the words he realized that while he’d thought her hat ugly at first, now he kind of found it cute. Not that he had any intention of telling her that.
“It’s warm,” Zoey said.
“I’m sure it is.”
She glared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“Have you been to Cairo?”
They’d managed to get to the outskirts of Chicago. Suddenly, flat white fields appeared out of nowhere, as if to remind him that they were in the Midwest. Dante shivered. God, he hated the country. No cover, totally exposed if someone decided to start shooting at you. And now the snowflakes had turned into big wet monsters, splatting against the windshield.
He gritted his teeth, trying to keep his voice even. “No, I’ve never been to Cairo.”
“So you know how long it’ll take to get there, how?”
“Because it’s about four hours to St. Louis. Cairo’s farther south. Add another hour and you’ve got five hours.”
“Counting potty breaks?”
He looked at her.
She widened her eyes. “What?”
Dante closed his eyes and counted to ten. “You can’t go five hours without a pit stop?”
“Well”—she knit her brow as if calculating—“no.”
“You can’t hold it in for five hours,” he repeated neutrally. She must be making it up just to bother him.
“I said, no. Is that something they taught at Quantico, too? How to hold your pee?”
Or maybe not.
He sighed. “Fine, we can stop. But if you buy anything, we need to use cash from now on. That gas station we stopped at has to be the last place we use a credit card.”
“I got some cash when I used my credit card.”
“That was good thinking.”
She rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
He felt his jaw tighten. How she could take an ordinary compliment and turn it into an insult he didn’t understand.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”
He glanced at her in surprise.
Pink was staining her cheeks, and it made her look adorable. “I can be kind of bitchy sometimes.”
He felt a smile curve his lips. “No problem. I kind of like bitchy women.”
And his smile widened as he watched her blush deepen.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Friday, 5:04 p.m.
You must drive slower, Pratima,” Savita-di chided. “The snow is coming down more swiftly, and I do not think you are very experienced at driving in snow.”
Pratima was driving the purple minivan through the countryside, which, unfortunately, was enveloped by a snowstorm.She held the steering wheel very tightly because, though she was loath to admit it to Savita-di, she was in fact quite frightened. They were on interstate highway 57. At least Pratima hoped they were on highway 57, for Savita-di’s ability to read maps was quite poor indeed, and they had spent most of the day somewhat lost. Pratima privately thought that they might’ve even ventured into the state of Indiana at one point earlier this afternoon.
Now, however, they were in Illinois, and the land was becoming bumpy as they drove south. Snow blew across the highway in an irritating manner. Only a very good driver, in her opinion, would be able to negotiate these very dangerous conditions.
Which made Savita-di’s snide remarks all the more irksome.
Pratima pursed her lips. “You are wrong, Savita-di. I am perfectly experienced at driving in—”
Savita-di made a rude sound with her lips. “Yes, and I suppose you were very experienced when you slid into that light pole in the JCPenney parking lot, denting the fender on our nephew’s car?”
“That,” said Pratima, enunciating very clearly, “was two months ago, and it is really too bad of you to bring it up now. I think you are jealous because you have never learned to drive.”
“Jealous? Jealous of you? I think you are the jealous one, Pratima. Was not my husband the elder of the two brothers we married? And was he not the handsomer, as well? I think you know this very well or you would not have tried to flirt with him so long ago.”
Pratima frowned. Truly it was most irritating to be castigated so often for something that happened almost forty years ago and which was not as Savita-di portrayed it, to boot. She opened her mouth with the thought that she might point this out, but Savita-di still held the conversational floor.
“I could learn to drive if I wished to,” she sniffed.
This was so patently a lie that Pratima did not even bother to reply.
From the back seat, a small voice piped up. “Nah ah nah.”
Savita-di immediately twisted in her seat to look in back. “Is that my handsome boy? Is he so smart? So brave?”
Pratima rolled her eyes. The baby was only making baby sounds. How such nonsense syllables could be construed as intelligence she did not understand.
“Would my fine boy like some Goldfish crackers?” Savita-di crooned.
Another baby voice spoke up from the back, this one loud and imperative. “Gah!”
Pratima smiled. The baby girl was so sweet, so pretty, so demanding of what she wanted. Girls were not supposed to demand what they wanted when Pratima had been young. Instead, they were supposed to be docile and obedient and were to always worry for the welfare of others. But she thought it was not such a bad thing for a modern girl in the US of A to demand what she wanted.
“Ah! This one eats like a little pig,” Savita-di exclaimed. “She will grow fat.”
“Not as fat as that boy,” Pratima shot back.
“Humph.”
There was a silence broken only by the crunch of crackers in childish mouths and the demand for more. Then inevitably a long, drawn-out wail came from the rear.
Pratima flinched in reaction. “Ow, ow, ow. So loud are these babies!”
“Perhaps we should pull over,” Savita-di shouted over the now double sirens.
“Yes, yes, Savita-di, I will exit the highway as soon as I am able.”
Fortunately, there was a bright green sign informing them that the exit to the next town was just four miles ahead. A further sign—this one blue—offered two gas stations, a variety of cheap fast-food restaurants, and a motel.
Pratima switched on her turn signal, driving up the off-ramp to the accompaniment of twin wails. She drove into the first petrol station and switched off the minivan.
The crying in the back seat rose to a crescendo.
“I will take the boy in to be changed,” Savita-di shouted over the bellowing.
“Yes, yes, please,” Pratima screamed back.
Savita-di got out of the minivan, ran around the side, and opened the door. The minute the boy was lifted from his car seat, his cries died. He nuzzled a tear-stained face into her soft neck.
“There, there, my fine prince. Auntie Savita will make everything better.”
She closed the minivan’s side door and hurried with the baby to the door of the convenience store.
Pratima twisted in her seat to look at the girl baby. The child stared back, her tiny bottom lip trembling.
“Oh, so sad,” Pratima crooned. “Is there nothing to console you?”
The baby whimpered, thrusting a finger inside her mouth, and gnawing. Quite obviously she was teething. Even as she gummed her finger she sobbed again.
Pratima knit her brow. The baby needed something cold to soothe her inflamed gums. It hurt simply to watch such a little one in pain. She glanced at the convenience store. Savita-di had still not emerged and probably would not for some time. She always took too long in restrooms, and that was without the added chore of the baby boy.
Pratima unbuckled her seat belt. “Stay here, little one, and do not move. I will return shortly with an ice for your sore gums.”
She hurried from the minivan, walking as quickly as was possible in the slippery snow. Inside the convenience store, she found a freezer and chose a rather battered box of
orange-flavored ices. Pratima emerged from the convenience store clutching the precious box of ices to her chest. But when she looked at the purple minivan, she screamed and dropped the box into the dirty snow.
For That Terrible Man was jumping into the minivan. He started the van and drove off with the Grade 1A Very, Very Fine 1 Mongra Kesar and, much more importantly, the baby girl inside.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Friday, 5:20 p.m.
Zoey chewed her lip as she peered out the windshield. They were in southern Illinois now, and the weather was getting worse. Dante had insisted on driving for a couple of hours between Kankakee and Champaign, but his jaw had been tight as he drove, and she could tell that his leg was bothering him. When they’d stopped at a rest stop just past Champaign, Zoey had told him that she’d drive and he hadn’t even argued. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He’d taken another painkiller, but he still sat stiffly, like he was in pain. She wished that they’d been able to take him to an emergency room. What if something was worse with the leg than bruises?
She tapped her brake as they passed a semi pulled off the road. The snow wasn’t wet anymore—the temperature had dropped, and hard, dry snow had begun to drift across the road. Zoey had slowed to fifty-five mph, but if the snow kept piling up or the roads got slick . . .
Beside her, Dante shifted in his seat. “We may have to pull over if this weather keeps up.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay for now.”
He shifted again and grunted.
She looked at him. His face was pale. “Does your leg still hurt? Maybe you should take another pill.”
“I’m fine.”
She studied him a moment, then turned back to the road. He obviously wasn’t fine, but he was in some kind of male stoic zone. “Okay.”
He tapped his fingers on his good knee. “So, you been in Chicago long?”
“Four years. I moved there right out of college.”
“You’re twenty-six?”
“Twenty-seven. I was working, so it took me five years to graduate.”
