by Anne Stuart
A quick shower went a long way toward restoring her battered self-respect, clean clothes helped as well; but most useful of all was Bishop’s absence. If he’d left her, and she only hoped he had, then eventually someone would come back to get them out of there. Maybe it wouldn’t take that long for her to walk for help, and she’d try that eventually. First, she needed food.
The kitchen was another marvel, and it didn’t take her long to cook up a frittata with fresh zucchini and mushrooms. She accidentally made too much, and she would have fed it to Merlin, but despite that asshole’s assertion, human food wasn’t good for him. She even found the high-end kibble she fed him, leaving the rest of the frittata on the counter while she continued her exploring.
She couldn’t believe her luck when she found a laptop tucked behind canned food, and she pulled it out with a cry of triumph. She slid onto the bench of the dinette and opened it. Password protected, of course, providing nothing but a blank screen. The damned thing would probably explode in her hands if she did the wrong thing; but she had no intention of giving up without trying, so she started with the passwords, including the obvious “user” and “guest.” The computer belonged to someone called Edmunds, which she assumed was either Bishop’s real name or another alias, so she went on with the slightly less obvious “B1sh0p” and “Us3r.”
No good, so she moved on to forms of Merlin interspersed with numbers, Winnebago, anything she could think of. In frustration she typed in “asshole” and “a55h0l3” but obviously it didn’t work.
“I can do this,” she told Merlin, who was lying peacefully at her feet. “I’m good at stuff like this.” The problem was, everything she knew about James Bishop was a lie, so she sat back, racking her brain for anything that could possibly be true. She tried “Claudia” and its permutations, and at last, in total frustration and fury, she typed in “Evangeline.”
“Stupid idiot,” she muttered to herself. If she was going to be an idiot, she might as well go all the way. She threw in numbers for every vowel, cursing herself, then finally tried “EvANGELin3.”
The screen opened. She stared at it in complete astonishment, then glanced down at Merlin. “He did this on purpose, didn’t he?” she said severely. “He made the computer easy to find and did this to keep me busy. Asshole,” she muttered.
That word was getting tiresome—she had to think of something new to call him, but right then she wasn’t feeling terribly creative. She turned back to the screen and let out a frustrated curse. The laptop was demanding another password, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be “Evangeline” again.
She could play with that later. The screen also offered a shining golden opportunity. You could sign on as a guest, which she immediately did, only to be confronted by a generic Windows interface. She spent an hour searching through every possible path to documents, hidden files, and Cloud files, but it was as if the computer were absolutely clean. She knew it wasn’t—getting past Bishop’s next password would open a world of answers, but that wasn’t going to happen. She could only make do with what she had, and she gave in to the curiosity that she’d always refused to indulge. Google was her friend, and she went back to the tiny village of Cabrisi, the hotel, Claudia and James, and at the last minute threw in the tiny church of St. Anselmo to see what she came up with.
She was so engrossed in her discoveries that she didn’t even hear Bishop return. The side door slammed, and suddenly he was looming over her, shoving the laptop closed and yanking it out of her reach. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a dangerous voice.
So much for morning-after love talk, she thought, eyeing him warily. “You didn’t think I’d just curl up in a little ball and hide, did you?”
“That’s what you wanted to do last night.”
She knew her face whitened. He was prepared to fight dirty, was he? What else could she expect? He didn’t know she could fight dirty too.
“It’s a new day,” she said brightly. “How do you happen to have Internet access here?”
“Trade secret.” He shoved the laptop back where it came from, then slid into the dinette opposite her.
“What trade, may I ask?”
“You may not ask. At least I know you couldn’t get anywhere on the laptop. It’s password encrypted.”
She looked at him directly. It was hard, staring into his sea-blue eyes that were so flat and expressionless. “I got through the first one,” she said.
She expected him to be defensive, angry, but instead his mouth quirked up in a tiny smile. “Bet you liked that.”
Asshole, she thought. “Of course that’s as far as I got. You must have two or three more levels.”
“Seven,” he said flatly. “So exactly what did you discover? I know you couldn’t have gotten anything off the computer itself, and the Internet wouldn’t be much more helpful.”
Ah, triumph, she thought, warming. “Oh, not much,” she said. “There was no trace of a man named James Bishop who resembled you in any way.”
“That’s not true. I know for a fact that there are at least five James Bishops in this country alone who are thirty-four, six feet one, and about one seventy-five. They have similar facial structures, and hair and eye color can be changed.”
“So it can,” she said. “But at one point I knew you very well, and I can tell the difference. Is that the reason you picked that name? Because you could have so many doppelgangers?”
He ignored her question. “So you didn’t learn anything, did you, Angel?”
Crap. She hadn’t tried “Angel” as a second password. Then again, he said there were seven layers of encryption, and it wouldn’t have gotten her very far.
She smiled at him sweetly. “Not a thing. Until I decided to look up the tiny chapel of St. Anselmo in the mountains just outside the town of Cabrisi. You remember that, don’t you? It’s where we first met. And what do you think I discovered? That nice old man, Signore Dimitri Corsini, was murdered up there. I have a good memory for dates, and just imagine, it was the very day you and I were there!” she said in a mock innocent voice. “I must have missed seeing his murder by just a few minutes.”
His cool expression didn’t change. “Less than that,” he said. “Claudia had just finished with him and we were leaving when you popped up.”
“Oh, you’re telling me you’re not a murderer?” She batted her eyes at him. “I’m so relieved.”
“Didn’t your research tell you about the dead chauffeur found in the courtyard? He was my work.”
He said it so calmly, but for some crazy reason it hit her in the stomach like a blow. She could only hope she kept her face unreadable—she didn’t want him to know she cared. “Killing someone in church is a pretty rotten thing to do,” she said.
He shrugged. “Not necessarily. Think of Hamlet. Signore Corsini went to meet his maker in a state of prayer. He might have flown straight to heaven. Somehow I don’t think so, but you never can tell.”
“Hamlet was an asshole.” Apparently that was her word for the day. “If he’d killed his villainous uncle then and there, he would have saved a lot of lives, including his own.”
“But it would have made a very short bad play.”
“Why are we discussing Shakespeare?” she demanded.
He shrugged, then glanced over at the tiny kitchen counter and the food lying there. “You made me breakfast!” he said. “What a good little wife you are.”
“I’m not your wife!” she snapped, tired of this mock civility. “And I just happened to make too much.”
“Sure you did, Angel. Looks like you managed to get a shower too. I gather the plumbing facilities are adequate.”
“Adequate,” she agreed, not about to tell him how wonderful they were. “So what next?”
He was shoveling food in his mouth like someone needing fuel. He probably didn’t even ta
ste it. “You mean, now that I’ve had my wicked way with you?” he said between mouthfuls.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it,” she said stiffly.
If he hadn’t been eating, he probably would have given her that infuriating grin, but he changed the subject. “Now,” he said, “we drive to New Orleans. We’ll take it in two stages—I need to be there by Thursday and it’s about twelve hundred miles, so we can go at a leisurely pace.”
Twelve hundred miles in a day and half was hardly a leisurely pace in Evangeline’s opinion, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think she was going to have any say in the matter. “And you’re not going to drop me off anywhere along the way, are you?”
“Nope.”
Okay, he’d be too busy driving to go for a repeat of last night, and if he tried she wouldn’t be so fucking needy that she’d respond. “Are you going to want me to drive?”
He laughed at that. “Not that I’m not impressed with your ability with the truck and camper . . .”
“Annabelle,” she broke in.
“With your ability with Annabelle, but the sad fact is, I don’t trust you. You’d probably ram us into the first solid object you came to.”
“If only that were you,” she said dreamily. “When do we leave?”
“Now.”
“May I take Merlin out for a moment before we go?” She hated asking him, but she needed fresh air even more than Merlin did.
“Are you stupid enough to think you can make a run for it?” he countered.
She shook her head. “You’re safe. You don’t have a willing hostage, but you’ve got one nonetheless, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” She slid out of the booth, hiding her wince as sharp pain stabbed her calf. “Come on, baby.”
“Baby?” Bishop said in a pained voice. “You’ve ruined my dog.”
“My dog,” she said, and started the short pathway to the door.
“Hold it!” he said sharply.
She froze, careful to put her weight on her other foot. She turned her head. “What?” she said impatiently.
“You’re limping.”
“No, I’m not!” she said.
He stared at her for a long, thoughtful moment. “I should change your bandages.”
“No need. At least the first aid kit was easy to find. I put new ones on after my shower.” A sudden thought struck her, and her hostility vanished temporarily. “How are your stitches? I forgot all about them. Did you . . . I mean, did you . . .” Words failed her.
“You mean did I pop any stitches while we were fucking? I bled a little bit, but it was worth it.”
She felt her face flood with heat. “You are such a sleaze!” she snapped. “And you’re trying to distract me. I should check your stitches.”
“Tell you what. I’ll let you look at my stitches when you tell me why you’re limping. I need to look at your leg.”
“After I take Merlin out . . .” She let out a little whoop as he picked her up and deposited her on the narrow bunk, moving so fast she had no warning. She tried to squirm away but he put a hand in the middle of her chest, holding her still.
“Keep fighting me and I’ll put my hand on your tits to hold you still,” he growled.
She froze. “You’re crass.”
His smile was seraphic. “Yes, I am,” he agreed, releasing her to turn and examine her legs. She knew what the right one looked like, and she’d worn long pants to hide it, but all her pants were loose, and he had no trouble pushing up the cuff to her knee, exposing the swelling purple bruise.
He sat back, for a moment all artifice disappearing, and looked shocked. “How did that happen?”
For some stupid, stupid reason she didn’t want to tell him, to throw it in his face. “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled, turning her face away.
But his hand caught her chin and drew it back, so she couldn’t avoid his gaze unless she closed her eyes, and she wasn’t that big a chicken. “Did I do this when I kicked you?”
Everything had shut down with him again, his face unreadable, but for some reason she still wanted to protect him. “It was a fluke. You didn’t mean to kick me that hard, and you just happened to hit me at the wrong place and . . .”
“I meant to kick you that hard.” There was a strange note of bitterness in his voice.
“Well, it worked.” What else could she say? “It’ll heal.”
“It’s a problem. You never know when you might have to make a run for it. This makes you a liability.”
So much for tender regret, she thought, wondering why she felt crushed. “Then just put a bullet in my brain and leave me behind. That way I can’t tattle on you.”
He shrugged dispassionately. “That’s protocol.”
“Is it? Then why didn’t you just kill me at the church and have done with it? Why go through an elaborate charade . . .”
He’d been examining the bruise, pressing against it, but at this he turned away. “It’s not broken,” he said, ignoring her question. “If you look hard enough, you’ll probably find ice. Put it on the bruise, keep your leg elevated, and it should be fine eventually. We’ll just have to hope we don’t run into any problems.”
It was a waste of time to glare at him—he wouldn’t even notice. She sat up and gave a long-suffering sigh. “All right. After I take Merlin out.”
“Merlin doesn’t need to go out. He can hold his bladder for hours. Find something to entertain yourself with while I drive.”
He started toward the driver’s seat, and she slid off the bunk, starting after him. “Look, just let me get some fresh air.” She hated the pleading sound in her voice.
She found herself talking to his back. He was ignoring her, of course, about to move between the two front seats to take his place behind the wheel, when she made the dire mistake of putting a hand on his shoulder.
He turned, in no particular hurry. “You can open a window,” he said callously. “Go ahead and play with the computer if you’re bored. You won’t find anything interesting.”
“The Internet is full of interesting things if you know how to look,” she said, which was patently stupid. She wanted access to that computer again. She had barely begun her research.
“Fine with me, Angel. Do your worst.” He reached over her and pushed one of the buttons over the door. She heard the locks click in, place, and she had no illusions that she’d have any way of getting out of this tin box without Bishop’s permission.
She glared up at him as he started past her, into the cockpit of the RV, when he paused. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said in a flat voice.
“What?”
His answer was to yank her into his arms, so fast and efficiently that she didn’t have time to react. He shoved her up against the locked door, his hips pushing against her, pinning her there, his hands holding her head, his long fingers cupping her face, tilting it up for his mouth.
His mouth. She was so surprised she didn’t try to close her lips against him. The feel of his body drained all her defiance, and she let herself mold to him as she opened her mouth for his kiss, her arms going around his waist to hold on, afraid she might fall.
He used his tongue, sweeping into her mouth, as if he wanted to taste everything, to suck the air out of her, and she sank into it, into the unbearable glory of his mouth, of his kiss, of his kisses. He pulled back and kissed her again, more gently this time, luring her, seducing her, and then he changed again, the kiss so hard she wanted to slide to the floor in a little puddle of desire. It was a good thing she had the door behind her. She released her hold on him a mere second later, putting her hands flat on the surface behind her, staring up at him, fighting her conflicting emotions. He moved away, a cocky grin on his face as he slid into the driver’s seat, and if she’d been anywhere else, she’d have thrown something at him. In the RV there were
no loose articles she could fling, only her tongue.
“Asshole,” she said.
It was definitely the word for the day.
Chapter Thirteen
Bishop drove. He set the cruise control for a reasonable sixty-five, though that was unlikely for a Winnebago of its supposed age, and headed south until he hooked up with Interstate 40 and the broad, flat plains of Texas, where he pushed it up to seventy.
He hated Texas, at least most of it, and he’d considered changing his route. He had a couple of possibilities and he took this one that would bring him into Louisiana the quickest, or he would have headed through the wheat fields of Kansas. Either way, going from the Rocky Mountains to the delta would require a lot of flat landscape, and he was inured to it, even though he knew this seeming bucket of bolts could safely travel a hell of a lot faster and not have a problem. He was going to have to fill up the tanks eventually, have to let Evangeline get something to eat, though damn, that egg thing she’d made had been good.
He didn’t know if she’d be easier or harder to control after last night. He wasn’t going to think about it—driving across Texas with a hard-on wasn’t his idea of heaven. Thinking about that ugly bruise on Evangeline’s leg wasn’t much better. He wasn’t squeamish about hurting women—you did what you had to do, and there was no room for chivalry in a business where a sweet young thing could put a stiletto between your ribs, and in his case, had. But Evangeline was a different matter. Everything he’d done, he’d done to keep her safe from harm. And then he’d ended up being the one who hurt her.
He was being melodramatic, but the long straight line of the highway wasn’t doing much to distract him. Clement had hurt her a lot worse, though she was well on her way to healing. So was he, despite the way he’d ignored his stitches last night.
