Worth the Trip

by Penny McCall

  “Some of those rooms you snooped through have televisions. With cable. No porn channels, but you can probably find some gratuitous nudity. Or maybe a Victoria’s Secret commercial.”

  Trip shrugged. “I’m not really a TV watcher.”

  “What do you do for entertainment?”

  “Solve crimes, catch bad guys, rescue damsels in distress.”

  She opened her desk drawer and rooted around, saying, “I think I saw some kryptonite in here.”

  His grin widened. “No Lois Lane complex?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Go away and let me work.”

  “What do you expect me to do? This house is like a museum. You probably haven’t moved a stick of furniture in fifteen years.”

  “Twenty,” she said, “since my mother died. It’s comforting to keep things they way they were. Everyone clings to something from their childhood, good or bad. For me, it’s my home, and it’s not hurting anyone, including me.”

  Trip kept his expression flat, but the way she was studying his face told him he wasn’t good enough to fool her. “I don’t like pity.”

  “It’s not pity. I’m sorry about your parents, that’s all.”

  He didn’t like talking about his parents. He didn’t even like remembering them, but it gave him something in common with Norah—or rather it gave her something in common with him, and he wasn’t above using it. “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” he said, intending to do exactly that to her, in reverse.

  “All business now, huh?”

  “You better hope so, because the people coming after you, the ones who are serious, will be all business.”

  She laughed a little, but there was an edge of nerves. “Why do you feel a need to set boundaries for me? You kissed me.”

  “It seemed like the best course of action.”

  Norah shook her head. “There was any number of ways you could have gotten your message across. Just walking out on that stage and claiming to be my boyfriend would have been enough.”

  “It was impulse.”

  “You don’t do things by impulse.”

  “Not very often.” And he couldn’t tell her he took one look at her in that ugly suit, all cranky because of Hollie, and all his protective instincts rose, along with some not-so-protective ones. Norah MacArthur got to him in a way he didn’t want to understand, let alone explain to her. “I like to make a big entrance,” he said.

  “I guess I should be grateful you didn’t pull your gun.”

  BY TWO A.M. NORAH WAS WISHING SHE HAD TRIP’S gun. Shooting herself in the head was probably the only way she’d get any rest. He’d insisted on sleeping in her bedroom, with her or without her. With wasn’t an option, especially if she expected to get any sleep. Without was no better. The bed in the spare room was comfortable enough, the room was dark and cool, and the blankets were a warm, cozy weight on her, and the house was quiet, secure. And she was still awake. She could all but feel the bags under her eyes growing.

  She’d tried several different relaxation exercises, she’d meditated, and she’d run case studies—boring case studies—and there she was, still wide awake, still staring at the ceiling and thinking she’d give just about anything to shut her brain off for an hour, to stop thinking of James A. Jones, III, sleeping right down the hall. In her house. And she wasn’t doing anything about it.

  As if she could.

  He refused to leave voluntarily, and it wasn’t like she could physically remove him. And if she called the cops he’d probably get some FBI connection on the phone and have them all fired, and honestly? It was comforting having him there, and, okay, no matter how much she’d like to believe otherwise, her attempts to get rid of Trip were half-hearted at best. It wasn’t all about that kiss, though.

  Lucius wanted to get the loot back to the original owners, but if the day she’d just had was any indication, he wouldn’t get the opportunity, not with all the kooks coming out of the woodwork. Bill Simonds and Hollie Roget were no real threat, but the guy in the Lexus was a different story. Having Trip—having someone—in the house helped make her feel secure. And left her mind free to obsess about him, in her bed . . .

  She heard a sound, just a whisper, really, then another and another, footsteps moving softly down the hallway outside her bedroom door. Her heart began to pound, but not because she suspected it was the man from the Lexus. Her brain took her in a whole other direction, led there by her body, and she heaved a sigh because she’d just managed to forget about Trip and there he was, creeping to her room in the dead of night. Except it couldn’t be him. He was trying to win her trust; sneaking into her bedroom would be counterproductive.

  That meant it was someone else.

  She sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest, battling through the first wave of blinding terror, which didn’t take that long because under the terror was anger. There was another stranger, in her house, uninvited, because of that stupid robbery. How much was she expected to take? she wondered, tossing off the covers and flouncing out of bed, pushed to action by the frustration pent up in her—all kinds of frustration, but this was one place she could let it out.

  She eased her door open and peeked out, of course in the direction of Trip’s—her room—which was how she spotted the shadowy figure inching open that particular door so he—or she—could tiptoe through. She probably ought to do something, but what? Yelling might wake up Trip, but she’d become the Primary Target, which didn’t seem prudent. Rescuing Trip was nice and all, but putting herself in harm’s way didn’t seem like the best way to go about it. She couldn’t call Trip because she didn’t have his cell phone number, and it didn’t feel like the police would be all that much help, seeing as they were miles away and the intruder wasn’t.

  She wasn’t feeling all that threatened. Maybe it was the tiptoeing. Tiptoeing was a lot like mincing. She doubted the guy driving the Lexus would mince around if he broke in to kidnap her, and Trip definitely wasn’t a mincer. Trip was the kind of guy who’d sneak up on you using every inch of his size twelve’s without making a sound, and catch you totally unaware. Heck, he was the kind of guy you saw coming and never realized he was trouble until it was too late. And she was stalling.

  She ducked back into her room, grabbed the first thing that came to hand, and before she could talk herself out of it, she raced down the hall, burst through Trip’s door, and swung, two-handed, whacking the figure bending over him across the back of the head. The guy grunted and whipped around. He was wearing some sort of mask, but she got the distinct impression he wasn’t happy with her. The impression was confirmed when he barreled by her, swiping an arm out and knocking her sideways on top of Trip.

  “Son of a—” Trip dumped Norah off him and onto the floor, struggling free of the bedclothes and taking off after the intruder.

  She got to her feet and raced down the stairs in time to see Trip fling himself at the intruder, tackling the man before he could get to the front door. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, and in the complete darkness of her foyer, the only way to tell them apart was Trip’s bare chest reflecting what little light there was. Norah raised her weapon, but they were rolling around so much that she missed.

  Trip apparently felt the whiff of air and traced it back to her. “I swear—” he said before he had to duck a punch from the bad guy, “if you hit me”—another punch ducked—“with that, I’ll”—the intruder got in a punch to Trip’s ribs. Norah swung and hit Trip square in the chest because he’d chosen that moment to Hulk out. His breath whooshed out, the intruder scrambled up, knocking Trip ass over teakettle, and made his escape out the front door.

  Norah went to the door and watched him run through the pool of illumination under the nearest streetlight, glancing back toward her house as he did. “Was that guy wearing a Robin costume?” she asked Trip.

  “Robin?”

  “Robin. As in Batman’s sidekick.”

  Trip peered over her shoulder just as the guy hit another streetlight. “
Yellow cape, green jockeys, orange top with a big yellow R on it. Not to mention the mask. Definitely Robin.”

  “Huh,” Norah said, thinking it was appropriate since the rest of his face was chubby and pasty, and she got the impression he was just a kid, late teens, early twenties. “I wonder if Batman is around here somewhere.”

  “Why don’t you and your book take a look around the house and let me know if the coast is clear.”

  Uh-oh. Norah shut the door and flipped on the foyer light.

  Trip scowled at her, eyes narrowed, jaw locked, no smoke coming out of his ears, but she still took a step back when he came at her. She wasn’t fast enough to evade him completely, but he only reached out and disarmed her.

  “The Gender Bridge,” he read off the front cover, his eyes already glazing over. “This thing only causes unconsciousness if you read it,” he said.

  “It was handy,” Norah said.

  “It was useless.”

  “It did a pretty good number on you.”

  “Yeah, and I’d be questioning the Boy Wonder right now if it wasn’t for you and your literary efforts.”

  “Excuse me? I saved your life. That guy was so close he practically had his hands around your throat.”

  “I was faking it. And I was at a disadvantage since I was lying down, so I had to wait for him to get close enough for me to grab him.”

  “Oh,” she said, cranky with guilt and lack of sleep. “You might want to clue me in on your plans next time.”

  He snorted. “Why can’t you cower in your room like a good little girl, and let me handle the dangerous stuff?”

  “Cower—girl—dangerous stuff!” she sputtered. “You’re lucky I don’t still have that book.”

  “And you’re lucky you’re still here. You did everything but paint a target on your back.”

  That put the whole episode back in perspective. So Trip was a misogynist; he was also willing to stand between her and possible death. It sort of cancelled out his bad traits. Except the one where he twisted the facts to suit his purposes. “I thought the news reports would keep idiots like that from invading my house.”

  “The news reports only keep the harmless kooks away. The guys who are serious still think you know something, and they’re willing to do more than invade your house.”

  “You told me they weren’t serious,” she reminded him. “That guy certainly didn’t try very hard.”

  Trip went silent. And pissy. “It would have been nice to ask him some questions,” he grumbled.

  “We already know it’s about the robbery.”

  “And that’s a great starting point, but I have about a million other questions. And I know where we can get the answers.”

  “No.”

  “We have to talk to your dad.”

  “No.” She tried to walk way, but Trip caught her by the wrist.

  “What do you think your chances are of winning this battle?”

  She looked down at his hand on her skin, her suddenly heated skin, which was conducting very dangerous feelings of other parts of her body. If Trip wanted something from her—anything—she didn’t think her chances of resisting him were very high.

  But she was going to fight like hell anyway.

  chapter 5

  “SHE’S NOT EXACTLY WHAT YOU WOULD CALL cooperative,” Trip said into his cell phone. He was leaning against the wall opposite Norah’s lecture hall. He could see her through the door. She didn’t look happy. But then, she never looked happy. Resigned, exasperated, irritated, mulish, and downright pissed off? Sure. The closest she came to the other end of the emotional spectrum was cautiously amused. And at the moment she looked like she was about to face a firing squad.

  “Her old man’s a famous criminal who knows where a shitload of money is hidden—she’s treasure hunter catnip. And you’re hanging around,” Mike Kovaleski said in his usual blunt manner, “what’s to be happy about?”

  “We have a hit-and-run driver and a home-invader to track down. What could be more fun?”

  “Not everyone has your sick sense of humor. ’Sides, her happiness isn’t your objective.”

  Trip bit back the instant defense that sprang to mind. Mike was his handler, and yeah, he had a penchant for stating the obvious, but he was also ex-Marines, and he saw everything as a nail. In this particular situation, Trip was the hammer. And Norah was impeding his aim.

  He lifted his gaze and there she was, wearing one of her ugly suits, this one the color of mud. She met his eyes, sizing him up. Every time she looked at him she studied, measured, quantified. And sometimes it had nothing to do with the Gold Coast Robbery—

  “Run it down,” Mike said.

  “Not much to tell,” Trip began, turning his mind from Norah’s hot stares to Norah’s danger as he ran through the events of the last twenty-four hours.

  “Nothing there,” Mike said when he was finished. “You got a stolen car and a doofus in a Halloween costume. One spells pro, the other screams nutcase.”

  “Sometimes the kooks are more trouble.”

  “You let him get by you. Next time, take him to school. Secret Agent 101.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Trip said, but he was smiling. Couldn’t help it, since he’d flashed back to Norah and her textbook-slash-weapon, not to mention the fierce light in her eyes. Dangerous, he thought, adding it to the list of Norah’s moods he’d compiled earlier. One of the expressions he’d forgotten to list before—and the only one he actually enjoyed. “Gotta go,” he said to Mike, “class is about to start.”

  “Class?”

  “Puff’s daughter teaches college psychology. She has a lecture this morning.”

  “And you think it’s a good idea to let her stand in front of a big room full of people she probably doesn’t know by sight? Unless you’re using her as bait.”

  “She refused to call in a sub,” Trip said. “Gotta go, the lecture is starting.”

  “Pay attention,” Mike said in a tone of voice that went along with a headshake. “Maybe you’ll find out how to make her behave.”

  “There’s not that much knowledge in the world.”

  NORAH DEFINITELY WAS NOT ENJOYING HERSELF. Not that unusual a circumstance in Trip’s short acquaintance with her, but at least it wasn’t his fault this time. At least not entirely. She’d asked him to stay outside the lecture hall. He’d refused, and while the number of resentful glances she sent his way told him how she felt about his presence, the real trouble came from the student body. Or rather bodies, as in college-age female bodies, most of whom, it was clear from their questions, expected to discover how to “Create Your Mate.” The few male bodies were interested in the female bodies, and the word mate was definitely involved. The two concepts, however, were far apart. As far as the distance to any church altar.

  Norah’s lecture unfolded like a mini war. She stepped up to the lectern, armored in her suit, a firm, authoritative demeanor, and her glasses. The students fought back with rampant curiosity and the desperation to avoid any actual knowledge on which they could be tested later. Norah answered their questions about her TV appearance and ignored anything pertaining to the Gold Coast Robbery. When she got down to actual teaching, just about everyone else in the room checked out, including Trip, but at least he stayed awake, which was some accomplishment considering he’d gotten as little sleep as Norah had. But if she could stay awake, he sure as hell would. He didn’t need to be a psychologist to know what that would do to the balance of power in their relationship . . .

  Shit, there was no balance of power in their relationship. He was hanging on by sheer obnoxiousness, hoping to wear her down enough to quit opposing him at every turn. Not to brag or anything, but he’d never had this kind of trouble with a woman before, on or off the job. It never took him long to worm his way into someone’s trust, partly because he was trustworthy. Hell, he was an FBI agent, but was that enough for Norah MacArthur? No, she had to have issues with authority figures, thanks to her old man.


  It didn’t seem to matter that he’d saved her life—okay, maybe not her life, but she’d probably be tied to a chair somewhere if not for him—and was she grateful? No. She should be kissing the ground at his feet by now, but where was he after the longest twenty-four hours of his life? Tired, bored, bruised, and even when he did have a lucid moment all he could do was mentally undress her with his eyes because about four in the morning he’d started to wonder what might have happened after that kiss if they hadn’t been on a G-rated television show. Not that he was an exhibitionist, but being on camera hadn’t seemed like such a big obstacle when he was back in bed, remembering her in that little tank and shorts she slept in, wielding her book like a battle-axe. All she’d been missing were the glasses . . .

  Trip sat up a little straighter in his chair and put that image out of his head. Not difficult since the class had ended and there was a mad rush. About two thirds of the audience made a beeline for the exit, more than one of the coeds giving him a smile on her way by. The rest dashed to the front of the room, surrounding Norah in a clamoring mass of insecure human flesh that made him understand why it was called a crush of people.

  Trip had put himself between her and a couple tons of Japanese engineering without a second thought. No way was he taking on a bunch of college-aged girls with romantic troubles. They’d probably take one look at him and go into a homicidal frenzy. Hell, the lone male was smart enough to stand back and wait for the others to disperse.

  Norah had taken refuge behind the lectern, which didn’t provide much cover but seemed to represent an unassailable wall to the students, since none of them tried to cross that invisible barrier. “I’m not giving any relationship advice,” she began.

  About half the crowd of young women slouched off in various states of disappointment.

  “And if you want to know how to get published, sit down and write something.”

  All but a couple of the other girls slouched off. Norah answered a couple of questions that actually seemed germane to her lecture, then turned to look at the kid who’d been lurking behind the female hoard. He just stood there, stringy hair hanging in his face, looking more like a gamer than a psych major, tall and gawky and soft around the middle. Then again, looks could be deceiving. Who knew that better than Trip, with his job, or Norah, with her father?