Authors: Cindy Davis
Final Masquerade (9 page)
"You don't think we should attempt to stash this thing somewhere? I'd sleep a lot sounder."
"Didn't you ever watch the A-Team? One of the reasons they never got caught was because they kept doing ordinary things in out-of-the-ordinary situations."
She shook her head, disbelieving. “Chris, that was a television program. Get it? Someone wrote the plot to make the Army look like imbeciles."
"I know that, but it's a well known first line of defense in combat."
"Whatever.” Paige wrinkled her nose as he helped her down from the truck. “It sure smells the same as Jamestown: diesel exhaust and hot air."
"Yeah, but here the specialty of the house is the pot roast, not meatloaf."
At the information counter inside the gift shop, Chris booked a room. Paige browsed through the myriad gifts and things a trucker might need on the road—cheap costume jewelry, greeting cards, coffee, tools, shaving cream, maps, and even flowers.
Chris pointed to a table in the farthest corner of the restaurant and followed her down the aisle. She sighed when he inched past her and sat facing the goings-on, forcing her to sit looking at the wall, and a picture of some football players pounding each other on the back, dancing around holding up a big silver trophy.
Chris asked for coffee and told the waitress they'd order later. He leaned back in the chair, obviously content to relax.
He was so handsome. Rugged yet gentle. And he was a great kisser. She felt a twinge of regret that they hadn't met under other, much different, circumstances. Years ago, before her life spun out of control.
He poked her hands, lying folded on the placemat. “Are you all right?"
"Of course, why?"
"You're licking your lips like you just ate a piece of chocolate."
Paige felt a blush creep into her cheeks. She shook her head, partly to disagree with him, partly to dispel the heat.
"Have you been listening to me at all?"
"Listening?"
"I've been tossing around alternative ideas for our escape. I asked you which one you liked the best."
"You know which one I like. The only one that makes sense."
The waitress appeared at the table, shy, knowing she'd interrupted something that had the potential to erupt into an argument.
"How's your chicken pot pie?” Chris asked.
"A specialty,” said the waitress.
"Okay, I'll trust you,” he said, then to Paige, “See how easy it is?"
Paige ignored him. “I'll have the fried seafood plate."
The waitress scribbled a second and then left.
Chris’ eyebrows lifted. “Man, was I wrong about you."
"Excuse me?"
"Fried food? I figured you to be a health food nut."
"Why's that?"
"You ordered a fruit cup last time."
"I do prefer to eat things that are good for me. As far as what I just ordered...” She shrugged. “If this is to be my last meal, why should I worry about my arteries—or my hips?"
During the meal, Chris kept the conversation light, relating humorous stories from his high school days, of basketball and ex-girlfriends. Paige caught herself several times, nearly recounting stories whose events rivaled, and even surpassed some of his.
Dessert consisted of double chocolate cake for him and butter-crunch ice cream for Paige, something she said she hadn't had in years.
He pushed away the empty plate and lit a cigarette and leaned back, patting his stomach. “So why don't you eat ice cream any more?"
"Stefano didn't want me to gain weight. He hates—hated—fat Italian women."
"You're Italian?"
"No."
Chris pointed a forkful of cake toward her. “Then, wh—"
"Don't ask.” She smiled, tipped her bowl, and scooped the last of the melted ice cream. “So, what time are your henchmen coming to get me?"
He frowned. “Don't tell me you're starting that again."
"Look, I know you're one of them. I know you never called your so-called dispatcher."
"What are you talking about?"
"You said you were going to call your dispatcher while you were outside checking the trailer and I found your phone in the drawer when I was putting the spoons away."
He lowered his eyes and began tracing the checkered tablecloth with an index finger.
"They're going to get me sooner or later, so sooner might just as well be—"
"You're way off base."
"Last time I made an observation, you called me daft. If, and I stress
if
, you aren't on their payroll, then I ask you two things. One, why are you so secretive? Why the phone-call at one o'clock in the morning? I know very little about the trucking industry, but I assume dispatchers sleep just like the rest of us. That they don't sit in the office all night waiting for their drivers to call in.
"And, two, why won't you let me leave? I sneak off. Instead of bidding me good riddance, you drag me back. And, three—"
"You said two questions!"
She aimed a finger at his nose. “
Three
. Why didn't Stefano's goons hit us out on the highway? They could've made it look like we died in a horrible crash.
That's
their style. No comment? I didn't think so.” She let her hand drop on the table with a thump. “So I'll begin, with
my
answer to the last question. They didn't hit us on the road because they couldn't take a chance hurting you, and furthermore, they
knew
where we were headed. You had it all planned, for them to take me in my sleep, with less confusion and possible bloodshed."
She leaned forward to drive her point home. “You know they aren't going to hurt you, so you can play Mr. Gallant by protecting me, gaining my trust."
Chris chewed and swallowed before replying. “So, Miss Know-it-all, what's the answer to the other questions?"
"I don't have an answer to number one, yet. And before you come up with a wiseacre answer, the rebuttal to query number two is..."
He leaned forward, arms outstretched. “That I care about you? About what happens to you? That you're a nice person got into a situation you couldn't get out of? That for one time in your life you should sit back and let someone take care of you?"
"That's what got me into this in the first place."
"Listen to me. I'm saying this for the last time. You are 100 percent wrong in
all
your assumptions."
"Then mister, you have some explaining to do."
He sighed. “Let's go to bed, er ... sleep ... ah, upstairs. We don't know who might be watching."
No, they didn't. As Paige got to her feet she fought the urge to flee. She couldn't help thinking she was safer out there than locked in a room with the oh-so-sexy Chris Beauchamps.
Their room was on the second floor in the rear corner of the building. Murmurs of conversations permeated the thin walls. Idling diesel engines vibrated the building. The hall was dimly lit by recessed sconces with bulbs shaped like miniature flames, flickering off posters advertising everything from truck parts to massages, haphazardly stuck to the walls like mosaic tiles.
The smells of home cooking followed Paige like an old friend, reviving childhood memories: of Violet the nanny who picked up Paige and her brother every day from grade school. Of Edwina the cook who, against Paige's mother's wishes, had fresh baked treats waiting every day upon their arrival.
That was before Paige had been sent to that finishing school in Switzerland, away from home for the first time, alone and afraid. With no phone calls or letters allowed, either incoming or outgoing, for the first eight weeks. With no homemade treats, ever—and her brother was allowed to stay at home, to attend regular high school. The click of the key in the lock as Chris opened the door, jolted her back to the present. Her grip tightened on the patent leather strap of her handbag.
Inside, the room was clean and plainly furnished, though it smelled like Lysol and fried food. Chris tossed their bags on the double bed and flopped in a vinyl-upholstered chair. “Ah, just like home,” he said with a grin.
Paige stood, hands on hips, inspecting the place. One bed. Great. She sighed, crossed to the tiny four-paned window and stood on tiptoe to look out. “Nice view."
"Let me guess: sand, mesquite, and prickly pear?"
"Miles of it.” She overlapped the curtains, shutting out the bright Texas sunlight.
Chris lazed back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head, outstretched legs crossed. “Did you know Amarillo means yellow?"
"Spanish?"
"Uh-huh. Named so for the yellow subsoil in the creek."
"That's pronounced ‘crick', right?"
"I guess. Back in 1887, the settlers painted all the houses yellow as a tribute to it."
"A tribute to dirt? Boring. What brought that up?"
"I was just thinking.” He shrugged. “Soil was one of the things I studied in college. You can't just run around aimlessly putting plants into soil which won't support them."
"Sounds like you should have found a way to stay in that line of work. Why not practice landscape architecture in Texas?"
"I'm not sure yet if I'll go back to Canada and open a place next to my uncle's or stay in Texas. You want first shower?"
"No, you go ahead."
"You
will
be here when I get out, won't you?"
"Would I run off on you?"
His face grew grave. “Please, Tracy. Try to trust me. I'll take care of you, in spite of yourself.” He took his shaving kit and a pair of plaid cotton boxers from his duffel bag and headed for the bathroom, stopping just long enough to toss a warning glance her way.
As soon as the door clicked shut, she leaped into action. Slick as a bat diving for a mosquito, she snatched her bag and slipped into the hallway, turning right, the opposite the way they'd come, praying for another stairway at the end. Paige ran down the long corridor, turned left at the end and searched for the red EXIT sign that should be posted above the doorway. She spotted it halfway down the thinly carpeted hallway.
Inside the stairwell, a windowless metal door stood to the right. She turned the knob, assuming it would lead to the roof, but not surprisingly, it was locked. The only way out was down the stairs. On tiptoe, she sprinted to the main floor, opened the heavy metal door a couple of inches, and was instantly assaulted by warm steamy kitchen-smelling air, to reveal the opposite end of the dining room from which she'd left only moments before.
Paige heaved a sigh and peered around for another exit. She slipped out and made a sharp right, through a swinging door, following the sounds of clanging pots and pans, and the scents of fried foods and simmering stews. The steady drone from three enormous fans behind the grill area blocked opportunities for anything but shouted conversation. Paige rushed behind a flour-coated man rolling out pie dough on a stainless steel counter. She dodged a dishwasher shoving a bus cart across the damp tiled floor and waved to a harried chef, too busy to do more than wave back, then flash a second glance her way, obviously wondering why the flushed lady with the crooked wig was racing through his kitchen.
Heart jack hammering her ribs, she scanned the room. A door stood open to the cooler air created on the shaded side of the building. It flowed inside diluting, only somewhat, the heat and steaminess of the kitchen. Paige scurried through to come face to irate face with Chris Beauchamps.
He took hold of her sleeve and spun her around.
She shook herself free of his grip and attempted to sprint away. He clutched both her shoulders, jerked her backward, and pushed her against the wall. “Why?"
"I told you why."
"Get upstairs."
"No. I—"
"I said get upstairs.” He wrenched one bag from her fingers and shoved her ahead of him, bumping her back with his chest to keep her moving. Chris steered Paige back inside the kitchen, amid the grins and jeers of the employees.
"Help me! I'm being kidnapped,” she proclaimed. “Don't you understand? This man is kidnapping me. Someone call the police. He's taking me to Room 209.” Her eyes widened. “Help,” she called one final time before the swinging doors thumped shut. All she received was knowing nods and fingers raised in victory signs. “What the hell was that? Don't those morons understand English?"
"Of course.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “They know me."
"I suppose they're used to you racing through the kitchen after strange women."
He chuckled. “No, but they know me well enough to know I'm not doing anything illegal."
"Damn,” she said.
Chris shoved her onto the bed. It creaked under her weight and skidded a few inches across the thin carpet. He leaped on top of her and pinned her arms out straight beside her. Then he laid his entire weight the length of her. Shivers of fearful expectation lurched through her as the hard lump in his jeans pressed against her thigh.
"You'd better get off me, or I'll scream,” she hissed.
He didn't move. The heat from his body radiated in pin-wheeling spasms from her pelvis to her ears, and all points between. The chocolate cake on his breath and faint scent of his cologne swelled the sensations tenfold. He brushed his lips across hers, then pushed himself up and off the bed. “I'm going to take a shower, and this time you'll be here when I come out."
"What are you going to do, tie me up?"
"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind.” He collected a few things from his case, picked up her suitcase and went in the bathroom. The definitive click of a lock snapping into place echoed in the room.
"You're no better than Stefano,” she hollered at the closed door. “If you aren't one of them, you might as well be."
Paige sighed and shut off the overhead light. She flung all the pillows on top of each other, fluffed and propped them against the headboard.
Keep alert, she told herself. He couldn't keep up his guard every minute. She threw herself against the pillows, jabbed the ON button to the remote, and systematically punched buttons, searching for something to watch.
Chris yanked open the bathroom door. She peeked out the corner of her eye. He wore only plaid boxers. Steam flowed into the room along with scents of soap, toothpaste, and aftershave; smells her psyche found evocative and almost irresistible—almost. He stood there raking long slender fingers through his wet hair. It opposed his attempts at control and fell onto his forehead in haphazard waves. The hair, combined with the wide shoulders, nearly hairless chest, and tight, flat stomach, made him look like the Marlboro man from the old ads. Still she wouldn't look at him. That didn't stop her mind from envisioning what the dark vee extending from his navel was pointing at.