The Survivor (4 page)

At any rate, convinced that the only thing that was going to get her over her fear of guns was learning
to handle one herself, her grandfather had taken her out for target practice over and over again and proved to be delighted when she'd been a natural. Regardless of what kind of piece he put in her hand, be it a pistol or a rifle, she always came within an inch of the bull's eye.

Her gaze slid to Lex, who was going over the maps, evidently plotting their route. Somehow she didn't think it was a good idea to tell him that she was an excellent marksman. He was already feeling relatively useless, if she had her guess.

But just because she could plot a map and fire a gun didn't mean she'd actually have the guts to shoot someone if it came down to it. She'd like to think that she could do it to defend her own life or someone else's, but she'd never been in that situation.

As a former Ranger she knew he had, and she also knew that she couldn't be in better hands.

But she didn't need to think about being in his hands, because that ignited a thought process that took her imagination to depraved places it had no business going and made her panties feel like they'd been dipped in steam.

His eyes weren't just blue, as she'd noted before. They were a bizarre mix of blue and green with a darker ring of lapis around the edges. They were utterly arresting, the shade managing to be both bright
and dark, like the sky in a Maxfield Parrish painting, so perfect it had earned the name “Parrish Blue.”

She'd known the minute she'd looked at him that she was going to be in trouble, that she was going to want him with an intensity far beyond anything in her experience. On a physical level, he simply did it for her. He was big and hard and exuded confidence without being cocky, and there was an irreverence in his gaze, in the shape of that droll, incredibly carnal mouth, that was particularly attractive.

Something about the line of his jaw against his neck when he turned his head just so made her long to slip her fingers along that bone, to trace the shell of his ear. Everything about him was masculine and beautiful, even the way his hair lay against his scalp. She watched his fingers trace a path along the map and her belly gave a clench. His hands were large and veined and the strength in them was palpable. She imagined them kneading her flesh and released a sigh deep enough to draw his attention.

She felt a blush race to her hairline and took another sip of her cider.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Only with her misguided libido, Bess thought. She blinked innocently. “No.”

His lips twitched with humor.

“Are you laughing at me?” she asked, waiting to
watch the way his mouth moved when he talked. It was sensual and mesmerizing.

“No,” he said. “Not at you.”

“But something was funny?”

He dropped the pen in his hand and leaned back and regarded her more thoroughly. That lazy scrutiny made her stomach flutter and warm. “Yes, actually. I was thinking you must have learned that little innocent look you just gave me from Elsie because it was the same exact blinking incomprehension that she gave you when you told her not to call unless it was important.”

She popped a bite of Danish into her mouth and laughed. “It's possible that I picked it up from her,” she said. “I've known her most of my life.”

“She's quite a character,” he said, which she thought was more charitable than saying she was crazy as a shit-house rat, which was what most everyone else thought about her. Including Bess, if she were honest, but it only added to Elsie's charm.

“She is,” Bess said with a nod. “She has the sight, you know.”

“The what?”

“She likes to think she's psychic,” Bess clarified, and wondered again what had spooked him so much when Elsie had taken his hand. Something had, she was sure. And for all his irreverent nonchalance, there was an unexplained shadow in his gaze—
almost haunted-looking—that made her wonder about his story. Everyone, in her experience, had a story and she found herself unbelievably intrigued by his.

It was his turn to blink and she chuckled again. “Seems like you're a quick study on the look, as well,” she told him, wrapping her hands around her drink to keep them warm.

A rustle of leaves swept along the sidewalk and pots of mums bloomed in burgundy and yellow batches around the little patio. She loved fall, Bess thought. It was her favorite season, when the harvest peaked and Mother Nature, proud of her accomplishment, settled in and took a much-needed rest. Every wind felt like her sigh, and Bess huddled more snugly into her jacket.

“She rattled you, didn't she?” Bess prodded, knowing he more than likely wouldn't answer, but curious all the same.

He bit the inside of his cheek. “You mean when she practically slithered across the counter toward me and lowered her voice into that alarmingly breathy purr?”

She felt her own lips twitch. “Elsie likes younger men.”

He grinned and quirked a brow. “Do they typically like her?”

She chuckled again, unable to help herself. “She's managed to date a few younger men.”

“And by younger, you still mean they are senior citizens?”

“Yes,” she said, snickering.

“Aha,” he said. “I thought so. I'm less than half her age.” He gave a shudder. “I almost feel like I need a bath.”

Laughing quietly, Bess felt her eyes water. “Oh, come on,” she said. “It can't have been as bad as that.”

“It was,” he deadpanned. “Because I thought she was you.”

Her sides were aching. “Yes, I know,” she wheezed.

His eyes widened in outrage. “You know? You knew?” He gasped. “You were watching,” he accused. “You saw the whole damned thing, didn't you?”

She nodded, unable to respond.

“That's… That's…
evil,
” he said, staring at her with a new sort of appreciation in his eyes.

She merely shrugged. “I saw you when you got out of the car,” she said. “I might have corrected you, but you were in such a hurry and then—” she pressed her lips together to keep from grinning again “—and then it was just too funny not to watch.”

He shook his head, continued to stare at her, then sketched a makeshift bow. “Glad to provide your en
tertainment, milady. Let me know when I can do it again.”

Ooo-la-la,
Bess thought as the last words rolled off that incredibly smooth tongue. She had a feeling he could provide her with hours and hours of hot, sweaty, wonderfully wicked entertainment if she'd let him.

And judging by the heat scorching her veins, she just might before this trip was through.

A
FTER AN HOUR IN
B
ESS'S
company, Lex was beginning to wonder if he might have been better off protecting his virtue from Elsie than essentially being trapped in the car with a woman he'd wanted to lick from head to toe the first moment he'd set eyes on her.

Licking, he was relatively sure, wasn't in his job description, and considering that he was already feeling like he wasn't doing the damned thing properly—that she'd beaten him to a plan, as it were—he didn't need to further complicate matters by making a play for his…partner. He couldn't think of anything else to call her, really. She wasn't his client or his target or even his accomplice.

And more importantly, she was Brian Payne's friend. Brian had mentioned that he'd known Bess for years, that he'd been buying things from her for
a long time and that her case was special. Though he hadn't said as much, Lex imagined that Bess was either trading him out inventory for services or she was getting a vastly reduced rate. He didn't have any idea what kind of money she pulled in through her store selling her ju—
stuff,
he mentally corrected, remembering Payne's warning about her dislike of the word, but he couldn't imagine that it was a huge income.

From the corner of his eye he watched her review her client list again, evidently trying to jog her memory into revealing where she'd bought the sign that would lead her to the book before the asshole could find it. Her brow wrinkled in concentration and she thoughtfully chewed a piece of gum, occasionally licking her lips in the process.

It was distracting as hell.

“Argh,” she moaned, rubbing her temples. “You don't know how much I hate that I can't remember where I bought that sign. I keep a record of everything,” she explained. “My grandfather was meticulous about it and wanted me to be the same. I know that it's here somewhere, that there's a clue to its whereabouts in this paperwork, but—”

“You inherited Bygone's from your grandfather?” he asked, liking the nostalgic name of her store.

She nodded, a soft smile curling her lips. “I did.
He started picking in his teens, opened the store and did it all the way up until he died.”

“Picking?”

She sent him a self-conscious smile. “That's what we're called. People who ‘pick' through other people's unwanted stuff, looking for rusty treasure and old gold.”

“Sort of like Dumpster diving?”

“In a manner of speaking. But our Dumpsters are old barns and sheds, so-called junkyards, though that term sticks in my craw,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Nothing is
junk
. Everything has value. It's just waiting for the right person to find it.”

He stilled as her logic sank in, then he grunted.

“What?” she asked, narrowing her gaze suspiciously.

“Nothing,” he said, shooting her an evaluating look. “I'd just never thought of it that way.”

She turned back to her list, but seemed pleased. “Most people don't. And history is getting carted off to the landfills faster than pickers can save it all.” She paused. “That old man whose front yard is an overgrown graveyard for old cars, cast-iron tubs and bicycles? The county health departments are coming in and shutting him down, threatening to condemn his house or fine him if he doesn't clean it up.”

“And you object?”

She was thoughtful for a moment. “I don't know,”
she said. “I can see where neighbors would complain, but then again it's
his
property, and so long as no one is getting hurt…” She shrugged. “I don't know. I just think it's a shame all the way around.”

“So what are the kinds of things you like to rescue?” he asked, unbelievably intrigued with the way her mind worked. She wasn't just pretty, he decided. She was interesting, too.

Definitely a dangerous combination.

She grinned. “Everything,” she said. “Advertising signs, old motorcycles and parts, cars, bicycles, streetlights and tin toys, cash registers, trunks and luggage.” She shrugged again, looking wistful. “Anything, really.”

“But surely you have special clients for particular things, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “For instance, your boss is into restoring old cars and likes all the gas and oil stuff.”

“He does?” Granted, he hadn't known Payne long enough to glean that kind of information, but he could see where it would fit. And he'd only want original parts if he was restoring something—because he was a perfectionist—and someone like Bess was exactly who he'd contact.

Her smile turned reminiscent. “I remember the first thing that I sold to him. A vintage hood ornament for a 1955 Oldsmobile Rocket 88.”

He chuckled. “You can remember that but you can't remember where you got that Coca-Cola sign?” he teased.

She growled in frustration. “I know! It's driving me crazy! But you have to understand, I buy lots of Coca-Cola stuff because it's so collectible. And it never sits for long.”

Lex had never had a collection—unless you counted the Playboy magazines he'd hidden beneath a loose floorboard in his room as a teen. But if he did, he'd collect something cool, like vintage Harley-Davidsons or something like that. He'd recently seen a man on television who was trying to sell his PEZ collection and, though Lex knew the iconic candy dispensers had been around a long time, he'd had no idea that people actually collected them.

He said as much to Bess. “I just don't get it. Why would anybody want that stuff?”

“Who knows?” she said. “His father might have started him on it, or a friend of a friend. People will collect anything that resonates with them. I've never understood the shot glass craze, but there it is. Go into any souvenir store anywhere in the world and you're going to find shot glasses.”

That one he understood. They were small and inexpensive.

“What about the spoons and the thimbles?” he said. “Don't leave those out.”

Another laugh bubbled up her throat. “I do have a few thimbles,” she admitted. “But they're antiques and don't have Yosemite National Park across the front. They're also solid silver with pretty filigree.”

“So you collect thimbles?” he asked.

“Among other things,” she admitted, looking out the window. She propped her elbow against the door, then sighed and rested her head against her hand.

“That sounds intriguing.”

She turned to look at him, her green eyes sparkling with humor. “It wasn't meant to be. I just have a little of everything. If it's pretty or I can find a place for it, I keep it.”

He studied her again. “Does your house look like the inside of a Cracker Barrel?”

She chuckled. “Not quite,” she said.

“Does your yard resemble Fred Sanford's?”

“Not at all,” she said. “You saw my house. It was right across the street from the store.”

He blinked, surprised. “The pickle-green house with the red door and white gingerbread?”

“That's not red,” she said lifting her chin. “It's watermelon.” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Pickle green,” she lamented. “All that work and you think my house looks like a pickle.”

He chuckled. “I'm sorry,” he said. “That's the only frame of reference I have for that particular color.”

“It's called Gecko,” she told him with an imperial arch of her brow.

He grunted. “In that case, I think pickle sounds better.”

Another eye roll. “You would.”

“It's in keeping with your food theme.”

She looked at him. “Food theme?”

“You said the door was watermelon,” he reminded her. “And gingerbread trim.”

It was her turn to harrumph and she glanced over at him again, seemingly seeing him from a new perspective, as though he'd unwittingly handed her the secret to his brain. “You know, in a twisted sort of way that makes perfect sense.”

He grinned at her and arched a brow. “Logic is twisted?”

“Yours is.”

He gave his head a baffled shake. “Interestingly enough, I actually think you mean that as a compliment.”

“I do,” she said. “You're nothing like I thought you'd be.”

Oh, man, there was no way in hell he was going to be able to let that go. “What do you mean?”

“I can't put my finger on it exactly,” she said, pursing her ripe lips in brooding consideration.

He waited, and when she didn't respond, he prodded her again. “Would you try?”

“I don't know,” she said, her gaze thoughtful. “I think I expected someone like Payne. Cool and autocratic, convinced that his way is the only way.”

He hated to tell her this, but if she hadn't preempted him on everything, that's exactly the way he would have been.

“And I'm not?”

Her grin turned a bit wicked. “You would have been…if I'd let you.”

And with that enigmatic comment, she said, “Oh, Rascal Flatts!” and turned the volume up on the stereo, effectively cutting him off before he could argue.

She'd been managing him all along, Lex realized with a flash of horrible insight. The manipulative, scheming wench. And she was right—he had let her.

But that was about to change.

 

S
HE REALLY SHOULDN'T HAVE
goaded him, Bess thought, but she hadn't been able to help herself. Yes, she'd needed to come along and yes, she liked being in charge. But she should have continued to maneuver him without him realizing it.

It would have been better.

Now she watched the light of battle flare in his eyes, his jaw imperceptibly harden, and knew she'd just waved a red flag in front of a very obstinate bull.

Sometimes she was a moron. And this was one of those times.

“Does your client in Waycross know to contact you if this guy shows up?” he asked, moving the conversation back into strictly professional territory.

“He does,” she said.

“Does he know to try and get the man's name? To get his license plate number, if possible?”

“Er…no.” She hadn't thought of that, Bess realized, no longer feeling quite so smug. But a peek from the corner of her eye told her that he was.

She pulled out her cell phone, looked up Gus's number and dialed. “Morning, Gus,” she said when he answered. “This is Bess again. Any visitor yet?”

“He was just here,” Gus told her. She gasped and looked significantly at Lex.

“He was just there? What happened?”

She felt Lex go on alert, watched him still and tune in to her end of the conversation.

“I did exactly what you told me to, Bess. I sent that rotten no-good scoundrel packing.”

She felt nauseated. “Did he give you any problems?”

“Didn't have a chance to,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself. “He came walking up on foot because I'd closed the gate at the end of the drive and I fired a warning shot into the air.”

Without waiting for him to confirm who he was? “Gus, are you sure it was him?”

“I'm sure. He said he was a friend of yours.”

Ah.
“Did he give you a name?”

“Seems like it, Bess, but I'll be hanged if I can remember what it is now. I was just so riled up, you know. Wasn't thinking about catching his name. I was more concerned with making him leave.”

She peeked over at Lex again and bit her bottom lip. “Well, I sure am glad that you were ready for him, Gus, and I'm even sorrier that this was a problem for you at all.”

“No worries, Bess. It's not your fault. The man broke into your store and stole from you. It's not like you sold my address to the wily bastard.”

True, but she still felt responsible. She was going to have to rethink how she took photos for her auctions, that was for damned sure. “Listen, Gus, you didn't happen to notice what kind of car he was driving, did you?”

“Naw,” he said. “My sight isn't as good as it used to be and my driveway is on the longish side, you understand.”

“I do,” she said. “No worries then.”

“You still coming to see me?” Gus wanted to know.

They were a good three hours from Waycross and, if Bastard moved in the direction she thought he was
going to, Valdosta was next on his list. She winced. “Better not, Gus. We need to keep moving and try to catch this guy.”

“Let me know if I can do anything,” the old man told her.

“I will. Thanks, Gus. You take care of yourself.”

“I always do.”

She disconnected and swore.

“He's been there and left?” Lex asked.

“Yes. Gus didn't catch a name or the make of the car, much less the license plate. He lives about a quarter of a mile off the road and has a gate at the end of his drive to discourage trespassers. Bastard parked there and walked in, despite the signs.” She heaved a breath. “He's lucky Gus didn't shoot him. He was within his rights.”

“Bastard?”

“That's what I've been calling him,” she said, feeling suddenly hopeless. “In the absence of a name, that one fits pretty well, don't you think?”

He chuckled. “I've been calling him Asshole.”

“Let's combine them,” she suggested. “Asshole Bastard is pretty damned fitting.”

Lex heaved a breath. “Asshole Bastard it is, then. So where is he going next?”

“Valdosta, I think,” she said. “But I could be wrong. This is just assuming that he covers the southern points first, then circles around. Whether he'll
head east or west remains to be seen and, unfortunately, we're not going to know until he turns up somewhere.” Honestly, without a name or the make of a vehicle or any other sort of lead, they were at this guy's mercy.

“Then you'll need to alert your clients on each side.”

She growled low in her throat. “This is just so damned frustrating. I've never had anything like this happen before.”