Page 35 of Sting

“You see what you’re up against if you try to escape? That water is a virtual science project. I don’t recommend taking a dip.”

When he hitched his chin in the direction of the swamp, her eyes were drawn to the C-shaped scar, which was even more evident now that his scruff was hours older. Associating that scar with his arrogance, his dominance, she channeled her anger toward it. Then she looked him in the eye and said with defiance, “I’ll think of something.”

He merely shrugged, turned his back on her, and headed for the door. “I’m hungry.”

His dismissal of any threat she might pose made her feel hopeless as nothing else had. She was no longer bound hand and foot, but he wasn’t concerned that she would attempt an escape. The likelihood of her succeeding was nil, and if she died while attempting it, he would collect his fee from Panella, and probably be glad that he hadn’t had to expend another bullet.

When he reached the doorway he stopped and, looking back at her, tipped his head toward the opening. She remained where she was. He stood there waiting. No impatient tapping of his toe. No gestures of exasperation. Just waiting. A man supremely confident of her obliging him.

His attitude rankled, but staging a rebellion now would get her nowhere. It would only cost her energy she needed to conserve. However, she’d be damned before he saw her cowed. Acting as though it was her idea, she walked toward the door, then past him and through it. He pushed it closed behind them.

“Can’t you leave it open and let in some fresh air?”

“No.”

“It’s stifling in here. And it stinks.”

“Then hold your nose. The door stays shut.” He moved to the trunk of the car and took out a handled grocery sack, then brought it over to her and held it open for her inspection. “Mickey did the shopping, so I can’t vouch for the choices. Take your pick.” He jiggled the sack.

Inside it were a variety of single-serve canned goods. “I’m not hungry,” she said.

He bent his head low so he could inventory the selection. “Sardines. Beanie wienies. Chili mac. Ravioli. Tomato soup.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“And a box of plastic spoons.”

“I’m not hungry.” She turned her head to glare at him. Which was a mistake. Because it brought her face so close to his they were almost touching.

His flinty eyes sparked, then dropped their focus to her parted lips. “You sure?”

His whisper had the texture of fine-grade sandpaper. She felt it like a stroke low on her belly, and, for a heartbeat—much too long—every nerve ending sizzled with awareness of him. He was body heat, and tensile strength, raw masculinity and leashed power, and her breathy reaction to all that panicked her.

She averted her head and stepped away. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, her voice husky and lacking the forceful positivity she wished it had. Wished she felt.

He remained as he was for a five count, then shook a plastic spoon from the box of picnic utensils, took a can of food from the sack, and replaced it in the trunk.

He carried the items over to an empty wooden crate, upended it, and sat down. Wincing, he reached beneath the hem of his shirt, pulled the pistol from the holster, and set it beside him on the crate. Then he peeled back the lid on the can and dug in. Hunched over, he spooned the food into his mouth with an aggressive efficiency meant to satisfy an appetite, not to savor, or even to taste.

Jordie backed up to the hood of the car and sat down on it. From that safe distance, she watched him. After a full minute had elapsed, she said into the silence, “Why haven’t you killed me?”

“Told you.”

“I don’t believe you’ll do it.”

Keeping his head down, he froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth and held it there for a beat before he completed the motion and took the bite. “Believe it.”

“I don’t.”

“Look, just because we nearly lip-locked—”

“No way in hell.”

He briefly looked up. “Whatever. You’re my bread and butter. Worth two hundred grand at least, and I think there’s much more to be had.”

“So why haven’t you called Panella?”

“If I contact him first, I lose bargaining power. He’s got to be worried over why he hasn’t heard from Mickey and why Mickey hasn’t answered his calls. I’m letting him stew.”

---