Page 88 of Betrayed

Chapter 23

AS SHE APPROACHED THEturn for the lot behind her shop, she downshifted to take the speed bump slowly. But as she searched for second gear, the sleek black obscenely expensive sports car lurched and made an ugly grinding. She stalled for the twentieth time in the past three hours, gritted her teeth in frustration then started it again. Once she had pitched and rocked and lurched into a parking space, she shut off the engine and heaved a sigh of relief that the trip from San Antonio was at an end.

The commute had been nerve-racking at the outset because of the stop-and-go city traffic, and because the clutch and seven gears were a far greater challenge to her coordination and memory than she expected. The blessedly long stretch of highway before she got to Houston had been no problem. Well, except once.

While cruising down I-10, enjoying the smooth ride and the unusually light traffic for a weekday morning, her heart nearly flew out of her chest when flashing blue lights appeared in her rearview. Checking the speedometer was automatic. The problem; she had no clue how fast she was going with it set to kilometers. She’d been guessing since the outset and keeping pace with the other cars, which was fine when there was someone around to follow.

With a sigh, she hit the brakes. What red-blooded Texas girl, or guy for that matter, could convert kilometers to miles in their head?

She had asked the trooper that question, hoping to get a little sympathy, but she—yes, she, darn her rotten luck—had been anything but amused as she heartlessly wrote out the $250 ticket.

She eyed the crinkled-up citation sticking out of her purse. Arturo was going to pitch a fit, especially after his parting words to her last night.

“I don’t suppose you know how to drive a manual transmission?” he began hesitantly.

“Sure, I can,” she said with confidence. It was a point of pride back in the day. “I learned to drive in my dad’s Ford Ranger 4X4 when I was sixteen.”

She didn’t mention that had been the last time she’d driven one. But it was like riding a bike, surely. Once you knew, you knew. Right?

He held up his keys. “If I’m not back, drive my Porsche home in the morning.”

“Seriously?” With a grin, she reached eagerly for the keys. She’d wanted to drive his 911 turbo since she’d first seen it. When she wrapped her hand around them, he held on, looking a little green around the gills.

“It’s not a truck, Mari. It’s a finely tuned machine. Although the ride is as smooth as glass, it’s got power—473 horses, to be exact—which can deceive. So be careful and keep to the speed limit.”

“I will,” she’d told him, stopping short of rolling her eyes. She’d been driving for twenty-two years; how hard could it be?

Her enthusiasm lessened when her suspicions piqued. “What about my car? Is there a reason you don’t want me taking it?”

“They’ll be watching for Mari in her Merc. No one will expect you in my 911.”

The excitement surrounding her potential high-performance sports car adventure evaporated as she raised her eyes to his. “They’re watching me?”

“In San Antonio, I highly doubt it, but we’re taking Brock with us on this op, and Tony doesn’t have another man to spare.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?” She bit her lip, frowning. “I could stay, but with Adri’s crap, I’ll need to open the shop.”

“It should be fine, baby. This is just me being extra cautious. Go straight to the store, which we do have covered, and we’ll pick it up from there.”

“Okay.” She laid her hands on his chest, worried, and regretting the tension between them the past few days, especially with him going off to hunt arms-dealing terrorists. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, sir?”

His hands framed her face, his touch warm and gentle as he lowered his head to hers. “With you waiting on the other side of this, I have every reason to be.”

The lips that claimed hers were surprisingly tender. “I don’t want to leave you,ma colombe, but I must.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt when his arms released her, and on her toes, pressed her mouth to his for a change. “Be safe,” she whispered, tearing up.

When he reluctantly released her and stepped back, she tried to lighten the moment. Raising the key fob in her hand, she’d assured him, “And don’t worry about your finely tuned machine, sir. I got this.”

Famous last words.

The look on Lexie’s face earlier that morning was almost a mirror image of his as she watched and listened to her lurching, gear-grinding exit out of her driveway.

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