Page 137 of Bonded in Death

She held on, too. “I appreciate the restraint.”

When he laughed, she drew back to cup his face in her hands. “What you just said, about loving every glorious, frustrating bit? Same goes. I don’t want to change you, either.”

She pressed her lips to his.

“But I bet, if you got shot at in one of your meetings, and I camepushing in, pulled up your shirt, and demanded medical aid, you’d be a little pissed.”

“Should that ever happen, we’ll test your theory.”

“Okay. You drive. I’ve been shot.”

She tossed him a grin as she got in the car. And shaking his head, he slid behind the wheel.

“So anyway, what’s a petard?”

Laughing again, he glanced over. “I so clearly see where that one comes from. Your Marriage Rules hoisted you, didn’t they now? It’s a small bomb.”

“How the hell do you get hoisted on a bomb? See, these things make no sense.”

“Shakespeare would disagree.”

“What the hell does he know?”

Leaning over, he kissed her.

“I’ve sent you a list,” he told her, “on the machine and materials Potter would need to create the skin mask. Both legitimate and black-market venues. It’s not long, considering.”

“That’s good. Another angle.”

As he drove, she pulled out her PPC. “We’re going to start a search on houses, with garages, purchased or rented within the last year. Gotta start somewhere. We can cross-reference with the barbers, possibly the men’s stores, bootmakers.”

Reaching over, Roarke squeezed her hand. “And yes, there you are.”

She worked, picking through the steps to open her command center’s operations from her PPC, to then coordinate the search between command and her mobile.

“Could be a townhouse, and he rents a garage. Have to factor it. He could have rented or bought it two years ago. Three, four. He could’ve formed a shell company, or manufactured a spouse on the lease, the deed, like he did with the Realtor.”

“You have his face now.”

“Yeah, or close enough. It’s going to help. It may help pin where he got the face-making machine. And if we can pin down where he gets those fancy shaves…”

Frowning, she reached over, rubbed his cheek. “You’re pretty smooth. Do you get those?”

“I don’t, no. I dislike having someone run a naked blade along my throat.”

“Good thinking. But he gets them. Old-school again. Old-school. A lot of tech advances since he went inside. He’d have kept up as much as he could, but… Still, he fabricated that mask. But the gas, the bomb, the gun. His vehicle… Wouldn’t he want something that’s been around? I don’t mean the actual vehicle, but the type. Old, respected brand. Familiar. Something with status. It’ll be loaded—lots of new tech and additions since the Urbans—but a make that speaks to him.

“Did he have a vehicle back then?”

“I’m sure our guests will know.”

“Yeah.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Yeah, yeah. I’m going to have to brief them on all this, aren’t I?”

“Not only because they deserve to know, but because they’re useful.”

“Useful,” she repeated, as the gates of home slid open. “They’re useful.”

But she thought she might need another blocker to get through it.

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