Page 37 of New Storm Rising
“I think you can guess,” I sneered. No need to tell him that it was actually Punjabi for “adorable little pumpkin”. Insulting people in foreign languages was so much fun!
Tearing a poster from the wooden wall of the office, the sheriff stared down at it, then up at me, then down at the poster once again.
“It’s you! It’s really you!”
“The one and only.”
“Shut up, thug!” The ruthless bounty hunter growled and pushed me towards the desk. Grabbing the torn poster from the sheriff’s hand, he slammed it down on the desktop, his finger on the dollar sign. “I got the guy. You got the cash?”
“Sure!” The law man nodded hurriedly. “Please wait a moment, Mr…?”
“None of your business.” Sending the man a deadly stare, Mr Rikkard Ambrose extended a hand. “Cash. Now.”
The sheriff hurried into the back room and, from somewhere out of my sight, I heard the click of a safe opening.
“Unbelievable!” I whispered, the desperado sneer dropping from my face to be replaced with utter shock and disbelief. “Un-freaking-believable! It’s actually working!”
“Of course it is.”
“Don’t you sound so bloody pleased with yourself about selling your wife!”
“Why not?” he enquired, sounding genuinely curious. “It’s for $25,000.”
I loved this man. I truly did. But sometimes…
Calm, Lilly. Calm. Criminals don’t bitch-slap bounty hunters.[14]Not while they’re tied up, anyway.
“Here you go, Sir,” the sheriff abruptly interrupted my thoughts. Stepping back into the front office, he dumped a pile of banknotes onto the table. Instantly, Mr Ambrose let go of me and grabbed the stack, starting to count.
Calm, Lilly, Calm!
For my dear husband’s sake, I hoped he was going to invest those twenty-five thousand into a hospital. He sure as hell was going to need it.
Just then, my dear hospital-patient-to-be had finished counting his bounty. Sliding it into his pocket, he held out his hand to the sheriff. What, did he wantmoremoney?
To judge by the aggrieved expression on the fat sheriff’s face, the man was having similar thoughts. “Um…sorry, Sir?”
“The receipt. I delivered, I received my money. Do you think I’m going to leave without a receipt, only for you to renege on the deal?”
The sheriff’s triple chin twitched, his chubby fists clenching. Throwing a glance at Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s revolver, however, he seemed to decide against doing anything unwise.
“Ehem…well, please wait a minute. I’ll be back directly.”
And, turning, he vanished into the back room once more.
“So,” I enquired sweetly, keeping my voice low enough for only the two of us to hear. “Now that I’m about to be thrown into jail, what is the next step in your brilliant plan?”
“This,” he said, and stuck a hand down the front of my trousers.
“Eeep! What the hell do you think you’re doing, you—?!”
“Silence!” he hissed, covering my mouth with one hand, while his other…shoved something down the front of my pants, between my uncle Bufford’s old socks? “Here, take this! Instructions included.”
Then both hands vanished, just before the sheriff re-entered the room. Wait a minute. Mr Ambrose’s strange, risky actions earlier, the thing that he had shoved at me…
Did this mean heactuallyhad a brilliant plan?
“Come on!” Roughly, the sheriff grabbed me by the arm and dragged my discombobulated self after him. “Let’s get you locked up with the other riff-raff! You’ll fit in well with that scum!”
