Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,35

did I, for different reasons. “Pockets!” I corrected, not that it stopped his laughter or my incendiary blush. Hello, Dr. Freud, my name is Daisy.

He stood, outlined by the moonlight. Deliberately, he unloaded his trouser pockets—plastic mummy, cell phone, and wallet, handing each to me before turning out his pockets and holding his arms to his sides.

“Want to frisk me?” he said. “I don’t mind.”

He’d just handed me his phone. Did that make him trusting or complacent? If I managed to not give it back, who could I call? I could at least try to see what the geas would allow. So I got to my feet and slipped my arms into the coat before handing him the wallet and mummy, hoping he wouldn’t notice that the phone went into the jacket pocket. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

He shrugged and stowed his stuff without looking at it. “Just trying to be fair. I’ve gotten a few inappropriate handfuls this evening, so I thought I’d offer.”

“Tit for tat, I think they call that.”

That was on purpose, to distract him from the missing phone, but the surprise in his chuff of laughter made me grin. There was an intimacy in laughing with someone, turning the ridiculous exchange into something warmer, something shared. Something closer to flirting.

Sweet Saint Gertrude, what was I doing? I couldn’t flirt with him. I didn’t even know if Carson was his first or last name. It didn’t matter, because he was an employee of a criminal enterprise and I was an FBI consultant and, oh yeah, technically kidnapped and probably in the throes of some kind of Stockholm syndrome.

I cleared my throat and worked to unweave what had become a moment between us. “No big deal. I gave you the benefit of the doubt that any groping was unintentional and expedient.”

He caught one edge of the coat I wore—his coat—then the other, and pulled me a step closer, knitting the spell tighter. “I appreciate that. When I grope a girl, I don’t want to leave any doubt that it’s on purpose.”

“That’s good,” I said, way more breathlessly than I liked. Stupid Stockholm syndrome. “Expedient groping isn’t nice for anyone.”

His hold on the coat was very light, but I was caught by the sharpening speculation in his gaze. Forget firearms, that was a lethal weapon right there. Especially paired with the devilish curve of his mouth. “Are you ever at a loss for words, Daisy Goodnight?”

“Well,” I said, heady with the thought of winning this battle, “I did get a perfect verbal score on the SAT.”

“That explains it.” He trailed his fingers to my shoulders, then down my arms. His breath was warm on my cheek, stirring my hair as he leaned in. “You are good at verbal scoring.”

Oh my God, was he going to kiss me? That was so inappropriate. I’d have to tell him that afterward.

Instead he just whispered, “But not much good at picking pockets.” He stepped back, holding the cell phone up between us. “Nice try, though.”

Ass.

“Come on,” he said. While I sputtered and fumed, he changed gears as if this was all in a day’s work. “It’s two exits back to civilization.”

He started down the dark service road, abandoning the Taurus. “Are we just going to leave the car?” I asked. Who just leaves a whole car?

“It’s too easy to identify,” he said, clearly expecting me to follow him. “Button up so you don’t freeze to death.”

“What about you?” I fell into step beside him. “Aren’t you cold?” He wore only a pair of dress pants and the same blue button-down shirt I’d soaked when I coshed him over the head with the flower vase about a decade ago.

“I have the nobility of my intentions to keep me warm.” He also had his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the distant lights of one of the last outposts of sub-suburban Minnesota.

“How about a plan?” I asked. “Do you have one of those?”

“Yes.” He counted off on his fingers. “One, don’t get killed. Two, don’t get shanghaied by the same people who grabbed Alexis.”

“Yeah. Them.” The fraternity of the invisible baseball bat. “We should have demanded they show us Alexis, to make sure she’s okay.”

“That would have been counter to item two,” said Carson. “Maguire will deal with proof of … of that.”

He was going to say proof of life. Evidence that Alexis was still alive. Obviously he watched movies, too.

“I’m worried about Mrs. Hardwicke,” I said, which was not as random as it seemed.