Driven by Fire by Anne Stuart Page A

what?”
    “Like telling me what you were really doing on the ship that day, and why that phone is totally different from the one I found when I searched your purse.”
    “You did what?” she said, outraged.
    “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. The purse and the cell phone are gone anyway. They blew up with your house.”
    “Nice of you to remind me.”
    “So why the different phone?”
    It might have been a trick of the moonlight, but she looked a little sick. “I upgraded mine—is that a crime?”
    “No. I just wouldn’t have pegged you as such a devoted football fan.”
    She looked confused. Score one for him. “What do you mean?”
    “The New Orleans Saints case on the old phone.”
    She let out a sigh. “Everyone who lives in New Orleans loves the Saints,” she said. “So what? Exactly what are you accusing me of?”
    “Not a damned thing. Not yet.” She wouldn’t be fooled by his almost affable tone. Ms. Parker was no fool.
    “I’m worried about Soledad,” she said, changing the subject.
    “We’ll head back when it gets light—even hired killers need to sleep, and it’s the safest time.”
    “Since you’ve gotten rid of our stolen car, how do you intend to get us there?”
    She wasn’t arguing about coming back, he thought. He was expecting her to put up more of a fight. Again, suspicious behavior that had no explanation.
    “Wilson will bring a car out to get us.” He took a step closer, and she backed up, almost imperceptibly. He caught her arm. “Watch it! That railing is weak, and you don’t need to go feed yourself to the gators to get away from me. Have I ever made a single pass at you?” Which had been easier when she wasn’t wearing that filmy dress.
    “No,” she said warily. “You don’t even like me.”
    He didn’t bother to correct her. She was too close. He could smell Doc Gentry’s herbal soap on her warm skin, feel the rapid increase in her pulse. She wasn’t immune to him either, unless he simply frightened her. He was trying to, but it was more than that.
    He could pull her closer to him, wrap his arm around that warm body with the mysterious curves and shadows, tilt her face up to his, and kiss her. He could strip that gown off her and take her against the rickety railing; he could get the truth out of her one way or another and he really wanted it to be this way.
    In his experience women knew when a man wanted them, even if it was only subconscious, but he had no intention of giving her any proof.
    “Sit down before you fall down,” he said, releasing her arm, and she dropped back into the nearest rocker. “Stay put.”
    He turned back into the house to grab a blanket and another glass of whiskey. He draped the blanket around her, and she jumped, startled by his sudden presence. “Take this.” He handed her the glass of dark bourbon.
    She tried to push it back. “I don’t like whiskey.”
    “Every good Southern girl drinks whiskey, especially those from New Orleans.”
    “Well, I’m about as much a good Southern girl as you are a Southern gentleman,” she said.
    “Well, amen to that,” he drawled. “Drink the damned whiskey.”
    “My head . . .”
    “Your head is fine. Doc Gentry said it was, but I’ve been waking you up every hour just to check on you. Drink the damned bourbon.” She took a ladylike sip, and her tense shoulders relaxed slightly. He went in for the kill. “So who do you think is trying to kill you?” He dropped down in the seat beside her and put his bare feet on the railing in front.
    She glared at him. “How many times do I have to tell you? No one would have any reason to kill me.”
    He hid his frustration at her obstinacy. “I’ve found that in this life there is always at least one person ready to kill you, no matter how blameless a life you lead. And you, lady, cannot be as innocent as you seem.”
    She stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment, so long he was starting to feel uncomfortable. “That is the