High Tide by Jude Deveraux Page A

stuff. I want to be as dark as possible.”
    For a few moments Fiona watched him as he fumbled with the bottle and the steering wheel; then she took the bottle from him and put lotion on his face. He had nice skin, and the warmth of his body flowed down her fingertips, up her arm, and seemed to land on her lips.
    After a moment, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, and she said, “Turning you on?” in such a way that he laughed.
    â€œNot quite. Ow! Watch the fingernails.”
    â€œSorry,” she said; then when she felt Ace’s face go rigid, she stopped and looked at what he was staring at.
    There was a roadblock in front of them, six state police cars, and at least a dozen men with rifles in their hands.
    Fiona sat back down on her seat.
    â€œWhat would your friend Kimberly do now?” Ace asked quietly.
    â€œBrazen it out,” Fiona said, then looked at him. “Unless you want to throw open the car doors and make a run for it.”
    Ace looked at her as though she were stupid, for there was no cover along the sides of the road. If they ran, they’d be mowed down in seconds … Which, of course, was her point.
    â€œBrazen it is,” he said, then inched the car forward.
    A big blond state trooper looked into the car. “You folks just passin’ through?”
    â€œMy English is no so good,” Ace said to the man; then he heard Fiona’s sharp intake of breath and realized he was doing a bad Italian accent. But what did an Arabic accent sound like?
    â€œOoooh,”
Fiona groaned, and both men looked at her.
    To Ace’s great delight, he saw that Fiona’s belly had increased by a foot and a half. Obviously, she’d shoved her backpack up under the tail end of her veil. And the bulge hid her trouser-clad legs.
    â€œMy wife is not well,” Ace said. “The baby will be born soon.”
    Fiona leaned toward the window and batted her lashes at the man. “In my country we have heard that American policemen can deliver babies. This is true?”
    The man stepped back so suddenly he almost tripped; then he banged the top of the car twice. “Out of here,” he said, and Ace lost no time driving through the roadblock.
    Ten minutes later Ace pulled off the main highway and stopped at a small grocery with a large produce stand next to it. Fiona waited in the car while he purchased three bags full of fresh produce, then went into the store and came out with more bags of unknown contents.
    It was during this time, while sitting alone in the car under a shady tree, that she was able to catch her breath and think. And the first thing she thought was: He’s not what he seems.
    For the last few days she had been under so much stress, so much turmoil, that her senses had gone into hiding and she hadn’t thought about what she was seeing or feeling.But now, watching Ace choose fruit from the outdoor stand, the words screamed in her head: He’s not what he seems.
    From the first she’d prejudged him based solely on his name—Ace. She’d assumed he was a redneck or—what was it they called them in Florida?—a cracker. Where he lived, in that run-down place on a derelict bird farm, seemed to fit her prejudgment of him, but, try as she might, she couldn’t seem to fit him into that cracker pattern.
    First of all, there was his education. How many rednecks had advanced degrees in ornithology? For that matter, how many did anything with birds except shoot and eat them? But Ace watched one TV show after another about birds, birds, and more birds.
    And then there was his accent. It was slight, but now and then he pronounced a word in that rare, distinctive New England accent. Maybe he originally came from Rhode Island or Boston or Maine, she thought. Wherever, he hadn’t always lived in backwater Florida.
    Besides his words, there were his movements and the way he wore clothes. She had a feeling that he could