Knight in Blue Jeans by Evelyn Vaughn Page B

and she stiffened. Then, when Trace unceremoniously slid her onto the benchseat between him and Arden, she caught sight of him and seemed to relax—marginally—even as she stared.
    Arden couldn’t imagine anyone ever having that reaction to a man she’d always thought of as thuggish, but if Trace kept Vox07—or whatever her name was—calm, more power to him.
    “Here’s some sweet tea,” she murmured, moving the straw to the girl’s lips until Vox took both cup and straw from her and obediently drank. Their waitress had been wonderfully solicitous when they’d lied and blamed the heat—not an uncommon cause of fainting spells around here. “Don’t try to talk right away. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
    The girl drank—but her narrow-eyed gaze, from behind her veil of long hair, radiated distrust of all of them, Arden included.
    That unnerved Arden. Not almost-killed-by-a-train unnerved, but still. She was a Leigh, of the Highland Park Leighs. She had a way with people. She was charming—except sometimes with Smith, who brought out the worst in her, but that was hardly her fault. Excluding him, being good with people was her thing.
    Now Smith, who sat directly across the plank table from Arden, made a huffing noise. He slumped back on the bench seat he shared with Mitch, and his feet tangled with hers. Deliberately? “So if she’s not going to talk, what are we supposed to do?”
    “Eat?” Trace rudely helped himself to one of the complimentary corn chips the waitress had brought for them.
    “Anyone bring a deck of cards?” suggested Mitch in that joking way of his. “Nothing tops off a near-death experience like a good game of Go Fish.”
    “Patience is a sign of maturity,” Arden reminded them sweetly, through gritted teeth. “Trace, perhaps you should leave some chips for her. Salt helps counteract the heat.”
    “She didn’t faint from the heat,” Smith reminded her right back. “She fainted from fear. C’mon, Ard. You saw PrescottLowell, didn’t you? How do you suppose he got here, unless he followed you?”
    Did he always get this annoying after close calls? “Hmm. Let me use my psychic skills.” Arden dropped the dampened napkin to turn on him. “ I don’t know. We already established that he’s Comitatus.”
    The girl made a snorting sound, like, duh.
    Smith leaned across the table in his apparent need to push his point home. “The longer you and Vox here are out in the open like this, the more vulnerable you are.”
    “Vox is a stupid name,” noted Trace, between chips.
    Finally the girl spoke. Her voice was faint—but she spoke. With sarcasm. “Not my real name.”
    “So tell us your real name,” insisted Smith, with his usual lack of tact.
    The girl shook her head, her eyes only touching on him before wandering across the table to touch on—and veer from—Mitch. Then Trace. “Lowell is Comitatus. Not the only one. You led him here. Lied to me.”
    She said that last with her gaze planted firmly on Arden.
    Arden felt her heart sink at the truth of the accusation. “I’m sorry, honey. I know you said to come alone—”
    “Don’t apologize!” Smith interrupted, as if she needed defending against even a teenager. “You’d rather you both were here alone with Lowell?”
    “Perhaps we could have handled him,” noted Arden.
    “Maybe you couldn’t have,” insisted Smith.
    “Maybe you two—” this last came from Mitch “—could take this to your own table? This was supposed to be the quiet, calming-down-after-the-excitement table. Not to mention, you’re attracting attention. Jenny’s been so nice. Don’t make her tell us all to leave.”
    Jenny was their waitress.
    Flushing at the idea of having lost her poise so seriously,much less in public, Arden drew in a breath to protest that she could control herself—but Smith had already stood and circled to the table immediately behind her. All she had to do was turn on her bench seat, sweeping her gored skirt