The Bluest Eyes in Texas. Marilyn Pappano
and watched silently. No doubt he had some mental clock counting down and he would smugly let her know when five minutes had passed. She fully intended to be done before then.
After cramming everything into the suitcase that had come out of it, she zipped it, then grabbed a tote and went into the cramped bathroom, scooping makeup and toiletries inside. With that bag over one shoulder, she retrieved her laptop from the bottom dresser drawer and slung the strap over the other shoulder, then hefted the suitcase from the bed. A glance at the bedside clock showed she had seconds to spare.
“I’m ready,” she announced.
Finally Logan moved out of the doorway, but not to head for his car, as she expected. Instead he approached the bed, nudged the rumpled covers back with one booted toe, then bent to retrieve something from the floor. Bailey looked at the scrap of coral lace dangling from his finger and told herself she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Lingerie was a fact of life. He’d probably seen as much of it as she had. She wouldn’t snatch the tiny filmy panties away from him and hide them as if doing so could erase them from existence.
She took the garment from him in a calm, controlled manner, stuffed them in an outside pocket of the suitcase, then pushed past him with her load to head for the door.
“And here I would have figured you for white cotton,” he murmured behind her.
She pretended not to hear.
She strode to the rear of the car, fished out the keys and unlocked the trunk, then blinked. It was quite possibly the neatest car trunk she’d ever seen—spare tire out of the way, tool kit snugged into a corner, duffle bag tucked into another corner and gun cases neatly side by—
Gun cases. Two obviously held pistols; the other two were for longer guns. He didn’t intend to take any chances with MacGregor. And why should he? The man was a murderer. If he could kill that sweet old couple for nothing, he wouldn’t think twice about killing someone like Logan, who presented far more of a threat to him.
But logic aside, the weapons made her uncomfortable. Sure, she carried a gun—two of them at the moment—but strictly for self-defense. She’d never shot anyone and never would unless there was absolutely no other choice. But going looking for someone armed to the teeth—that was more like hunting, tracking prey, making the kill.
A dark hand suddenly appeared in her line of sight as Logan lifted her suitcase into the trunk, settling it next to the gun cases. He slid the tote bag from her shoulder and fitted it into the space next to it, then made room for the laptop case. Finally he closed the trunk, then held out his hand for the keys.
She started to hand them over, then hesitated. “You are planning to turn MacGregor over to the authorities when you find him, aren’t you?”
For a long time he gazed at her, but thanks to those damn glasses, she couldn’t see anything but a dim reflection of herself. Not that it mattered—even if she’d been looking directly into his eyes, she still wouldn’t have seen anything he didn’t want her to see. Finally his mouth relaxed from its grim set long enough to form an answer. “I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.”
Relief eased over her. She dropped the key ring in his palm, then opened the passenger door, sliding inside. The sun-warmed leather of the seat went a long way toward easing the chill the guns had created inside her. He’d served honorably in the Army and received commendations for his heroic actions in the war. Heavens, he was Brady’s brother. Of course he wasn’t a murderer.
But he also blamed himself for the deaths of two people he’d loved dearly. He wanted justice, needed vengeance. Even she, with no emotional involvement in the case, could make the argument that killing Pete MacGregor where he stood was indeed justice.
But it was pointless to worry about his intentions now. Before he could even be faced with the choice, they had to find MacGregor. She had to keep him from ditching her or from disappearing before he’d kept his end of the bargain. Those were her worries.
MacGregor was his.
Wind rushed through the car, keeping the temperature comfortable even though they were driving directly into the setting sun. Logan’s skin felt raw, as if the slightest touch might send sensations skittering all the way to his brain, and his throat was parched. If he was alone, he would have music blasting from the CD player, adding its own vibrations to those already supplied by the engine and the road, but with Bailey sitting there all prim and pissy, he figured adding music would only get him more complaints.
She hadn’t spoken since that question as they’d stood at the back of the car. You are planning to turn MacGregor over to the authorities when you find him, aren’t you? Fair question. A lie for an answer. He intended to kill Mac—maybe painfully, maybe slowly or maybe he would just put a bullet in his brain and be done with it. Whatever his choice, the bastard would never hurt anyone again when Logan was finished with him.
And then…then he had no clue what he’d do. The past year had turned his life upside down. He’d lost the only two people who mattered, had given up his career to track down their killer, had turned his life over to that obsession. Once it was over, what reason would he have to live? What would he do? Where would he go?
Not to Oklahoma. Not to Brady and his kids.
He’d never imagined his brother having kids. Whenever he thought of Brady, it was always in the past, as if he’d never aged beyond the seventeen he was when Logan left home. His parents had frozen at the point in his memories, as well. As if they had all died and only Logan had survived.
He couldn’t have been so lucky.
They’d reached Dallas in time for evening rush hour. Now, with the major part of the city behind them, he exited the freeway and pulled into the parking lot of a motel that advertised clean rooms and low rates. There was a gas station on one side, a burger place on the other. What more could they ask for?
“We’re stopping?” Bailey asked when he cut the engine under the awning that shaded the motel entrance.
“I’m tired.”
“But I can dr—” She broke off, no doubt remembering their earlier discussion. “Get one room.”
He opened his mouth to make a smart-ass remark, but she cut him off. “With two beds.”
“Aw, damn. And here I was hoping…”
She didn’t even grace that with a scowl.
Inside the lobby the cute clerk came on to him even though she had a good view of Bailey waiting in the car. He was accustomed to that, though it had been a long time since he’d taken anyone up on her offer. He would get interested in sex again sometime. He just didn’t care about it now.
She gave them a first-floor room at the back, away from the highway noise. After getting only a few hours’ sleep the night before, then dealing with Bailey today, he was so damn tired that even the Texas Motor Speedway couldn’t keep him awake.
They left their bags in the room—all three of hers plus his duffle—then at his suggestion, walked next door to the burger restaurant. After standing in line to place their order, they found a table away from the plate glass windows that radiated heat from the sun and sat down to wait for the pimply kid behind the counter to call their number.
On the drive it had been easy not to talk—too much noise through the open windows. Here in the relative peace of a restaurant where business was slow, he could have just as easily remained silent. When he chose, he was good at it. This time he didn’t choose.
“You don’t sound like you’re from Memphis.”
Bailey was playing with the paper wrapper she’d stripped from her drinking straw, flattening it between her fingers, then folding it into neat patterns. At his comment, she glanced up, then crumpled the paper and tossed it onto the table. “I’m not. I grew up in Kansas.”
“The great flat state.” He didn’t wait for agreement or argument. “How’d you end up in Tennessee?”
“I