He must have made a mistake, one of many as far as Evangeline was concerned, which was why he’d kept away from her. His brains were in his pants when it came to her—it was purely sexual and he knew it, but even that knowledge couldn’t diminish his need for her.
Now the Corsinis were after her, and he suspected he could thank Claudia for that. She could have leaked the information to the crime family. That way they’d use Evangeline as a way to draw him out, and if he wasn’t careful, they’d both be dead. He’d never be able to prove Claudia’s interference, but once the Corsinis made the connection, Evangeline’s days would be numbered. Thank God she’d been off in the hinterlands doing research, out of reach of everyone, not even an Internet connection or cell phone service to track her. It had given him long enough to come out of the woodwork to protect her.
He’d married Evangeline to keep Claudia away from her, and it had infuriated his sometimes partner. There’d been nothing she could do about it, and he’d assumed that after five years she would have forgotten all about her. He should have known better than to make assumptions. Claudia had become more and more unstable in the last five years and their boss, Madsen, knew it. Getting rid of an operative like Claudia wasn’t as easy as handing her a pink slip—she was too much of a loose cannon, and too skilled to be taken out easily. He didn’t envy Madsen—it was going to be a bitch no matter how he decided to handle the situation.
Problem was, Claudia was too damned smart, even if she was caught up with maintaining her cool, unemotional focus; and getting rid of her, the only viable way to control her, wouldn’t be easy. In the meantime all bets were off, and Claudia might or might not continue to follow orders. She’d never forgiven Bishop for ensuring Evangeline would live, and if she couldn’t kill Evangeline, she’d find someone who would. All his complicated schemes and hard work might come to nothing. He should have realized there was no way Claudia was going to let it go. If he’d really wanted to ensure Evangeline’s safety, he should have killed Claudia during that mission. But he didn’t kill easily; he’d worked with Claudia on a number of occasions, and he’d made the mistake of thinking she was more stable. Maybe back then she was—after all, Evangeline had survived five years. It was the rest of his wife’s life that was in jeopardy.
Evangeline wasn’t looking very happy about his efforts to keep her alive. She was staring at the greasy, thick menu with the concentration of a scholar, her forehead wrinkled beneath her loose, flyaway hair, and he wanted to reach across and brush the curls away. He did no such thing. It was shorter than it had been when he first met her, and he liked it. He liked it longer too. In fact, he liked every damned thing about her.
Things had happened so quickly she hadn’t picked out the anomalies of his story. She’d questioned him, of course, and circumstances had forced him to reveal too much already, but if he kept doing his best to scare her she might be smart enough to back off and behave herself.
And hell might freeze over.
The middle-aged waitress, with the appropriate name Alice emblazoned across her generous bosom, was already pouring wickedly dark coffee without request. “Hey, honey,” she said to him. “What can I get you?”
“Lumberjack Breakfast,” he said. It came with three fried eggs, a double order of bacon, sausage and ham, home fries, six pancakes, and a steak on the side.
She looked at him, impressed. “You got it. And what about you, sweetheart?” she applied to Evangeline.
He waited for her to order something like a chef’s salad or a mushroom omelet, but she didn’t even blink. “I’ll have the same,” she said. “And Diet Coke and keep it coming.”
Alice grinned. “My kind of woman,” she said. “I’ll put that order right in.”
Bishop glowered. He hadn’t eaten in too damned long, and his temper wasn’t feigned. “You’re never going to eat that much.”
“Can’t afford to treat a girl to an expensive meal? I can always call Alice back and tell her my ‘husband’ says I can’t have it. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s heard it.”
“And it wouldn’t be the first time that a husband busted his wife across the chops in a place like this,” he growled.
She gave him a demure smile, unthreatened. “Yes, but I’m a sweet, helpless little girl and you’re a big, nasty brute, and all these truckers would come to my rescue. If I were fat and middle-aged they’d probably cheer you on, more’s the pity, but in my case I don’t think they’d let you get away with it.”
“You’ve gotten cynical in your old age.”
Her eyes flashed. “I’m twenty-eight.”
“I know.” The coffee was so strong it was guaranteed to keep him up all night, driving, but he hadn’t decided whether that was the way to go or not. Having Clement find him had thrown his plans into the crapper, but he was good at improvising. If he found a motel that felt right, he’d stop; otherwise he’d just keep going. He knew how to go without sleep for days, and he wasn’t even tired yet.
A large, icy glass of Diet Coke appeared in front of them, along with a plastic pitcher filled with the stuff. “You drink all that and you’ll be peeing all night long, and I’m not making a dozen stops.”
She shrugged. “You forget—I have an iron bladder. Anyway, it’s my truck. I’ll pee in it if I want to.”
He couldn’t let himself smile, much as he wanted to. He shrugged. “Your problem, not mine.”
“Oh, I think when we get farther south and warmer it’ll be your problem too.”
“Drink your damned pop and shut up.”
Her eyebrows raised. “Aha. You’re from the Midwest.”
“What makes you think that?” he said lazily. Wyoming was a far cry from the Midwest.
“Only Midwesterners call soda, pop,” she said smugly.
It wouldn’t do any harm to spike her guns. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m from Wyoming, and we call it half a dozen names, like liquid poison and pig swill.”
“What part of Wyoming?” she countered. “Are we near your home?”
“I don’t have a home anymore, and any connection I have to this place is long gone. And stop asking me questions you know I won’t answer, Angel. The less you know the better.” He used his name for her deliberately—he liked the way it made her bristle.
“I hardly think that’s fair, since you supposedly know everything about me. Including my birthday and where I was born,” she added, taunting him, clearly doubting him.
“You were born September tenth, at seven twenty in the evening, at Jefferson General Hospital in Port Townsend, Washington. You weighed seven pounds, fifteen ounces, and . . .”
She looked slightly ill. “Enough,” she said. “I believe you.”
“I also know the name of every man you slept with when you first came back from Italy and tried to fuck me out of your system.” The resources of the Committee were far-flung, and he’d been able to find out anything he wanted while keeping his distance, even though it had driven him crazy.
If he was hoping his words would cow her some more he was mistaken—she met his gaze fearlessly, and he allowed himself a moment to fall into her green eyes. “Now that’s impressive,” she said, a challenge in her voice. “There were a lot of them, and I don’t think I even remember them all.”
“Well, if there’s anyone who particularly annoyed you, just describe him and I’ll go beat him up when this is over,” he said lightly.
Shit. Shit shit shit. How stupid could he be? The woman he was in . . . the woman he was protecting was smarter than should be legal, and her eyes had narrowed.
“You had Pete beaten up, didn’t you?”
He stalled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right after our divorce went through, and I found out he’d taken all my work and passed it off as his own, some random stranger backed him into an alley and beat the shit out of him. Was it you?”
“Now what makes you think I’m a knight errant?” He took a delaying sip of his coffee.
“Because you just offered to do the same to anyone else I slept with. It’s not a major leap.” She was watching him intently.
“Maybe I just like an excuse to hit people.” He had the vague hope she’d only hear the threat in that, but she ignored him. For someone so damned smart, she was really fucking stupid. “So drop it.”
She was going to test him, and he tensed. “Well, there was this guy in Boston. I forget his name, but he was six foot six or something, and a total asshat. He thought he was God’s gift to womanhood and he couldn’t even get me off.”
She said it deliberately, and he’d warned her. He kicked her, hard, beneath the table, enough to hurt, and she stifled her squeal of pain, her eyes dark at his betrayal. She probably thought he’d never hurt her. It was past time she knew that he’d do whatever he had to do.
“You keep forgetting I’m the enemy, Angel,” he said laconically. His appetite had vanished. She had to do what he told her, or they’d never survive, but he’d kicked her harder than he’d meant to, and it made him sick. He didn’t let it show, and kept his expression bland. “I have nothing to do with the man you met in Italy five years ago, and you need to remember that.”
“Then why do you keep insisting we’re married?” Her voice was small, subdued, and he felt guilty, which was flatly absurd. He killed people, beat people, tortured them when ordered to, and women weren’t exempt. Some of the most vicious, deadly creatures he’d ever met were women. So why was he feeling guilty about a little kick?
“John Hall,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “What?”
“John Hall. He was the tall jerk in Boston. Shall I send a hit team after him?” he said sarcastically. Except that he wasn’t really sarcastic—at the time he wanted nothing more than to kill every man she’d slept with during that period when she first got back to the States, and he’d never had a jealous bone in his body until then.
Before she could reply, their food arrived, a massive feast covering the table with dishes of toast, eggs, pancakes, breakfast meats, potatoes, and steak. Evangeline had already worked her way through most of the pitcher of Diet Coke, and Bishop was on his third mug of the sludge they called coffee. “I’ll get you a refill,” Alice promised him after she’d unloaded her tray, and returned in a moment with the pitcher, A-1 sauce, and more cream. “You just call me if you need anything, sugar,” she said cheerfully.
He gave her a tight smile of thanks before turning to the food laid out before them.
“I want to know . . .” Evangeline began, but he interrupted her.
“I don’t give a shit what you want right now,” he growled. “Just shut up and eat.”
He expected her to give him more trouble, but after that kick, she did what she was told, the lure of food, too much for her to resist. There was so much food, they’d end up taking half of it with them, and he still had to order a couple of burgers for Merlin, but right then all he cared about was shoveling eggs down his throat. Whether he wanted to or not he had to fuel his body, and he dug into the meal with grim determination.
He was halfway through his pancakes when he finally looked up and froze. She was chewing on a piece of toast, and everything else was gone. She’d eaten the eggs, the pancakes, the sausages and bacon, even the mediocre potatoes were gone. The steak was mostly gristle, and she’d left that part behind, but somehow she’d managed to devour the huge meal so quietly and efficiently that he was left dumbfounded.
“Want your bacon?” she asked.
“You can’t still be hungry,” he said in a flat voice.
“I was thinking of Merlin. I don’t think meat would hurt him, but I draw the line at hamburgers.”
“Too bad—I already ordered them, and if you won’t let me feed them to Merlin, then you’ll have to eat them yourself.”
Aha! She was more stuffed than she pretending to be, because the mention of eating more food turned her gorgeous skin slightly pale. He needed to remember she had a weak stomach. “You’ve already eaten too much on an empty stomach,” he continued. “And I don’t want to be holding your head over a toilet.”
“I’m fine,” she said in a tight voice. “And speaking of toilets, I have to go.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do.”
“Listen, fuckwad, you can’t come into the ladies’ room with me, so just chill! Where could I go? You know I’m not going to ask anyone for help and risk getting anyone caught in the crossfire. I’ve just had about a gallon of Diet Coke, and the time is now.”
He believed her. She wouldn’t risk anyone else, and there really was nowhere they could go. They were at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere and had been on the road for sixteen hours. Even she had her limits.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Just don’t think you can sneak out the back with that extra pair of keys you found. You wouldn’t be able to start the truck, and you’d end up pissing me off for nothing.”
She didn’t bother to hide her annoyance. “I don’t have my wallet or driver’s license anyway.”
“And we’re just about out of gas, and there’s no way you’re going to get any without a credit card.”
“Won’t a credit card lead your so-called enemies to us?” she said caustically.
“Did Clement look like a so-called enemy?” he shot back.
Repeating his own words, she said, “Clement? Who’s he? I don’t remember anyone named Clement.”
She was really pissing him off. He couldn’t risk stopping for a rest when he was in such a volatile mood—he was inches away from . . . no, he wasn’t even going to allow himself to think about what he wanted to do with her. “For someone who has a full bladder, you don’t seem to be in any hurry,” he said instead, ignoring her taunt. “The offer is time-sensitive.”
She stomped off, radiating fury. He watched her go, as did half a dozen truckers, and he wanted to smash every one of them. She was wearing loose, raggedy cutoffs and an oversized t-shirt with “Come to the Dark Side, We Have Cookies” emblazoned on it, which he viewed with wry amusement. He had no idea whether she’d chosen it on purpose—he hadn’t delved into her clothing—but the geek t-shirt was a little too close to the truth. He was the Dark Side, all right, though it wasn’t cookies he was offering her, and she wasn’t coming willingly.
But man, she had gorgeous legs. Long, tanned, strong-looking. Her ass was gorgeous too, even beneath all that loose denim. She’d been all soft innocence and sweetness five years ago. Now she was hard.
So was he.
He knew how long it took a woman to empty her bladder, even a very full one, and he was on the verge of going after her when she reappeared; and all the truckers got to enjoy the front view. She put her hand on each empty booth as she approached him, and he frowned. Was she hoping to leave her fingerprints all over the place? It wouldn’t do her any damned good.
She slid back into the seat, an unreadable expression on her face. That was new too. He’d always been able to read her. He had that ability with most people—it was part of his training—but she’d been able to put up blinders every now and then. “What next?”
The leftover food—his leftover food—was already boxed up, as well as Merlin’s hamburgers. He looked at her for a long moment. She looked too closed in—she’d done something. “I think I should make use of the facilities since we’re here.”
He could feel the tension shoot through her. “You’re a man. You can just piss by the side of the road,” she snapped.
He smiled sweetly. “Yes, but I thought I’d save your delicate sensibilities. If you’re not sitting here, waiting, not looking at anyone when I get back, I’ll shoot you.”
“No, you won’t.”
No, he wouldn’t, but he didn’t like her knowing that. “I’m on my very last nerv
e, Evangeline.” With that warning he headed to the restrooms.
Chapter Ten
He was going to find it, Evangeline thought, trying not to panic. No sense of decency would keep him from going into the ladies’ room: he’d see the note she’d scrawled on the mirror with the crayon she’d stolen from one of the tables set up for kids, complete with kids’ placemats. That was probably why Bishop had chosen this table—someone had been in the midst of cleaning it off and would know not to put kids’ stuff out. She wouldn’t put it past him—he seemed aware of the smallest details.
She didn’t like thinking about what his reaction was going to be. She could hope someone had gotten there first, but there were only two other women in the place, plus two waitresses, so it was unlikely anyone had gotten in there that quickly.
So far her luck had not been good. There was nothing she could do this time, just face the music. He wouldn’t shoot her, they both knew it, but after that she wasn’t sure what his limits were. She stretched her leg out on the banquette seat and rubbed her shin. His kick had hurt, damn it, enough so that she was having a hard time not limping when she came back.
Someone slid into the seat opposite her, and she looked up, expecting Bishop, only to find it was one of the truckers who’d been watching her while she ate. He’d been at the end of the counter, so Bishop, with his back to the wall, hadn’t been able to see him, but she had, and it had been uncomfortable. Worse when she came back from the restroom.
“Hey, little lady, you don’t look like you’re too happy,” he drawled in a cigarette voice just two packs short of cancer. He stunk of them, as well as sweat and diesel. So much for her Knight of the Road fantasy. “Your man been giving you trouble?”
“He’s not my man,” she said instantly, then regretted it as the trucker smiled, exposing nicotine-stained teeth that hadn’t seen a toothbrush in weeks, maybe months.
“Well, then, sugar, I’m your man. How’d you like a ride to Vegas? Lots going on there. Pretty girl like you could get work, no problem.”