She didn’t answer his question. Instead she said, “Are you any good with security systems?”
Chapter Thirteen
He pursed his lips, considering her question. “I know enough to get by, but I’m no expert. Depends on the actual system. I do, however, know some real experts who can tell me anything I need to know.” He paused. “Are you talking about doing something illegal?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good. I’m feeling more cheerful by the minute.”
If he got any more cheerful, she thought, she’d have to shoot him to protect her own sanity.
He made another turn, looked around, then said thoughtfully, “Do you know where the hell we are?”
Lily turned sideways and swung her legs up in the seat, blocking any move he might make to grab her pistol, then dared a quick glance around. “Yes. At the next traffic signal turn right, then about a mile farther turn left. I’ll tell you when.”
“Where will we be then?”
“At the train station. That’s where you can let me out.”
“Aw, come on. We’ve been getting along so great. Don’t abandon me so soon. I had my hopes up we were going to be partners.”
“Without checking you out?” she asked incredulously.
“I guess that would be stupid.”
“No joke.” Ten minutes with an American and she found herself easily falling back into the vernacular, like putting on comfortable slippers. “Where are you staying? I’ll call you.”
“At the Bristol.” He took the right turn she’d indicated. “Room seven-twelve.”
She lifted her brows. “You rented a Jag, you stay at one of the most expensive hotels in Paris. Your day job must pay well.”
“All of my jobs have paid well, plus I had to have somewhere to park the Jag. Damn. Now I have to rent another car, and I can’t turn this one in yet or I’ll be busted when the damage is reported.”
She glanced back at the broken window, through which cold air was rushing. “Break it out the rest of the way and tell the rental company some punk broke it with a bat.”
“That’ll work, unless someone got the license number.”
“The way you were fishtailing?”
“There is that, but why take the chance? In France you’re assumed guilty unless you can prove otherwise. I’ll just try to stay out of the clutches of the gendarmes, thank you.”
“Your choice,” she said indifferently. “You’re the one who’ll be paying for two rental cars.”
“Don’t sound so sympathetic; I’ll start thinking you care.”
That quip pulled an unwilling smile from her. He didn’t take himself seriously; she didn’t know if that was an asset or a liability, but he was definitely amusing. He’d all but fallen into her lap just when she’d been trying to decide whom she should pull in to help her, so she’d have to be a fool to categorically turn him down. She would check him out, and if there was the slightest hint of Agency or untrustworthiness, then she would simply never contact him. He hadn’t acted as if he’d been hired to kill her; she was beginning to feel easy about that As for whether or not he was any good, or reliable, that remained to be seen. She couldn’t call her normal source with the Agency and have him investigated, but she knew a couple of shady guys who could find out for her.
She used the short time left before they reached the train station to study him. He was a good-looking man, she noticed with faint surprise; when he’d been talking, that was what she’d paid attention to, not his face. He was tallish, around six-one or so, and lean. His hands were sinewy, long-fingered, ringless, with prominent veins and short, clean nails. His hair was short, brown with gray around his temples; his eyes were blue, much bluer than her own. Lips a bit thin, but well-shaped. Strong chin that stopped just short of being cleft. A noble nose, thin and high-bridged. Except for the gray in his hair, he looked younger than he probably was. She guessed his age to be close to her own, late thirties, possible early forties.
He was dressed the way millions of men on the Continent dressed, nothing that would make him stand out or shout “American,” no Levi’s or Nikes or a sweatshirt imprinted with his favorite professional football team. Instead he wore taupe slacks, a blue shirt, and a great black leather blazer. She envied him that blazer. And his Italian leather loafers were clean and shiny.
If he was newly arrived from South America, he’d adopted the style of the locals pretty fast.
“The next left,” she said as they neared the turn.
He’d also picked up the Parisian style of driving pretty fast, too; he drove with nerve, verve, and reckless abandon. As someone tried to cut him off, she saw that he’d also been fast to pick up some of the local gestures. He was smiling as he cut in front of the other car; a glint in his eyes that said he enjoyed the challenge of Parisian traffic. He was definitely a lunatic.
“How long have you been in Paris?” she asked.
“Three days. Why?”
“Pull over there.” She directed him to the curb in front of the train platform. “You already drive like a native.”
“When you swim with the sharks, you gotta show your teeth so they know you mean business.” He pulled to the curb. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms… ?”
Lily didn’t leap into the opening. Instead she returned her pistol to its holster in her boot and continued the movement, opening the door and sliding out. She leaned in to look at him. “I’ll call you,” she said, then closed the door and strode away.