Bo’s world wasn’t as optimistic. She didn’t turn off the ignition, in case she needed to get away fast; instead she lowered the window and called out, “May I help you?” The words were courteous; the tone was the one Jesse had taught her to use, louder than a woman would normally speak, and more authoritative.
The man put his arm on top of the SUV. “Are you Isabeau Maran?”
“I am.” The fact that he knew her name didn’t mean she was any less cautious. Besides, he looked like a ghoul, with a dead-white face and sunken eyes ringed with dark circles.
He wiped a hand across his face. “My name is Morgan Yancy. Your stepbrother sent me to you.”
CHAPTER 4
I DON’T HAVE A STEPBROTHER,” SHE SAID FLATLY, COMPLETELY unappeased by the obvious conclusion that this man was the “present” Axel had sent. She didn’t know what he’d meant by that and didn’t care. She wasn’t having anything to do with Axel or his present—not that this guy looked like any kind of present other than a gag gift, and she wasn’t laughing.
“Axel MacNamara,” he clarified. His voice sounded funny, kind of thin and breathless. He was a big guy—tall, anyway, because his head was well above the top of the SUV, so the thin voice was out of place.
“I know who you were talking about. Doesn’t matter.”
“He said you’d feel that way.” The man looked around, his gaze moving slowly from object to object as if it was an effort to move even his eyes. She got the impression he was buying time more than anything else. Suddenly she realized that he didn’t look ghoulish, he looked unhealthy. A sheen of sweat coated his face though the day was too cool to warrant sweating from just sitting in a car.
“He was right.”
Then something clicked in her brain, and Bo narrowed her eyes, studying him. People who were sick and weak had that thinness to their voices, as if they didn’t have the strength to draw a good breath. The pallor of his skin emphasized the stark angles of his face and the dark stubble of several days’ growth of beard, the dark circles under his sunken eyes.
She got the sudden impression that his outstretched arm on the top of the SUV was all that was keeping him upright. She looked at his hand. Yes; the tips of his fingers were white from pressing hard against the metal. He was sweating from the effort he was making to stand upright.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded, her tone still wary but underlaid by a note of concern she couldn’t help feeling.
He raised his other arm, wiped his shirt sleeve across his face. “Got shot.” He gave her a hard look that she felt even across the distance between the two vehicles. “It wasn’t fun, don’t want to do it again. So I’d appreciate it if you’d put away that weapon.”
He couldn’t see the pistol in her hand, but he must have seen her lean over and accurately guessed she was getting a weapon from the glove compartment. Mindful of their isolation, she wasn’t scared but that didn’t mean she had to abandon caution. With a touch of irony she said, “I’m sure you would, but I’ll hold on to it for now. What are you doing here?”
“I told you. I was sent.”
“For what reason?” Not that she didn’t have an idea, simply because she knew how Axel’s perverted brain worked.
“Recuperation, and under the radar.”
Beside her, Tricks had evidently decided she’d been patient long enough. She butted Bo’s arm and woofed again; her ears perked up and her dark eyes locked on the stranger she hadn’t yet been able to greet properly. The man gave her a brief look and then dismissed her as no threat. Well, Tricks wasn’t a threat—except to clean clothing—but Bo didn’t trust people who didn’t like animals, so her misgivings swelled higher again.
“I don’t think so. I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you, and I sure as hell don’t want you as a roommate.”
“Paid roommate,” he qualified. Slowly he pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “Here, call Axel. He’ll explain.”
“I don’t want to talk to the asshole.”
“I don’t expect he wants to talk to you, either, but he does what needs to be done.”
Meaning she didn’t? Bo gave him a hostile, distrustful look. It was wasted because he chose that moment to close his eyes and swallow, as if he were fighting to stay conscious.
He might be a good actor, but even an Oscar winner couldn’t make his face go gray. She had the alarming conviction that he was about to face-plant right there in the gravel driveway.
Shit!
Swearing under her breath, she put the Jeep in park and shoved the door open. Tricks bounced as much as she was able, wanting to get out. “Stay,” Bo said firmly as she got out and slammed the door shut. Her boots crunched on the gravel and a chilly breeze blew in her face, bringing with it the sharp, clean scent of impending rain or snow. Tricks began barking, keeping up the doggy litany of displeasure at being left behind as Bo rounded the Tahoe SUV, the pistol still in her hand and a sharp eye on her unwanted visitor.
She might as well have saved the effort. She doubted he’d be able to hit anything other than the ground. He was literally clinging to the vehicle, his right knee braced against the frame, right arm across the roof, left hand clamped on the door.
“Sit down,” she said sharply. “Sit.” It was the same tone she used on Tricks when Tricks decided—as she did on a regular basis—to test whether Bo was still boss.
The tone worked on men as well as it did on dogs—either that, or he didn’t have any choice. He let out a shaky breath and all but collapsed into the driver’s seat, half-sprawling before he gathered himself and managed to sit upright.