There. Call her a spoiled brat, would he? Keeping her head down, she slipped her finger beneath her glasses and dabbed delicately.
“How many stops do you need to make?” he asked in a rough tone.
“Five definite stops. Maybe a sixth.”
“You’re sure they’re all on the way?”
“Positive.”
“How long will they take?”
“Long enough to shoot a couple of rolls of film and ask a few questions. A couple of hours each if all goes well.”
“It better all go well,” he grumbled.
“Does that mean you agree to my compromise?”
“It means I’ll do the driving and you can ride along and do whatever it is you have to do.”
“Thank you, I mean it. I know you’re as much a victim of Uncle Hank as I am in this thing.” She withdrew the key from her pocket and tossed it to him. “Shall we go?”
“Do we have a choice?”
Cat was a bit surprised when he walked around the car to open the door for her. Then she realized she shouldn’t be. Opening doors and picking up the check would come automatically to a man like Hunter. It was what lay underneath the superficial gallantry that she suspected he would have a problem with. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him having the interest or inclination to learn what was really going on in a woman’s “pretty little head.”
He circled around the back of the car to his own side. Half turning in her seat, Cat could see him shaking his head, and she swore she heard him muttering something about being a damn baby-sitter.
Clearly, the man did not relish the prospect of being her traveling companion.
“Would it make you feel any better,” Cat inquired after he’d climbed in beside her and started the engine, “to think of yourself as a bodyguard rather than a baby-sitter?”
He gave her a chilling look. “No. It wouldn’t.”
With a shrug she settled back against the seat. She felt like telling him he didn’t need to worry. If he was as much like her uncle as she suspected, he would never renege on their deal, and he would certainly never abandon his boss’s niece somewhere along the highway.
Unfortunately for him, the boss’s niece had no such compunctions. At the first rest stop they visited, Bolton Hunter was history.
Chapter Three
Ten years of active duty in the Army’s elite Special Services unit had qualified Bolt as an expert on a number of subjects. Women wasn’t one of them.
Back at the parking lot he’d been convinced Cat was on the verge of tears and was stunned by the depth of his reaction to her distress. He’d been around enough to witness a lot of things more worthy of tears than a botched chance to write for a magazine, and yet for some reason this woman’s disappointment had really gotten to him. He hadn’t been able to walk away from it. Or from her.
Driving southeast from Montreal, he told himself it was simply because he’d grown up with three brothers, raised by a father who’d been widowed when they were all still in grade school, in a house devoid of female touches of every definition. Women had been something of a foreign species to him back then and still were in some ways. On occasion Bolt would find himself mysteriously and embarrassingly undone by the sight of something unabashedly feminine, a crystal perfume decanter or a fluffy pink powder puff lying on a lover’s dressing table. Didn’t it follow that he could be similarly affected by a woman’s tears?
Whatever the reason, in the end he had ignored common sense and experience and agreed to bring her along. He’d even agreed to the blasted stops she wanted to make, even though they meant delays that were simply going to prolong this sorry road show. He’d expected her to be pleased by his acquiescence to her wishes, and she was. He just hadn’t expected the speed and completeness with which her mood change had occurred.
To look at her now, humming along with the oldies station that was all she’d been able to tune in on the car’s tinny-sounding AM radio, you wouldn’t think she’d been trembling with emotion just a short while ago. Bolt didn’t even see any trace of the anger and resentment she’d displayed when she’d first found out about her uncle’s little plan. Heck, he’d known about it for days now and he was still seething inside. He had expected her to at least protest the fact that he expected to do the driving. Were women so much better at dealing with their feelings? he wondered. Better at hiding them maybe? Or simply better at pretending?
She bent forward to rummage in the straw bag at her feet. The bag reminded Bolt of a gunnysack with handles. It looked big enough to hold everything anyone might need for a few days on the road. He couldn’t imagine what she had seen fit to pack in all the bags and suitcases he’d watched her stow in the trunk.
He took his eyes from the heavy morning traffic on Canada’s Highway 15 long enough to see her shoving aside plastic cases and bottles, magazines and a bright yellow cassette player with headphones. A tube of lipstick, several candy bars and a bag of cheese popcorn fell to the floor. She tossed them back into the bag and sat up holding a small notebook.
Flipping it open, she studied the first page in silence for a minute.
“According to the directions,” she said at last, speaking loudly to be heard over the combined noise of the wind and music, “we should hit customs in just a few miles, right around where we pick up U.S. I-I87.”
“Is that a map you have there?” he asked, more interested in the contents of the notebook than in directions he had already studied and committed to memory.
“It’s not really a map,” she explained, holding the notebook closer so he could glance at it. The traffic was too heavy for him to do more than take note of the blocks of printing, all neatly numbered, one to seven. He had a hunch the next page would pick right up with number eight, and he wondered where it might end.
“Although I do have a real map in there somewhere, too,” she assured him, nudging the gunnysack with her bare toe. She had slipped off her sandals the second they were on the road. “This is the list of directions Gator gave me. He got them from Tony...Mr. LaCompte. He’s the guy who owns the car.”
“I see. Who’s Gator?”
“A friend. He put the deal together for me. He knew LaCompte wanted this car brought to Florida and he knew I needed the money. Voilà.”
“So what’s in it for Gator?”
“Nothing,” she replied, shrugging as if the thought had never occurred to her.
Bolt slanted her a cynical look. “Nothing?”
“That’s right,” she said, a defensive edge to her tone. “He just did it to be nice.”
“If you say so,” he replied. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead and wondered what this Gator character wanted of Catrina Amelia Bandini in exchange for his help. Bolt didn’t claim to have much of an imagination, but once you’d seen the lady, it didn’t take much of one to come up with an answer.
“You don’t believe it?” she asked, toying with the heavy gold barrette she’d used to pull her hair back. Even so, loose tendrils blew across her face.
“Sweetheart, I don’t believe anybody does anything without a reason.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart unless you mean it.”
He glanced at her in surprise. “How can I mean it? We barely know each other.”
“That’s the point, soldier.”
“All right then,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips, “if you insist on formality, I guess I’ll just have to call you Catrina Amelia.”
“Whatever,” she said placidly, as if it hardly mattered to her what he called her provided it wasn’t “sweetheart.”
“Nah,” Bolt said, intrigued by her reaction. The woman was all spitfire one minute and almost disinterested the next. “Takes too long to say all that.”
“Then call me Cat.”
He turned to eye her consideringly, then shook his head, more to draw a response from her than anything else. “No, you just don’t strike me as the Cat type.”
“Head for the left lane,” she
instructed as they pulled within sight of the customs stop for entry into the United States.
“All the cats I’ve ever known were quiet and lazy creatures, and you don’t strike me as either. Anyone ever call you Trina?”
“No. Left lane,” she directed again.
“How about Lia? Short for Amelia.”
“No,” she snapped. “Are you listening to me? I said get in the left lane.”
“Does it make a difference what lane I’m in?” he asked, veering to the left because it just happened to have the shortest line.
“It does to me. This is the lane specified in the directions.”
“The directions even tell you which lane to drive in?”
“No, but they do suggest I use the far left lane in going through customs.”
“Why?” Bolt asked, his suspicion piqued.
“Who knows? I told you, LaCompte is a fanatic. All I know is that I promised Gator I’d follow the directions to the letter and I’m going to...make that we’re going to,” she added pointedly.
“All right, the left lane it is,” he drawled as they pulled forward, only two cars remaining between them and the uniformed customs agent at the head of the line. “No need to get excited...Tiger.”
She scowled at him.
“Yep, that’s it, all right,” he said. “Tiger. Fits you like a glove.”
“I won’t even dignify that with a response.”
“Good,” he told her, chuckling. “That way you can concentrate all your energy on digging in that bottomless sack of yours for your papers.”
“Papers?”
“Right. I’m really hoping for your sake that your little book of directions included a reminder that you need proof of citizenship to get back into the country. Birth certificate, passport, voter registration card.”
“I forgot all about that,” she exclaimed.
“That’s a shame. I’m sure going to hate leaving you here at the border.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Bolt just smiled.
“Not that it’s an issue,” she said. “I meant that I forgot I would need to show it at customs. Of course I have my birth certificate with me.”
She was sure she had it. She just wasn’t exactly sure where she had tucked it for safekeeping. It might be in the bag at her feet or it might be packed away in a suitcase. Sometimes she even hid things inside one of her camera cases. All she had to do was think. Something easier said than done with him watching her that way. At times his gaze was so intense it was as if he was touching her with it, and it made her very uneasy.
Doing her best to ignore the effects of his scrutiny, she bent and searched through her bag, saying a little prayer and coming upon the envelope containing her birth certificate just as the customs agent finished with the car before them. She pulled it from the envelope and waved it triumphantly at Hunter.
“There,” she said. “Will this do?”
“Nicely.” He took it from her and scanned it quickly. Holding it in his left hand along with his open passport, he used his right to steer the car forward in response to the agent’s wave.
“Good morning, sir,” the man greeted Hunter as he took the papers from him and glanced at them. He was short, with wire-rimmed glasses and thinning hair. “Did you enjoy your stay in Canada?”
“About as much as I expected to,” Hunter replied, removing his sunglasses.
“Very good, sir,” the agent said in the crisp, uninvolved tone of a government servant just doing his job. “And the lady? Ms. Bandini?” he said, shifting his gaze to Cat.
“That’s right,” she replied. “My stay in Canada was fine.”
“Were you out of the country for longer than forty-eight hours?”
They both shook their heads.
“You may or may not be aware that in that case there will be duty due on any purchases you might have made. Do either of you have anything to declare?”
“I don’t,” Hunter told him, then glanced at Cat.
She shook her head again. “Me, either.”
“Very well,” the agent said, smiling. “May I see the registration for the car? Then we’ll take a quick look in the trunk and you’ll be on your way.”
Cat opened the glove compartment and pulled out the registration, reaching across Hunter to hand it to the agent.
He scanned it quickly. “I’m envious, Ms. Bandini,” he said. “This is a beautiful car. You don’t see too many in this condition.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“How does it run?”
“So far so good,” she told him.
“How long have you had it?”
“Only a few months.”
Cat saw the surprise that flickered in Hunter’s eyes as he listened to the exchange, his gaze fixed on her the entire time, and she kept her fingers crossed that he wouldn’t say anything stupid. When the customs agent leaned into the open car to return the registration, he quickly put up his hand to intercept it, giving it the most cursory of glances before passing it to her. His eyes met hers.
“Now for the trunk,” the agent said.
Cat was glad for the interruption. She certainly didn’t owe Hunter any explanations for the car being registered to her, but something warned her that he was going to demand one as soon as they were away from here.
She hurriedly slid her feet into her sandals and climbed from the car, standing by as Hunter unlocked the trunk and opened it. The agent shifted her suitcases around inside and then pointed to one of her black camera bags.
“Will you open this, please?” he requested.
“Sure,” Cat replied, unzipping it and peeling back the flap. “It’s a camera. There are several others in here,” she added, waving her hand at the open trunk. “Along with a small fortune in film. I’m a photographer.”
“I see. Was any of this equipment purchased in Canada?”
“None of it,” she assured him. “I’ve owned most of it for years. Except for the Nikon, that is. That was a graduation present from my uncle this past June.”
“You have proof of purchase for all of it, I assume? Receipts? Something?”
She shook her head, frowning. “No. At least not on me at any rate. Uncle Hank probably has the receipt for the Nikon, and the others must be back home in my apartment. Somewhere,” she added feebly.
“You have the cameras, but not the receipts?” the agent queried.
She shrugged.
The man sighed.
“Is that a problem?” Hunter asked him.
Without answering, the other man pushed aside the bags in the trunk and stared inside it once more. His hands were planted on his hips, his expression unreadable. Finally he looked up, glanced across the lane to where a fellow agent was engrossed in poking through the backpack of one of a carload of teenage guys, and shook his head.
“No, I think we can safely let it go this time,” he said. He turned to Cat. “But from now on when you leave the country with anything of value, make sure you bring proof of ownership with you.”
“Oh, I will,” she promised. “And thank you.”
The agent returned to Bolt both his passport and her birth certificate, and after wishing them a pleasant journey home, waved them through.
Once they were safely on American soil, Cat rested her head on the back of the car’s well-padded seat and hissed a relieved breath through her teeth. “Boy, am I glad that’s over.”
“Me, too,” Hunter agreed.
“For a minute there I was a little tense, to say the least.”
“Only for a minute? Lucky you. I still am a little tense. To say the least.”
Cat immediately glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to find that the official had changed his mind about her lack of receipts and sent a posse of customs agents chasing after them. “Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“This whole thing doesn’t feel right, that’s why.”
She twisted around, her arms fol
ded stiffly across her chest. “I take it you’ve had extensive experience driving cars for other people so you would know how it should feel?”
“No,” he conceded with no hint of humility. “But I’ve had a bellyful of experience knowing when things don’t feel right, and I’m never wrong.”
“Well, you’re wrong this time,” she said dismissively. “This ‘whole thing,’ as you put it, is no more complicated than it seems.”
“Oh, no? Then why is this car registered in your name instead of the real owner’s?”
“To make things less complicated, that’s why. Gator said that LaCompte felt it would simplify matters all along the way if the car was temporarily registered to me. He plans to switch the registration to his name as soon as I get back.”
“How about the bill of sale?” Hunter pressed.
“What about it?”
“Is that in your name, too?”
“I have no idea.”
“It would have to be in order for you to register the car,” he pointed out.
“Then I suppose it is.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
She shook her head, determined not to let him see that his questions had rattled her. “I told you, LaCompte handled all the details. I’m just the driver.” She made a face and added, “At least I was supposed to be the driver.”
“I’m also wondering why you were told precisely which customs lane to use.”
“Who cares? As long as we made it through without a hassle, I’m happy.”
That more or less summed up her philosophy of life, and she refused to let his suspicions and obsession with details spoil the trip for her, not even for the short time she planned to have him around.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” he muttered, “because I’m not at all.”
“For Pete’s sake, quit grumbling. We made it through just fine. Stop obsessing about it. It’s bad for your blood pressure.”
He eyed her warily. “I have a feeling that you’re going to be bad for my blood pressure.”
“Relax. If Gator and LaCompte were a little concerned about customs it was probably only because of the Cuba thing.”
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