Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  I stopped talking, and I saw that Painter was gripping the steering wheel tightly, tension evident in the hard line of his jaw.

  “This is my fault,” he growled.

  I shook my head. “It’s not.”

  “If I hadn’t come after you—”

  I cut him off. “I’d have moved on, and Cohen would’ve sent someone else.”

  He reached across the console and squeezed my hand.

  “Goddamn Cohen Blue,” Painter snapped vehemently.

  What did Cohen do to this man? I wondered. And what would he do to Painter now that he was on my side?

  “You don’t have to do this.” I tried to say it softly so he would know I meant it.

  “I’m making a choice,” he replied just as quietly. “And I know it’s the right one.”

  “Painter—”

  “I’m going to find a way to keep both of you safe,” he promised, and his voice was forceful enough to render me speechless.

  Part of me wanted to be offended by his statement. After all, I had been taking care of Jayme on my own since the second he was born. But all I felt was relief. This man knew Cohen. He knew what living with him was like. And he wanted to help us.

  We drove along in silence for a few more minutes before Painter cleared his throat.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  I heard the strain in his question, and my head tipped toward Jayme before I could stop it. I looked back to Painter.

  I couldn’t quite keep the edge from my voice as I answered him. “No, he’s not Cohen’s son.”

  Painter’s sharp inhale carried through the car. “That’s not what I was wondering.”

  I looked down at my hands. “Yes it was. I saw the way you looked at him in the restaurant.”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “You deserve the truth.”

  “The truth? It’s been a long time since I saw things in black and white,” he told me. “Jayme’s your son, and right now that’s all that matters to me. I was just going to ask you what your real name is.”

  “My real name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Legally…I guess I don’t have one anymore.”

  I expected Painter to react with confusion or to argue that everyone had a legal name. But he just grinned.

  “Well that explains it,” he said.

  “Explains what?”

  “Why I like you so much.”

  My face heated up. “What does my legal name have to do with it?”

  “It’s just one more thing we have in common,” Painter told me.

  I frowned. “So that story about your mom being an artist was all made up?”

  “No. It’s true. I was born with this name, but legally…” He trailed off as he glanced into the rearview mirror. “Oh, shit.”

  I was instantly on guard. “What?”

  “Don’t turn around,” Painter replied. “But have a look.”

  He tilted the rearview toward me, and in the distance, I spotted the headlights of another vehicle, crawling along behind us.

  “You think someone is following us?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Look.”

  With the rearview still faced my way, Painter stepped on the gas. I watched as the other car accelerated, too, keeping up, just barely in my vision. Then we slowed and the headlights backed off again.

  Dammit.

  He was right.

  “Sloppy,” Painter muttered.

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “Not me,” he corrected. “Him. Smith probably waited at your friend’s house for me to arrive, then followed me until I found you. But he lacks patience.”

  We drove on for a few minutes more, the newly tense air punctuated by Painter’s thumb, tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. The headlights behind us flickered into view every few seconds, making my heart pound in my chest.

  “Polly?”

  Painter’s voice made me jump in my seat. “Yes?”

  “How sound of a sleeper is Jayme?”

  “When he’s out, he’s out,” I replied, and touched my bruised eye again.

  Painter accelerated, tiny bit by tiny bit. The car hummed as the speedometer climbed.

  Was his plan to outrun the other man?

  But as we passed a cut out in the road, Painter slammed on the brakes and pulled a tight U-turn. We came to a dead stop in the middle of the road.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I nodded and gripped the sides of my seat tightly, bracing for the burst of speed I knew was coming. The tires kicked up rocks as he shifted gears and tore across the pavement in the other direction.

  “Eyes ahead,” Painter cautioned.

  Moments later, we sailed past Smith’s navy sedan. I held my breath until I couldn’t see him in the side view mirror anymore. Then I took in a relieved gulp of air and turned to Painter.

  “Did we get away?”

  “We weren’t trying to get away,” he replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  Painter slowed down well below the speed limit and flicked on the turn signal. Worry trickled through me.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Giving him lots of time to catch up and see that we’re pulling over.”

  “S-s-smith?” The other man’s name came out in startled stutter.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re just going to let him catch us?” My voice rose a little at the end of the question.

  His hands were tight on the steering wheel. “No. We’re going to bait him into following us.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  “I know it’s crazy to ask you this,” he said. “But do you trust me?”

  Painter’s eyes left the road for a moment and he sought out my gaze. My pulse thrummed involuntarily at the openness I found there. Trust was a luxury. A privilege. A gigantic leap of faith. Could I give it to this man?

  A battle waged in my heart. As long as Cohen was alive, he’d hunt Jayme and I down. The moment he realized Painter had switched sides, he’d come after him, too.

  Painter is putting his life on the line for us, I realized.

  He risked everything just to give Jayme and me a chance. He made himself vulnerable and asked for nothing in return.

  The blood rushing through my body surged, then calmed.

  And in spite of the fact that just a few hours earlier, this man still worked for Cohen Blue, I couldn’t help but nod. Relief flooded Painter’s face.

  Then he did a quick shoulder check and gripped the steering wheel.

  “Hang on,” he said a little grimly.

  We swerved off the road, and I gasped before realizing we weren’t headed directly into the trees, but between them onto a barely visible dirt road.

  How did he even notice it? I wondered before remembering that Painter got paid to be observant.

  Trees and shrubs flashed by in the glow of the headlights and bushes snapped against the sides of the Mustang. In the backseat, Jayme stirred, but didn’t wake. For the first time ever, I was thankful for the sleep disorder that made him capable of staying conked out through almost anything.

  The dirt road widened into an overgrown clearing laced with sparse gravel, and Painter slowed the car as we approached what looked like a dilapidated outhouse.

  “When we park, I need you to pretend to be asleep, too, okay? No matter what you hear, don’t move and don’t open your eyes.”

  “What am I going to hear?”

  “Hopefully nothing. But just in case…” He trailed off and I tried not to shiver. “Just promise me to you’ll sit tight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Now reach under the seat and pull out what’s under there.”

  Obediently, I did. My hands found a chilly black case, about the length of my forearm. I dragged it out and set it on my knees.

  Painter eased the Mustang into the makeshift parking lot. He positioned the car diagonally in front of the run-down
building, leaving no room for anyone to go around us without being noticed. He yanked the keys from the ignition and held them out. My hand closed over his hesitantly, and he didn’t let go right away. There wasn’t anything affectionate or sexual about the prolonged hold, and when he finally released the keys, fear sent a chill up my spine.

  “See the one with the funny shape?” he asked.

  I looked down. One key, shorter and thinner than any of the others, stood out. I plucked it free.

  “This one?”

  He nodded. “It opens that little safe on your lap. Inside it is a gun.”

  My mouth went dry. “I don’t know anything about guns, Painter.”

  “This is an easy one, okay? And you’re not going to have to use it.” He met my eyes. “But I want you to be ready anyway. If something goes wrong, you won’t have much time, so you need to listen carefully. Just unlock the case, slide out the magazine, slip it into the gun, and flip off the safety. I promise, it’s as simple as it sounds.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “Smith doesn’t like women, and he’ll underestimate you. He’ll believe you’re an easy target. Too easy for him to bother with. I know how he works. He’ll come after me first. If the worst happens, he’ll smash the window and try to get to you before he even looks at Jayme. You’ll be scared, and that’s okay, because he won’t be expecting the gun. You’ll have the advantage.”

  “What if I can’t do it?”

  “You can,” Painter assured me. “Because you’ll be doing what you do best. Protecting Jayme.”

  He leaned over me to lock my door, pressed his lips to my forehead, and then jumped out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Painter

  I popped the hood and waited, cursing myself for promising Polly safety, then immediately being on the verge of letting her down. I didn’t have long to dwell on it. Less than two minutes later, the crunch of crushed rock carried through the air as a car cruised up and parked three feet behind us.

  Its lights were conspicuously out.

  I heard the door open, and the driver’s feet weren’t quite soundless as they hit the ground.

  The smell of stale cigar, which I recognized as Smith’s signature scent, wafted through the air.

  Show time.

  I banged lightly on a random part of the engine, then swore as if it weren’t cooperating.

  I’d debated whether or not to have Polly and her son wait inside the old restroom, but in the end, I couldn’t stand the thought of them being out of reach, and the ruse of a broken-down car had won out over that of a pit stop. As Smith approached, I refused to second-guess my decision, but tensed when silence let me know he’d stopped beside the car. I pictured him peering into the windows of the Mustang, and the thought of Smith’s eyes on Polly and Jayme made me sick.

  If he hurts them…

  I shoved down the violent, unfinished thought and focused on the task at hand.

  I knew the man well enough professionally to be sure he wouldn’t go after his targets until he took care of me. I also knew that while he was brutal, he was lazy, too. It translated poorly into his expectations—he assumed that everyone was as unmotivated as he was. It wouldn’t occur to him that I would be faking the car trouble.

  “Dammit!” I said loudly.

  I dropped the wrench down the side of the car into Smith’s sight line, then bent as if to retrieve it.

  He moved quickly, seizing what I’m sure he believed to be my moment of weakness. As he darted around toward the front of the Mustang, I stepped away, drew my arm back and clocked him solidly on the temple. His mouth opened comically before he slumped to the ground.

  I pushed him with my booted toe, then slapped the handcuffs on him and dragged him toward the trunk. I popped it open, thanked God he was a small man, and hoisted him up. With a grunt and a great deal of effort, I folded him into the cramped space.

  Then I wiped the sweat from my forehead and stood back for a moment. As I waited for my heart rate to normalize, I narrowed my eyes at Smith’s still form. If it wasn’t for his rancid breath, wafting from his slack jaw, I might’ve thought he was dead.

  Which would almost be more convenient.

  I pushed off the urge to hit him again. I was a lot of things, but I sure as hell wasn’t a killer. At least not a cold-blooded one.

  Quickly, I gave him a thorough pat down. Smith was in the habit of trusting his fists over a real weapon, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying. I went through his pockets and his boots until I was satisfied that he was clean. Then I yanked a roll of duct tape from beside the other man’s knee, tore off a strip with my teeth and secured it over Smith’s mouth, moustache and all. Then I bound his wrists and ankles, closed the trunk softly and climbed back into the driver’s seat. Polly’s eyes were tightly closed and her hands quivered on top of the gun case.

  “Polly?” I said softly.

  “Jeanine Louise Harriet Duncan,” she breathed.

  “What?”

  “If my legal name still applied, that would be it.”

  “It’s a mouthful.”

  The tiniest smile hovered on her lips. “I know.”

  “I like Polly just fine.”

  “Me, too.”

  She opened her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  I reached over to run my finger down her face, enjoying the blush that trailed behind my touch. I couldn’t resist the urge to bring up my other hand and cup both her cheeks in my palms. I leaned in slowly, cautiously, and I brought my lips to hers. Her eyes flicked in Jayme’s direction, but she didn’t pull away. When I exerted a bit more pressure, she released a sigh and closed her eyes.

  Her soft exhale shot heat through me. Spurred on by adrenaline and desire, I locked my teeth onto her bottom lip, tugging her mouth open so I could taste her tongue with my own. For a moment she was still, allowing me to explore at leisure, and then her hands found the back of my head and her fingers gripped my hair tightly while she kissed me back hungrily.

  I dragged my palms down across her shoulders to her waist and pulled her closer. When she didn’t resist, I slid one of my hands to the hem of her dress and up the curve of her thigh. My fingers made their way to her hip and spread out possessively. She released my mouth and buried a moan in my shoulder.

  She was sweet and tempting and I had to force myself to stop, or I was going to lose control, the kid in the back be damned.

  I pulled away reluctantly, and Polly drew in a ragged gasp. I caressed her face once more and held her hand tightly.

  “To answer your question,” I said. “Yes, I’m okay. But we need to do something about our extra cargo in the trunk. And quickly.”

  Her eyes widened.

  She was quiet for a moment, then asked, very softly, “Did you kill him?”

  “Polly, I’m not a murderer.”

  “Have you ever been?”

  The direct question caught me off guard, and I had to fight the urge to tell her the truth right then and there.

  Yes. But not on purpose.

  “Painter?” she pushed.

  I resolved to explain when I had time. When we had time. But right then we had none. We needed to plan our next move.

  “No, I haven’t,” I said firmly, then steered the conversation away from my questionable history. “Smith is unconscious, but he won’t stay that way forever. We have maybe an hour. I need to find a place to dump him.”

  Polly gave me a thoughtful look. “What would you do with him if I wasn’t here?”

  I shrugged. “Pull out to some main stretch of road or a well-trafficked parking lot and leave him there. Somewhere Smith could bust out alive and well, but not cause too much of a scene without alerting the authorities.”

  “You’d ditch the Mustang?”

  The fact that Polly sounded so surprised, and the fact that she latched onto that rather than the problem of what to do about Smith made me laugh.

  “Maybe I’ll get a minivan,” I teased.

&
nbsp; Before I could stop myself, I envisioned Polly with the window rolled down and her pretty feet hanging out her window while singing along to “Baby Beluga.”

  “You seriously want to buy a minivan?” she asked.

  “Or something equally practical,” I agree. “Cohen knows my tastes and he knows this car. Technically speaking, he owns it. So if he reports it stolen, or decides to track it some other way, we’re screwed.”

  “Right.”

  “Right,” I repeated.

  Polly tapped her thigh. “What if you didn’t buy a minivan?”

  The emphasis wasn’t lost on me and I raised an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting?”

  Colour lit up her cheeks, but when she replied, her voice was firm. “I was just thinking about Barry the car salesman.”

  “What about him?”

  “He had more than a few vans for sale.”

  “You want to ask him to help us out after you already robbed him once?”

  The red in her face deepened.

  “Oh. You want to rob him again.” I couldn’t suppress a grin. “Are you asking me to commit a felony with you?”

  “He liked the Mustang,” she pointed out. “And you wanted a public place to dump Smith.”

  I stared at her. It really was a near-perfect plan, and I had to stifle an urge to kiss her once more. I eased the car into a U-turn and accelerated on the dirt road.

  “I know it’s a bad idea,” Polly said. “It’s in the opposite direction we’ve been going, and—”

  “It’s not a bad idea, Polly. It’s fucking brilliant one.” I winced and eyed Jayme in the rearview mirror, but he was still sound asleep. “Sorry. Bad habit. It’s true, though. Not Barry himself, of course, but some other Barry-like car salesman can have the Mustang for a steal of a deal—pun intended—and we’ll throw in Smith in for free.”

  I directed my attention to the windshield, wondering if she noticed I’d switched from saying I to saying we, but she was silent for several minutes.

  When she spoke again, it was hesitantly. “Painter?”