I want."
John Paul ignored the criticism of his tactics. Why fix what wasn't broken? Brute force had always worked. "I do what I'm good at doing. That's my motto."
"Watch out," she warned as he turned the corner and nearly ran into a deer. John Paul hit the brakes and swerved off the road, narrowly avoiding the animal. The car rocked and bounced but held the ground.
It was too dangerous to try to maintain a high speed. He slowed the car and said, "ChrystaPs right. We aren't going to make it before nightfall."
"Think positive."
"Why?" He sounded genuinely perplexed.
"Maybe we'll get a decent road soon," she said.
They drove around another sharp curve. Down below to the west was a road that looked well traveled. He decided to go for it.
"Hang on," he said as they started down the hill. The slope was steep, and he had to be mindful of jagged rocks.
Avery flattened her hands against the seat as they bounced along.
"So," he said, "were you lying about having a badge?"
"I have credentials in my backpack."
"But you're not an agent?"
"No."
"Then what the hell are you doing with credentials?"
"I do work for the Bureau. I'm just not a field agent."
"That's good."
"Why? Because you hate the Bureau?"
"No, because you're not any good at it."
"How would you know what I'm good at?" she said. Lord, he was irritating. Every time he opened his mouth, he said something that rubbed her the wrong way. No man had ever been able to get under her skin the way John Paul did.
"You don't have the instincts," he said. "And before you get all hot and bothered and argue, answer a question for me, and be honest."
She folded her arms and frowned at him. "What?"
"Did you anticipate that Kenny might have a loaded weapon under that counter? Did you even for a split second consider the possibility?"
"No."
"There you go."
"I haven't been trained to be a field agent. I didn't go through the academy."
"That's no excuse. You've either got it, or you don't. You've got some good moves," he added. "The way you kick-boxed that kid was impressive. But you'd still make a lousy field agent."
She refused to comment on his assessment.
"What exactly do you do for the Bureau?" he asked.
John Paul could see the blush was coming back. She was either embarrassed or so mad at him her face was turning a fire red. She sure was pretty. Ah, hell, where had that come from? He had no business thinking about such things, especially now that he knew she represented everything he detested.
"I type," she said. She heard how defensive she sounded and quickly added, "There isn't anything wrong with being a typist."
"I didn't say there was."
"I'm part of a very important team."
"Ah, jeez."
"What?"
"You bought it all, didn't you? A team player. You're probably a damn liberal too, aren't you?"
"As a matter of fact I am," she said. "And I'm certainly not ashamed of being a typist… it's an honorable job, after all."
"Okay."
"Quit being so condescending. I wasn't hired to be a typist, but that's what I pretty much do anyway, all day, every day.
I transfer information into the database. Now, can we let the matter drop?"
"Yeah, okay," he said.
He seemed preoccupied now. "What are you thinking?" she asked.
"This is a good road. Maybe we will get close to Coward's Crossing before it gets dark. We'll hike a couple of miles, find a secluded spot for you to hide, and then I can-"
That was as far as she'd let him get. "Not gonna happen," she said. "I'll tell you what. You drop me off, find another good road, and with any luck, you can make it back to Aspen before dark."
"And why would I want to drive back to Aspen?"
"I've been thinking…"
"Uh-oh."
She ignored the insult. "I think you should get out while you still can. You can tell the FBI where I'm going."
He blinked. "You're kidding. Right?"
She began to fold and unfold her hands. "No, I'm serious. What can they do if you leave? Nothing," she said, answering her
own question. "Frankly, you don't need to be involved. You said it yourself. They want me, not you. Besides, you called Noah,
and he's FBI. I'm sure he's alerted the local team, and they're most certainly on their way. When you get to a phone, you can
call him again, and tell him exactly where I'm headed."
"I've got an opportunity to get Monk, and you think I'm gonna…" He was so angry he was sputtering. He shook his head.
"Let me get this straight. You really believe I'll drop you off in the middle of nowhere and take off?"
"Wasn't that your plan?"
"Hell, no," he argued. "I was going to find a safe place for you to hide until I got back, someplace Monk would never find you."
"In other words, you'll drop me off in the middle of nowhere and take off." She didn't give him time to think about it.
"You're not dropping me off anywhere, unless you plan to go back to Aspen."
"You're nuts, you know that? You're just plain nuts."
"I gather that's a no?"
He didn't respond to her sarcasm.
She brushed her hair away from her face with her fingers and laid her hands on top of her head. "I wish we could get out of
this car. I need a quiet place to think."
"You can't think in a car?"
She knew he wouldn't understand. When she was in her cubicle at work, she felt the same way she felt when she was doing yoga. She'd perfected the technique of clearing her mind and then slowly entering data one clue at a time while her hands
worked the keyboard. No, he couldn't possibly understand, and she couldn't explain.
"So who looks like you?"
"I'm sorry. What did you ask?"
"Back at the store," he said. "Chrystal said the woman looked like you. So I've gotta ask if you happen to have any crazy
relatives trying to kill you."
"No. There's only my aunt Carrie and her husband, Tony. No other relatives."
"Parents dead?"
She turned in her seat and stared at his profile when she answered. "I don't know who my father was. I don't think the woman who had me knew who he was either," she said.
She watched him closely to see if she had shocked him. His expression didn't change.
"She died in a car crash quite a few years ago. There isn't anyone else."
"Chrystal said-"
"I heard what she said, John Paul. Do you know how many women her description fits?"
He glanced at her and asked, "So is it real?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your hair. Is it real?"
She blinked. "Are you asking me if I wear a wig?"
"No, I'm asking about the color. Are you a real blonde, or did you get that from a bottle?"
"Why do you care about the color of my hair?"
"I don't care," he said, growing irritated now. "But the woman looked like you, so I gotta wonder if you-"
"No, I don't color my hair."
He was surprised and didn't hide his reaction. "Yeah? What about your eyes?"
"What about them?"
"Colored contacts?"
She shook her head. "No."
"No kidding."
"Are you deliberately trying to be a jerk?"
"Look, I'm just trying to put it together, okay? Kenny said the woman was beautiful. A real knockout."
"And?" she pressed.
He shrugged. "Have you looked at yourself lately? You've got to know…"
"Know what?" she pressed when he didn't continue.
He frowned at her. "Hell, woman. You're pretty, damn it."
It was the most hostile, backhanded compliment she'd ever received, and the odd thing was, it didn't upset her. For the first time ever, she didn't feel the need to launch into her favorite lecture about how appearances weren't the least bit important.