Doranna Durgin - Survival Instinct

Yes.

And the second important thing: she could deal with his change of heart. She’d expected it. She knew better than most not to take anything for granted. And what they’d experienced together…

She’d miss it, be sad for it…but never regret it.

Do what you have to do. Take what you can get.

It had worked before. She’d make it work now.

She breezed down into the kitchen to nab leftover pizza for breakfast. A glass of orange juice washed the pepperoni down with a nice zing. Dave appeared not long afterward, fresh from the shower in the worn black jeans and a charcoal tee and looking wary. Wary of her, wary of himself…even in her regret, she felt a little sorry for him. Of the two of them, she’d known what she was doing when she reached for him in the tiny dormer office of Ellen’s house. He hadn’t a clue.

Still wouldn’t have a clue, if she hadn’t done a true confessions on him.

She pulled the sadness inside and covered it up with the jazz. “Ready to get started?” she asked him, leaning back against the counter to watch him take out three eggs and a bowl, cracking the eggs with practiced efficiency.

His glance turned into something longer, a hesitation as he searched her face-long enough so she wondered just what he was looking for. He nodded abruptly and took a fork to the eggs, whipping them with vigor. “What’s on the schedule?”

“Depends how much we get done, how fast.” She squelched the urge to wipe away the tiny dab of shaving cream by his ear and held out a closed hand, unfolding her index finger as she spoke. “One, we get me into a hotel. Something truly nice but still practical.”

“I know a place on King Street near the river,” Dave interrupted, then softened-or tried to-the words by adding, “I’ve gotten to know this place pretty well in the past couple of years.”

“Good.” Dammit. Maybe this wouldn’t be quite as easy as she thought, the pretending it didn’t matter. “Then you know where to look for good printers. Expensive printers who think much of themselves and their clientele. And also the pawnshops. Skanky ones.”

He poured a dollop of milk in with the eggs and briefly whipped them together, then went hunting for a frying pan. “Interesting combination.”

“We’ll be changing roles on the fly. You’re my driver and my boy toy. You’ll handle my suitcase and open my door, and when I’m dealing with business transactions, you’ll stand decorously in the background. If you cast an admiring look at my ass now and then, that would be good, too.”

He fumbled the frying pan on the way to the stove, caught it, and turned to give her a skeptical look.

“We’re playing my game,” she said. “Trust me to do it right. I retired free and clear, after all.”

“Did you?” he murmured, as if that was supposed to mean something.

Impatience flashed through her. “Are we doing this, or not?” she asked. “Because I’m good to stay here until Longsford forgets about Ellen. But I won’t run this con if you’re going in half-assed. It’s all or nothing.”

He stood in front of the stove for a long moment, his back turned to her. His long, deep breath showed clearly in the rise and fall of his shoulders. Abruptly, he flicked the gas burner on. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re doing this.”

She didn’t respond right away. She let him dump a pat of butter into the pan and push it around the bottom, and meanwhile she weighed the risks. The long con…all in the details. And like it or not, he was an important detail. His demeanor could make or break this game. “You’d better mean it,” she said. “If we’re blown, I’m the one who’s going to pay.” She’d be revealed to the authorities. She’d end up back in California, vulnerable to her stepfather’s legal contacts, charged with whatever bogus crimes he’d had pinned on her.

“That’d be a change, wouldn’t it?” He looked at her then, a meaningful side glance as he reached for the eggs.

Flash point. “You let me know when you’re done being a bastard,” she told him, cold anger spilling into temper. “And while you’re at it, you might think about who you would be if you’d had my stepfather controlling your life. If you’d gone to your first-grade teacher for help and been scolded for lying. If your teacher had gone to your stepfather about it. What do you think happened then, Mr. Perfect-Family Hunter? Do you think you might possibly have discovered the best way to survive was to play the game? Do you think you might have decided the best way to avoid collecting more scars was to be good at it?”

The eggs sizzled quietly in an otherwise quiet kitchen. Eventually, he said, “I don’t know.”

“You just think about it,” she told him, anger still hard in her chest. “I’ll be upstairs. I picked up a good paperback yesterday and it’s fine with me if I spend the day in bed reading.”

She left him there and went upstairs, the jazz gone and the sadness twisted into hurt. I don’t know.

She thought it was probably as good as she’d get.

She didn’t head for the bed. Or at least, not for long. She picked up the book, she sat down…and she stood right back up again. Then she sat one more time, forcing herself to think through the impulse that gripped her.

I can do this alone. I should do this alone.

She’d be better off doing it alone than doing it with someone who wouldn’t trust her. Someone who questioned her. Not about whether she could do it, but about whether he wanted to be part of it. Not a courage issue…an honor issue. He had courage to spare, she’d no doubt of that. Problem was, he had honor to spare, too.

That kind of hesitation could break a long con. Especially a rushed job like this, when the mark had to have no doubt at all. And she could all too easily imagine Dave balking at a crucial moment.

She could do it alone. And it still had to be done. For Ellen, for Terry Williams, for Rashawn…

It had to be done.

And that left the details, all of which needed quick revisions. It’d be more money, of which she had not nearly enough. And she’d be on her own…no backup. She could hire someone, but that would be hit or miss in this area in which she had no connections. Nor did she have a fix in with any of the local cops.

Yeah, she’d have to be careful.

But she could do it.

This time when she stood up, she went into action. She dug into her courier bag and pulled out the leather wallet that held Brooke Ellington’s ID. Brooke would have been best for this, but Dave already knew about her. So she’d use Maia Brenner. Maia had been created to live in Nebraska but traveled often for her bank job. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.

And then there was the money. She could pull easy con games along the way-Rock in a Box, the Ketchup Squirt, phoney C.O.D. scams-but she didn’t want to increase her chances of getting caught. Not when Dave would already be on her tail the whole time. Picking pockets or trading briefcases was as far as she wanted to go.

Do what you have to do.

Except this past year, do what you have to do had turned into getting up early for chores, harvesting food she’d grown herself, trading the excess for the venison that filled the freezer she’d left behind, and shearing her own damned sheep. It had meant a different kind of jazz…a quiet jazz. Sitting up in the dormer office writing to Ellen, letting her know how things were going.

Stop it. She’d sabotage herself if she wasn’t careful. If she was going to do this, she’d have to focus on her needs and her solutions. Need: money. Solution?

She stood in the doorway to her bedroom and cocked an ear at the stairs. The splash of water came to her ear; the clatter of the fry pan in the sink. As good as it gets.