Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

He grinned. “Damned provoking, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, so are you, sweet cheeks.”

“Me?”

“Uh huh. You’re holding out on me.”

She didn’t say a word.

“Maybe not much, maybe a lot. With you, it’s hard to tell. But whatever you’re not telling me, I figure I don’t need to know. It’s just not worth pulling you deeper into this mess. Whether by accident or design, two people are dead. As far as I’m concerned, that’s enough.”

“I think we should work together,” she told him as the announcement came for her flight to begin boarding.

“God save me.”

“You have no right to tell me what to do.”

“I have every right to keep you from bird-dogging me-and I can do it.”

Her dark eyes gleamed with frustration and excitement, which both worried and pleased him. But the paleness was still there, the bruise on her wrist. He admired her for not wanting to run, but he couldn’t let her determination undermine his own common sense. Having a piano player strutting around behind him wasn’t going to accomplish a damn thing. And there was no guarantee she was ever going to get around to telling him what she knew about the Minstrel’s Rough. She didn’t believe in tit for tat.

Not, of course, that he’d told her everything.

“Matthew, listen to me,” she said, “I’m involved in this whether or not you like it.”

“That’s my point: I don’t like it. Get on the plane, Juliana. Go home, go to Vermont, go to the Club Aquarian, go any goddamn place you want to-just stay the hell away from me.”

“Maybe I’ll go see Sam Ryder and find out if he’s more cooperative.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Matthew jumped forward and pulled her around by the shoulders so she faced him. “Don’t screw around with Ryder.” The words came out dark and angry, but he didn’t raise his voice and his mouth hardly moved. “He’ll eat you alive.”

His tone, his expression, his firm grip on her would have intimidated the hell out of anyone else. He knew it. But Juliana just wrinkled up her face. “That’s not your problem.”

“I’ll make it my goddamn problem.”

“I’m not your concern,” she said.

“The hell you’re not.”

She was as worn out as he was, as testy, as independent, as used to getting her own damn way. She was never nice for the sake of being nice. It wasn’t necessary in her world. Wasn’t necessary in his, either. He looked at the uncompromising set of her jaw and her lovely mouth, and he said the hell with it. He pulled her even closer and kissed her hard, briefly, tearing himself away before the warmth of her penetrated too deeply.

Just as he’d wanted himself, a kiss wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close.

“I don’t want to see you zipped up in a body bag,” he said.

She teetered a bit, and he was pleased to note he’d had the same dizzying effect on her that she’d had on him. But she recovered. He could see her kicking herself back into gear. “So that’s it, right?” she said hotly. “You kiss me and pack me off like you’re Davy Crockett off to the Alamo or wherever he was off to.”

“That’s right,” he said.

She tossed her head back, insulted.

Stark laughed. “You liked the kiss, sweetheart, and don’t try to pretend otherwise. You kissed me back.”

“A reflex. Like playing arpeggios.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had one of my kisses compared to playing arpeggios.”

“Well.” She fell into the long line for the shuttle to New York. “If Aunt Willie and I are followed again, I’ll know who not to call.”

Matthew’s thick black brows drew together in a deep frown. Christ, if he only knew when to take her seriously. Her high cheekbones were pink, the rest of her face dead white. What the hell was she talking about this time? Followed- again? Bullshit. It was just a ploy. But Aunt Willie…

“Is that woman in New York?”

Juliana just smiled and waved.

Matthew swore, but she continued to ignore him. Finally, swearing some more, he scrambled for a ticket and got in line, at the end because she refused to let him cut in front of her.

She did, however, arrange to have him sit next to her. Their shoulders brushed lightly. Arpeggios, he thought, Jesus. She looked at him up close, her eyes sparkling. “I have an ulterior motive for permitting you to sit beside me,” she said.

He was thinking she meant their kiss had knocked some sense of fair play into her and she was going to tell him about Aunt Willie and being followed and maybe even something about the Minstrel’s Rough. She might even want another kiss.

But she went on, matter-of-fact, “Now I know about helicopters. So tell me about platoon sergeants.” She smoothed her skirt and looked over at him. “What exactly is a platoon?”

Catharina was impatient for the last of her customers to leave so that she could close up the shop. Over and over again she had berated herself for not telling Hendrik she had the Minstrel. That way, she could have protected Juliana-and even Wilhelmina. She could lead Hendrik away from them, just as Johannes had tried to do. It was a good plan; anyway, good or not, it had to be done.

If only she’d thought to do it when Hendrik was there.

But she would have another chance. She would make one.

The cleanup crew already had the kitchen spotless, and there was just one trio of friends lingering over a pot of tea and a tray of butter cookies. Catharina didn’t rush them. She laid six miniature cream puffs in a box to take home to her husband; they were his favorite. He was urging her to go to their country house in Connecticut for a few days and make wreaths, gathering the pine cones, sprigs of evergreen, and perhaps some grapevines from their own woods. She remembered herself urging Juliana to go to Vermont. Was there really anywhere they could hide?

The little doorbell tinkled, and two men entered the shop. The trio had split up their bill, and each young woman was counting out her money; they had on their coats already. Catharina started to tell the men the shop was closed, but she stopped herself, staring at them instead. One was perhaps in his early fifties with a blunt, mean face and iron-gray hair. He wore a navy blue sweater that emphasized the breadth and strength of his shoulders; she thought the sweater was intentionally snug. She noticed the bulge of his thigh muscles beneath the sturdy pants. The second man was perhaps twenty, rangy and dark, wearing a jacket and baggy jeans. Catharina didn’t think they had come to buy cream puffs.

“Afternoon,” the older one said, nodding in greeting.

Catharina nodded back, holding her head regally, and when she spoke, her Dutch accent sounded exaggerated, even to her. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

The older man laughed, a twangy snort that she found disturbing. “Now that’s the kind of talk I like. Yeah, you can help me-Mrs. Fall, right?”

“Yes, that is correct.” Again, the heavy accent.

“Sergeant Phillip Bloch.”

She closed up the white box, “What is it you want?”

“The Minstrel’s Rough.”

Matthew had reluctantly agreed to split up with Juliana at the airport so she could fetch her mother, mostly because he wanted to have a word alone with Wilhelmina Peperkamp. She pulled open the door wearing an apron that had sixteenth-notes across the front and fit rather cozily around the old Dutchwoman’s ample middle.

“You Peperkamps get around,” he said.

Wilhelmina was in a no-nonsense mood. “Come in, Mr. Stark.”

He did.

“Where’s Juliana?”

He explained as he followed the old Dutchwoman down the hall to the kitchen. He remembered her story about feeding her brother’s cat, but she showed no indication the silly lie embarrassed her. She just seemed peculiarly glad to have some company. She was an independent, stubborn woman-a Peperkamp.