Linda Howard - To Die For

Who would have thought a little thing like that would annoy him so much? Touchy, touchy. And here I was, totally at his mercy. There wouldn’t be anyone else around-

I had a horrible thought. “How are you at doing hair?”

“What?” he asked, as if I’d said something in a foreign language.

“Hair. You’ll have to do my hair.”

He gave a quick glance at my hair. “You were wearing it in a ponytail Thursday night. I can do that.”

Okay, that was acceptable, and was probably best until I was more functional. “That’ll do. I don’t even have my hair dryer with me, anyway. It’s still in my car.”

“I got your bag. It’s in back with mine.”

I could have kissed him, I was so relieved. Most of the clothes in the bag needed washing, of course, but to be on the safe side I’d taken an extra outfit to the beach. I had underwear, something to sleep in, and even makeup if I felt like putting some on. I had my birth control pills, thank God, though I figured I was safe from him tonight, at least. All in all, things were looking up. Until Siana could pack more clothes for me tomorrow and meet Wyatt with them, I had enough to get by.

We’d been driving for miles, and now there was nothing around except for the occasional house, but they were spaced far apart. I was getting impatient to get there and see how this was going to work out. “Where on earth do you live?”

“We’re almost there. I was making certain no one followed us, so I’ve been taking some extra turns. I live just inside the city limits.”

I was dying to see his house. I had no idea what to expect, and part of me was braced for the typical bachelor den. He had made some money playing pro ball; he could have built anything from a log-cabin-style lodge to a fake château.

“I’m surprised you don’t live with your mother,” I said, and I was. Mrs. Bloodsworth was a nice old lady with a wicked sense of humor, and Lord knows she had enough room to house half the block in that big old Victorian she loved.

“Why? You don’t live with your mother,” he pointed out.

“It’s different for women.”

“How so?”

“We don’t need anyone to cook for us or pick up after us or do the laundry for us.”

“News flash, honey: I don’t either.”

“You do your own laundry?”

“It’s not exactly rocket science, is it? I can read labels and set the controls on a washer.”

“And cook? You can actually cook?” I was getting excited.

“Nothing fancy, but yeah, I can get by.” He glanced at me. “What about it?”

“Think, Lieutenant. Do you remember eating at any time during the past”-I checked the time on the dashboard clock-“five hours? I’m starving.”

“I heard you had a cookie.”

“Fig Newton. I had four of them, and it was an emergency. That doesn’t qualify as eating.”

“It’s four Fig Newtons more than I’ve had, so to me it qualifies.”

“That’s beside the point. Feeding me is now your duty.”

His lips twitched. “Duty? How do you figure that?”

“You commandeered me, didn’t you?”

“Some people might think it was more along the lines of saving your life.”

“Details. Mom would have fed me extremely well. You took me away from her, so now you have to step up to the plate.”

“Interesting woman, your mother. You came by the attitude honestly, didn’t you?”

“What attitude?” I asked in bewilderment.

He reached across and patted my knee. “It doesn’t matter. Your dad told me his secret to handling you.”

“He didn’t!” I was appalled. Dad wouldn’t have sided with the enemy, would he? Of course, he didn’t know Wyatt was the enemy. For all I knew, Wyatt had told him we were engaged or something and that was why Dad hadn’t batted an eye about Wyatt taking me home with him.

“Of course he did. We men have to stick together, you know.”

“He wouldn’t do that! He never told Jason any secret. There isn’t any secret. You just made that up.”

“Did not.”

I fished out my cell phone and furiously punched in Mom and Dad’s number. Wyatt reached over and neatly confiscated the phone, punching the end button, then slipping it in his pocket.

“Give me that!” I was seriously hampered by my wounded arm, since he was sitting to my left. I tried to turn in the seat, but I couldn’t move my arm much at all and it sort of got in the way, and I bumped my shoulder against the back of the seat. For a moment I saw stars.

“Easy, honey, easy.” Wyatt’s crooning voice reached me through the waves of pain, but it was coming from the right, which was very disorienting.

I took a few deep breaths and opened my eyes, and found that his voice was coming from the right because he was leaning into the car from the open passenger door. The car was stopped in a driveway, the motor still running, and a dark house loomed in front of us.

“Are you going to pass out on me?” he asked as he gently straightened me in the seat.

“No, but I might throw up on you,” I answered honestly, and let my head drop back while I closed my eyes again. The nausea and pain receded at the same rate.

“Try not to.”

“It was probably an empty threat. I haven’t eaten, remember?”

“Except for four Fig Newtons.”

“They’re long gone. You’re safe.”

He brushed his hand over my forehead. “Good deal.” He closed the car door, then came back around and got behind the wheel.

“Isn’t this your house?” I asked in confusion. Had he pulled into the first driveway he came to?

“Sure is, but I’ll park in the garage.” He hit a button on the garage-door opener clipped to the sun visor, and simultaneously an exterior light came on and a double garage door in the side of the house began sliding upward. He put the car in gear and pulled forward, then turned to the right and smoothly slotted the car into its place. He punched the button again, and the door began sliding down behind us.

His garage was neat, which impressed me. Garages tend to be catchalls, getting choked with everything except the cars they were meant to house. Not Wyatt’s. To my right was a tool bench, with one of those big, red, multidrawered tool chests like mechanics have parked off to one side. An array of hammers, saws, and other guy stuff hung neatly on the pegboard wall. I stared at them, wondering if he knew what to do with all of them. Men and their toys. Huh.

“I have a hammer, too,” I told him.

“I bet you do.”

I hate being condescended to. You could tell he thought my hammer was nowhere in the ballpark with his collection. “It’s pink.”

He froze in the act of getting out of the car, staring at me with an appalled expression. “That’s perverted. That’s just not right.”

“Oh, please. There’s no law that says a tool has to be ugly.”

“Tools aren’t ugly. They’re strong and functional. They look like they mean business. They aren’t pink. ”

“Mine is, and it’s just as good as yours. It isn’t as big, but it does the job. I bet you’re against women joining the police force, too, aren’t you?”

“Of course not. What does that have to do with a friggin’ pink hammer?”

“Women are mostly prettier than men and mostly not as big, but that doesn’t mean they can’t get the job done, does it?”

“We’re talking hammers here, not people!” He got out of the car and slammed the door, then stalked around to my side.

I opened the door and raised my voice so he could hear me. “I think your aversion to a tool that’s attractive as well as functional-mmmph.” I glared at him over the hand he’d clapped over my mouth.

“Give it a rest. We’ll argue about hammers when you don’t look like you’re about to fall over.” He raised his eyebrows in question, waiting for me to agree, and he kept his hand over my mouth while he waited.