Ginny Aiken - Married To The Mob

“Okay. So you’re a thrifty mob wife—”

“Widow, remember? The hit on Carlo is what started all this.”

“You think I could forget?” He clamped his lips shut, swerved to avoid a maniac driver who cut them off from the right, then, once the nut was far enough away, changed lanes back to the right. Carlie clung to her seatbelt for dear life.

“By the way,” he went on. “What was the deal with that empty coffin you guys shipped to Italy? He was supposed to be inside, but when Italian customs agents X-rayed the thing, it was empty as…well, you get my drift.”

She sure did. He’d probably been about to say “your head” or pay her some other similar compliment, but she let him get away with the near-smear this time.

“There’s no ‘you guys,’ Dan. I never knew what went on day-to-day, and I absolutely, positively had nothing to do with the funeral home, the funeral and why or for what reason they shipped off the empty casket for an Italian burial. I just knew Carlo’d died. His uncle Louie handled all the details.”

He shot her a look Carlie didn’t like. He didn’t seem to believe half of what she said, but there was nothing she could do about it. The guy was the most suspicious critter she’d ever met.

He pushed the gas pedal, and the speed shoved her back into the seat. “What are you doing?”

“Getting off the Turnpike. This rush hour traffic is not my thing.”

“But you live and work in Philly.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like the traffic there.”

Carlie studied his profile as they crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge. So far, she hadn’t found a thing Dan liked. What really threw her was that when he’d first been assigned to protect her, J.Z. Prophet, Dan’s usual partner at the Bureau, had described her shadow as an easygoing, laid-back kind of guy.

This guy didn’t have a laid-back hair on his blond head. And she was stuck with him. At least, until the trial was over and the verdict came in. After that…well, she didn’t know what came after that, but she wasn’t about to give it much thought. She still had to live long enough to get to “after that.”

“Then allow me the pleasure to distract you from the horrors of after-work traffic,” she said with a grin. “How about you tell me where you’re taking me? I really, really want to know.”

“We’re going to a safe place just outside Bird-in-Hand.”

“Huh?”

He shot her a smile. “So you don’t know everything. Bird-in-Hand is a sleepy little town with the best Amish bakery and a huge quilting shop.”

“You know about bakeries and quilt shops?”

“I’m a multifaceted kind of guy.” He turned just enough for her to see his wink. “Actually, my mom’s crazy about quilting, so she knows every one of those stores in the eastern half of Pennsylvania.”

“So you’re from that area.”

“I grew up in a suburb of Harrisburg.”

“Okay. Sounds good.” By now he’d relaxed enough that his fingers didn’t remind her of the color of overcooked macaroni before the cheese was added anymore, a food group she now knew too much about thanks to her underground existence. “So how about you tell me where you’re taking me—exactly where you’re taking me? I mean, I have nothing against road trips, but really. This is just too weird.”

“Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Carlie.” He slowed down for a red light. “But I’ll go ahead and tell you. My mom knows a Mennonite family who’s willing to let us stay at their farm.”

“Farm, huh?”

“Yes, the Millers own a dairy farm, and I remembered them when I tried to come up with a quiet, inconspicuous place to stash you. My mom and Mrs. Miller shop for their quilting supplies at the Bird-in-Hand store. Over the years they’ve become friends.”

What was he getting them into? “The Mennonites, they’re not the ones with the buggies and no electricity, are they?”

“No, those are Old Order Amish, but Mennonites are still very, very conservative.”

She shrugged. “I’ll figure it out as I go. I can handle anything as long as I get a decent night’s sleep, a shower in the morning and a blow-dryer for my hair.”

He squirmed in his seat, looked very, very uncomfortable. “We can do the sleep, and the shower shouldn’t be a problem. But the blow-dryer might not be so easy. Because the women wear their hair twisted up in the small white kapps, I’m not sure the Millers own one, and yours is…”

Carlie’s stomach sank. “Mine’s a blob of melted plastic and a couple of blackened wires. So we need to look at this as a new life experience. Okay. I’m sure it’ll come in handy someday.”

From the way Dan’s shoulders shook, she knew he was trying to hold in his laughter. At least she was good for comic relief. They had enough grim to survive. And Mennonites were Christians, so staying with the Millers couldn’t be too bad.

They’d ditched the Pennsylvania Turnpike at around four o’clock. They pulled into the Miller farm at around six. The white farmhouse stood at the end of a long gravel drive. A huge oak tree spread its full, green branches in front of the home and shaded the wide porch. A big red barn flanked the rear of the house to the right. Various other smaller structures spread out toward the left rear. A bunch of black-and-white cows crowded each other on their way to what must have been dinner.

“Speaking of dinner,” she said, “what are we doing for food?”

“Trust me,” he answered with a smug smile.

“Oh, fine. Have it your way.”

“I’m planning an experience you’ll never forget.”

Her stomach flipped. That easy smile made Dan look more human. And a million times more attractive. She wondered what he was like when not on the job.

“Come on,” he said.

Carlie blinked. Saved by the bell…or something like that. She really couldn’t afford to find her keeper appealing. So she’d better think about these people whose quiet life they were about to invade.

The woman who opened the door looked like a storybook grandma. This one, though, wore an unusual gray dress with sleeves that poufed a little on the shoulders then snugged down to just above the elbows. The dress made Carlie think of something one might have seen decades ago, if not way more than that. The plain top had a flat-over thingy that ended at the waistline. A skirt generous enough for the woman to do just about any kind of farm chore came down to the shin, where legs covered with dark cotton stockings led to old-fashioned black lace-up shoes.

Mrs. Miller shook her head when Dan told her a gas problem had left Carlie temporarily homeless. “So sorry to hear,” she said, her voice spiced with a slight accent. “But please, make yourself welcome.”

Carlie was charmed, but she felt like an impostor, lower than a slug. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Miller. I do appreciate your hospitality.”

Their hostess smiled and gestured for them to follow her. “Come, come. Supper is served.”

“Pay attention,” Dan whispered close to her ear.

On their way to the kitchen, Carlie asked Mrs. Miller about the farm. She learned all kinds of details the woman gladly shared. And when they entered the enormous kitchen, Carlie understood what Dan had meant. A huge oak table filled the center of the room. Spread out over its surface was a feast, a banquet, a smorgasbord of sights and smells. Carlie’s stomach growled.

Dan chuckled. “Told you.”

“No, Mr. Close-mouthed Secret Agent, you did not. All you said was another of your enigmatic ‘trust mes.’ That didn’t even give me a hint.”

“You can’t fault a guy for wanting to surprise a girl.”

“You surprised me, all right.”

“This is Richard.” Mrs. Miller indicated the oldest boy. “Beside him is Jonas, then Ruth. On the other side, Rachel and Stephen…”