Ginny Aiken - Married To The Mob

Mobsters wanted to make mincemeat out of her, yet she still slept with the trust of a child.

Maybe she did trust him. He hoped so, because otherwise their circumstances would be grimmer than even he thought them to be. He knew his job; he had an excellent track record with the Bureau. He’d yet to lose a single witness under his care.

One more look at her reminded him of the scale of his task.

He usually handled mousy paper-pushers who’d blown the whistle on crooked colleagues. He’d never had to worry about making the subjects of those assignments inconspicuous; they were inconspicuous. But Carlie?

He needed someone to show him how to turn a stunning Cinderella back into a frumpy maid. He didn’t have a magic slipper to take from her foot.

The thought of her footgear made him smile. Carlie struck him as a firm supporter of “the more, the merrier” approach. That is, when it came to her heels. He’d never seen anyone handle stilettos, even while wearing jeans, quite as expertly as Carlie Papparelli did. The most irritating part? She looked great while doing so.

He chuckled. She’d better hope they didn’t have to hoof it to safety any time soon, because if they did, she’d be in major trouble. Those spikes weren’t made for running.

When he realized how indulgent his thoughts were, he forced his attention to the matter at hand. He couldn’t afford to expend many warm and fuzzy thoughts on Carlie as a person. That would spell danger.

So he drove on in silence.

She slept on.

“Hey!” she said about two hours later. “How about we hit a fast food joint or something? It’s way past time for me to use the little girls’ room.”

“And here I thought you just loved the little toys.”

“Watch it, Secret Agent Man. If I get a squirt gun, you’re in trouble.”

Dan cringed when, as they walked into the burger place, every head turned their way. All its patrons stared at Carlie, who, oblivious of the attention, headed for the ladies’ room.

Yeah, he had trouble on his hands, all right. The biggest part of that trouble was to convince Carlie that something had to be done about her looks.

“Aw, come on,” she wheedled moments later. “Why can’t we eat at least one meal a day at a table? I’m really tired of squeezing stuff out of foil packets and decorating my clothes with it because you hit yet another bump.”

He almost broke. Almost.

“Be glad that’s the only kind of bump we’ve hit on the road to a long and healthy future for you. Those bombs and bullets weren’t figments of our imaginations.”

She shuddered, and an infinitesimal pang of guilt hit him. But then, in a subsequent moment of reason, he banished the pang to where it belonged: far, far away from his thoughts.

“I intend to get you to that witness stand in one piece. If that means you’re going to wear a mustard-ketchup-and-barbecue-sauce tie-dye job, then you’d better get yourself a new perspective on stains.”

She rolled her eyes, grabbed her bagged meal, turned away, and click-click-clicked her way to the door. There she paused to give him a glare. “So, Danny Boy, are you just going to stand there? If my memory serves me right, you’re the one who finished reading me the riot act about the dangers of exposure not two seconds ago.”

He shook his head and followed.

Outside, he yielded just a bit. They ate in the parked car. In silence.

When Carlie was done, she turned to face him. “How long is it going to take you to get me to Florida? All I know is that we’ve been driving for ages, and I don’t see any sand or palm trees yet.”

“That’s because it takes more than a couple of hours to drive from Pennsylvania to Florida. Especially if we want to make sure none of your family’s friends are on our tail.”

She sighed. “So how much longer do you want us to live out of your car?”

“As long as it takes.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Actually, I don’t think it’ll be more than three or four days.”

“Are you kidding?”

The horror on her face almost made him laugh. He controlled the urge. “Okay, okay. Tell you what. We’ll take the scenic, tourist route, and go through quaint little towns with well-maintained Victorian cottages. That way you’ll be able to enjoy the picturesque views.”

“How about that nice, quiet place in Florida you told me about? I’m looking forward to a regular home—at least, for a while.”

He could understand how she felt. He’d worked for the Bureau long enough that he’d come to hate the anonymity of hotel rooms. He also hated to sleep in his car during a stakeout. His nomadic lifestyle got to him at times, even though it came as a result of his chosen career. Carlie hadn’t chosen any of this.

“Look, I know you’re in a rotten situation,” he said, his tone conciliatory. “But it would be even more rotten if anything happened to you—”

“Get real! What you mean is that it would be rotten if they whacked me. You’d lose your prime witness, and your oh-so-important case would go down the toilet. There’s nothing about me in your plan.”

“It’s all about you, Carlie. I don’t want to see you dead. I joined the Bureau to protect my country and its people. Last time I checked, you were a citizen. I don’t think anything’s changed that.”

“There you go again. I’m a citizen.” She crossed her arms. “That’s garbage. I know what I’m facing, and I still have an identity. There is still life ahead of me. Spending what’s left locked inside this rolling tin can—” she pounded the car door “—is not what I’m ready to do.”

His frustration reached the boiling point. “Well then, I guess that choice is out of your hands. You may have some weird kind of death wish, but I’m not going to play. Buckle up. We’re out of here.”

She yanked the seat belt down to the latch, and once he heard it click, he turned the key in the ignition.

He pulled to the parking lot exit then waited for traffic—a single school bus full of kindergarteners.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where we’re headed next,” she said.

“You suppose right. Your best plan is to get some more of that beauty sleep you’ve been catching up on. Who knows what’s going to happen even ten minutes from now.”

They drove again in that uneasy quiet he’d come to expect. How could he tell her he was winging it? That he didn’t have a plan besides making sure no one followed? That wouldn’t reassure her. It didn’t make him feel all that great either, but under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.

When he couldn’t stand the stony look on her face and her shrieking silence for another minute, he turned on the radio. Although he’d never gotten into the sports-over-the-radio deal—no visuals—he found a station that offered kick-by-kick coverage of a soccer game somewhere in the Hispanic world. Even the loud, heartbeat-like drumming in the background was better than the thick, uneasy stillness.

The hysterical cries of “Gol, gol, gol” when either team scored provided a weird kind of punctuation for the afternoon. When the game ended, he frantically searched for a classical music station.

Then the sun finally began its descent toward the horizon. That simple reality forced him to face the need to come up with another meal option and overnight choice. He couldn’t drive all night after driving all day. He’d only snagged about three hours’ sleep the night before. The way he saw it, he had no choice but to find an out-of-the-way motel, nothing like the famous chains that everyone recognized.

“Um…”

Carlie’s murmur caught his otherwise-engaged attention. “What’s up?”

“You’ve worn this fierce expression for hours now. Tell me it has something to do with my next meal and a place to take a hot shower.”