Lori Foster - Bewitched

He thrust the gun into her hand. “Watch out for the two stooges while I hot-wire this barge.”

Bemused, Charlie looked down at the gun in her hand, then to where Harry bent low beneath the dash, then dutifully out the window.

Hmm. There was something innately sexy about a man who could hot-wire.

It took him mere seconds. He’d just managed to fire the engine when Floyd and Ralph came stumbling back around the garage, their curses so hot Charlie’s ears felt singed, and that was surely impressive given she’d been raised hearing curses all her life. The two men literally jumped up and down in rage as gravel and mud slung off the spinning tires, embellishing Harry’s daring getaway. Ralph fired, and Charlie thought she heard a bullet or two hit the side of the truck bed, but it didn’t slow Harry. She waited, wondering if, because of the gunshot, he’d feel it necessary to put her head back in his lap.

She was slightly disappointed when he didn’t.

Harry didn’t say a word, concentrating instead on finding the main road and figuring out how to turn on the lights, the wiper blades, the heat. Charlie was just about to tuck the gun into her pocket when he retrieved it from her without a word.

She knew a struggle for the gun was useless, and she scowled. “Now what?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, glanced at her, his gaze moving over her from head to toe, then cursed slightly. “I think we’ll abandon this truck outside town. No sense in taking a chance that Carlyle or one of his cronies will recognize it and want to pull us over. We’ll grab a taxi to my apartment.”

“Why your apartment?” Not that she’d complain. Her curiosity over Harry grew more rampant with every moment she spent in his company. From his place, she could call her sister, and then maybe they could finish what they’d started at the garage. She glanced down at Harry’s lap, but the interior of the cab was too dark to tell if he still reacted to their little interlude. She liked it a lot that she’d turned him on. In all her life, she’d seldom had the opportunity, or the desire, to indulge in lust. But with Harry, well, she was more than a little intrigued.

“I think we need to talk, to figure out what we’re going to do.”

Charlie sighed, then carefully ventured a suggestion. “I don’t think we should call the police.”

Harry stilled for a moment, smoothly switched gears, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll bite. Well, not really, not unless you wanted me to, and then it’d be more appropriate to say nibble—”

“Harry.”

“Why don’t you want to contact the police?”

“Because I can’t see any way for you to explain this without telling them I was there, dressed as a guy, spying. And I’d just as soon no one knew about that.”

“I can see where that would be a tale you’d hesitate to broadcast. But as it so happens I don’t relish involving the police, either.”

“And your reasons are?” When he only slanted her a look, she poked him in the side. “No way, Harry. I told, now it’s your turn.”

“You told very little, actually.”

“I’ll get into more detail once I’m warm and dry and have time to reason a few things out.”

“I suppose that’ll have to appease me.”

“Give it up, Harry.”

He didn’t want to, she could tell that. He gave her a grudging look that almost made her smile. “I promised my friend I wouldn’t involve any of the other people in the area. They’re older proprietors, like Pops, and they aren’t excessively fond of the police right now.”

“You mean Pops—the guy who runs the store we were in before Floyd decided to play kidnapper?”

“That’s right. They’ve contacted the police a few times in the past over other situations—loud music, loitering, things like that. They were pretty much told that since they’re in a run-down, high-crime area, they have to expect a certain amount of that sort of thing. The police offered more surveillance, but the elders didn’t think that was enough. They were determined to take matters into their own hands, which of course would be dangerous.”

Even as she nodded, Charlie wondered if her father was one of the men being bothered. It seemed likely. She felt a moment’s worry before she firmly squelched it. Her father deserved nothing but her enmity, and that’s all he’d ever get. He’d never been there when she needed him most, but she’d found him now, and he could damn well pay. What she wanted from him—financial assistance to get her sister through college—had nothing to do with emotions or family relationships.

The rain started again, and they settled into a congenial quiet. Harry reached over and pulled her to his side. It wasn’t quite as nice as his lap, but he was warm and firm and secure, and she took comfort from his nearness, though she’d never have admitted it.

As they neared the outskirts of town, Harry nudged her with his shoulder. “It’s regretful things got interrupted back there.”

“Yeah.”

He cleared his throat. “If you’re interested…”

“Yeah.”

Laughing, Harry pulled the truck up to the curb and turned the engine off. He tilted Charlie’s face up and kissed her softly. “There’s nothing coy about you, is there?”

She raised a brow. “Should I pretend I’m not interested? That’d be dumb, Harry, since I don’t get interested all that often.”

Harry fought a smile, and lost. “So you’re telling me you’re not easy after all?”

Charlie snorted. “Most of the men that frequent my saloon could tell you I’m usually damn difficult.”

“No! You? I’ll never believe it.”

Charlie smacked his shoulder. “Smart-ass.”

Chuckling, Harry said, “Wait here. I’ll call us a taxi.”

He left the truck and trotted to a pay phone across the street. Charlie watched him go, admiring his long-legged stride, the way he held his head, the natural confidence and arrogance that appeared as obvious as his physical attributes. He was a strange man in many ways, his lofty wit and cultured diction in opposition to his easy acceptance at being kidnapped, shot at and holed up in a greasy garage. He’d stolen a truck as easily as if such a thing were a daily occurrence. Though it was apparent to Charlie he’d led an expensive, well-bred life, he hadn’t so much as sniffed at her admission to owning a saloon, or the fact that for the most part, she was an obvious gutter rat, born and bred on the shadier side of life.

And he didn’t hesitate to call her Charlie.

Most of the regulars at her saloon called her what she told them to, wary of getting on her bad side. They weren’t, however, great examples of masculine humanity, so their concessions counted for very little. She had a feeling Harry, with all his grins and arrogance and stubbornness, was a true hero, even if he’d chosen to deny it.

He watched her from the phone booth while he placed the call, alert to any possible danger. With a smile, Charlie turned away to view their surroundings. They were near a park, but not one she recognized. Of course, she had little time or interest for dawdling in parks, so that wasn’t a surprise.

Seconds later, Harry returned. His wet dress shirt clung to his upper torso, showing a large, smoothly muscled chest and shoulders, and even through his undershirt, she could see a sprinkling of chest hair. The shirt opened at the collar and his strong throat was wet, a couple of droplets of rain rolling down into the opening. Charlie swallowed.

His damp hair stuck to his nape and one brown lock hung over his brow. His light brown eyes, framed by spiked eyelashes, darkened as he watched her inspect his features. Harry leaned back on the seat and the corners of his mouth tipped in a slight smile. “Have I sprouted horns?”