Dragon Moon (38 page)

Authors: Unknown

BOOK: Dragon Moon

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Nick and Nora Charles—the two names popped into his head as a matched set. Where had he heard them before? It would come; he had a nearly eidetic memory.

“Dashiell Hammett.” He finally remembered. “I read the book a long time ago. I prefer Mickey Spillane.”

She glared at him out of the corner of her eye, green eyes practically throwing sparks. “Heresy. I should throw you out of the car.”

Reyes tried to picture that. Nobody ever made him do anything he didn’t want to. Odd, she didn’t seem in the least intimidated. Nothing in her manner indicated she was worried about acquiring a passenger his size, armed with a knife. She ought to be tense, sweating, and when things didn’t add up, it troubled him. It was like she knew something he didn’t. And he hated that feeling.

He slid the blade back into his boot. Threatening her ran counterproductive to his aims at this point, so he improvised. “So, what did you do back at the bar? Or maybe I should ask
how
did you do it?”

That would give her a reason to be wary of him, thinking he’d noticed something askew. Which he had, of course, but it wasn’t the big picture. Honesty often provided the best smoke screen for his other endeavors.

She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe you should.”

“So how did you do it?”

“Do what?”

He had the feeling she could continue this line of circular conversation all night. Well, it didn’t matter. In time, he’d wear her down. She didn’t realize it, but she’d gained his company for a while.

That was something of a specialty of his—breaking down barriers, building trust. Reyes bet she’d yield what he needed to know before too much longer. A softness about her mouth said she liked what she saw when she looked at him. He was used to that, but this woman made him
want
to use sex, a tactic he seldom employed these days. Too many complications, too many variables.

“What’s your name, anyway?” He played the rootless hitchhiker with a familiarity born of experience. That impression would be reinforced by his appearance and his lack of personal belongings. “And thanks for the lift.”

“You didn’t exactly give me a choice.” Her husky voice sent a pleasurable spike along his nervous system straight down to his groin. Reyes shifted, unwilling to let the erection gain full-flag status.

“No, I didn’t. You love your whitewalls too much to gamble with them.”

“I love this car,” she corrected, stroking a hand along the blue dashboard.

Reyes watched her fingers with a clawing hunger that astounded him. He wanted them on his chest, his abdomen . . . lower. He wanted two weeks with her in a hotel room, nothing but bare skin and cool, white sheets. Despite iron discipline, his penis swelled all the way up, straining his zipper.

“I can see that.” His voice rumbled low, even for him.

“Isn’t she a beaut?”

“Sure is.”

So are you.
But he didn’t say that out loud. It was too soon. Like a wild thing, she would be skittish, slow to gentle. She
still
hadn’t told him her name. Such a way she had about her—appearing to give away everything, when in fact, it granted nothing—could’ve come only through years of practice.

All in all, Kyra Marie Beckwith was a lot more intriguing than her dossier let on. Too bad he had to kill her.