Worth the Trip (7 page)

“It was handy,” Norah said.

“It was useless.”

“It did a pretty good number on you.”

“Yeah, and I’d be questioning the Boy Wonder right now if it wasn’t for you and your literary efforts.”

“Excuse me? I saved your life. That guy was so close he practically had his hands around your throat.”

“I was faking it. And I was at a disadvantage since I was lying down, so I had to wait for him to get close enough for me to grab him.”

“Oh,” she said, cranky with guilt and lack of sleep. “You might want to clue me in on your plans next time.”

He snorted. “Why can’t you cower in your room like a good little girl, and let me handle the dangerous stuff?”

“Cower—girl—dangerous stuff!” she sputtered. “You’re lucky I don’t still have that book.”

“And you’re lucky you’re still here. You did everything but paint a target on your back.”

That put the whole episode back in perspective. So Trip was a misogynist; he was also willing to stand between her and possible death. It sort of cancelled out his bad traits. Except the one where he twisted the facts to suit his purposes. “I thought the news reports would keep idiots like that from invading my house.”

“The news reports only keep the harmless kooks away. The guys who are serious still think you know something, and they’re willing to do more than invade your house.”

“You told me they weren’t serious,” she reminded him. “That guy certainly didn’t try very hard.”

Trip went silent. And pissy. “It would have been nice to ask him some questions,” he grumbled.

“We already know it’s about the robbery.”

“And that’s a great starting point, but I have about a million other questions. And I know where we can get the answers.”

“No.”

“We have to talk to your dad.”

“No.” She tried to walk way, but Trip caught her by the wrist.

“What do you think your chances are of winning this battle?”

She looked down at his hand on her skin, her suddenly heated skin, which was conducting very dangerous feelings of other parts of her body. If Trip wanted something from her—anything—she didn’t think her chances of resisting him were very high.

But she was going to fight like hell anyway.

“SHE’S NOT EXACTLY WHAT YOU WOULD CALL
cooperative,” Trip said into his cell phone. He was leaning against the wall opposite Norah’s lecture hall. He could see her through the door. She didn’t look happy. But then, she never looked happy. Resigned, exasperated, irritated, mulish, and downright pissed off? Sure. The closest she came to the other end of the emotional spectrum was cautiously amused. And at the moment she looked like she was about to face a firing squad.

“Her old man’s a famous criminal who knows where a shitload of money is hidden—she’s treasure hunter catnip. And you’re hanging around,” Mike Kovaleski said in his usual blunt manner, “what’s to be happy about?”

“We have a hit-and-run driver and a home-invader to track down. What could be more fun?”

“Not everyone has your sick sense of humor. ’Sides, her happiness isn’t your objective.”

Trip bit back the instant defense that sprang to mind. Mike was his handler, and yeah, he had a penchant for stating the obvious, but he was also ex-Marines, and he saw everything as a nail. In this particular situation, Trip was the hammer. And Norah was impeding his aim.

He lifted his gaze and there she was, wearing one of her ugly suits, this one the color of mud. She met his eyes, sizing him up. Every time she looked at him she studied, measured, quantified. And sometimes it had nothing to do with the Gold Coast Robbery—

“Run it down,” Mike said.

“Not much to tell,” Trip began, turning his mind from Norah’s hot stares to Norah’s danger as he ran through the events of the last twenty-four hours.

“Nothing there,” Mike said when he was finished. “You got a stolen car and a doofus in a Halloween costume. One spells pro, the other screams nutcase.”

“Sometimes the kooks are more trouble.”

“You let him get by you. Next time, take him to school. Secret Agent 101.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Trip said, but he was smiling. Couldn’t help it, since he’d flashed back to Norah and her textbook-slash-weapon, not to mention the fierce light in her eyes. Dangerous, he thought, adding it to the list of Norah’s moods he’d compiled earlier. One of the expressions he’d forgotten to list before—and the only one he actually enjoyed. “Gotta go,” he said to Mike, “class is about to start.”

“Class?”

“Puff’s daughter teaches college psychology. She has a lecture this morning.”

“And you think it’s a good idea to let her stand in front of a big room full of people she probably doesn’t know by sight? Unless you’re using her as bait.”

“She refused to call in a sub,” Trip said. “Gotta go, the lecture is starting.”

“Pay attention,” Mike said in a tone of voice that went along with a headshake. “Maybe you’ll find out how to make her behave.”

“There’s not that much knowledge in the world.”

 

NORAH DEFINITELY WAS NOT ENJOYING HERSELF. Not that unusual a circumstance in Trip’s short acquaintance with her, but at least it wasn’t his fault this time. At least not entirely. She’d asked him to stay outside the lecture hall. He’d refused, and while the number of resentful glances she sent his way told him how she felt about his presence, the real trouble came from the student body. Or rather bodies, as in college-age female bodies, most of whom, it was clear from their questions, expected to discover how to “Create Your Mate.” The few male bodies were interested in the female bodies, and the word
mate
was definitely involved. The two concepts, however, were far apart. As far as the distance to any church altar.

Norah’s lecture unfolded like a mini war. She stepped up to the lectern, armored in her suit, a firm, authoritative demeanor, and her glasses. The students fought back with rampant curiosity and the desperation to avoid any actual knowledge on which they could be tested later. Norah answered their questions about her TV appearance and ignored anything pertaining to the Gold Coast Robbery. When she got down to actual teaching, just about everyone else in the room checked out, including Trip, but at least he stayed awake, which was some accomplishment considering he’d gotten as little sleep as Norah had. But if she could stay awake, he sure as hell would. He didn’t need to be a psychologist to know what that would do to the balance of power in their relationship . . .

Shit, there was no balance of power in their relationship. He was hanging on by sheer obnoxiousness, hoping to wear her down enough to quit opposing him at every turn. Not to brag or anything, but he’d never had this kind of trouble with a woman before, on or off the job. It never took him long to worm his way into someone’s trust, partly because he was trustworthy. Hell, he was an FBI agent, but was that enough for Norah MacArthur? No, she had to have issues with authority figures, thanks to her old man.

It didn’t seem to matter that he’d saved her life—okay, maybe not her life, but she’d probably be tied to a chair somewhere if not for him—and was she grateful? No. She should be kissing the ground at his feet by now, but where was he after the longest twenty-four hours of his life? Tired, bored, bruised, and even when he did have a lucid moment all he could do was mentally undress her with his eyes because about four in the morning he’d started to wonder what might have happened after that kiss if they hadn’t been on a G-rated television show. Not that he was an exhibitionist, but being on camera hadn’t seemed like such a big obstacle when he was back in bed, remembering her in that little tank and shorts she slept in, wielding her book like a battle-axe. All she’d been missing were the glasses . . .

Trip sat up a little straighter in his chair and put that image out of his head. Not difficult since the class had ended and there was a mad rush. About two thirds of the audience made a beeline for the exit, more than one of the coeds giving him a smile on her way by. The rest dashed to the front of the room, surrounding Norah in a clamoring mass of insecure human flesh that made him understand why it was called a
crush
of people.

Trip had put himself between her and a couple tons of Japanese engineering without a second thought. No way was he taking on a bunch of college-aged girls with romantic troubles. They’d probably take one look at him and go into a homicidal frenzy. Hell, the lone male was smart enough to stand back and wait for the others to disperse.

Norah had taken refuge behind the lectern, which didn’t provide much cover but seemed to represent an unassailable wall to the students, since none of them tried to cross that invisible barrier. “I’m not giving any relationship advice,” she began.

About half the crowd of young women slouched off in various states of disappointment.

“And if you want to know how to get published, sit down and write something.”

All but a couple of the other girls slouched off. Norah answered a couple of questions that actually seemed germane to her lecture, then turned to look at the kid who’d been lurking behind the female hoard. He just stood there, stringy hair hanging in his face, looking more like a gamer than a psych major, tall and gawky and soft around the middle. Then again, looks could be deceiving. Who knew that better than Trip, with his job, or Norah, with her father?

About the time Trip decided he’d been creeping the crowd of young women, he plucked up the courage to step forward and actually speak.

“I know my grades aren’t great, Professor MacArthur,” he mumbled from behind his curtain of hair, “but all I need is some tutoring. I want to be a psychologist, just like you.”

Want
and
psychologist
were the operative words there, but judging by the way the kid was invading Norah’s personal space he wasn’t making a career path so much as trying to make time.

“I could come to your house,” the kid said, clinching Trip’s opinion of his ulterior motives. “You wouldn’t even have to talk that much, just help me when I have a question about the reading.”

“You are . . .”

“Uh, having a hard time with, like, the big words, and—”

“I was asking your name,” Norah said with a perfectly straight face.

“Oh, right, my name. Bobby,” he said, nodding the entire time. Or maybe he was just bobbing his head out of habit, which gave his name a whole new meaning and made Trip laugh.

Norah shot him a look. Bobby didn’t notice.

“Bobby,” Norah repeated. “I don’t tutor. If you’re having this much trouble with a one hundred level course, perhaps you should be rethinking your educational path.”

“Man, you’re, like, cold, Professor MacArthur.”

“I find it saves time.”

“Yeah, but, like, a little sympathy wouldn’t hurt, y’know?”

“Sympathy is highly overrated,” she said, patting him on the arm. “Directness is often the best course when I feel someone can handle the truth.”

“Okay then.” Bobby turned around and shambled up the aisle, mumbling to himself and shaking his head.

She had that effect on him, too, Trip thought as she strode past him, that little annoyed frown on her face, and all he could do was jump up and trot along behind her like a puppy.

“That kid has a crush on you,” he said as they walked out of the lecture hall.

“I didn’t get that impression.”

Trip shrugged. “You’d be the expert.”

“He probably doesn’t have a very good home life,” Norah said. “So many of these kids are a product of divorce or single-parent homes, and psychology seems to offer a way to understand what they’ve been through.”

“Is that the voice of experience?”

She shot him a look, not amused.

“You can’t cure the problems of the world.”

“I can’t even solve my own at the moment,” she said, clearly identifying him as a problem by the way she was glaring at him.

Trip just grinned, getting the point but not taking it personally. “The parking lot is this way,” he said, trying to steer her in that direction.

She slipped around him and continued on her way. “I have a couple of appointments.”

This time he took her by the elbow. “Reschedule.”

She shook him off. “I’m booked for six months, and with my other commitments—” She stopped walking. “You can’t be in session with me,” she said. “Patient confidentiality, not to mention having an audience makes people uncomfortable talking about their problems.”

“I get it,” he snapped, and just before she turned away he saw her mouth quirk up, just a little, and he caught on to her game. Stupid of him not to see it before, but then he was dealing with a lack of sleep and an overabundance of testosterone.

“I’ll be busy for a while. You should take off.”

“Got nothing else to do.”

Her frown intensified, but she only said, “Fine, you can wait in my outer office.”

“Sure, I could use a nap. We have a long drive ahead of us.” And who was smiling now, he thought, but when they got to her office a couple stood up from the sofa and Trip wasn’t so amused anymore. “Did Mike send you?” he asked them, referring, of course, to Mike Kovaleski, his—their—handler, since they all worked for the Bureau.

“We came because Aubrey is intrigued,” Jack Mitchell said, referring to his partner, Aubrey Sullivan.

“You’re an FBI agent?” Norah asked Aubrey, taking in her outfit, which even Trip could tell was high fashion, a flirty little wool suit in fuchsia—hardly an unobtrusive color—and pointy-toed stiletto-heeled shoes that he was already picturing on Norah. Just the shoes.

“Jimmy Choos, right?” Norah said, her voice low and breathy, which did amazing things for the fantasy, even if it was only the shoes winding her up.

Aubrey smiled, transforming her plain features to pretty, if not compelling, which seemed to be of more interest to Norah than the expensive feathers. “I think of myself as an agent,” she said around that wide smile. “So does the FBI. Jack—”