Dante opened the door. Pete turned in his direction, and for a moment man and baby contemplated each other.
“I believe that’s my seat,” Dante said.
“Come here, Pete.” Zoey picked her up, and when the baby got that uncertain look that meant she was thinking about crying, she gave her a red Gummi Bear. Nikki would have a cow if she found out about this.
Dante by this time was behind the wheel. He put the car into reverse and eased down on the accelerator. The wheels spun.
“Dammit.” He sighed and looked at her. “You’re going to have to take the wheel while I push.”
“Okay.”
Zoey watched him get out of the car. She leaned over the back seat and strapped Pete into the car seat with her red Gummi Bear. Then she crawled over the console, swearing under her breath when she hit her thigh against the shift. Dante’s side of the car was even colder than hers. The plastic bag over the window didn’t seem like any barrier at all against the blizzard outside.
She settled behind the wheel and watched Dante plow through the snowdrift to the hood. He was spotlighted in the headlights, his head bare, his hair flattened by the wind. He braced his hands on the hood and nodded at her. Zoey shifted into reverse and pressed down on the accelerator. Dante leaned into the hood, his eyes narrowed against the driving snow. The car rocked. Zoey pressed just a little harder. The engine whined; the tires spun against snow. Dante hunched his shoulders, bent over the hood. Almost . . .
The car suddenly broke free of the snowbank, zooming backward. Zoey hurriedly tapped the brake. Dante ran to where the car sat. She set the brake and got out of the car.
“We did it!” she screamed into the blizzard.
Dante grinned and grabbed her shoulders. He kissed her, quick and hard, his lips cold. She gasped, her mouth opening beneath his, and for a moment she breathed him in, his strength, his masculinity.
Then he pulled his head back. “Get in the car.”
Zoey nodded and ran around the front of the car. Her brain seemed to have frozen along with her bare fingers. From the back, Pete was making grumpy sounds. “Just a sec so I can settle her.”
He nodded, not even looking at her. He was frowning at something on the dash.
Zoey leaned over the back seat to take a look at Pete. Okay, maybe he was one of those people who kissed casually. You know, like, hello (kiss), good-bye (kiss), it’s Wednesday (kiss.) Of course most people she knew who were casual serial kissers were women. Or gay. Dante wasn’t gay.
Pete let out a howl of pure frustrated toddler fury. Zoey felt in her pocket and came up with the squished bag of Gummi Bears. She gave the entire thing to Pete, who crowed. She was going to Bad Aunt Hell. She showed Pete how to take out two Gummi Bears from her bag of candy, one for each hand. Pete let the bag drop, and Zoey pocketed it surreptitiously before she turned back around and put on her own seat belt.
Maybe Dante didn’t mean anything by the kiss or, worse—she glanced at the front where he was peering under the steering wheel—maybe he regretted kissing her already. Oh, ouch.
“Okay, we’re ready,” she said to Dante. He didn’t really regret kissing her, did he?
But he simply nodded and drove, leaving Zoey to stew in her own doubts.
Saturday, 3:02 p.m.
T
he veteran FBI agent picked up his buzzing cell phone. The screen showed only a number—not a name—but he knew who the call was from.
He answered the phone with a demand. “What have you got?”
On the other end there was a burst of static and then clearly a man’s voice saying, “—driving difficult. We’re still picking up the signal, though.”
“Don’t stop, then,” the FBI agent snarled. “I need him out of the picture.”
“Yes, sir. Road conditions—” Static cut in and the line was lost.
Dammit.
He tried redialing the number and got only an out of service message. He’d sent his best men down there. They should’ve found Torelli by now and taken both him and the woman out. Why would—
The phone rang again.
He grabbed for it, pressing the answer button on the second buzz. “Yes?”
“He’s headed into the Shawnee National Forest, sir.”
The FBI agent frowned. “Why would he go there?”
“It doesn’t matter,” the voice replied. “The roads are tough and there’s only a few ways out. We’ll have him soon.”
“Good.” He felt tension ease in his shoulders. When this was done he was going to schedule a sauna and a massage at his health club. Stress could kill a man—just look at Charlie Hessler, lying in the ICU. “Make sure you do.”
Saturday, 3:13 p.m.
K
issing Zoey—
again
—had been a really stupid thing to do. Dante peered through the windshield at the nearly obscured road and was careful not to look in Zoey’s direction. The snowstorm had come back with a vengeance, and he had to keep the windshield wipers on, the defrost blasting at full force to clear the windows. Outside it was pure white. He could see only twenty feet or so in front of the car, and not even that at times.
God only knew what Zoey was thinking right now. She could be contemplating marriage or she might think he wanted to jump her. Which, yeah, okay, he
did
want to jump her, but not in a pressuring way and certainly not at the moment. Too much was going on, and only a horny bastard would be thinking of sex right now and wondering if she’d go for it if he did make a move.
But he wasn’t thinking of sex. Right.
Dante blew out a breath. Maybe when this was all over, when they’d gotten Pete back and Tony the Rose was convicted and Dante somehow cleared his name of corruption and murder charges, maybe then he could ask Zoey out on a date. He could take her to a nice restaurant, Italian or French—
Vinyl screeched in his head. He couldn’t picture Zoey enjoying a French restaurant. Actually what he pictured was Zoey making fun of the waiter with a fake French accent. He winced. Oookay, well, then, they could maybe take in a play or . . . good God, he had no idea where he’d take Zoey on a date. Christ, he was a loser.
“Where would you go on a first date?” he asked, confirming the loser label.
“The Field Museum,” Zoey said without missing a beat.
“Yeah?”
She nodded decisively. “Definitely. You can talk about the exhibits, and if things get awkward and you realize that there’s nothing to talk about because he’s a nonverbal Neanderthal, you can still look at the stuff. Also, you can figure out lots about a guy by what he goes to see.”
Dante felt his eyebrows draw together. “Like what?”
Zoey twisted in her seat so that she was facing him, one knee drawn up. “Okay, what’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Field Museum?”
“Uh . . . actually, I’ve never been to the Field Museum.” Or any other museum in Chicago, for that matter, although he didn’t say that. Truth was, he’d been working like a dog for the last couple of months.
Zoey stared. “You haven’t?”
Definite loser territory. “No.”
She sighed heavily as if in sympathy for his total loserness. “Okay, you know what the Field Museum is, don’t you?”
He started to nod, but she wasn’t taking any chances this time.
“Like, this really cool natural history museum in a classical building with dryads or whatever all over the front. There are natural history exhibits, and a bug collection, and an Egyptian exhibit, and a life-size wigwam. Anyway, the first thing you see when you walk in is Sue the Tyrannosaurus rex, and this is a test.”
“How?”
“Do you go look at Sue or not?” She paused, waiting for his answer.
Dante shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised how many people book on past a Tyrannosaurus rex, standing right there, with its tiny little forelegs raised and its giant teeth snarling.”
From the back, Pete said, “Gah!” as if in agreement.
Dante blinked. “Okay, then what?”
“So then you watch how the guy looks at the T. rex,” Zoey said. “Does he walk around it? Does he read the explanation sign? Does he stand and stare?”
“Which is best?”
“Stand and stare. This shows that he’s man enough to admit he’s a little in awe of a creature that could’ve swallowed him whole a bamillion-zillion years ago.”
“Huh.” Dante squinted, trying to think if he’d’ve passed this test if he’d unknowingly been given it. Almost certainly no. “And then?”
“Then you have to decide where to go first.”
He glanced at her, brows raised. She looked totally serious. Just how many guys had she given this test to, anyway?
“Like, do you go to see the Egyptian tomb or the gems and rocks or the American Indian displays or the scary stuffed animals—”
Scary stuffed animals?
“—or do you go deep into left field and try out the children’s exhibits first?”
“What’s in the children’s exhibits?” he asked without thinking.
“Giant disgusting bugs,” Zoey said promptly.
“Huh.” Actually the giant disgusting bugs sounded kind of tempting.
“But there’s also the exhibit on digging up fossils and one on how chocolate is made.”
Dante nodded sagely, as if he were deeply contemplating the history of chocolate versus an Egyptian tomb.
Zoey gave a kind of wiggle in her seat. “So?”
“Bugs.”
“Really?” Her eyes had gotten wide, like he’d done something wonderful. “I’ve never gone to the museum with anyone who picked the bugs first.”
He glanced at her nervously. “Is that good or bad?”
“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s hard to say. Either you’ve got hidden depths of childishness or you’re just trying to impress me with your quirkiness.”
He shot a look at her.
“Okay, so maybe you’re not trying to impress me.” She frowned for a second and then perked up. “Did you know they have an entire bug digestive tract you can walk into? It’s totally gross.”
“Sounds like a date,” Dante said and then could’ve kicked himself.
But Zoey didn’t seem fazed. “We should pack a lunch, though.”
“We should?”
“Unless you like overpriced salads or overpriced McDonald’s.”
“Uh, no.”
“I can bring a lunch.”
“What would you bring?”
“Tofu sticks and soy milk,” she said promptly. “Come on! What did you think? I can pack a perfectly nice lunch.”
He felt his lips curving. “Yeah? Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .” She stared out the dark windshield for a moment, thinking. “Do you like curried chicken salad?”
“Sure.”
“I make it with golden raisins and celery. And pickles. I always think pickles make a picnic lunch.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Which do you like? Sweet or sour?”
“Both.”
God, he was enjoying this. He should be worried about his life, his career that was spiraling down the toilet, and the fact that they were driving through a snowstorm with no shelter in sight. But for this moment in time he was content to listen to Zoey plan a hypothetical picnic lunch at the Field Museum.
“Okay, so both sweet and sour pickles.” Zoey ticked her menu off on her fingers. “Curried chicken salad sandwiches, maybe some black olives, sweet red pepper and celery sticks—”
“More celery?”
“It’s important to have vegetables,” she said sternly. “And strawberries and chocolate for dessert.”
“No cookies?”
She looked at him. “You’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
“Guys who like cookies.”
He frowned. “Isn’t that all guys?”
“No. On the other side of the spectrum is the Cheez Doodle guy.”
“Ah. Then I’m definitely in the cookie camp.”
“Okay, so I pack some cookies, as well.” She looked at him. “Chocolate chip, I presume.”
“Is there any other?”
“Evidently not.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, so I’ll make chocolate chip cookies the night before. How does that sound?”
“Perfect.”
And it did. The idea of spending the day wandering the Field Museum with Zoey sounded really good. She’d make bizarre comments about the stuffed animals, drag him through all the children’s exhibits, and tease him into buying her a souvenir from the gift shop. He’d follow her lovely swaying ass all day like some enchanted rube until she’d walked herself into near exhaustion. And full of chocolate chip cookies and pickles, she’d become unwary and maybe she’d invite him into her messy apartment—it was bound to be messy—and he’d move in on her, filling his hands with soft, plump woman curves, and the smell of vanilla, feeling a little guilty and a whole lot aroused. Then he’d ease her down on her couch or bed, it really didn’t matter, and cover her softness, and open her sweet mouth beneath his, and then—
Shit!
Dante straightened, darting a guilty look at Zoey. God, it must be the lack of sleep. He didn’t usually go off into erotic daydreams . . . well, no more than the average guy. And who got turned on by the Field Museum? It must be the proximity to her, the constant sound of her voice, and the scent of vanilla in her hair. Sometimes he found himself leaning closer, trying to make out if he really could smell vanilla or if it was just stuck in his brain.
“Oh, my God,” Zoey murmured beside him, and he was so lost in his own obsessive thoughts that he nearly didn’t hear her.
“What?”
Dante looked up and saw it, too. Thank God.
They’d found the cabin.
Saturday, 4:16 p.m.
N
eil stared at the blue bowl in front of him. The bowl contained what looked like soupy rice pudding, only it was a kind of light greenish-yellow color. The color reminded him of the yellow used on emergency vehicles. Neil tried to remember the last time he’d eaten rice pudding. It was probably sometime when he was a kid. He fucking hated rice pudding.
Neil looked up at the two old Indian ladies. They were all in the apartment at the back of the motel. It belonged to their nephew, a squirrelly guy who was out tending the motel counter. His wife was in the kitchen doing something with the stove, and his kids were all in front of the TV, watching cartoons.