Worth the Trip (12 page)

“Well, there is a big net that comes down from the ceiling to trap intruders.”

“After the last two days it wouldn’t surprise me to be tackled by Ninjas.”

“That’s some imagination you’ve got there.”

“You have no idea.” And her gaze flicked to Trip, which was exactly what she’d been trying not to do.

The two men grinned and exchanged glances that should have included waggling eyebrows.

“It doesn’t take—Never mind,” she finished, because she’d been about to tell Law it didn’t take imagination, that she’d been almost hit by a car, intruded on last night, and had he totally missed her wreck of a vehicle sitting at the curb? How the heck did he think the sides of her Escape had gotten crumpled like used tin-foil? So finding out that her house had been secured by the Three Stooges branch of the FBI seemed like no big stretch.

And yet she knew he’d apply her “it doesn’t take imagination” to Trip, which was mostly true, since she’d seen him in boxers last night, and there was the whole thing about him being just like other men, except she had a feeling if she did a test drive she’d find out he wasn’t like all other men. Hell, he’d probably ruin her for all other men, and when this fiasco was over he’d disappear from her life, the jerk, leaving her with a wildly unrealistic yardstick—

“She looks like she’s considering violence,” Law said to Trip. “You don’t usually have that effect on women.”

“She’s not like other women.”

“Men,” Norah muttered, climbing the steps since she didn’t seem to be necessary to the conversation anymore, at least as far as verbal interaction went. But she was smiling as she skirted Law and his tools to get to her front door, their laughter floating behind her, deep and hearty and cheerful. And protective.

“Hey, before I forget,” Law said, which made her turn back in time to take the small box he held out, about the size of a hardcover book and as heavy as one. “FedEx dropped this off for you.”

Norah read the label, then tucked it into the crook of her arm. “Thanks,” she said to Law. “For everything.”

“Something wrong?” Trip asked her.

Norah looked at Law and his alarm system, at her crumpled escape, then at Trip. “Everything,” she said, and went inside.

 

“DON’T YOU EVER GIVE UP?” NORAH SAID TO HOLLIE Roget four hours later when she found the woman on the other side of her front door.

Then the alarm went off, and since Norah didn’t have the code, she took off her shoe and beat the little keypad next to the door until it was a pile of plastic shards and broken circuitry on the floor. More importantly, the sound cut off.

Trip had told her not to open the door—by way of a Post-it stuck on the doorknob—but honestly, if he wanted her to follow instructions he should have stuck around, right? Or left Law to babysit. But they were both gone, she’d spied Hollie through the little peephole, and she’d gotten enough sleep to be able to keep her wits. And there were things she wanted to say to Hollie. None of them were nice. Some of them, it turned out, weren’t even verbal.

Hollie opened her mouth, and Norah took a step forward and popped her in the face. It wasn’t a very hard punch, she didn’t put her weight into it, and Hollie had a pretty bony face so it probably hurt her hand more than Hollie’s chin. But it felt damn good.

“I should have you arrested for assault,” Hollie said, rubbing her jaw.

“Assault? How about we take a trip to Marion and compare your injury to my father’s? You’re lucky he isn’t dead, or I’d be suing you. As it is I think my lawyer could make a case for stalking.”

Hollie started to say something defensive, judging by the way she jammed her hands on her hips. Then she stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Wow, that actually sounded sincere.”

“I truly am sorry,” Hollie said, “See? No camera, no microphone, no recording devices. You can frisk me if you want.”

“Uh, no, thanks.”

“I really didn’t intend for your father to get hurt. Sometimes I get so focused on a story that I forget real people with real lives are affected.”

“And what do you have to gain by apologizing?”

Hollie smiled faintly. “I guess I deserve that.”

Norah didn’t return the smile, but she didn’t slam the door in Hollie’s face either. She was curious.

Hollie didn’t keep her waiting. “I want to work with you on the treasure,” she said.

Norah did try to slam the door then. Who knew Hollie had such amazing reflexes and big feet? A lot of nerve, that Norah was already familiar with.

“Please hear me out.”

Norah stared pointedly at Hollie’s Manolo through the size ten crack in her front door. Hollie slowly removed her foot. She hesitated once or twice, but the foot finally retracted all the way. It was the second time she’d done something almost respectable. If not for that pesky ulterior motive.

But damn it, Norah was still curious. “I’ve already wasted ten minutes on this,” she said, opening the door just wide enough to see Hollie with both eyes. “Make your case.” Even if it would still be no.

The defeated look on Hollie’s face told Norah she got that, but she was going to try anyway. “I want to make a documentary about the robbery. I think it would help your father if people knew his side of the story. We could spin it—”

“My father was guilty, he was convicted, he’s done his time. It doesn’t need spin.”

“Okay, but giving the loot back to the victims is pretty amazing. I’d love to be a fly on the wall while it happens.”

Norah thought of her more as a rodent, but the fly image was pretty good, too, and ready-made. All she had to do was superimpose Hollie’s face over Jeff Goldblum’s and there it was.

“You’re smiling. Is that a good sign?”

“Not for you.” But she held the image another few seconds. Childish but oh so amusing. “Making a documentary will take a pretty long time,” she pointed out. “Too long to fix your career.”

“Look, my career is toast. There’s no going back to the news, but somebody is going to make a documentary about this. Why not me?”

“Well, you have all the right answers, I’ll give you that.”

“What are the questions?” a deep voice said from the walkway behind Hollie.

She swung around, Norah looked past her, and there stood Law, a bag from a local electronics store in his hand, and Trip, carrying takeout.

“One of them better be about why the alarm went off,” Law said, holding up a small device about the size of a cell phone, a blinking red light on the face of it.

“You weren’t supposed to open the door,” Trip said.

“I wouldn’t worry about her so much if I were you,” Hollie said. “She punched me in the face.”

Trip climbed the steps and took a good look. “You didn’t do any damage, Norah. Remind me later to show you how to throw a punch.”

“She doesn’t have the heft for it,” Law said, giving Hollie a wide berth as he walked around her and into the house. “I vote you get her a nice little handgun and take her to the range. It’ll save the wear and tear on the alarm pad, too,” he added with a sigh, dropping his bag and heading back out the door, to the electronics store, presumably. “Next time, Norah, take your aggression out on her, not the alarm,” he tossed back over his shoulder.

“Bloodthirsty lot, aren’t you?”

“
Bloodthirsty
?” Trip said, considering Hollie’s choice of words for a second or two. “Doesn’t have exactly the right ring to it.”

“I’d say
vengeful
,” Norah said, “but it smacks of righteousness and well, my father is a criminal, so I’m not sure how righteous I can be. How about
vindictive
?”

Trip shrugged. “I’ve been known to be vindictive on occasion. So, did she tell you what she wanted after you punched her?”

“Yes. She’s got staying power, and a good amount of self-delusion. She wants us to let her come along so she can film a documentary.”

Trip walked by her into the house, laughing the whole way.

“I think that’s a no, but I appreciate the apology.” And Norah shut the door.

“You don’t really believe she wants to do a documentary,” Trip said when she turned around.

“I think we should take a good long look at the list of safe-deposit box owners and see where Hollie fits in.”

“I’m already on it,” Trip said, taking out his cell phone. “We?”

Norah shrugged. “My father isn’t going to be safe until this thing is settled.”

“So you’re going to tell me where the loot is, right?”

“Do I have any choice?”

HAGGARD, THAT’S HOW SHE SHOULD HAVE
looked after yet another sleepless night, Norah thought, puzzled by the face looking back at her from the bathroom mirror. It was her face, sure enough, but she looked . . . definitely not haggard. There were no bags, for one thing. Her eyes were sort of . . .
sparkling
, she labeled them cautiously. And her skin was definitely brighter. Even her hair, which was usually well-behaved, was unmanageable—in a good way. The bathroom lights picked up the red that normally only made itself apparent in the sunlight, and it was curling, just a little wild, around her ears and at her nape.

And then there was her attitude. She ought to be dreading the next two days, being cooped up in the Escape—ironic—for hours on end with Trip, not to mention there’d be a hotel room involved. That was a lot of alone time with a man who wound her up on so many levels. Yet here she was looking forward to the adventure. The fact that she could even consider it an adventure amazed her.

She’d spent so much time planning her life, and there was a lot of satisfaction in ticking those accomplishments off her list, but that planning took a lot of time and energy, she realized. And it was stressful, agonizing over the goals and the timetable, then fretting about whether or not it was doable, and if she’d made the right decisions. All because it was the rational, stable thing to do. Rational,
hah
.

Who knew she’d have so much fun walking into the unknown, that it wouldn’t matter to her to have people invade her life in strange, and sometimes violent, ways. Heck, that made it even more of an adventure.

“You’re beautiful,” Trip said, appearing in the open bathroom door.

Norah turned to look at him, her heart in her throat.

He was checking his watch.

She turned back, met her own eyes in the mirror, and thought, Of course. What made her pulse stutter was just a toss-off compliment to him, aimed at getting her moving. Just like that, her mood went from optimism to cynicism. She was going on an adventure all right, a real-life treasure hunt, complete with people who’d do whatever was necessary to get a piece of it. Unfortunately one of those people was Trip Jones. Working for the FBI didn’t make him a hero. In her world, it meant just the oppo—

She jumped, heart pounding, slapping her hands over her ears as the house filled with the deafening
whoop-whoop-whoop
of a siren, lights flashing, just like red alert on a submarine. All that was missing was a sweaty Matthew McConaughey shouting, “
Dive
.”

Trip made a more than adequate replacement for Matthew, not sweaty and not shouting, but the visual was better, as far as Norah was concerned, and his reaction reflected hers, swearing under his breath and tromping down the stairs.

She grabbed her jacket and raced after him, freaked as much by the siren as by what it announced. She ought to be used to the idea that people kept trying to break into her house, but it never seemed to get old, and Trip, like it or not, represented safety.

“That friend of yours takes his work seriously,” she said when the cacophony died down.

“All I wanted him to do was scare off intruders,” Trip grumbled.

“Maybe he was worried about some of them being hearing impaired.”

“We’re going to be hearing impaired. And sleep-deprived.”

“It’s better than dead.”

“You really have no faith in my abilities, do you?”

“Ask me that question again after we find the loot, and people are
really
trying to kill me.”

“Whoever it was is gone.” He opened the door, set the alarm, and shooed her out, barely waiting for her to collect her purse, scarf, and gloves.

“Finding the loot will get you out of danger.”

He started down the steps, still talking. Norah stayed where she was, and all she heard was blah, blah, blah because there, sitting at the curb, was a Harley-Davidson. The most amazing Harley she’d ever seen—not the Hog kind of Harley with the long front fork and the Biker Mama jump seat. This motorcycle was trim and sleek and powerful-looking, jet black, including the wheels and exhaust, and definitely built for speed and performance.

“We’re going on that?” she asked Trip.

“Give me a chance to explain,” he said, misunderstanding the awe in her question for fear, probably because her voice had cracked when the word ADVENTURE flashed across her mind again, this time in big, yellow, Indiana Jones-style lettering.

She wasn’t about to disabuse him. It would be embarrassing, for one thing, and she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d just made her day. She took her eyes off the bike so she didn’t drool, and walked down the steps, saying, as casually as she could manage, “Now I know why you asked me if I had a leather coat.”

He looked at the fitted hip-length jacket in her hand. “That’s not a leather coat, that’s a fashion statement for an art gallery opening.”

He, on the other hand, had on a scarred bomber with a sheepskin collar. They were both wearing jeans and boots. Hers had set her back almost a week’s salary. She would have gladly traded them for his beat-up and broken-in black motorcycle boots.

“I’m going to freeze my backside off,” she said.

“It’s warm today, and you’re wearing a sweater thick enough to qualify you for honorary sheephood. You’ll be fine.” He opened the gate and gestured her through.