Worth the Trip (15 page)

“I’m going,” Hollie grumbled, beating Norah across the room.

Norah dawdled in the restroom, combing her hair, straightening her clothes, brushing imaginary lint from her sweater. She had no idea what Trip was up to, but she figured it would take some time.

When they returned, though, he was sitting in the exact same place they’d left him, in exactly the same position. When the captain announced they’d be docking, Trip sat up, that little smirk returning to his face.

Norah frowned at him, but he only popped up an eyebrow as the ship slowed drastically and there was a bunch of banging around down below, along with shouts from the crew.

“What the hell?” Hollie jumped to her feet, going for one of the life preservers stowed under her seat and taking it to the nearest steward.

Norah stayed where she was. “What did you do?” she asked Trip quietly.

“I don’t think Hollie is going to be a nuisance,” was his response, “at least not for a little while.”

The nuisance in question came back. “Some of the cars came loose, and they’re bashing into the other ones,” she said, giving Trip an accusatory stare. “It’s a mess.”

“That’s terrible,” Trip said.

“Hmmmm . . . I’m getting the impression you have a different role in Norah’s life than boyfriend.”

“Why? Wouldn’t you want your boyfriend to protect you from stalkers?”

Hollie didn’t take the bait. “I’d also be willing to bet my BMW is one of the vehicles rolling around down there, but your bike is perfectly fine.”

“There are some nice casinos in Michigan,” Trip observed, “since you like to gamble so much.”

“Is that a commentary on my chances of following you?”

“I’ll bet you’re going to have some time on your hands.”

“We’ll see,” Hollie said and took off.

“Are you crazy?” Norah asked him when Hollie was out of earshot. “Someone could have been hurt.”

“They never let anyone in with the vehicles when they dock for just this reason,” Trip said. “Besides, I only unhooked a few of them, and I made sure there are secured vehicles all around the loose ones.”

Norah sat back. “I’m still not happy about this, but there’s a little part of me that wishes I’d thought of it.”

“There may be hope for you yet,” Trip said, grinning.

“Not if I turn into my father.”

He shrugged. “It could be worse.”

Norah looked at him and thought, It already is.

THE CITY OF MUSKEGON OCCUPIED A STRETCH
of Michigan coast where its namesake river met its state’s namesake lake. It had sent fur pelts across the ocean to Europe, tank engines to fight world wars, and wood to help rebuild Chicago after the great fire of 1871. It had lived a brief but successful life as an oil boom town. To Trip it was just a jumping-off place for what he hoped was the last leg on his race to lunacy.

Race
, however, was a very loose term. Nobody was following them—and it would have been obvious since the rural, northern Michigan roads were pretty deserted—but Trip felt a sense of urgency to finish the op and get away from Norah. To get away from himself, he admitted, from the warm, comfortable way it felt to have her arms around his waist and her body pressed against his back, the way her voice in his ear made him smile one minute and want her the next. She was a means to an end, he reminded himself. She knew it, so why did he have trouble remembering the score?

The answer, of course, was obvious. She was pressed against his back, her hands firm on his belly, and her voice sounded in his ear, soft and relaxed. And he seemed to have a finite amount of resistance where she was concerned. It was a dangerous combination.

The solution was just as obvious, he thought, pouring on the gas. They made it to Ludington, seventy-five miles north of Muskegon, Trip fighting like hell to remember Norah angry and verbally abusive instead of
oohing
and
aahing
like her pleasure came from a whole different source than the beautiful fall scenery.

By the time they got to Petoskey, another two hundred and fifty miles, the parts of Trip that weren’t numb from the cold were on fire. Night had fallen hours before, it was pitch-black, and Trip had a mean case of blue balls. He wasn’t looking for a place to stay, though. Not yet. He figured they’d stop late and get up early. The less time they spent in a room with a bed the better.

According to the research Trip had done the night before after Norah had finally come clean about their destination, they had two choices from Petoskey. Mackinac City or one of the smaller towns dotted along Lake Michigan’s shore, Cross Village being the northernmost. They were going to need a boat come morning, and while Mackinac City was the center of tourism for that part of the state, with any number of charter companies, large and small, it would also be the logical destination for anyone on their trail. Hollie, for instance.

In the end he opted for Cross Village. Sure, it was small, and a small town was hard to disappear in, but it had that unexpected angle, and it turned out to be another hour past Petoskey. Less time in a motel room, alone, just him and Norah. And that bed.

Reluctantly, he headed for the VACANCY sign he spied on the far side of Cross Village. When he found it he could see why. The place was all but deserted, and he was including animal and insect life. The Cross Inn had passed run-down at least two decades ago and was fighting off
derelict
with its last gasping breath. It was also the only motel around. The downside of choosing small town America.

“Do you think it’s safe here?” Norah asked, taking her helmet off and leaning even closer.

No.
“Perfectly.”

“Then I should have my own room.”

Great, she was feeling it, too.
“No.”

“But—”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.” The trick would be to keep his hands off her. It didn’t help knowing she was worried about spending the night in the same room with him, and it didn’t help that she wasn’t arguing more. “No objection?”

“I’m freezing. I just want to get warm.”

Trip chose not to think of the ways he could help with that. He went into the office and made the arrangements, then walked down the row of rooms until he found their door about halfway between the office and the end of the building.

The last time they’d stopped for gas there’d been a sandwich shop at the gas station. Trip had picked up dinner, but even though it had been hours since lunch, Norah didn’t even look at it. She rubbed her arms and paced the room while he fired up the wall heater, keeping her coat on until some of the chill was off the air. She hadn’t complained about the cold at all, but he realized now that she’d stopped talking entirely a couple of hours before.

“You should have told me you were freezing,” he said.

“I figured the temperature was no surprise to you.”

“Sarcasm works better when your teeth aren’t chattering.”

“Are you kidding? The chattering is how I knew I was alive for the last two hours.”

Trip rolled his eyes and stripped off her coat, wrapping her in a blanket from the bed.

“I’m all right,” Norah protested, and when he began to chafe her arms anyway, she tried to shove him off, just as he stepped back. She tipped forward, off balance, heading for a face-plant with her arms trapped in the blanket.

Trip caught her and hauled her against him, including her mouth, since it was right there. Her lips warmed beneath his, softened as she gave a breathless murmur and sank into the kiss. Her body relaxed against his . . .

Just as a knock sounded at the door. Norah stumbled back, fighting one arm free to press trembling fingers to her lips as she turned away.

Swearing under his breath, Trip went to answer the door. He turned back, the tray the manager handed him enough to kill the awkwardness. Norah dropped her blanket and flew across the room, wrapping both hands around one of the steaming mugs.

She took a sip, groaning with pleasure. “Chicken noodle,” she said, adding, “thank you,” with enough surprise to piss Trip off.

“Replaced by a mug of soup,” he said, going for levity and not quite pulling it off, judging by the searching look she sent him.

Her phone chimed, saving him from the question she’d been about to ask. One he wouldn’t be able to answer without lying, and she’d probably see through that, too, which irritated him all the more. It was bad enough to be stuck with a civilian, let alone a woman, on a dangerous op. Why the hell did he have to get saddled with a psychologist who’d just happened to grow up in con artist boot camp? Not only did she see through whatever spin he tried to put on the situation, she knew why he did it better than he did. Hell, the woman was practically walking around in his brain. He didn’t want her in his brain, or anywhere else, for that matter. She was trouble, plain and simple, and he needed to stop letting his emotions run away with him. So it stung that she thought he’d ignore her discomfort, not to mention the fact that she didn’t complain once, just hung in there like a real trooper. It would only bother him if he let it, and at the moment it was distracting him from a conversation he ought to be listening in on.

Norah had gone to the other side of the room with her phone and her mug of soup. Trip ambled over, surprised when she said, “Wait a minute, Raymond,” and put the phone against her shoulder to block the sound.

Raymond Kline was no threat. He should have walked away, but damn it, he wanted to know why she was talking to her ex-boyfriend. “Put the call on speaker,” he said, no-expression, including his eyes, which she studied for a second before she said, “You want to listen in? Because you don’t trust me?”

“Because it might mean something, and you have to filter the conversation through the relationship. I don’t.”

She shrugged and did as he’d requested. “Hello, Raymond? I’m back.”

“You sound funny.”

“I have you on speaker phone.”

“Oh.” There was a pause while he wondered who else was listening and came to the conclusion it was Trip. From the sound of his voice wasn’t happy about it. “I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”

“And?”

“And you didn’t leave a lesson plan,” he said, sounding put out.

“You told me to stay off campus until this business with my father is settled.”

“I could come over and pick it up. I’ve got this bottle of wine, from a rather new vineyard in Michigan, but it’s quite good, and I’ve been wanting to get your opinion.”

“I’m not home.”

Another slight pause, then, “Where are you?”

“None of your business.”

“Looking for the loot?”

Norah met Trip’s eyes.

“I see,” Raymond said when he’d concluded neither of them was going to answer. “So we’re not even friends now.”

“Guilt isn’t going to work,” Norah said.

“You’re still angry. You’re punishing me for putting you on sabbatical.”

“I won’t be put on the defensive either. Honestly, Raymond, this isn’t about you. I’m still hoping I have a job, but I understand why you did what you did, and I’m sure I’ll be fine either way.” And she sounded surprised enough, Trip decided, to really mean that. “I have my practice and my writing—”

“Now, Norah, of course you have a job here.” He paused for effect, Norah feeling no need to fill the silence. “If you still want one.”

“We’ll talk about that later, all right?”

“Really, Norah, the board wants you to come back, and of course, so do I, but at the moment I’m worried about you. Please tell me where you are.”

“I’m perfectly safe, Raymond.”

“But—”

“I have to go, Raymond, my dinner is getting cold.” And she disconnected.

“You played that well,” Trip said.

“I didn’t play anything,” she said, and she was looking him straight in the eye. “It just occurred to me that I don’t need that job as much as I think I do, and I won’t be an emotional hostage. I’ve been supporting myself since I was a teenager, and I have a lot more options now than I had then.”

Trip crossed the room to pick up his sub, but really he was mulling the change in Norah. Somewhere between Chicago and the middle of nowhere she’d done some thinking, and some concluding, which could be really good. Or it could be trouble. “A lot of people are suddenly interested in your whereabouts,” he said, deciding to concentrate on the op, where he had some control. Or so he told himself.

“I noticed that,” Norah said, “but if you’re talking about Myra, you can relax, or stand down, or at ease, or whatever FBI agents do.”

“I’m undercover. It depends on the situation.” And since the situation involved Norah,
at ease
was not an option.

“Myra is my agent and my friend. She’s just worried about me because you showed up out of the blue and she doesn’t have any idea who you are.”

“It didn’t seem to bother her when we met.”

“That’s because she saw you and, well, you’re you.”

Trip grinned. Her directness had its perks at times.

“Ted Bundy,” she said, and he lost his grin because Ted Bundy was good-looking and smooth and seemingly harmless, right up to the moment he became a murderer.

“Once you were gone she remembered that you’re a stranger,” Norah continued on the subject of Myra Newcastle. “And Raymond is only worried about the college. It’s all he cares about.”

“Then he’s an idiot,” Trip said, turning to unwrap his sub because her eyes were already on his face.

He glanced back and knew it was too late. She held his eyes, and there was no confusion in hers, no expectation, either. She’d not only found herself, she’d made some decisions, and he was involved, judging by the way she was looking at him.

Then the look turned hot, and he didn’t give a damn about consequences, because he was across the room, kissing her, his hands framing her face, then slipping around to bury in her hair as the kiss went deeper, wilder. She tasted like chicken soup, salty and hot, scorching when she kissed him back, putting her whole body into it. And it was some body. He found that out firsthand because they were both peeling off clothes as they backpedaled to the bed, and fell on it.