kitchen. What was the matter with him, anyway? She doled out a grudging halfhearted thanks with an eyedropper, and he was reacting as if she'd kissed his feet in gratitude.
* * *
THE MAN MUST BE SOME kind of Neanderthal. It was obvious, because he didn't own a hair dryer. And his shampoo had been that practical kind with the conditioner already mixed in. He was definitely primitive. And big. His sweatpants and shirt positively hung on her.
But he'd been kind to Baxter, and that meant something. Even though she knew perfectly well it was more than likely all for show. An act to get what he wanted, win her trust and then stab her in the back, or get her into his bed and then stab her in the back, or whatever. They always wanted something.
Still, at least he made an effort to appear to be...kind of sweet. Maybe even a little shy. The way he'd stuttered and stammered when she'd walked out of the bathroom in a towel. It was far from the wolf whistles she'd come to expect from men when they saw her in various states of undress.
He'd seemed dumbstruck. Stood there with his soft brown hair and his baby-blue eyes and just stared at her.
So he was at least making an effort. It was a good job, too. She almost believed it was real.
She tugged a brush through her hair, wincing with every pull. And the whole time, her stomach was growling at the smell of the food Baxter was wolfing down in the bedroom.
Lifting her gaze to the bathroom mirror, she gave up on the hair, pulling it back into a ponytail. She did not have hair that was conducive to ponytails, she decided, as strand after curling strand escaped the confines of the pink hair tie she'd found in her purse.
Okay, fine. There was no hope for the hair, but at least she could do something about her face. She picked up Rosebud's big bag. She'd already taken her own smaller purse from inside it. Now she dumped the rest of the contents out onto the big countertop beside the bathroom sink...and stopped dead as the black revolver clunked heavily onto the tiny blue ceramic tiles.
Her throat went dry. She glanced toward the bedroom. Baxter was still engrossed in the TV program and the meal, so she pushed the door closed just a little more and carefully picked up the handgun. She wasn't familiar with guns or the way they worked, so it took her a moment to find the catch that released the round cylinder, allowing it to flip outward. There were bullets in each of the six small holes.
"Loaded," she whispered. "Damn you, Rosebud, how could you have kept a loaded gun so close to my baby?" She quickly pulled the bullets out, one by one, holding the bunch of them in her palm. She didn't like guns. She was against them, thought they should be banned, for heaven's sake. But she wasn't about to give this one up. Not while Leo and his sleazy murdering friend, the dirty cop, might still be hunting her. Maybe if it were her alone they wanted—but it wasn't. They wanted Baxter. And she would fight to the death and burn every last principle she had for her little boy. Still, she would have to be very careful with this.
She found a small bottle of pain reliever among the articles that had spilled out of the bag and snatched it up, pouring the tablets into the toilet. Then she put the bullets into the bottle and capped it. Childproof cover. Good. She zipped the bottle into a small compartment in the big bag. Then she put the revolver into her own smaller purse.
"Mommy, can't we go downstairs yet?"
She glanced at the makeup scattered all over the counter and sighed in defeat. It just wasn't going to happen this morning. And it didn't matter, anyway. Hell, no one would recognize her looking the way she looked today. Like some fresh-faced farm girl in desperate need of her first trip to the salon. Maybe it was for the best. Holding Rosebud's bag at the edge, she scooped everything back into it and hung it on a peg in the wall. "I'm coming, baby."
She took her son's hand and led him out into the
* * *
THE MAN MUST BE SOME kind of Neanderthal. It was obvious, because he didn't own a hair dryer. And his shampoo had been that practical kind with the conditioner already mixed in. He was definitely primitive. And big. His sweatpants and shirt positively hung on her.
But he'd been kind to Baxter, and that meant something. Even though she knew perfectly well it was more than likely all for show. An act to get what he wanted, win her trust and then stab her in the back, or get her into his bed and then stab her in the back, or whatever. They always wanted something.
Still, at least he made an effort to appear to be...kind of sweet. Maybe even a little shy. The way he'd stuttered and stammered when she'd walked out of the bathroom in a towel. It was far from the wolf whistles she'd come to expect from men when they saw her in various states of undress.
He'd seemed dumbstruck. Stood there with his soft brown hair and his baby-blue eyes and just stared at her.
So he was at least making an effort. It was a good job, too. She almost believed it was real.
She tugged a brush through her hair, wincing with every pull. And the whole time, her stomach was growling at the smell of the food Baxter was wolfing down in the bedroom.
Lifting her gaze to the bathroom mirror, she gave up on the hair, pulling it back into a ponytail. She did not have hair that was conducive to ponytails, she decided, as strand after curling strand escaped the confines of the pink hair tie she'd found in her purse.
Okay, fine. There was no hope for the hair, but at least she could do something about her face. She picked up Rosebud's big bag. She'd already taken her own smaller purse from inside it. Now she dumped the rest of the contents out onto the big countertop beside the bathroom sink...and stopped dead as the black revolver clunked heavily onto the tiny blue ceramic tiles.
Her throat went dry. She glanced toward the bedroom. Baxter was still engrossed in the TV program and the meal, so she pushed the door closed just a little more and carefully picked up the handgun. She wasn't familiar with guns or the way they worked, so it took her a moment to find the catch that released the round cylinder, allowing it to flip outward. There were bullets in each of the six small holes.
"Loaded," she whispered. "Damn you, Rosebud, how could you have kept a loaded gun so close to my baby?" She quickly pulled the bullets out, one by one, holding the bunch of them in her palm. She didn't like guns. She was against them, thought they should be banned, for heaven's sake. But she wasn't about to give this one up. Not while Leo and his sleazy murdering friend, the dirty cop, might still be hunting her. Maybe if it were her alone they wanted—but it wasn't. They wanted Baxter. And she would fight to the death and burn every last principle she had for her little boy. Still, she would have to be very careful with this.
She found a small bottle of pain reliever among the articles that had spilled out of the bag and snatched it up, pouring the tablets into the toilet. Then she put the bullets into the bottle and capped it. Childproof cover. Good. She zipped the bottle into a small compartment in the big bag. Then she put the revolver into her own smaller purse.
"Mommy, can't we go downstairs yet?"
She glanced at the makeup scattered all over the counter and sighed in defeat. It just wasn't going to happen this morning. And it didn't matter, anyway. Hell, no one would recognize her looking the way she looked today. Like some fresh-faced farm girl in desperate need of her first trip to the salon. Maybe it was for the best. Holding Rosebud's bag at the edge, she scooped everything back into it and hung it on a peg in the wall. "I'm coming, baby."
She took her son's hand and led him out into the
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