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Authors: Iris Johansen
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thirty, and dressed in jeans and a checked shirt that reflected the blue of his eyes.
“Good enough. Gil Price, Eve Duncan.”
Gil shook her hand. “The bone lady. I saw your picture on
60 Minutes
. You're prettier in person. They should have concentrated on you instead of on that skull.”
“Thank you, but I had no desire to appear on national television. I've had enough of cameras in my life.”
“John doesn't like cameras either. I had to break one last year in Paris.” He grimaced. “And then John had to settle out of court with the bastard who claimed I'd broken his head instead of his camera. I hate paparazzi.”
“Well, the paparazzi don't usually trail me around, so you won't have that problem.”
“I will if you hang around with John.” He opened the back door. “Hop in and I'll get you to Barrett House PDQ.”
“Barrett House? It sounds very Dickens.”
“Nope, it used to be an inn during the Civil War. John bought it last year and had it completely remodeled.”
“Has Margaret arrived?” Logan asked as he followed Eve into the car.
“Two hours ago and crabby as hell. I'm charging you hazard pay for that pickup.” Gil jumped into the driver's seat. “I can't understand it. How can she not love me? Everyone loves me.”
“It must be a flaw in her character,” Logan said. “It certainly couldn't be because there's anything wrong with you.”
“My thought exactly.” Gil started the car and flicked on the CD player. The limo was immediately filled with the doleful strains of “Feed Jake.”
“The window, Gil,” Logan said.
“Oh, right.” He grinned over his shoulder at Eve. “John used to have a Jeep, but he can't stand country music so he got this hearse so he could have a privacy window.”
“I like country,” Logan said. “I just can't stand those songs of woe you hug to your bosom. Blood-stained wedding gowns, dogs at grave sites . . .”
“That's because you're full of mush and you don't like to show it. Do you think I haven't seen your eyes water? Now, take ‘Feed Jake.' It's a—”
“You take it. The window.”
“Okay.” The window glided up soundlessly and the music faded out.
“I hope you don't mind,” Logan said.
“No, I have trouble with sad songs. But I can't imagine you crying in your beer over one.”
He shrugged. “I'm human. Those country-song writers know exactly how to hit you.”
Her gaze shifted to the back of Gil's head. “He's nice. Not exactly what I expected in one of your employees.”
“Gil's not what anyone expects, but he's a good driver.”
“And bodyguard?”
“That too. He used to be in the Air Force Military Police, but he doesn't respond well to discipline.”
“Do you?”
“No, but I usually try to work my way around it instead of punching people out.” He gestured out the side window. “We'll be on my land in a few minutes. It's pretty country with lots of woods and meadows.”
“I suppose so.” It was too dark to see more than shadowy trees. She was still absorbed with the comparison Logan had made between himself and Price. “And what do you do when you can't work around anyone who tries to discipline you?”
“Why, punch them out.” He smiled. “That's why Gil and I get along. We're soul mates.” They turned a curve in the road, and a twelve-foot-tall elaborate wrought-iron fence loomed before them.
She watched Gil press a control on the dashboard, and the gates swung slowly open.
“Is the fence electrified too?” she asked.
He nodded. “And I have a security man monitoring the grounds by video camera from the carriage house.”
She felt a sudden chill. “Very high-tech. I want my own remote to open those gates.”
He looked at her.
“Gates that keep people out can also keep them in. I don't like the idea of being in a cage.”
“I'm not trying to keep you prisoner, Eve.”
“No, not if you can get what you want any other way. But what if you can't?”
“I can't force you to
“Good enough. Gil Price, Eve Duncan.”
Gil shook her hand. “The bone lady. I saw your picture on
60 Minutes
. You're prettier in person. They should have concentrated on you instead of on that skull.”
“Thank you, but I had no desire to appear on national television. I've had enough of cameras in my life.”
“John doesn't like cameras either. I had to break one last year in Paris.” He grimaced. “And then John had to settle out of court with the bastard who claimed I'd broken his head instead of his camera. I hate paparazzi.”
“Well, the paparazzi don't usually trail me around, so you won't have that problem.”
“I will if you hang around with John.” He opened the back door. “Hop in and I'll get you to Barrett House PDQ.”
“Barrett House? It sounds very Dickens.”
“Nope, it used to be an inn during the Civil War. John bought it last year and had it completely remodeled.”
“Has Margaret arrived?” Logan asked as he followed Eve into the car.
“Two hours ago and crabby as hell. I'm charging you hazard pay for that pickup.” Gil jumped into the driver's seat. “I can't understand it. How can she not love me? Everyone loves me.”
“It must be a flaw in her character,” Logan said. “It certainly couldn't be because there's anything wrong with you.”
“My thought exactly.” Gil started the car and flicked on the CD player. The limo was immediately filled with the doleful strains of “Feed Jake.”
“The window, Gil,” Logan said.
“Oh, right.” He grinned over his shoulder at Eve. “John used to have a Jeep, but he can't stand country music so he got this hearse so he could have a privacy window.”
“I like country,” Logan said. “I just can't stand those songs of woe you hug to your bosom. Blood-stained wedding gowns, dogs at grave sites . . .”
“That's because you're full of mush and you don't like to show it. Do you think I haven't seen your eyes water? Now, take ‘Feed Jake.' It's a—”
“You take it. The window.”
“Okay.” The window glided up soundlessly and the music faded out.
“I hope you don't mind,” Logan said.
“No, I have trouble with sad songs. But I can't imagine you crying in your beer over one.”
He shrugged. “I'm human. Those country-song writers know exactly how to hit you.”
Her gaze shifted to the back of Gil's head. “He's nice. Not exactly what I expected in one of your employees.”
“Gil's not what anyone expects, but he's a good driver.”
“And bodyguard?”
“That too. He used to be in the Air Force Military Police, but he doesn't respond well to discipline.”
“Do you?”
“No, but I usually try to work my way around it instead of punching people out.” He gestured out the side window. “We'll be on my land in a few minutes. It's pretty country with lots of woods and meadows.”
“I suppose so.” It was too dark to see more than shadowy trees. She was still absorbed with the comparison Logan had made between himself and Price. “And what do you do when you can't work around anyone who tries to discipline you?”
“Why, punch them out.” He smiled. “That's why Gil and I get along. We're soul mates.” They turned a curve in the road, and a twelve-foot-tall elaborate wrought-iron fence loomed before them.
She watched Gil press a control on the dashboard, and the gates swung slowly open.
“Is the fence electrified too?” she asked.
He nodded. “And I have a security man monitoring the grounds by video camera from the carriage house.”
She felt a sudden chill. “Very high-tech. I want my own remote to open those gates.”
He looked at her.
“Gates that keep people out can also keep them in. I don't like the idea of being in a cage.”
“I'm not trying to keep you prisoner, Eve.”
“No, not if you can get what you want any other way. But what if you can't?”
“I can't force you to
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