She reached Houston after midnight, but she was too keyed up to return to her empty house, especially now, when she was so desperately in need of someone to say she was not a horrible person, that her dad did love her, that she meant something to him. And as there was no one at her home to do that, she went instead to her office and made a pot of decaf.
She toyed briefly with the idea of calling Evan, but dismissed the notion quickly. (And what exactly did Dad mean, running from Evan? Had Evan said that?) Robin flipped on her computer—there were a dozen new messages since this morning, all of which she bypassed, and went directly to the company’s database. As painful as it was, she looked to see how much the rate she had quoted Darren would have undercut CSOT. The two companies, Atlantic and CSOT, had the same distribution lanes, the same class freight, almost the same ports. Yep, she was quoting a couple of cents cheaper per pound to Atlantic. She’d calculated it down to the bare bones trying to land the big fish and had never once thought of CSOT.
Dad was right. She was arrogant. And stupid.
Robin turned off the computer. The ache in her heart had spread to her head, and now, everything hurt. She loved her father, there was no question of that, and she desperately wanted to please him, she never wanted to lose him, but God, she couldn’t seem to do anything right. The more she thought of the things he had said, the more confused and indignant she became until she could no longer think straight. At two in the morning, with a blinding headache that had turned her mind to mush, she decided to go home and try to sleep.
Robin reached for her bag, plunged her hand inside, rooted around for her keys. When she did not immediately find them, she dumped the contents of her purse onto the desk. She proceeded to sort through lipsticks, change purse, business card holder, passport, cell phone, allergy pills, an old condom (very old), until she found them. Keys firmly in hand, she slung the bag over her shoulder and marched out of the office.
The night was warm and muggy, and she rolled down her windows, letting the moist air sweep over her as she made her way toward Loop 610. With the rhythm of rock and roll pounding out over the stereo, she picked up speed, floating around big rigs and old pickups as she went from lane to lane, her car almost driving for her.
The blue-and-red-lights behind her startled her; with a gasp, Robin sat up, looked at the speedometer, and groaned. She was only doing seventy-five, give or take—what, was this one of those end-of-month quota things to generate a little extra revenue for the police ball? She coasted onto the shoulder, put her car in park, and watched her side-view mirror as the police officer cautiously approached her, one hand on his gun, staying close to the side of her car.
He paused just outside her peripheral vision and leaned over, peered inside. “Good evening, ma’am. Late night?”
“Seeing as how it is two-fifteen A.M., I guess so,” she said irritably and abruptly sat up.
The officer stepped back and grasped the butt of his gun. “I clocked you doing eighty-three in sixty-five. Is there an emergency?”
Apparently, it was a slow night in Houston. “Look at everyone else out there!” she said sharply, gesturing wildly to the traffic on the loop that was speeding by them in case he hadn’t noticed. “Like I am the only one going a little over the speed limit?”
“You were also weaving in and out of traffic. Have you been drinking tonight?”
Oh, if only! Robin gripped the steering wheel and tried to keep check on the explosion she felt building. “No, I have not been drinking. I have been at work.”
The officer peered at her. “You haven’t had anything to drink?” he asked skeptically.
“No! So if you are through interrogating me, I would like to go home. It’s late, I’m tired.”
“I need to see some ID.”
“So, what, you’re going to check me out against your most-wanted files now? Well, be careful, because I am definitely an ax murderer,” she snapped and jerked her purse up, reached inside for her wallet . . . but could not find it. With a sigh of exasperation, she turned the purse upside down and let the contents fall onto the passenger seat.
It wasn’t there.
In a moment of sheer panic, she realized she had left her wallet on her desk. “Oh shit,” she muttered beneath her breath, felt her pulse jump a notch or two, and turned to look into the blinding light of the officer’s flashlight. “You’re not going to believe this—”
“You wanna step out of the car?”
The panic filled her throat. “I don’t need to get out of the car. This is really ridiculous, sir. I left my wallet in my office, and it had my license and registration—”
The officer opened her door. “Step out of the car. Now.”