Dagne leaned forward so that she was practically in the front seat and looked Flynn straight in the eye. “Vanilla,” she whispered loudly.
“Sweet Fanny Adams,” Flynn said with a groan.
“Jesus, woman, do you mind?” Joe snapped, and the two of them went right back to arguing again.
It was almost more than a man could endure, and Flynn was entirely grateful when the plane landed in Savannah at long last, and he could at least put some distance—if only a foot or two—between him and his two traveling companions.
Naturally, the arguing continued in the car they hired. Flynn tried to distract himself with the business of actually driving to Hilton Head Island, while Joe and Dagne went round and round about directions, or whether or not she really needed to stop at a loo, or which of them was actually doing the most talking, et cetera . . . Flynn lost track of their nonsense somewhere between Georgia and South Carolina.
When they at last passed over the causeway to Hilton Head, Flynn pulled into a petrol station and went inside, purchased a map of the island. As he handed the woman behind the counter his money, she smiled sympathetically. “Hon, you look like you could use a good belt.”
She had absolutely no idea.
In the car again, Flynn opened the map. Joe was instantly leaning over to see it, and Dagne, from her perch in the backseat, was hanging like she was suspended from the car ceiling over his shoulder.
“She said the lighthouse, somewhere near the lighthouse,” she repeated helpfully.
“So what, we’re supposed to go hang out at some lighthouse?” Joe asked, yawning again.
“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” Flynn said, “we’ll just go have a look about and perhaps find a good nosh up.”
Both Joe and Dagne looked at him as if he were speaking Greek. “Dude, you must be tired!” Joe said with a grin. “You’re not making sense.”
Flynn rolled his eyes and drove on, Dagne still hanging over his shoulder like a very chummy mutt.
Now Rachel was furious with Myron for making her wait so long. It was almost noon. It was so like him, so inconsiderate and selfish—she’d gotten up twice now to walk around and put some circulation in her legs. Between thoughts of disemboweling him to being furious that he might be sleeping somewhere while she stood vigil had turned her into a bundle of very bitchy nerves.
On her second stand up and walk around, she saw someone through a café window that looked an awful lot like Dagne. That at least made her scoff out loud—she was losing her mind if she thought Dagne was on Hilton Head. But it did remind her she should call, and she walked to a pay phone, just on the edge of a row of buildings and the outdoor seating she was using as a stakeout.
She put in all the quarters she had, dialed Dagne’s line, but no one answered. Honestly, she wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Dagne had up and gone home to Philadelphia, just in case someone came around asking about the Badger painting, and dear God, she hoped Dagne remembered to take the painting with her rather than leaving it lying around her apartment.
With a sigh, she put the receiver down. She leaned over, picked up her bag and hoisted it onto her shoulder, was starting in the direction of the outdoor seating—and saw Myron waltzing through the main concourse. What the hell . . . he was whistling. Strolling through the small crowd, hands in pockets, whistling!
That. Bastard. Not only was he a thief and a liar and a cheat, he was actually enjoying himself!
She didn’t even think; she took a long step forward, prepared to march through the crowd and intercept him, then deck him—but someone caught her arm, and as she tried to shake the hand off and twist around to see who it was, a hand clamped over her mouth, an arm went around her waist, and she felt herself being yanked back into the alley space next to the building like a sack of potatoes.
She knew instantly whose hard chest she was up against—she could smell his cologne. And she began to struggle with him, trying to free herself and turn around at the same time. But Flynn’s arm was like a vise around her, and his legs, which she knew to be powerful, thank you, were pinning hers together.
“Hush, love,” he whispered, dragging her deeper into the little alley. “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you keep this up. Hush now, and listen to—ouch!” he exclaimed, sucking his breath in through his teeth at her heel to his instep. He let go just enough for her to twist around, but he quickly caught her and pinned her up against the brick wall. “There is no call for that. Listen to me, Rachel—we’re going to nab your Myron, you have my word, but you really must cooperate!”