He peered down at her, seemingly bewildered. “Why?”
“Look around. What do you see?”
“Stuff. Too much stuff. All over the place.”
Margo couldn’t help but grin. She’d gotten practically the same response from her uncle when she’d talked him into coming here with her one day. It had been the first and last time he’d done so.
After the cashier rang up her purchases and Margo paid for them, Striker walked her to the car. Like in the store, he studied their surroundings and stuck close to her. Too close for comfort, as far as she was concerned.
He’d told her that her uncle had decided to keep Striker on as her protector for another week. If no additional killings occurred, they would assume the right man was behind bars. She certainly hoped so.
“Can we go someplace for lunch?” she asked him.
Striker shook his head as he pulled out of the parking lot. “No. Quasar is bringing us lunch.”
“He wouldn’t have to if we stopped and grabbed something.”
“No.”
“Why are you being difficult, Striker? What happened to you agreeing to be more flexible? Bend a little?”
“I did bend. You got a trip to that craft store, didn’t you? Don’t push your luck with me, Margo.”
On some days she could ignore his attitude. Today was not going to be one of them. This was her first time out in a week, and she was in no hurry to go back home. “I have a taste for a hamburger.”
“No problem. I’ll have Quasar bring us one.”
“There’s a hamburger place ahead on the right. What harm would it be to stop?”
“I could be placing you in danger. For some reason, you refuse to accept that you still might be.”
How could she not accept it when he was with her practically 24/7? Striker’s presence was a constant reminder of how her peace of mind had been stolen the moment Erickson made his threat at the trial. If at any time she was tempted to downplay the danger, all she had to do was remember those five innocent people whose lives had been taken away from them.
She looked back over at him. “But you will admit they might have the right guy since there haven’t been any more killings?”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Margo. The real assassin could be in hiding somewhere.”
“Until when?”
“Who knows? Personally, I think he’s waiting for the best time to hit again. I’m sure the feds are trying to figure out what orders Erickson gave the assassin. I understand Erickson isn’t talking and the man they arrested is claiming his innocence. Erickson sees this as nothing more than a game to show he’s still in control. People’s lives mean nothing to him.”
“That much was proved during his trial, which is why he got the sentence he did.” Moments later Margo was surprised when Striker pulled the car into the parking lot of the hamburger place she’d told him about. He proceeded to the drive-through lane. She smiled. For the second time that day he had been flexible. Grudgingly or otherwise. “Thanks, Striker. They have the best burgers.”
“So you say.”
*
STRIKER WONDERED IF he needed to have his head examined for giving in to Margo’s request. His only saving grace was that she’d been right. This was the best burger he’d ever eaten. He’d decided to park so they could eat in the car. They were in a good area, and he had a clear view of their surroundings.
Still, sitting here in a parked car with her felt too personal and intimate. Like they were on a date or something, when that definitely was not the case. Hadn’t he given himself a get-real talk this morning that he and Margo would never date? So why was he thinking such things?
Probably because they were here and for the time being they had called a truce. And there was the possibility that if the right guy was in police custody, then his days with Margo were numbered. More than anything, even if it was for just a short while, he wanted to get to know whatever he could about her. He wasn’t sure why that was important to him; he just knew it was.
Striker had a feeling that if he didn’t take advantage of the time now, he would one day see it as a missed opportunity. One he would regret.
With that thought in mind, he decided to get the conversation going by asking, “How did you find out about this place?”
She looked at him. “Uncle Frazier. Once in a while he loses the shirt, tie and Armani suits and replaces them with regular duds and lives like the rest of us.”
Like the rest of us? Had she forgotten she was practically an heiress? “So the two of you come here often?”
“A few times but not often. We haven’t done anything together since he hooked up with Liz.”
Striker recalled the woman’s name from when it had come up before. It had been during a conversation she’d had with her uncle that first day. He’d picked up then the same thing he was picking up now, that Margo and this Liz person didn’t get along. The dislike in Margo’s voice was obvious. “I gather Liz isn’t one of your favorite people.”
“Hardly. She sees me as a threat.”
“A threat?”
“Yes.” And then as if she’d realized she might have said too much, Margo quickly asked, “What do you think about the fries? Aren’t they delicious?”
“Yes, they’re good,” he said, popping one into his mouth. He had watched her eat and, as usual, had gotten turned on from merely seeing her chew her food. There was something about her mouth that he found so damn desirable.
“It was nice to get out. I almost hate going back.”
He looked over at her. “What happened to you wanting to jump into working on Claudine Bernard’s wedding gown?”
“I’m sure that even you would admit getting out of the house for a while is a relief.”
He would have to agree it was nice. Cabin fever was the pits, especially when his mind was centered on lust.
“So, Striker, what do you enjoy doing in your spare time when you’re not working? Any hobbies?”
“No hobbies, although I love taking my bike out.”
“Bike as in motorcycle?”
“Yes. I have a Harley.”
“Ride it often?”
“Every chance I get.” No need to tell her that on a day like this he would have ridden it on a long stretch of highway, loving the feel of the wind whipping his face.
Margo removed her sweater, and the blouse she was wearing showed a lot of her cleavage. He could tell she had firm breasts. The kind he would just love to press his face in the middle of before swiping his tongue across the nipples.
Once he had agreed to take her to that craft store, she had raced upstairs and changed her shoes to a pair of boots. They complemented her outfit. They complemented her. She complemented them. He doubted there was an outfit that she didn’t look good in.
“Why don’t you like the name Lamar?”
He shifted his gaze from her chest to her face. There was nothing in her expression to denote she had noticed his interest in her breasts. “What makes you think I don’t?”
“You said so. Were you lying when you said it?”
“No.” He then took a sip of his iced tea.
“Well then, why don’t you like it? I think it’s a nice name.”
Striker watched while she sipped more of her milk shake and had to shift in his seat to relieve the pressure of his erection against his zipper.
“Well?” she asked, licking her lips as if she was enjoying her milk shake and was oblivious to all that lust torpedoing through his body.
“Well, what?”
“What’s wrong with the name?”
Wasn’t it his plan to be the one asking the questions? To appease his curiosity and use this opportunity to find out more about her? Then how had she turned things around on him and asked him about his hobbies and now about his name? Was there ever a time she thought that perhaps she asked too many questions? Apparently not.
“I don’t like the name because Lamar was also my father’s name,” he finally said.