She crossed her arms over her breasts, thankfully blocking his view for a little while, and gave him the most bullheaded look he’d ever seen in his life. Considering the family he came from, that was saying something. “Here’s the deal. We need to be at O’Hare by ten in the morning. So you’ll need to pick me up by eight, just to be sure. Rush-hour traffic, you know.” She marched back over to her desk, rooting around for a second and coming up with an envelope with a big “EJ”—Explorer’s Journey—logo on the outside. “The instructions are in here about what to pack.”
“Where exactly—” he began, but she cut him off, yanking out a sheet of paper and handing it over.
“I’ll give you the ticket and the rest of the details in the morning. Oh, and be sure to leave the gun at home. They won’t let you keep it, anyway. Bad karma.”
“It varies from state to state whether I could bring it, and since I don’t know where…” He gave her a wary look, not at all liking how this was starting to sound. Did she say karma?
This was not turning out well. There was something very screwy about Zoë Kidd. Cute, pushy and screwy. His least favorite kind of woman.
And he sure as heck didn’t want to be stuck with her all the way to wherever it was they were going. He sent her one more glance, noting that she was smiling, which was pretty frightening. Shaking his head, Jake turned to leave.
“See you tomorrow, partner,” she called out.
“We’re not partners,” he shot back. “We’re going on the same tour. But separately. Got it?”
She just kept beaming at him. “We can sort it out tomorrow.”
Jake strode through the door without looking back. Let her have her small victories tonight. Once she handed over his ticket in the morning, there was nothing she could do to him.
“If she insists on tagging along,” he said under his breath, “it’s not like we’ll be attached at the hip. I’ll stay as far away as possible.”
“Don’t be late!” she yelled behind him.
But he just shook his head and got out of there before Zoë Kidd did any more damage to his psyche.
JAKE WAS SOMEWHAT CHEERED up by the packing list. Please leave valuable jewelry, watches, etc., at home. You won’t need much in the way of clothing, it continued, since we provide all that for you. You may also choose one special item of personal significance, like a stuffed animal or a keepsake. That struck him as fairly goofy, but even goofier was the fact that he already knew what Zoë would bring. It would definitely be that stupid tarot card she kept clutching last night, looking as if she was going to kiss it or cry over it.
As he put the last of his things in his duffel bag, Jake pressed his lips into a disapproving line. He’d busted a fortune-teller once. Some loser from the suburbs had paid big bucks to a self-proclaimed “mystic healer” in Old Town to get a curse lifted. And then, when the loser’s luck at the track didn’t change, the guy had proceeded back to Old Town to try to choke his money out of the mystic healer. After which said healer had cracked him over the head with her crystal ball. When Jake came in to break up the fight, the lady told him he was cursed now, too. Yeah, right. If Zoë was into that stuff, she was more seriously demented than he thought. Which was another reason to steer clear.
Hanging on firmly to that idea, he cast his mind over the packing list, one item at a time, as he drove up Lake Shore Drive, heading north to pick up Zoë. After all, he was a cop. He could look at evidence and draw conclusions, couldn’t he?
First off, there had been nothing in the papers about passports or foreign currency, so they must be staying in the country at least. No hiking boots, no special equipment. And no mention of parkas or warm boots. So maybe it was somewhere warm.
“Let it be Palm Springs,” he said as he pulled up in front of Zoë’s building. “Or Hilton Head. Someplace with sand and ocean. A golf course. Scuba diving.”
Of course, if he had his druthers, he would be headed to a plain old lake full of trout, with a fishing pole, some bait…and no Zoë.
He frowned. How had she described this trip? A honeymoon crossed with group therapy. Sounded ridiculous. Like Club Med for neurotic people who wanted to whine about their rotten childhoods in between cocktails, parasailing and heavy doses of honeymoon sex.
“Aw, jeez.” That was one wrinkle he hadn’t considered. Accommodations. He certainly had no intention of getting close enough to Zoë to have sex be any kind of a problem, but a honeymoon suite might be awkward. He could just see Zoë insisting they share the bed. We won’t touch, she would say. You paid half. It’s only fair.
Sharing a bed? With Zoë Kidd? Jake gritted his teeth.
Yeah, well, maybe the accommodations would be awkward, but not impossible. Surely he could sleep on the sofa for a few days. He had a momentary vision of Zoë traipsing around in her undies or her clingy, skimpy exercise wear, all wet with sweat…
Maybe he could sleep on the beach.
He smacked a hand into the steering wheel. Whatever it took, whatever the problems, he would get around them. Because he had no intention of sharing a room—or a bed—with Zoë Kidd.
He glanced up at her windows, on the second floor above a New Age shop that he seriously suspected of selling drug paraphernalia. “She’s screwy all right. Living above a head shop and leaving her door wide-open.”
Although he was prepared to go up to get her, he didn’t need to. She ran out the minute he pulled up, and he decided he at least had to admire her enthusiasm, especially at this hour of the morning. It might be well before eight, but she was already perky and ready, wearing some kind of soft, low-rise pants that exposed her belly button, a white peasant top with embroidery on it, and flat shoes that made a flapping noise as she ran out to the car. Presentable. And a heck of a lot more clothes than last night, thank goodness. Plus there was the added grace that this morning she was dry. His body still wasn’t recovered from the long, long cold shower he’d taken when he got home.
“Hi there,” she said happily, dropping a small bag in the back seat of his old Ford and hopping into the front seat next to him.
“Have you got the tickets?” he asked.
“Don’t waste time saying good-morning or anything.”
“I won’t.”
“So you’re not a morning person, is that it?” she said sympathetically.
Somebody honked at him, trying to get him to leave his parking space. He ignored it. “Do you have the tickets?” he asked again.
“Yes, sir,” she answered smartly, making fun of him all the way. She dug into the goofy straw purse she was carrying and produced the same envelope he’d seen last night.
“I want mine now,” he told her. “Hand it over.”
“Nope. I can’t. There’s just one pass for both of us.” She grinned, holding up a square yellow laminated card with “Your Ticket to Exploration” and “Couple Confirmed” stamped on it. “We have to enter the program two by two. Like Noah’s ark.”
This just kept getting worse and worse. As he pulled out into traffic and headed toward the expressway, he asked darkly, “They don’t shackle us together or anything, do they?”
Her smile widened. “No, but they might if we asked nicely.”
Jake groaned. Undertaking a ridiculous journey with a chirpy morning person was bad enough, but one with a body that wouldn’t quit and a habit of sticking it way too close to him—and now, bringing up shackles, as in handcuffs, not the way he usually thought of them, on a perp headed for jail, but instead as something to do with brass beds and naughty games—it was a nightmare.
“I was kidding,” she assured him, patting his hand where it