Dead-Eye gave him a neat salute. Chet shrugged.
“See you later,” Cappie said, kissing her brother’s cheek again.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“On a job interview,” she said gently. “Brenda’s boss might have something part-time.”
“Are you sure you want to move back here?” Kell asked.
“Yes,” she lied.
“Good luck, then.”
“Thanks. See you, Kilraven. Thank you, too.”
He grinned. “Keep your gunpowder dry.”
“Tell them.” She pointed to her two companions. “I hate guns.” “Bite your tongue!” Kilraven said in mock horror. She made a face and went out the door, her two companions right behind her.
Bentley met them at the elevator. “Where are you going now?” he asked her.
She hesitated.
“Job interview,” Rourke said for her.
“You can’t leave the clinic,” Bentley said curtly. “I don’t have anybody to replace you yet!”
“That’s your problem,” she shot back. “I don’t want to work for you anymore!”
He looked hunted.
“Besides, Kell and I are moving back to San Antonio as soon as he heals,” she said stubbornly. “It’s too far to commute.”
Bentley looked even more worried. He didn’t say anything.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” she added.
“Dr. King’s filling in for me,” he said.
“Until when?”
His pale eyes glittered. “Until I can convince you to come home where you belong.”
“Please. Hold your breath.” She walked around him and into the next open elevator. She didn’t even look to see which direction it was going.
It was going up. She was stuck between two oversize men and two perfume-soaked women. She started to cough before the women got off. The men left two floors later and the elevator slowly started down.
“Wasn’t that heaven?” Rourke said with a dreamy smile, inhaling the air. “I love perfume.”
“It makes me sick,” Chet muttered, sniffing.
“It makes me cough,” Cappie agreed.
“Well, obviously, you two don’t like women as much as I do,” Rourke scoffed.
They both glared at him.
He raised both hands, palms-out, in defense and grinned.
The elevator stopped at the cafeteria again and Bentley was still there, smoldering.
Cappie glared at him. It didn’t help. He got on the elevator and pressed the down button.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Cappie asked him.
“On a job interview,” he said gruffly. “Maybe they need an extra veterinarian where you’re applying.”
“Does this mean that you’re not marrying me?” Rourke wailed in mock misery.
Bentley gaped. “You’re marrying him?” he exclaimed.
“I am not marrying anybody!” Cappie muttered.
Bentley shifted restlessly. “You could marry me,” he said without looking at her. “I’m established in a profession and I don’t carry a gun,” he added, looking pointedly at the butt of Rourke’s big .45 auto nestled under his armpit.
“So am I, established in a profession,” Rourke argued. “And knowing how to use a gun isn’t a bad thing.”
“Diplomats don’t think so,” Chet muttered.
“That’s only until other people start shooting at them, and you save their butts,” Rourke told him.
Chet brightened. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Come on,” Cappie groaned when the elevator stopped. “I swear, I feel like I’m leading a parade!”
“Anybody got a trombone?” Rourke asked the people waiting around the elevator.
Cappie caught his arm and dragged him along with her.
They took a cab to the veterinarian’s office. The car was full. The men were having a conversation about video games, but they left Cappie behind when they mentioned innovations they’d found on the Internet, about how to do impossible things with the equipment in the Halo series.
“Using grenades to blow a Scorpion up onto a mountain?” she exclaimed.
“Hey, whatever works,” Rourke argued.
“Yeah, but you have to shoot your buddies to get enough grenades,” Chet said. “That’s not ethical.”
“This, from a guy who lifted a policeman’s riot gun right out of the trunk of his car!” Rourke said.
“I never lifted it, I borrowed it! Anyway, everybody was shooting rifles or shotguns and I only had a .45,” he scoffed.
“Everybody else’s was bigger than his,” Rourke translated with an angelic pose.
Chet hit his arm. “Stop that!”
“See why he can’t get a job with diplomats?” Rourke quipped, holding his arm in mock pain.
“I’m amazed that either of you can get a job,” Cappie commented. “You really need to work on your social skills.”
“I’m trying to, but you won’t marry me,” Rourke grumbled.
“Of course she won’t, she’s marrying me,” Bentley said smugly.
“I am not!” Cappie exclaimed.
“No woman is going to marry a veterinarian when she can have a dashing spy,” Rourke commented.
“Do you know one?” Bentley asked calmly.
Rourke glared at him. “I can be dashing when I want to, and I used to work for the CIA.”
“Yes, but does sweeping floors count as a real job?” Chet wanted to know.
“You ought to know,” Rourke told the other man. “Isn’t that what you did in Manila?”
“I was the president’s bodyguard!”
“And didn’t he end up in the hospital?”
“We’re here!” Cappie said loudly, indicating where the cab was stopping. “And the ride is Dutch treat,” she added. “I’m not paying cab fare for bodyguards and stubborn hangers-on.”
“Who’s a hanger-on?” Rourke asked.
But Cappie was already out of the cab. The three men followed her when they settled their part of the fare.
She walked into the veterinarian’s front office, where Kate Snow was still holding down the job of receptionist. She was twenty-four, tall, brunette and had soft green eyes and a pleasant rather than pretty face. She smiled.
“Hi, Cappie,” she greeted. “Come to visit your old stomping grounds?”
“Actually I’m here to apply for something part-time,” she replied.
“Brenda said that, but I didn’t believe her,” Kate replied, stunned. “You just moved to Jacobsville.”
“Well,