The Heiress and The Bodyguard. Ryanne Corey

then, it’s a shame you weren’t a traffic cop. You’d probably be much nicer and you’d know something about reading a map and finding your way around. Your tip just went down, by the way.”

      A moment of quiet passed before Billy trusted himself to speak. “Unfortunately for you, I was not a traffic cop. Now, since I’ve been known to have a temper and occasionally it gets the best of me, we’ll just have a few minutes of silence.”

      “We still don’t—”

      “Silence.”

      Julie opened her mouth to retort, then looked sideways at his stark profile and thought better of it. There was something about the rigid set of his lips that suggested he had completely lost his sense of humor. As far as she could remember, she’d never witnessed a true testosterone temper tantrum. She had spent more time with Harris than any other man, and the closest he had ever come to losing his temper was loosening his tie. Strangely, some little devil within her wanted to see Billy lose his cool. She stared at him through a screen of lashes, inexplicably fascinated by the way his wild, wind-tossed hair moved over his hard brown cheekbones. There was a scar that cut diagonally through one dark eyebrow, perhaps a memento of yet another dangerous escapade. He was driving with hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, steely-blue eyes focused straight ahead and the speedometer glued to a steady forty-five m.p.h. Somehow she knew his emotions were barely in check. She was oddly intrigued by the notion of being the one to push him over the edge. She’d never wielded any sort of influence over men, particularly a man’s man like Billy. He had a world of experience; she had none. And yet she had managed to get under his skin; she was at least savvy enough to know that. Was this, then, her first skirmish in the battle of the sexes? Had she won?

      “Why are you doing that?” Billy asked suddenly, still staring straight ahead.

      She looked away, squinting at the curtain of black nothing beyond the window. “Doing what?”

      “Staring at me.”

      “How could you know if I was staring? You weren’t even looking at me.”

      Quietly, “I knew. I know everything you do.”

      “Well…well…” Hells bells, this man had a way of overwhelming her. A few little words and her bravado evaporated beneath a nuclear flush. Had there been a referee in the back seat, round two would go to the hotshot from California.

      “I don’t want to talk anymore,” she muttered.

      “What do you know? Miracles do still happen.”

      Civilization was not far ahead. A sort of semi-civilization, at least. As far as Billy could see, they had landed themselves at some sort of amusement park/campground/motel combination. The flashing neon sign had every third letter burned out, but he was quite sure it read Gator Getaway. There were only two cars parked in the motel lot, one in front of the manager’s office.

      “Did you ever see Psycho?” Julie asked softly, brown eyes enormous. “This place is sort of scary.”

      “I worked undercover in California, remember? Nothing is more psycho than that. Besides, I can’t drive any further tonight. I’m beat.” Here again he was prevaricating. He could go without sleep for three days and never notice, but Harris Roper was a little more delicate. One way or another, Billy had to find enough privacy to call him. Not to mention the fact they were lost. It went deeply against his independent grain, but he had to ask someone where the hell they were and find out how to get where they were going. Billy shoved open his door and got out of the car, then, keeping in character, leaned down and lifted an eyebrow at Julie. “Unfortunately, I’m on a limited budget. You and your credit cards will have to check us in.”

      “Of course. I forgot for a minute you were the employee.” Julie grabbed her purse and got out of the car, fighting an odd tightness in her throat. She followed Billy inside the motel lobby, sneakers stomping, then nearly ran back outside when she saw the clerk behind the desk.

      There was no question about it. He bore a definite resemblance to Anthony Perkins, who played the knife-wielding motel owner in Psycho.

      “We need a couple of rooms,” Billy told him.

      “Sorry,” Anthony Perkins replied, stifling a yawn. “We’re just about full up. We’ve got a single left, if that’ll do ya.”

      Billy was half tempted to flip out his police badge, but since it was illegal, he liked to reserve that for emergencies. “As far as I could see, you have a dozen rooms and only one car parked in the lot. Did all those people come in one car?”

      “Most everybody who visits us comes with a trailer and parks at the campground across the way. We only keep two rooms open during the off-season, and I just rented one of ’em an hour ago.”

      “Tomorrow won’t do us any good,” Julie told him, peering out from behind Billy’s back. “We need it now. We’ll pay double.”