"Stop calling him that. I'm recovering from a cold, that's all."
He could see her red nose, but somehow he didn't think a cold was the only thing wrong with her. He rose. "Come on, Molly. Holing up like this isn't normal."
She peered at him from beneath her wrist. "Like you're an expert on normal behavior? I heard you were swimming with sharks when Dan found you in Australia."
"Maybe it's depression."
"Thank you, Dr. Tucker. Now, get out."
"You lost a baby, Molly."
He'd made a statement of fact, but it was as if he'd shot her. She sprang up from the couch, and the way her expression turned feral told him more than he wanted to know.
"Get out of here before I call the police!"
All he had to do was walk through the door. God knew he had enough aggravation on his plate right now with the publicity the People article had kicked up. And just being with her was making his gut churn. If only he could forget the way she'd looked when she'd been trying to hold on to that baby.
Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, he tried to cut them off. "Get dressed. You're coming with me."
Her rage seemed to frighten her, and he watched her struggle to make light of it. The best she could manage was a pitiful croak. "Been smoking a little too much weed, have you?"
Furious with himself, he stomped up the five steps that led to her bedroom loft. Her pit bull shadowed him to make sure he didn't steal the jewelry. He looked down at her from over the top of the kitchen cabinets. God, he hated this. "You can either get yourself dressed or go with me the way you are. Which will probably get you quarantined by the Health Department."
She lay back on the couch. "You're so wasting your breath."
It would be for only a few days, he told himself. He was already in a foul mood about being forced to drive up to the Wind Lake Campground. Why not make himself completely miserable by bringing her along?
He'd never intended to go back there, but he couldn't avoid it. For weeks he'd been telling himself he could sell off the property without seeing it again. But when he couldn't answer any of the questions his business manager had posed, he'd known he had to bite the bullet and see exactly how run-down it had become.
At least he'd be getting rid of two ugly duties at the same time. He'd settle the campground and badger Molly into getting her butt moving again. Whether it worked or not would be up to her, but at least his conscience would be clean.
He unearthed a suitcase from the back of her closet and yanked open her drawers. Unlike her messy kitchen, here everything was neatly arranged. He tossed shorts and tops in the suitcase, then threw in some underwear. He found jeans along with sandals and a pair of sneakers. A couple of sundresses caught his eye. He threw them on top. Better to take too much than have her sulk because she didn't have what she wanted.
The suitcase was full, so he grabbed what looked like her old college backpack and glanced around for the bathroom. He found it downstairs, near the front door, and began dumping in various cosmetics and toiletries. Succumbing to the inevitable, he headed for the kitchen and loaded up on dog food.
"I hope you're planning to put all that back." She was standing by the refrigerator, the pit bull in her arms, her rich-girl's eyes weary.
He'd like nothing better than to put it back, but she looked too damn pathetic. "You want to take a shower first, or do we drive with the windows down?"
"Are you deaf? I'm not some rookie you can order around."
He propped one hand on the edge of the sink and gave her the same stony look he used on those rookies. "You've got two choices. Either you can go with me right now, or I'm taking you over to your sister's house. Somehow I don't think she'll like what she sees."
Her expression told him he'd just thrown a Hail Mary.
"Please leave me alone," she whispered.
"I'll look through your bookshelves while you take a shower."
Chapter 8
A smart girl never accepts a ride from a stranger, even if he is a hottie. "Hitchhiking Hell" article for Chick magazine
Molly crawled with Roo into the backseat of the snappy SUV Kevin was driving instead of his Ferrari. She propped up the pillow she'd brought along and tried to go to sleep, but it wasn't possible. As they sped east past the urban blight of Gary, then took I-94 toward Michigan City, she kept asking herself why she hadn't opened her mail. All she'd needed to do was show up at the attorney's office. Then she wouldn't have been body-snatched by a mean-tempered quarterback.
Her refusal to talk to him was beginning to seem childish. Besides, her headache was better, and she wanted to know where they were going. She stroked Roo. "Do you have a destination in mind, or is this a make-it-up-as-you-go kidnapping?"
He ignored her.
They drove for another hour in silence before he pulled over for gas near Benton Harbor. While he was filling the tank, a fan spotted him and asked for an autograph. She clipped a leash on Roo and took him into the grass, then slipped into the bathroom. As she washed her hands, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. He was right. She did look like hell. She'd washed her hair, but she hadn't done anything more than drag her fingers through it afterward. Her skin was ashen, her eyes sunken.
She began to reach into her purse for a lipstick, then decided it took too much effort. She thought about phoning one of her friends to come get her, but Kevin's implied threat to talk to Phoebe and Dan about her physical condition made her hesitate. She couldn't stand causing them more worry than she already had. Better to go along with him for now.
He wasn't in the car when she returned. She debated getting into the backseat again, but doubted he'd talk to her unless she was in his face, so she put Roo there instead and climbed in the front. He emerged from the service station with a plastic bag and a Styrofoam coffee cup. After he got inside, he stuck the coffee in the cup holder, then pulled a bottle of orange juice from the sack and handed it to her.
"I'd rather have coffee."
"Too bad."
The cold bottle felt good in her hands, and she realized she was thirsty, but when she tried to open it, she discovered she was too weak. Her eyes filled unexpectedly with tears.
He took it without comment, unscrewed the lid, and returned it to her.
As he pulled away from the pump, she choked back the tightness in her throat. "At least you muscle boys are good for something."
"Be sure to let me know if you want any beer cans crushed."
She was startled to hear herself laugh. The orange juice slid in a cool, sweet trickle down her throat.
He pulled out onto the interstate. Sand dunes stretched on their left. She couldn't see the water, but she knew there would be cruisers on the lake, probably some freighters on their way to Chicago or Ludington. "Would you mind telling me where we're going?"
"Northwest Michigan. A hole called Wind Lake."
"There goes my fantasy of a Caribbean cruise."
"The campground I told you about."
"The place where you told me you spent your summers when you were a kid?"
"Yeah. My aunt inherited it from my father, but she died a few months back, and I was unlucky enough to end up with it. I'm going to sell it, but I have to check out the condition first."
"I can't go to a camp. You'll have to turn around and take me home."
"Believe me, we won't be there for long. Two days at the most."
"Doesn't matter. I don't do camp anymore. I had to go every summer when I was a kid, and I promised myself I'd never go back."
"What was so bad about camp?"
"All that organized activity. Sports." She blew her nose. "There was no time to read, no time to be alone with your thoughts."
"Not much of an athlete?"
One summer she'd sneaked out of her cabin in the middle of the night and gathered up every ball in the equipment shed-volleyballs, soccer, tennis, softballs. It had taken her half a dozen trips to carry them all to the lake and throw them in the water. The counselors had never discovered the culprit. Certainly no one had suspected quiet, brainy Molly Somerville, who'd been named Most Cooperative despite spraying her bangs green.