What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(12)
Max might not be sleeping with her, but he didn’t want someone else to, either.
So having Max drop Nils’s name was both unexpected and required delicate handling. “What’s up with Nils?”
“He’s got a problem with a shipment.”
Patiently, she asked, “What kind of problem? What kind of shipment?”
“There’s some kind of head coming this way.”
“A head?”
“A mummy’s head. Or something. There’s something about an authentication and a recluse and protection. But the upshot is, somehow the head made it to the airport, got put on the conveyer and is in baggage on the airplane.”
“The head is boxed up?”
“It’s in a suitcase. Nils suspects someone intends to lift the head—as it were—and he wants security for it when it lands in Portland.”
“Let me see if I’m following this. The head is currently on an airplane flying to Portland. It needs to go to a restorer who is...where?”
“Somewhere in the Olympic Mountains. He’s the recluse. He’s going to authenticate the head. Or not.”
She wasn’t confused, exactly, but she still wanted clarification. “Nils wants me to go and get the head and deliver it to this guy?”
“That’s about the sum of it.”
“Did you tell Nils I was recently injured?”
“Yes. He said, ‘What? Again?’”
“God forbid he should inquire what happened or if I was all right!”
“That’s what I told him, but he said if you were dead I would have led with that.”
“What a prick.” She wasn’t sure she was talking about Nils.
Max didn’t seem worried. “I’ve thought so all along. Nils wears a tie to keep the foreskin from flipping over his head.”
She gave a gasp of laughter, then put her hand to her hip. Apparently she could do kicks, but laughter was out.
Max continued, “Not the point, though. You’re merely backup. He has a specialized moving firm coming to get the head from baggage claim. Apparently, these guys move precious objects all the time for wealthy patrons and are experienced in protecting the goods. Nils says they’re the best, they’ve got a reputation to maintain, and they’re on their way here now to pick you up.”
“What? Now?”
“The mummy’s head, or whatever this precious thing is, is landing in Portland at 1:23.” Max tapped his watch. “That’s two hours and forty-three minutes from now.”
She gaped at him, then snapped, “Thanks for finding me employment,” and stalked away. Sure, she felt 300 percent better, but to take on a security job with no briefing and no time to prepare—what the hell?
Right before she made her grand exit, Max said, “Kellen.”
She turned to face him.
“Brooks asked if you could hike. I said I thought you were good for a couple of hours, and I think... I think some time away might do you good. Take your hiking boots—it sounds as if the recluse is back in the woods somewhere.”
“Right. Thank you.” She hustled out of the gym and toward Max’s house. In a fury, she texted Birdie, Men are asses.
I know, honey. Any particular one?
If he wanted to get rid of me that badly, he could have simply told me to go. Which he wouldn’t do, because she was the mother of his daughter. Maybe he wanted her eliminated without any trouble to him.
Immediately, she felt ashamed.
Max is getting rid of you? Birdie ended with a shocked face emoji.
No. Never mind. Later. Maybe he hadn’t found an ideal job for someone who wasn’t yet recovered from an injury and infection, but why should he have to? She should have found her own job, but she’d been trying to stay close to Rae.
Okay. Try not to do anything stupid. Birdie had a way of being wise about people. Thank God, because for all Kellen’s smart Rolodex cataloging of personalities, she got it wrong an amazingly large part of the time.
Turning on her heel, she marched back toward the gym. She stepped in, intending to confront Max, ask the name of the restorer guy, how long this job was supposed to last and if Max expected her to come back when it was done.
Max stood in the middle of the gym, punching the bag with blinding speed and terrifying force.
Left, right, face the mirror, kick the inflatable stability ball.
Ball slams the wall.
Left, right, face the mirror, kick!
Ball slams the wall.
Left, right, face the mirror, kick!
He scowled every time he punched. Smiled when he kicked and the ball slammed into the mirror. Left, right, kick...
This time he was too slow. The ball smacked him. He staggered backward. Kicked again. Left, right...
His knuckles left a red smudge on the punching bag. Blood. He’d torn his knuckles open. Clearly, he was a man in the throes of vivid brilliant Technicolor frustration.
Kellen backed out the door, shut it softly behind her and tiptoed away.
She wasn’t exactly sure what had angered Max—her, her inability to bond with Rae, her way of leading Rae into danger by encouraging her to climb to ridiculous heights? Or it was nothing to do with her, maybe his mother’s tendency to burn oatmeal butterscotch cookies until the bottom was black and he had to scrape them off with a bread knife?