Kiss an Angel(17)

“Daisy?”

“Yes?”

“If you say another word, I’m going to pull out one of those whips you’re so worried about and see if I can get into that perversion thing.”

She snatched up a clean pair of panties and a faded University of North Carolina T-shirt she’d pulled from his drawer while he was in the shower, then flounced into the bathroom. She closed the door with a satisfying bang.

Twenty minutes later she emerged freshly showered and wearing his T-shirt. She’d decided it was preferable to the only nightwear she’d found in her suitcase, a scrap of pink silk and lace she’d bought in the days before Noel and her mother had betrayed her.

Alex was sound asleep, lying on his back with the bed-sheet twisted around his naked hips. There was something impolite about staring at a person while he slept, but she couldn’t turn away. Instead, she crept to the end of the bed and gazed down at him.

Asleep, he didn’t seem nearly as dangerous as he did awake, and her hands itched to touch that hard, flat belly. She slid her gaze from his waist to his chest and was admiring the perfect symmetry of it when she caught sight of the gold medal hanging on a chain around his neck. As she saw what it was, she froze.

He wore a beautifully enameled Russian icon.

. . . wearing nothing but rags and a priceless icon hanging on a leather thong around his neck.

Her skin prickled. She studied the face of the Virgin Mary pressing her cheek to that of her child, and although she didn’t know much about icons, she could see that this Virgin wasn’t from the Italian tradition. The gold ornamentation on her black robes was purely Byzantine, as was the elaborate costume worn by the infant Jesus.

She reminded herself that just because Alex wore what was obviously a valuable icon didn’t mean the cockamamie story about Cossacks was true. It was probably a family piece that he’d inherited. But she still felt uneasy as she made her way to the opposite end of the trailer.

The couch was littered with clothes from her suitcase that she hadn’t put away along with a clutter of newspapers and magazines, some of which were several years old. She pushed everything aside and made up the bed with some clean sheets from the storage closet. But between the nap she’d taken and her troubled thoughts, she couldn’t fall asleep, so she read an old issue of Newsweek. By the time she’d finished, it was nearly three. She felt as if she’d barely closed her eyes before she was rudely jarred awake.

“Up and at ’em, angel face. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

She rolled over onto her stomach. He tugged at the sheet and she felt the brush of cold air on the backs of her bare thighs. She refused to move. As long as she didn’t move, she wouldn’t have to face a new day.

“Come on, Daisy.”

She buried her face more deeply into her pillow.

A large warm hand settled over the fragile silk of her panties, and her eyes shot open. With a gasp, she rolled to her back, scrambling to cover herself with the sheet.

He grinned down at her. “I thought that might get you moving.”

He was the devil incarnate. Only the devil would be fully dressed and shaved at this ungodly hour. She bared her teeth at him. “I’m not a morning person. Go away and don’t ever touch me again.”

His eyes ran over her in a leisurely fashion, making her aware of the fact that she had nothing on beneath the sheet but his old, worn T-shirt and a very small pair of panties.

“We have nearly a three-hour jump ahead of us, and we’re pulling out in ten minutes. Throw some clothes on and make yourself useful.” He moved away from her to the sink.

She squinted at the gray light coming in through the small, dirty windows. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s almost six.” He poured a mug of coffee, and she waited for him to bring it to her. Instead, he tilted it to his own lips.

She lay back on the couch. “I didn’t go to sleep until three. I’ll stay in here while you drive.”

“It’s against the law.” He set down his coffee, then bent over to snatch up some of her clothes from the floor. He eyed them critically. “Don’t you have any jeans?”

“Of course I have jeans.”

“Then put them on.”

She regarded him smugly. “They’re back home in my father’s guest room.”

“Of course they are.” He shoved the clothes he’d collected at her. “Get dressed.”

She wanted to say something unforgivably rude, but she was fairly certain he’d manhandle her if she did, so she reluctantly stumbled into the bathroom. Ten minutes later she emerged, ridiculously dressed in turquoise silk evening trousers and a cropped navy cotton top printed with bunches of bright red cherries. As she opened her mouth to protest his choice of clothes, she noted that he was standing in front of an open kitchen cupboard, looking both angry and very dangerous.

Her gaze dropped to the coiled black whip dangling from his fist, and her heart started to pound. She didn’t know what she’d done, but she knew she was in trouble. This was it. Showdown at the Cossack Corral.

“Did you eat my Twinkies?”

She gulped. Keeping her eyes glued to the whip, she said, “Exactly what Twinkies are we talking about?”

“The Twinkies in the cupboard over the sink. The only Twinkies in the trailer.” His fingers convulsed around the coils of leather.