“I’ve had a lot of time to acquire funds and what I need.”
She angled her head, tipped down her sunglasses, stared at him.
“I can all but hear the questions rolling around in your head. Where do you get your money, McCleary? What do you do with it? What do you think about the evolution of the tax system?”
“Didn’t ask.” She poked a finger in his chest. “Sir Broody.”
“You will. I may have scared you off for the moment, but you’ll start up again.”
Now she grabbed his shirt, a fast fistful, rose up as she jerked him down. Caught him in a hard, challenging kiss.
“Do I look scared?” Flicking him away, she opened her door, got in.
He’d baited her, Doyle admitted. Deliberately baited her because he’d wanted another taste, another rush of her.
Now let that be enough, he warned himself.
He got in, pushed the start button.
“I don’t badger.”
He maneuvered out of the crowded lot, onto the crowded street. “It’s the word that pisses you off.”
“The insinuation of the term, yeah. I’m wired to learn, and you’ve got centuries of knowledge and experience stored up. But I get there’s knowledge and experience you don’t particularly want to revisit. So it’s a pisser to have what’s natural to me termed as something rude and heartless.”
“You can be rude, I don’t mind that. I’ve never thought heartless.”
He could breathe clear again when they drove out of the crowds, into the hills and fields.
“I admire the Declaration of Independence,” he said, “as a document created from human intellect, courage, and compassion.”
“I agree. Thanks.” Again she tipped down her glasses, gave him a smile with her eyes. “Best era for music.”
“You’re daring me to say the time of Mozart or Beethoven, and it was a time of brilliance and innovation.”
“No argument.”
“But I’m going to say the mid-twentieth century and the birth of rock and roll, because it’s tribal, and it comes from the loins. It’s seeded in rebellion.”
She pushed her glasses back up, sat back. “You have potential, McCleary. You have potential.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Since Sawyer stepped out of the house when Doyle pulled up, Riley called him over.
“Mission accomplished,” Sawyer said while Riley pulled out the pizza boxes. “Bran and I kicked around where to store all this—other than the pizza. We figured the sitting room, second floor, north side.”
“Attack comes at night, better on the bedroom level.” Riley nodded. “I’ve got dinner. You guys get the rest.”
She carried the boxes straight back to the kitchen, saw Annika and Sasha sitting out on the cliff wall drinking wine. Deciding she’d earned herself a glass of same, she poured one, stepped out.
“You’re back.” In invitation, Sasha patted the stones beside her. “Have a seat.”
“Sounds good, but you may want to come in, see what we bought.”
“I like pizza.” Annika jumped nimbly from the wall. “But I don’t think you bought something fun like a new dress. The rest is guns.”
“Yeah, and I know you don’t like them, but you should know what they are and where they are.” Riley looked at Sasha. “And you’re totally Katniss with the crossbow, but you need to be familiarized with the Rugers.”