“Moonshine,” he repeated, still thinking the name odd.
Apparently, he wasn't the only one. The answer she supplied to his unasked question sounded like it had been said often. “I picked it up from a soap opera I watched in college.”
The antihistamine was beginning to work. His throat was starting to loosen and didn't feel as scratchy and dry. “Funny, where I went to college,” he said huskily, “we studied.”
“Poor guy.” Her tone was one of mock conciliation. “I'll bet you wish you went to URI then.”
“URI?”
“University of Rhode Island.”
“Nope, never did. Wish I'd gone there,” he clarified. His vision was starting to clear. The woman with the high yet authoritative, school teacher voice was now only a little fuzzy around what looked to be very attractive edges. Despite the pain in his leg, and the fact that his allergy medicine had yet to kick in full strength, Garrett grinned. It was a tight grin, but a grin all the same. “Until now.?
?
He couldn't decide which was her most attractive feature, her smile or those vaguely slanted, velvet green eyes. Both were intriguing enough to take his mind off the pain…if only for a few seconds.
“I put your medicine back in the duffel bag,” she said. Did he detect a hint of wariness in her tone? “And speaking of your duffel bag…I, um, think we need to talk.”
Garrett's lips thinned. “If you looked in my bag then, yeah, I'd say we do.”
“I've looked.” Her tone was wary. “I checked, but there wasn't a scrap of identification for you in it.”
“I know.”
“What I did find, on the other hand, was—”
“Money,” Garrett cut in, and she nodded. “About two thousand dollars, all in small bills.”
“Right…”
“And a bottle of antihistamine.”
“That, too…”
“Jewelry.”
“Lots of it. Mostly antique. And…”
Garrett sighed. There was no use lying to the woman, or denying it. She'd already looked inside the bag, already knew what else was in there. He decided to fill in the word her tongue stumbled over. “A gun,” he said finally. “You found a gun.”
“Yes,” she replied on a swift exhalation, as though his admission had punched the word out her lungs.
She'd been crouching next to the bed; she now plopped down on the floor beside it and, crossing her slim, denim-clad legs yoga-style, stared up at him. The baggy, cream-colored sweater pooled in softly knitted folds around her hips. She was in stocking feet, not a trace of the Reeboks he remembered from earlier in sight. Her feet, he noticed, were touchably small.
“I'm sure you have a good explanation.”
Garrett eyed her speculatively. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”
“Darned if I know. Right now, I'm just hoping you'll say yes, I have a very good, very plausible explanation as to why I'm wandering around in a blizzard with a torn up thigh, carrying an old green duffel bag crammed full of small bills, prescription strength Benadryl, more antique jewelry than I've ever seen in a lifetime…and a gun. Please, if you don't have a good explanation, feel free to make one up. Really. I won't mind.”
Garrett frowned. Outside the room, he heard the cat scratch at the door. The feline meowed a protest when access wasn't immediately granted. “You want me to lie?” he asked, his stuffy nose giving his voice a nasally timbre.
“Yes. No! I mean—” Her shoulders slumped and her chin dipped. She sighed heavily. On anyone else, that pose would have looked weak, defeated. Why didn't it look that way on her? “I don't know what I mean,” she admitted softly.
Garrett felt an odd, yanking sensation in his chest. At first he thought his allergy was intensifying, in spite of the medicine. He soon realized that wasn't the case. The feeling had something to do with this woman. Whenever he looked at the top of her curly brown head, now bent so he couldn't see her face, he felt that same warm tug. It was something he hadn't felt in years, something he was surprised as hell to feel now…especially for a complete stranger.
He cleared his throat. “I do have a good explanation.”