“That was before I met you. Nowadays I wouldn’t trust my own mother.”
“As far as I can tell you never trusted your parents, and with good reason. Face it, Angel, you’re my wife.”
“I told you, I need proof!”
“You won’t take my word for it? I’m wounded.”
“Damn right you’re wounded, and if you give me any more shit I’ll smack you in your stitches.”
“I would strongly suggest you keep from hitting me,” he said in a calm, unsettling voice. “I might react . . . badly.”
She believed him. He’d protect her, but he could also hurt her. A lot. She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the chill his words had brought. “I need proof I was married if I want to get a divorce.”
“Do you want to?”
“Want to what?” She was feeling cranky, upset, confused.
“Get divorced. It’ll be harder than you expect—Italian marriage laws are fairly rigid, and we had a cardinal perform the service.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “That was either an actor or some poor seminary student looking to make a quick buck.”
“He was a little old for a seminary student, wasn’t he? And there was a certain gravitas to him . . .”
“All right, an actor. A good actor. In fact, I don’t even remember him or what he looked like.” She regretted those words the moment she said them.
He wasn’t about to let that slip by. “Something distracting you, Angel?”
“You were probably feeding me an aphrodisiac to keep me compliant.” Her voice was sullen. Embarrassment did that to her. She wanted to change the subject, fast, but she should have known he wouldn’t let it pass.
“No aphrodisiac. Admit it, you were besotted with me. Back then I could make you come just by looking at you.”
Jesus, why didn’t he stop? She turned her face toward the window, watching as the scenery sped by. “If you believe that’s physically possible, then some woman must have fed you a load of crap at some point.”
He laughed, and she felt just a bit of the tension leave his body. “Well, you came close. I can prove it to you.”
“No, thanks. I’m not interested in your soulful looks. I just want to get away from you.”
He grunted in annoyance. “Still on that? How about this? As soon as I think you’re safe, I’ll let you go. First we have to get to New Orleans and then I can reevaluate things.”
She wasn’t going to get her hopes up. “Exactly why are we going to Louisiana? It’s the most corrupt state in the union. Or is that why it attracts you? That would make sense.”
“Keep on trying, Evangeline,” he said lightly. “Sooner or later you’ll manage to get to me.” It was a warning. “We’re going to New Orleans because the people I work for have decided to set up a branch in the United States, and New Orleans seemed an obvious choice. It’s an international port, the local laws are . . . elastic, and to top it off, it’s got a strong connection to my current project.”
“The people you work for? Your project? Exactly what is it you do?” She made no effort to keep the disbelief from her voice.
He turned to look at her. She could see his reflection in the window, the assessing look on his face, and then he gave her his charming smile, the one that was full of shit. “I’m a consultant.”
“Who kills on the side?”
“Competition’s a bitch,” he replied.
“But . . .”
“Just shut the fuck up, Evangeline.” She’d managed to get on his nerves, a dubious triumph. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, and I don’t want to spend the next ten hours bickering. Not when there isn’t a bed nearby to resolve things.”
That stopped her. He punched the stereo she’d had put into Dolores, and music filled the cab. He cast a glance at her. “Punk?” he said in disbelief.
She bit back her annoyed retort. Don’t poke the sleeping tiger, she told herself. “There’s country, classical, rock and roll, some opera, African music—just about every kind of music with the possible exception of polka music. If you don’t like punk I can change it if you tell me what the . . . what you did with my iPod.”