“Oh, you’re telling me you’re not a murderer?” She batted her eyes at him. “I’m so relieved.”
“Didn’t your research tell you about the dead chauffeur found in the courtyard? He was my work.”
He said it so calmly, but for some crazy reason it hit her in the stomach like a blow. She could only hope she kept her face unreadable—she didn’t want him to know she cared. “Killing someone in church is a pretty rotten thing to do,” she said.
He shrugged. “Not necessarily. Think of Hamlet. Signore Corsini went to meet his maker in a state of prayer. He might have flown straight to heaven. Somehow I don’t think so, but you never can tell.”
“Hamlet was an asshole.” Apparently that was her word for the day. “If he’d killed his villainous uncle then and there, he would have saved a lot of lives, including his own.”
“But it would have made a very short bad play.”
“Why are we discussing Shakespeare?” she demanded.
He shrugged, then glanced over at the tiny kitchen counter and the food lying there. “You made me breakfast!” he said. “What a good little wife you are.”
“I’m not your wife!” she snapped, tired of this mock civility. “And I just happened to make too much.”
“Sure you did, Angel. Looks like you managed to get a shower too. I gather the plumbing facilities are adequate.”
“Adequate,” she agreed, not about to tell him how wonderful they were. “So what next?”
He was shoveling food in his mouth like someone needing fuel. He probably didn’t even ta
ste it. “You mean, now that I’ve had my wicked way with you?” he said between mouthfuls.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it,” she said stiffly.
If he hadn’t been eating, he probably would have given her that infuriating grin, but he changed the subject. “Now,” he said, “we drive to New Orleans. We’ll take it in two stages—I need to be there by Thursday and it’s about twelve hundred miles, so we can go at a leisurely pace.”
Twelve hundred miles in a day and half was hardly a leisurely pace in Evangeline’s opinion, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think she was going to have any say in the matter. “And you’re not going to drop me off anywhere along the way, are you?”
“Nope.”
Okay, he’d be too busy driving to go for a repeat of last night, and if he tried she wouldn’t be so fucking needy that she’d respond. “Are you going to want me to drive?”
He laughed at that. “Not that I’m not impressed with your ability with the truck and camper . . .”
“Annabelle,” she broke in.
“With your ability with Annabelle, but the sad fact is, I don’t trust you. You’d probably ram us into the first solid object you came to.”
“If only that were you,” she said dreamily. “When do we leave?”
“Now.”
“May I take Merlin out for a moment before we go?” She hated asking him, but she needed fresh air even more than Merlin did.
“Are you stupid enough to think you can make a run for it?” he countered.
She shook her head. “You’re safe. You don’t have a willing hostage, but you’ve got one nonetheless, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” She slid out of the booth, hiding her wince as sharp pain stabbed her calf. “Come on, baby.”
“Baby?” Bishop said in a pained voice. “You’ve ruined my dog.”
“My dog,” she said, and started the short pathway to the door.
“Hold it!” he said sharply.
She froze, careful to put her weight on her other foot. She turned her head. “What?” she said impatiently.