His whisper had the texture of fine-grade sandpaper. She felt it like a stroke low on her belly, and, for a heartbeat—much too long—every nerve ending sizzled with awareness of him. He was body heat, and tensile strength, raw masculinity and leashed power, and her breathy reaction to all that panicked her.

She averted her head and stepped away. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, her voice husky and lacking the forceful positivity she wished it had. Wished she felt.

He remained as he was for a five count, then shook a plastic spoon from the box of picnic utensils, took a can of food from the sack, and replaced it in the trunk.

He carried the items over to an empty wooden crate, upended it, and sat down. Wincing, he reached beneath the hem of his shirt, pulled the pistol from the holster, and set it beside him on the crate. Then he peeled back the lid on the can and dug in. Hunched over, he spooned the food into his mouth with an aggressive efficiency meant to satisfy an appetite, not to savor, or even to taste.

Jordie backed up to the hood of the car and sat down on it. From that safe distance, she watched him. After a full minute had elapsed, she said into the silence, “Why haven’t you killed me?”

“Told you.”

“I don’t believe you’ll do it.”

Keeping his head down, he froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth and held it there for a beat before he completed the motion and took the bite. “Believe it.”

“I don’t.”

“Look, just because we nearly lip-locked—”

“No way in hell.”

He briefly looked up. “Whatever. You’re my bread and butter. Worth two hundred grand at least, and I think there’s much more to be had.”

“So why haven’t you called Panella?”

“If I contact him first, I lose bargaining power. He’s got to be worried over why he hasn’t heard from Mickey and why Mickey hasn’t answered his calls. I’m letting him stew.”

“How much are you going to ask him for?”

“None of your business.”

“My life isn’t any of my business?”

“Not the price tag on it. That’s between Panella and me.” He watched her for a second or two, then said, “You’ve known all along it was him.”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you let on otherwise?”

“I was in denial.”

“Dangerous place, denial.” He resumed eating.

“I don’t suppose he told Mickey where he is.”

He snorted at the absurdity of that. “No, but he doesn’t know where I am, either. Or, more to the point, where you are. His butt will stay chapped until he gets confirmation that you’re dead.”

Her thoughts were shifting and reshaping as rapidly as storm clouds, making coherency difficult. But she latched onto one word. “Confirmation? You no longer have to produce my body?”

“Never did. How could I deliver your body to him when I don’t know where he is, and he’s not about to divulge it? I only told you that to keep you…cooperative.”

“Terrified.”

“Then it worked.”

Her cheeks turned hot with anger and embarrassment over being so gullible, but she wanted to keep this conversation going. The more she learned, the better armed she would be. She just needed to brush up on her lie-detecting skills, because he was an accomplished liar.

But assuming he was being at least partially truthful, she asked, “What kind of confirmation will he require?”

“I’ll know when I ask him.”

“You’ve had twelve hours or more to negotiate a new deal with him. In the meantime, you’re stuck with mouthy me here in these swell surroundings.” She pointed out a rip in the tin roof that looked like it had been made with an old-fashioned can opener. “Aren’t you anxious to get to Mexico and that cerveza? What’s holding you back?”

He scooped the last of the food from the can, dropped the spoon into it, and set it on the floor. He pulled the bandana from his pocket and wiped his mouth and hands, then stretched his legs out in front of him, folded his arms over his midriff, and crossed his ankles.

She noticed that the soles of his cowboy boots had seen a lot of wear. They’d been lived in. Like his face.

“You love your brother?”

The unexpected question snapped her gaze back up to his. “Why do you ask?”

“Just answer me.”

“Of course I love him. He’s my brother.”

“He’s a double-crossing chickenshit.”

Reacting as though he’d slapped her, she retorted, “What do you know about Josh, about anything?”

“Even a guy like me watches TV every now and again.”

“Triple-X pay-per-view.”

“Sometimes I catch the news. What I didn’t know about the Panella case, Mickey filled in yesterday while we were trailing you.”

“Trailing me?”

“We followed you around town. Waited while you got your manicure. Parked down the street from your house.”

“Spying on me.”

“Not so much spying as plotting how we were gonna…you know.”

“You were formulating plan A. What was plan A?”

“Doesn’t matter. It got scrubbed. Back to your brother—what was life like when you two were kids?”

“Why do you care?”

“Stop answering every question with a question.”

“Then stop asking me questions.”

“You don’t like my questions?”

“I don’t like your prying. Or is delving into the background of your victims part of your MO?”

“My MO?” That amused him. “I guess you watch some TV, too.”

He came as close to smiling as she’d seen, but it didn’t soften his mouth or any other feature. If anything, it emphasized the harsh angularity of his face.

Nor did the semismile last. It faded as he tilted his head to one side and studied her, then said, “I’ve had an idea. But before I advance it, I want to know why the subject of your brother makes you twitchy and defensive.”

“It doesn’t.”

He merely looked at her with an unflinching, I-know-better gaze.

After an interminable length of time, she relented, ran her hand around the back of her neck, stretched it, released a long sigh. “There was nothing extraordinary about our family life. We were typical. Middle class. There was Mom, Dad, me the big sister, Josh the younger brother.”