Hidden Sanctuary by Sharron McClellan

Author:Sharron McClellan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Silhouette
Published: 2006-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

He drove into long-term parking. “Leave the weapons here,” he said, parking away from other vehicles and killing the engine.

I rolled my eyes. “Why do you keep assuming I don’t know what to do?”

His faced reddened. “It’s not you. I know what I’ll do in a given situation,” he explained. “I’m trained. I don’t know your reactions yet or what you know or how you’ll respond.”

“You seemed to know them last night,” I interrupted, changing the topic to stop his out-of-character babbling.

He laughed, relaxing. “That was good, wasn’t it?” He ran his free hand through his hair, managing a boyish cuteness that I hadn’t thought possible.

“Oh yeah,” I said, remembering how comfortable I’d been with him. “But your morning-after technique leaves a lot to be desired. Most women don’t have to ask to hold the bullets with breakfast.”

He chuckled. “I’ll work on that next time.”

“Already planning a next time?” I teased.

He pulled me close. “Oh yeah,” he whispered, echoing my earlier sentiment before kissing my mouth.

His lips were firm and familiar, and I could spend hours kissing him, but there wasn’t time for that. We pulled away at the same time. “Let’s go find Pauline,” he said, shoving his gun under the front seat.

I did the same with mine.

I wove my arm through his as we walked into the airport, my stomach doing summersaults. It wasn’t the fear of capture that made me nauseous. It was the airport itself.

I hate to fly. I do it, but generally require Valium to get me into the seat. Better living through chemistry, I thought, reminding myself that I was not getting on a plane.

We were here to catch Pauline. Not board.

The butterflies in my stomach tried to exit through my mouth anyway, and I swallowed hard, hoping that I looked more relaxed than I felt.

“We have to buy tickets to get through security,” Griffin said out of the side of his mouth as he led me to a counter. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

He smiled at the bored-looking ticket agent. “Two for Paris. The afternoon flight. First class.”

“IDs?” the agent asked, not batting an eye.

I dug in my backpack, retrieving my identification and praying that the woman behind the counter didn’t see my hands shaking. If the police were chasing us, there was bound to be some kind of bulletin at the airport.

Griffin appeared normal and calm. Not as if we were possible fugitives looking for a millionaire thief. I envied his ability to distance himself. We handed over our IDs, and I tensed, waiting for an alarm. Armed men.

Something.

But nothing happened.

“Luggage?” the ticket agent asked, her brown eyes widening when she finally looked at us. I couldn’t blame her for her shock. With our uncombed hair, sweaty skin and wrinkled clothes, we looked more like street people. Not the kind of individuals who bought first-class airline tickets.

At least I’m wearing a bra, I mused, trying to transform my semihysterical grin into something less suspicious. I settled for coughing into my hand.

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