The Spy Who Kissed Me

Chapter 2

2

At the sight of him, my mind switched to automatic stupor. With Orphan Annie eyes, I watched flying glass shards sparkling in the fitful light as they showered the fast moving figure doing a movie stuntman roll across the ground. He sprang to his feet in a crouch, a cornered animal caught against the faint shimmer of wet grass.

More fireworks? No, shots. Gunshots, I realized. They spurted from the shattered window as the man darted for the street, his coat billowing out behind him like Count Dracula’s cape.

Automatic reflex had me easing my pressure on the gas pedal. On a subliminal level, I knew I didn’t want to drive into a shootout. More shots. The man vaulted onto a car parked by the curb. I drew level, lost sight of him, then heard a thud. The car rocked.

What the—

Streetlight filtering down through the sunroof was blotted out. I looked up just in time to get a face full of him as he slid through the narrow sunroof head first, his entrance into the car hastened by my instinctive stomp on the brakes.

My mother had waited a long time for a man to fall into my lap, but I don’t think this was what she had in mind.

Enveloped in his coat and buffeted by his knees, the muffled sound of gunshots came closer. I heard him shout, “Get us out of here!”

Get us out of here. It seemed like a good idea, so I reapplied pressure to the gas.

I should have waited until I could see.

We rocketed down the street. Well, I think it was a street. Adrenaline kept pace with acceleration. I clawed at the coat over my face in a literal blind panic, which gave way to clear-sighted panic when I emerged into light and air just in time to narrowly miss a parked Volvo.

The street looped in a U-turn.

Rosemary’s car didn’t.

We jolted up over the curb and passed through a neat, little hedge, winter-bare branches flying in all directions. A porch loomed into view.

A porch?

I cranked the wheel. The car bucked the turn. I knew why. My foot was on the gas, but I couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Grass and twigs sprayed in a graceful arc as the bushes that fronted the porch scraped the full length of Rosemary’s car. I wailed my dismay as the car blasted through the hedge on the other side of the yard, then lurched across the driveway in the narrow space between a parked station wagon and a tree.

Though concerned with my plight, I was still aware of my unexpected passenger. Impossible not to be aware of him when he was using my nose as leverage for his foot. The other foot was still sticking out the sunroof. Part of his mid-section was draped over the gear shift severely hampering my efforts to steer around trees, garbage cans, and bicycles.

I heard him gasp when the car bounced down the curb. I wanted to help him out—or off—but my brain still wasn’t getting through to my foot. Instead of slowing, the car picked up speed until the headlights illuminated a red stop sign. Habit took over from there. The car shrieked in protest. My brain echoed the shriek when my head bounced off the steering wheel a couple of times. We slued left, then right. The ring of stars circling my head did the same, only opposite.

Car and stars stopped. The car was resting against the curb next to the stop sign. The stars settled into my head and became a crown of ouch.

My first feeling was relief.

I wasn’t dead.

Rosemary’s car was okay.

My passenger took his shoe out of my nose and climbed off the gear shift, bringing my attention back to the fact that I wasn’t alone. I was sharing car space with a man someone had been shooting at. Rosemary’s passion for this car was directly related to how much her ex had hated to lose it in the divorce settlement, so retreat was not an option, and I had no weapon. I did take a self-defense course once. All I could remember now was a distractingly cute instructor and something about defensive posture and making a lot of noise. I couldn’t see how noise would help, so I straightened my shoulders into something I hoped looked defensive. It hurt.

“You all right?” he asked.

He didn’t sound dangerous. Careful about what I moved because I don’t do pain well, I looked at my sun-roof diver. The light wasn’t too bad. He wasn’t too bad to look at. Cute in a classy, upwardly mobile, dazed yuppie kind of way, I couldn’t see his eyes because he was grimacing as he straightened his body into the standard, upright position in the seat. The hair was good, both in cut and color. The streetlight found some blond highlights buried in brown and illuminated them to a pleasing glow. He had to be at least six feet tall because he sat higher in the seat than me and I was five-nine in my stocking feet. His coat-covered shoulders filled all available space, while a heady male scent tightened my chest and turned my breathing almost languorous. Practically a romance novel moment. Perhaps some mental note taking was in order, just in case I survived the encounter?

He sighed, relaxing the grim straightness of his mouth to a weary pout that warmed my insides like gourmet hot chocolate. This was a dangerous man, I realized with an un-Baptist-like thrill. Unease quivered in the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t scared, and I should be. I should be very scared.

“Get out.” I sounded so firm I startled myself.

He brushed his hair back off the broad, proud expanse of his forehead, seemed surprised to find hand and head still there. With another grimace, he turned and showed me his eyes.

I wasn’t ready for them. Or him. Every nerve ending in my body came to attention. I think some of them saluted. Was that a hallelujah chorus I heard? I jerked my gaze off him and stared out the windshield. A pity I couldn’t resist the urge to peek…

He pushed his hair back again. “Look, I’m sorry about this, but we’ve got to get away from here. Now.”

His voice sent shivers down my spine. His words released a horde of questions in my head. Get away from what? I took another peek and found him looking at me like I was the dangerous one. That killed the chorus or at least muted it.

“I have a better idea. Why don't you just get out here—” I made the mistake of turning to glare at him and found my nose almost touching his nose. Like his other parts, it was nice. His eyes were a bright, cool blue and framed by sinfully long lashes. Sounded tame, but his eyes weren’t tame. They were wild, with the kind of cool that burned straight down to the quivering hearts and souls of innocents. He probably walked through life on broken hearts strewn in his path by virgins. Vestal and non-Vestal. No one, no man should be allowed to have eyes so…so…so and spaced just right for maximum impact. His skin was smooth and firm and clean and smelled good, like a TV commercial. Then he had the nerve, the gall, to smile at me. He had this dimple in his right cheek, just the right distance from his mouth to rubberize the hardiest knees.

“Please?” The mouth I was studying parted over teeth that were a dentist's dream, and rubberization moved up my body. It might have taken out my brain.

“Oh, dear.” I dry swallowed, managed to keep my jaw from dropping by holding it up with my finger. “I should never have crossed my heart and hoped to die.”

He continued with an attractive urgency, “I’d better drive. The odds are already against us.”

He wasn’t that attractive. Outrage gathered my scattered senses from the four corners of my brain. “You’ll drive this car when—”

“Look, love.” Without warning, he was in my space, his hands on my shoulders, his face so close I could see the smooth texture of his skin and smell him, not his after-shave. “There’s no time. If they come after us…we go or we die.”

Now, when it was too late, I felt the undercurrent beneath his yummy, civilized surface. The yuppie had a dark side, and I was in his way. Fear spiked faster than lust. I went from hot to cold in the space of a single heartbeat.

“Please don’t hurt me.” I hated how begging I sounded, but at least he quit gripping my shoulders. One hand drifted up to cup my cheek. Heat bloomed where he touched, sending impossible comfort to battle fear.

“Sweetheart, I’m trying to save you.”

I probed his eyes looking for sincerity. He did sincere well. I wanted, no, I needed to believe him. If his dark side was gonna mow me down, I didn’t want to see it coming.

“What do you want me to do?” My dry whisper sounded distant and a bit hollow. His smile was relieved and as dangerous as bullets to one in my vulnerable state. That dang dimple. I didn’t whimper, but only because my throat was too dry.

“If you’ll stand up, I’ll slide under you—”

Slide? He couldn’t be planning to scale the gear shift again?

“You’re kidding. Aren’t you?” His brows arched in an unspoken query. It put me on the same page he was. The one where neither of us trusted the other one enough to get out of the car.

“I’ll just—” I pointed up, I looked up, then reached up and hooked my fingers over the open edge of the sunroof. His hands, warm and strong, went around my waist, providing extra boost.

“Can you pull your legs clear?” he asked.

I tried to concentrate, but it wasn’t easy. It was hard to do before the feel of his hands on my waist bled warmth that turned more than warm inside me. I managed to work my legs free of the steering wheel. With only minimal skin loss, I got one foot on the armrest attached to the door, the other on the lower edge of the steering wheel and pulled until my head emerged into crisp night air. It helped clear my head a little, but I had other problems. Gravity fought back with an insistent summons that was hard to ignore. Sweaty palms weren’t helping either.

I peered past myself to ask, “Can you get under me?”

I heard a shrill woof and looked toward the sound.

An excitable dust mop dog was doing a “job” on the corner lawn. At the other end of his leash was an old man staring at me with shocked pleasure. I smiled at him, trying to look like it was normal to be half out of a sunroof while a man crawled into the seat under me. My hands squeaked against the unyielding surface of the wet car roof. I dug in. I just needed to hold on a little longer—

Gravity threw in with wet and unyielding. I didn’t want to, but it was no use. Like Orpheus, I was descending. I caught my passenger just as he was mounting the gear shift.

I’ll never forget the sound he made.

We were embarrassingly and painfully tangled, and when we got embarrassingly untangled I was kneeling in the seat, facing the rear of the car, looking back down the long length of the street. Moving like an old man, he finished his descent into the driving position. I opened my mouth to apologize, saw a minivan careen around the corner in an ominous manner, and turned the apology into a warning wail of dismay.

Warning wail appeared to be a language he understood. In a heartbeat, he shook off the blow to his male pride, put the car in gear and hit the gas. We accelerated with a squeal that left me open-mouthed—and suspended across the head rest.

Behind us, the minivan miscreants opened fire. The bullets thudded into Rosemary’s car. Fear thudded into my heart. Why, oh why had I crossed my heart and hoped to die? I was so far up the creek I should just beat myself to death with the paddle and be done with it. If the minivan shooter didn’t plug me, Rosemary would. With her glue gun.

We sped through the quiet neighborhood, the street lights blurring to a ribbon of gold in our wake. Corners were taken on two wheels.

I turned to protest his wanton car abuse, but when I looked at him protest dried up in my throat. My heart pounded with fright and a complicated longing to be someone daring enough to go with the moment—and with the man. I was the only component that didn’t fit. Questions rose, like tiny bubbles breaking on the surface of my mind. I even opened my mouth to ask him—

And snapped it closed again. In books and the movies, knowing what was going on was a Bad Thing. Of course, so was speeding through the suburbs at a million miles an hour. A straight stretch of the road let him give me a quick, assessing glance. I turned myself face forward and pointedly buckled my seat belt.

“Look, Mr.—”

“Kapone. Kelvin Kapone.”

“Ca—” I swallowed dryly, “—pone?”

“Ka-pone,” he corrected, “with a ‘K.’ No relation to Al.”

I managed a weak laugh. “Of course not.”

Just because we were being chased through a subdivision by armed maniacs in a minivan was no reason to assume it was because his name was Ka-pone with a K.

“And you're…” he prompted, quirking an inquiring eyebrow at me as he spun us through yet another neck wrenching turn.

“Isabel Stanley.”

“Isabel,” he said it like he was testing it, applying it to me to see if it would fit.

I knew it wouldn't. “Most people call me Stan.”

I got another one of those flickering glances, but this one was provocative.

“You don't look like a Stan.”

I hunched down in the seat, trying to stop the smile that wanted to curl the edges of my mouth. Vanity, thy name is Isabel. And he didn't say what he did think I looked like, I pointed out to myself. But the smile stayed pasted on.

We rounded another corner—I was almost getting used to them—but then we just missed a car backing out of a driveway. My adrenaline surged again as the wheels on my side of the car when up on the curb, but Kelvin Kapone-with-a-K managed to avoid the collision. No surprise that my thoughts skittered off into irrelevancy. Clean underwear. Hopes of mine staying clean. Wondering if anyone would notice—other than my mother. She noticed everything.

I didn't realize I'd spoken out loud until he asked, “Noticed what?”

“Oh, I was just thinking—”

“About?”

I looked at him. I didn't want to tell him, but this close to death was not the moment for a lie, even a white one. I could be making explanations to God any moment now. I admitted, “Underwear. I was thinking about underwear.”

“I see.” There was a smile in his voice though he was smart enough not to let it spread to his face.

I peeked at the speedometer, then wished I hadn't.

“I used to be a law-abiding person.” I tried to sound severe, but my voice betrayed me by quivering.

“You still are. I'm the one that's speeding.”

“Accessory after the fact—” He made a quick turn, the rear wheels shrieking across the pavement, a short burst forward, then another turn, this time running a red light. A long, straight street stretched in front of us. No turns in sight, unless it was into a parking lot. I saw a dry cleaners sign I recognized and gasped, “Drop your pants here for quick attention.”

He gave me a startled look.

“I was talking about the dry cleaners. That's their motto.” What did he think I was talking about? “I know where we are. There's a park just ahead where I walk my dog—” The car slowed. “What's wrong? Why are we slowing down?”

He made another turn onto the street that paralleled the park. Now I was sure I knew where we were. It was a good feeling. It didn’t last. The car slowed and I looked at Kelvin Kapone-with-a-K in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” His gaze roved between the road ahead and the rear view reflection of the minivan.

“We’re slowing down. They’ll catch up with us.” I tried not to sound shrill, but I don’t think I succeeded.

“I know. I’m gonna force them off the road.”

“How—” But I already knew. I’d seen the movies with their disposable Hollywood cars. “Not with my sister’s car!”

As if I hadn’t spoken, he eased Rosemary’s car into the center lane. The minivan jumped like a dog smelling blood and swung over to my side. I was caught in a waking, slow motion nightmare. Frozen in horror, I stared in the side mirror at the steadily gaining minivan. Then I didn’t need the mirror. Fake wood veneer trim and pea green paint pulled into my peripheral vision. Above the veneer an open window framed the driver.

He had a gun.

It was pointed at me.

Behind the round, dark barrel was a shadowy figure with a round, hairless head, round mouth, and round eyes. I tried to become one with my seat as Rosemary’s car began to veer toward the van.

I don’t remember lunging for the wheel, just found my hands around it. I jerked it left. We careened that direction across the street and up the curb into the park. Kelvin Kapone with a K yelled as he fought the skid across the winter-brown grass of the park. A metal skeleton rose like a ghost in the night. A jungle gym set. He yelled again. Something that might have been obscene. I yelled, too. No question it was obscene. I hoped God would understand when we met in a few minutes.

He yanked on the wheel. I pressed feet against a brake I wished I had. We missed the jungle gym by inches and skidded through the uprights of a swing set. The rubber swings scraped across the roof, banging once in the open top. I don’t know how he managed to avoid wrapping the car around the supports.

He looked dazed. “Can we get back to the street this way?”

“Yes,” I gasped, “just past the airplane—”

“Airplane?” The headlights grazed the edge of it.

“Mem-or-i-al—” The word bounced with the car as we crossed a lumpy area in the grass. Something to do with earthworms, according to my mother. Bounce turned into a skid. Kelvin Kapone with a K straightened the car and looked at me.

I looked back where we’d been, thought I saw something square and gray in the grass. “What was that?”

“I think it was cement. Wet cement.”

The headlights of the minivan bobbed in our wake, then went sideways as it hit the patch. We descended to the street with a neck wrenching lurch, then he punched it, throwing me back against the seat as the car surged forward.

“Time to lose those clowns.”

We had a slight lead and he took advantage of it, executing a series of lightning, frightening turns that finished in a dark driveway. He pulled deep into the shadows beneath a stand of trees and shut off the engine. Something wet landed on me. I looked up. The sunroof was still open, and it was snowing again. Through the opening, there came the unmistakable sound of an approaching vehicle.

“Is it—them?” I huddled down in the seat. Let the elements come as long as the bad guys didn’t.

“Maybe.”

What, he couldn’t trot out a comforting lie?

His arm brushed against mine, his clothes rustling. He pulled something from inside his coat, something that gleamed dull and dangerous in the deep darkness. He held it up and checked the magazine, slid it back into the base, loaded a bullet into the chamber, then settled back in the seat, his face turned toward the street. A sheen of sweat gave definition to the determined angle of his jaw. His eyes glimmered with a determined light that was comforting until a tremor passed like quicksilver along his jaw. He swallowed and shook his head, then rubbed his eyes as if they hurt him. Or he couldn’t see.

The hand holding the gun quivered, then started to shake. He rubbed his face.

The van idled closer to our hiding place.

He shuddered, his body hunching over as if in pain. “Sorry—”

He slumped against the door.

The hand holding the gun went slack.

The thunk of it against the floor coincided with the arrival of the van at the foot of the driveway.